An Hour In The Life Of Me

You’re probably wondering why I think anyone would care about an uneventful hour of my life two weeks ago. You’re probably right; no-one does. That doesn’t stop me though. The following words are a stream of consciousness: Stuff my brain ordered my fingers to type with any direct input from me, as part of an assignment for the ‘Creative Writing’ side of my University degree. Make sense? No. Oh. Well essentially I sat outside my University accommodation for an hour, and wrote down what I saw, heard, smelt and felt. Anyway, I found it quite interesting to type, and it is relatively humorous, so I thought I would share it with you good people. I hope you do enjoy it.

“I’m sat on a bench, with my shower fresh hair, underneath the forever watching CCTV camera. I decided seeing as I was outside, in public, with people, with my laptop, I would sit somewhere that I would consider safe. Well, not safe, but at least should someone walk past and casually steal my laptop from underneath my finger tips, I would at least have more chance if catching the bastard. Should I drop the laptop and begin crying, the people watching the CCTV images would at least get a laugh too.

I’m sat in intense sunlight, with half my keyboard shadowed by the screen, as a result of having the sun increasing in height behind it. This has now shown to me how dusty and dirty my laptop actually is. It is terrible, and should my Mum see the state of it, she would moan and immediately fetch a cloth and some cleaning liquid to achieve the task of cleanliness. I am hopeful that seeing as there is a rather strong breeze, the dust will be blown away. Maybe this little assignment will help in my cleanliness…

So, as I sit back on the uncomfortable bench, and look over the laptop screen, I can see water, glistening, and full of movement as it flows in the direction of sea. On the other side of this water, I can see a runway, in which a plane is noisily manoeuvring itself on. Now pausing, the engines are increasing in speed and volume as I imagine the pilot asking for permission to fly. He clearly has it, as the sounds are increasing. The plane is taking a run up, forever increasing in speed, and as it moves away, the sound goes with it. And UP it goes, rather confidentially too. The plane is now en route to its destination, and all I can see now as I glance back up to the sky after my running commentary is a faint white shape which I imagine to be the plane.

Now it is quiet again, I can return to admiring the natural beauty of the water as the sun makes my black laptop rather hot and also making my jean laden legs becoming increasingly hotter. I spoke of silence too soon, as behind me I can hear the screeching brakes of a train and the far away sounds of another plane about to manoeuvre itself to the end of the runway so that it too can make a confident leap into the sky to get to a destination far away from the rudeness of London. The said plane is a CityJet, with its propellers spinning. Again he positions himself. Again he speeds up, and again he speeds off into the distance taking the loud sounds with it.

However, here comes a plane falling from the sky in the nervous, wobbly fashion they seem to always do. It shakes upon near contact with the runway. He puts his nose up and bum down. He has landed bum first with a little puff of smoke from the wheels as it lands. Now he chucks his nose down and as he now exists the runway to a designated area, here comes another plane; and he seems just as nervous as he flies in front of the sun and casts a shadow over me, if only for a split second, and he lands.  Now, all I can smell as the wind blows into my direction, is burning rubber and aeroplane fuel. Not exactly the smell of flowers and noise of birds singing that I get back at home in a lovely Kentish village.

Now it is quite again. The water looks filled with crystals. It is almost like God, if he existed, had dropped a pot of glitter onto the water. It hurts to look up, not only into the sun, but also into the pool of intense light that is sitting on the water in front of me. Birds are flying too. A seagull is floating in the sky, pointlessly and effortlessly, thanks to the help of the wind. I think he is lazy. Other seagulls sit on the water, and look at him, either in awe of their floating friend, or bitching about how lazy that other seagull is. It is hard to tell from the wooden bench I am perched on, which one it is.

There are other birds here too, but seeing as I am not Twitcher, I cannot reveal their names. I can only really, safely, tell the names of five types of bird: Seagulls, Pigeons, Ducks, Swans and Robbins. The other birds in front of me in the water are not one of those five. I would make a guess at it being some type of goose. There are few, baby ones sitting on the water and bobbing up and then down again, before bobbing up and down again, repeatedly. An adult, (what I am calling a) goose, is standing proudly on the edge of a bank and is constantly ruffling his feathers; I think he must have an itch which is bugging him.

I can see a reflection of myself in the laptop screen, and I can tell that my hair is almost dry from the sun and the wind. However, this may not be the style that I intended on. I look like a child who has just discovered the power of electricity and the importance of not putting metal objects into turned on plug sockets. It looks positively static…

I keep just looking at the water, and thinking. I am thinking many deep things which I will not divulge into, but I am also thinking about the water that I am starring into. Some waves look like they are part of some rolling mountains, which stretch as far as the eye can see, in miniature. Other waves are bigger, and I think they look slightly reminiscent of circus tents. I doubt anyone would agree with that observation however, and that is why I took it out twice, before becoming adamant that I was going to keep it in, no matter what.

I have just spotted the moon, well, half a moon. It is nearly eleven in the morning, and the moon is out. This phenomenon always intrigues me, and as I think about it, I feel sorry for Australia. It is night there, and they haven’t got a moon. We have it instead. The sounds ‘ha ha’ go through my mind now, actually.

People keep walking past me, with their haircuts and bags and purpose. Look, that boy is wearing a pink top. It so doesn’t go with those jeans! The people that walk past often stare at me, sat on a bench, alone, and typing. They probably think I am sat here writing some essay, but what they don’t realise is that the thousand or so words I have typed, are in fact just drivel.

I am looking out into the distance now, and I can see buildings. Old buildings, but not old enough to warrant paying £10 to walk about and look at the furniture and portraits. They are just old tower blocks that were built after the war. They look rather lovely, with the sun lighting one half, the shade covering another half, another plane flying in front of them and the soundtrack of sirens ringing around. London: It seems to be the only place where sirens try and harmonise with each other.

I am now just looking around, letting my brain wonder off, and there are now clouds in a sky which 10 minutes ago was absent of any. I would love to be able to tell you what types of clouds they are. If only I had brought the book I saw in WHSmiths yesterday! Instead, you’ll have to make do with my amateur, and cliché description of them being white and fluffy. It creates such a lovely and peaceful image in your head. However, in reality, I’m in East London, looking out onto an airport, with workmen drilling and trains clattering and screeching behind me. A million miles away from the peaceful lifestyle I once lived not two months ago. Well, in reality, it’s only 52 miles away.

My bum is beginning to hurt, so I shall end it here, with the clouds relieving me from the sun, if only for a few seconds, after an observation that I have just had whilst looking in the direction of Canary Wharf: Doesn’t the Millennium Dome just look like a dollop of ice cream with several biscuit wafers stuck in around the edge?”

James Bond With Added Funny Gas

It was a few weeks ago now, but I have seen Johnny English Reborn. This is the second Johnny English, with the first coming out in 2003 when I was just eleven years old. Since then, it has been my second favourite movie franchise, with the first being Toy Story. I know, in just three sentences I have made myself sound rather childish. That's showing and not telling y'know!

I love Rowan Atkinson. I love him for almost every role I have seen him play in sitcoms and films, as well as for his 80's satirical humour in 'Not The Nine O'Clock News' and his stand-up material (performing sketches on stage essentially). He is, in my opinion, the greatest comedian. Therefore, I was always going to be biased to thinking that Johnny English Reborn is the greatest movie I have seen in some time.

The cinema I went to was a fancy new cinema complex with more screens than Comet, all showing different movies. It was a Vue cinema, this one situated in Stratford (because that’s what the Olympics needs). I haven't actually been to a Vue cinema before, but the chairs where more reminiscent of sofas than they were flimsy fold-down chairs; and that was in the standard, working class section. The screen was so large that you have to turn your head to be able to look from one side of the screen to another, and the air conditioning was so powerful that you could keep an Igloo in there for as long as you liked. The experience itself was the most pleasant one I have had in a cinema; apart from the large queue for snacks, the price of the snacks and the fact that there were other people in the cinema.

Anyway, first of all, don't go to see the movie to expect a movie similar to the first one. It is on a much larger scale, with a more believable and serious storyline which has tragedy, as well as moments of ecstatic, Atkinson-esque, pleasure. Think of it as more of a James Bond movie, with funny gas being pumped into the cinema. It is on that sort of large scale. It has a story line which could easily be adapted for a serious spy movie.

We join English in Tibet, learning Martial Arts after becoming a disgraced spy some years prior after a failed mission in Mozambique. MI7 need him back for a mission to foil a plot to kill the Chinese Premier. Along with his new sidekick, Tucker, he goes to Hong Kong to find people affiliated with a project named 'Vortex'. Humour ensues countless times, which involve a yacht chase, a game of golf and helicopter flying. MI7 then try to assassinate him, before a hilarious conclusion which involves Atkinson wearing lipstick, dancing to Word Up by Korn ("Wave your hands in the air like you don’t care"), some groin kicks, some wrestling with self, and having a fight scene in a cable car; all of which demonstrations the brilliance of his physical comedy. The movie then ends after English has attacked the Queen.

A very short synopsis there, but a lot more comedy ensues. I haven't laughed that much at a film for as long as I can remember; and I had watched the first Johnny English movie the evening prior to seeing Reborn. It certainly held up to my expectations and then superseded them.

The film also includes a greater cast, included Gillian Anderson (of X-Files fame), who was great for the role of Head of MI7, and Dominic West (of The Wire fame), who was great at playing the 'unexpected' villain of the film. Atkinson's acting was great too, and it is sometimes hard to believe that this is the man from Mr Bean and Blackadder. Also, remembering he is now 56, it is great to see him still able to perform such brilliant physical comedy, with his trademark high kicks and performing many stunts himself, such as driving a jet-powered Wheelchair through the streets of London.

I would recommend the film to anyone with the smallest of funny bones. I reckon it could make almost everyone at least snigger on numerous occasions. The film isn't a silly, half-term film which is meant for just children, but it is instead a film which the whole family could enjoy; I'm sure of it. Its adult story line makes sure of that. The comedy too will appeal to anyone. It is an all-round movie. I urge you to see it; even if you wait for it to come out on DVD. Films transfer onto DVD so quickly these days. It's not as if you'll have to wait long.

I don't know how else to put across how much I enjoyed this film. I do not understand why critics have been so harsh to this film. I think it's brilliant. Much better than any of your pouncey Twilight rubbish that you watch. I mean The Inbetweeners movie? If you 'claim to like comedy' that much, then you should see this. It's adult and childish at the same time, without any needless, apparently funny, swearing.

If you do go and see it at the cinema, do make sure you sit through the credits and wait patiently. You will not regret it. Out of a packed cinema, only 7 people remained at the end to watch one of the funniest Rowan Atkinson skits I have seen. It involves him, preparing a casserole, in sync to a piece of classical music (Edvard Grieg's In the Hall of the Mountain King - a piece of music everyone will recognise when they hear it). It is brilliant, and I'm saying that as a devoted fan of his visual antics, and think of it as a perfect example of what Atkinson can achieve, with just simple, everyday items. I was in awe of that final performance, as well as giggling like I would have when I was eleven years old.

Ashamed To Be Human

I have concluded I don't suit the human race. I think I would be much more comfortable at being part of another species on planet Earth, such as a rabbit or a tortoise. They always seem quite happy and contented and unbothered by what is happening in the news. A rabbit’s hutch will be lined with newspaper, but being a rabbit I wouldn't be able to read the text nor really be able to understand the context of the pictures. And even if I could understand it, I'd either eat or poo on the offending article. It's easy as a rabbit. I can even wiggle my nose and ears like a rabbit. Maybe I was meant to be a rabbit? Or if you believe in reincarnation, maybe I was once a rabbit. I wish I had a simple life like a rabbit, where I couldn't get offended.

Why am I considering the rabbit’s life? Well, the news the past two days has completely depressed, revolted and ashamed me. I am part of a species that murders. I know it's hardly a news flash: “Human Race Murder”. I'm thinking more about a specific murder carried out yesterday; a murder of a bad man. A terrible man. A man most would agree didn't deserve to live in the first place. However, what has bothered me more is not the murder itself, but the aftermath. His death has been glorified, and that is what I have a problem with.

Almost every newspaper carried a picture, on the front page, of Colonel Gadaffi. His lifeless face, covered with blood and a bullet hole in his head, is a picture which can be seen everywhere today. The Mirror had the worst, most disgusting picture and The Sun had a headline, which seemed to be full of pride at his death: "That's For Lockerbie", with the sub-heading "And for Yvonne Fletcher. And IRA Semtex Bomb victims." That headline is typical of The Sun, and its approach to anything done by, or as a result of, our Army. They are often blinded by a sense of pride. Morality doesn't come into their field of approach to news stories like this.

I hate myself for having to put his picture in my blog, but I just wanted to share the front cover. You can hate me and call me hypocritical if you like...

It comes to something when the human race uses technology to spread footage of a man being tortured and killed, all done within minutes of the event happening. Within an hour of hearing about the capture and possible death of Gadaffi, I was seeing pictures on the BBC Website, and video footage on their news channel, of his dead, bloodied and beaten body. The BBC defended it, by stating that they used the video to convey the scale of the "dramatic and gruesome" events. This is the same for every international news outlet in the country. To me, that is just seems wrong. It seems inhuman to put the face of a dead man everywhere; we wouldn't even treat an animal in that way.

Of course, we have to appreciate that as a nation, we are cynical enough to take the opinion that we won't believe something until we have seen it, and studied it for ourselves. Seeing as we can't all fly to Libya and poke the body ourselves; video footage is the next best thing. Saying to news outlets that they cannot show the pictures in their papers, and websites and news channels would be censorship, and I am against censorship. I just believe that we don't need to see these pictures over and over and over and over again. He isn't a very attractive man in the first place, let alone dead, bruised and bloodied. Why couldn't it just be confined to the Internet and after the watershed on TV? It seems wrong to have this man, who has essentially been 'happy slapped', in this state, as a picture to symbolise Thursday 20th October 2011.

To take an extreme view; we wouldn't do this to a victim. If Gadaffi had captured, then beaten and killed an innocent person in public and filmed it and uploaded the video to the Internet, the media would handle the whole event with moral decency. The same was done with Osama Bin Laden in May. We had a blurry, inconspicuous picture of a body said to be him, which was plastered everywhere. It seems revolting to do this, time after time. WON'T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!

It seems the newspapers have become the medieval equivalent to putting heads of bad people, on spikes for others to treat as they will. It dehumanised them. Now, the papers print the picture of a lifeless head on the front page instead.

There is also the argument of whether he should have been killed in the first place, and even the circumstances of the death are hazy. We have a video of Gadaffi in a bad way, being dragged through the streets of his home town, after been beaten up and having blood pouring off of his face. Then the next video we have is of him lying dead with a small bullet hole. Apparently it was cross fire. However, chances are, it was an emotional person, who probably knew some victims of Gadaffi's regime, and then, consumed with hate, put a gun to his head and blew his brains out (metaphorically).

However, now he is dead, people will never know the truth. People will never know his darkest secrets (which is possibly a relief for Western countries, who were heavily affiliated with him). He can never be tried in court, and can never be punished in the humanly correct way. Many questions will remain unanswered. How can a 'new Libya' claim to be any better than Gadaffi, when they begin like this? But then again, his trial was expected to have taken 10 year. It could be said to have been a waste of money and time. I know I will still disagree with his death, and especially how our media have dealt with it.

If God existed, and I was him, I would be putting the human race on the naughty step. No, don't argue and sulk, you done a bad thing, now sit there quietly until I say so; especially you media bastards!

Guardian Debate: How Can The Press Restore Trust

"Once we lose reporters, we're fucked!"

Unless you have spent the past few months on a cloud numbered nine, been in a submarine or in a coma, you will be fully aware of the phone hacking scandal of July 2011 at News of The World. It shocked and horrified our nation, as well as confusing us about whether to sympathise or hate the frail or conniving Rupert Murdoch. Since then, in fact long before then, the public have lost the trust they once invested in Journalism. Journalists are now probably somewhere just above lawyers and estate agents. On this very topic, The Guardian organised a small, public debate; a post hacking debate in which they were discussing ways in which the press can restore the trust.

This Guardian event happened on the 29th September 2011 at The Royal Institute of Great Britain, situated in one the poshest roads in one of the poshest areas of London. I was lucky enough to be given the opportunity to attend this event for free. After a trip through London at rush hour on the Underground, a trip which involved a shoulder in the eye and a tube door shutting on my head, I attended the event, looking rather underdressed in my jeans and check shirt. I then sat in a small theatre with inadequate leg room for someone of the slightly above average male-height of 6 foot. I was now sat in a room filled with Journalists, Investigative Journalists and other, media-savvy people. This was a great place to be sat in the middle of for a Student Journalist.

The room filled and then the five established names took to their seats before a short introductory video began. It started with the clip from Fox News during the height of the scandal, in which the news anchor, interviewing Rupert Murdoch, was being told what not to ask by his interviewee before apologising in a cringe-worthy manner. Following that, there was a talking head video of various figures from The Guardian, discussing the course of events including numerous other clips, such as the embarrassing one of Murdoch saying it ‘was the most humble day of my life' to the MPs.

The line-up for this debate consisted of Kristian Guru Murphy, who chaired the event. We had Carl Bernstein, an American investigative journalist who largely reported the Watergate politics scandal for The Washington Post back in 1972 in America. Sylvie Kauffman was next to him, who is the current editor for Le Monde in France. George Eustice is a Conservative politician who has had some large roles in the party, including Press Secretary for David Cameron, who was later succeeded by Andy Coulson: who is a man largely wrapped up in this whole scandal. Alan Rusbridger was also proudly present, and he is the editor for The Guardian. He started off the debate by taking to the stand to give an opening statement.

Guru Murphy then asked the others to give an opening statement to this debate. Carl Bernstein stated that 'Hackgate' was only as a result of the consumer’s wants and needs, but agreed that the press abused their rights to freedom of speech and expression. George Eustice then agreed about the 'using and abusing', but also stated that Journalists would regularly distort the news out of malice. He then went on to knock plans to have a 'Journalists Register' (the equivalent to a sex offenders registers), which would strike off Journalists who break the law.

Sylvie Kauffmann then gave her statement, in which compared our press to that of the French. She said they have no tabloid press, which is the result of a cultural difference and the public having no appetite for those kinds of stories. She actually noted an opposite scandal in France, in which Special Intelligence spy on reporters. This was completely rejected by a French audience member, who stated that Journalists in France undertake the same methods as the British. Alan Rusbridger claimed that the scandal is a result of a PCC failure. He argued that increased regulation could endanger the freedom of the press and a Journalist Register would go back to 1694, when Journalists could be heavily punished for libels.

After an opinionated reaction from Bernstein, who seemed to completely disagree with what Rusbridger had just said, the debate was opened up to questions from the audience. The questions tackled the accumulation of power for News Corporation, in which Rusbridger stated that MPs are trying to stop it, such as the BSkyB bid; albeit last minute, and Kauffmann said the answer is simply more regulation.

Other subjects questioned included tabloids, such as it being impossible to compare tabloid and broadsheet press due to them having a hunger for different stories, and also questioning the limits of privacy. Bernstein answered these questions in saying that responsibility needs to be taken by the corporations, and also that they need to be transparent in their methods and how money is being spent. Bernstein also answered a question about the limits of investigative journalism, in which he thought that the law should not be broken to get a story, but it can still be justified on occasion. He then continued saying that the Watergate investigation was legal and that he would have never hacked phones.

Before the participants gave their closing statements, Kristian Guru Murphy took a poll regarding regulation. Not many people agreed that the answer was more regulation or that we currently have the right level of regulation. Interestingly, a third agreed the answer was less regulation; the same amount of people in the room who were also Journalists.

Bernstein thought that the way to restore trust, something all institutions have lost, is basically through good reporting. Kauffmann said there is no simple answer to restoring trust and that the public needed to decide the media they want. She also said that Journalists, Blogger's and Twitterer's should have the same ethics. On the issue of trust, Eustice stated that in Britain, we have the most trusted broadcasters but the least trusted newspapers, and that this was an issue. Rusbridger thought that regulation, so long as it was effective, was the answer, as well as transparency and the want for organisations to correct themselves too. The debate ended with Rusbridger's final words being "Once we lose reporters, we're fucked!"

So the conclusion? Well, there didn't seem to be a conclusive one. There are many different opinions in which way to restore trust. I think we are just going to have to wait for the results from Lord Leveson's Inquiry next year before really being able to answer the question.

Three Years Blogging; Now I'm A Sell-Out

I wrote my very first blog post on 27th September 2009. Now, 152 blogs, 166,214 words (including this blog), and three years (and a day) later, things are very different. In that space of time I've started driving lessons and passed my tests. I have begun and completed my A-levels. I have had many adventures which I shared with this blog, such as my car's first breakdown, my car's first clamp, my laptops demise, me getting chicken pox and my attendances to great comedians such as Lee Mack, Sean Lock and Milton Jones. I have shared my thoughts about some of my favourite albums, films and television series, as well as sharing my thoughts on my least favourite ones too. I have also blogged throughout the slow, public death of a tabloid sweetheart: Jade Goody. Me, and my blog, have been through a lot, which I have shared with you; a random Internet user who comes across my blog through random Google searches and, sometimes, the odd loyal reader comes and goes.

Now, at the end of a third year of average blogging success, everything changes. One of the two big, recent, changes in my life, which will undoubtedly make an impact on my blogs from here onwards, is moving to London and being in attendance at a University. The University of East London, for the next few years, will be attempting to make me into a successful Writer/Journalist, thanks to the pompously named course 'Journalism Studies with Creative and Professional Writing'. This is going to give me many opportunities in both the short and long term. One would assume that you should be able to track my improvement in lexis choice and combination, throughout the next three years. However, with me spending all my time writing thousands and thousands of words in an attempt to get some sort of degree at the end of the three years, so I can wave it in the faces of potential bosses; chances are the frequency of writings for this blog will be heavily impacted. Mind you, I am a University student now, so chances are I'll use this blog as a way of procrastination instead of work.

Lucky for me, some modules of work are not a million miles away from what I have been doing for this blogs. I have a module at some point, in which I have to critic the media for its celebrity obsession and thinking us all mindless lap dogs, and its impact upon society. I've been doing blogs like that for years! Take any blog about Jade Goody or Katie Price, or the blog about Jan Moir and her slur on homosexuals. Take my recent News of The World blog, or a blog about a large, life changing event, such as the Japanese Earthquake/Tsunami, or the blog about the Cumbrian Shootings. They all comment on how the media sexes up the news, to make it grabbing and interesting in order to get the readership, and therefore the money, they want. They comment on how Journalists all want that prime front-page story, so they can make a name, and therefore money, for themselves. Some also, metaphorically, spit on the grave of Jade Goody, but I'm not sure if that will feature quite so heavily in my University work.

The content of my blog might change slightly too, with some posts being more topic-based on the World of Journalism. Assuming my application was successful, I will soon have a press card. I can walk up to a police cordon, present my card to them, and then get the low down. I'm almost one step away from saying "The names Collyer; Stuart Collyer". I could, should I get the break, start writing for small, mundane publications about uninteresting topics, which I will inevitably be proud of, due to the fact they will be my first, printed words for the public domain. I will also be able to attend press events, such as the one I am attending soon, hosted by The Guardian newspaper, in which people will debate about the recent hacking scandal and how the press can restore trust. These might seem boring to you, but to me, they are interesting. They are exciting. They are my life now.

For the second big change in my life, which will have a large impact upon the subject of blogs, is what makes me a sell-out. Throughout my blogging career, I have been single (over three years I think you will find). This has, therefore, made a large impact upon the subjects I occasionally choose to write about. I have had numerous blogs bemoaning the fact that I am single. Bemoaning other people in relationships and how open they are about the fact they have another pair of lips to passionately kiss all the time. I just generally bemoan other people who seem to be generally happy in front of me. However, due to recent events (well, events that happened a little while ago now), I suspect that I will no longer be moaning about the abstract noun of love, and its effects. Yes, if you haven't already guessed, or don't already know; my Facebook relationship status no longer says 'Single'. It doesn't even say 'It's Complicated'. My Facebook relationship status now states that I am in fact in a relationship.

The tale of our love is a lovely little fairy story; but minus the dragons, castles, suits of armour and any real sense of romance. We have known each other years, with the odd spark of chemistry here and there. People told us we should be together. Feeling grew. People told us we should be together. Circumstances brought us closer together. People told us we should be together. We got depressed and lonely because we convinced ourselves it couldn't happen. People told us we should be together. I wrote a blog about Unrequited Love and even made a playlist of songs which made me think about her. People told us we should be together. We made plans to make sure we went to the same University together. People told us we should be together. We spent all our time with each other. People thought we were together. In my car, on a wet evening, I told her my feelings, with not much response. I organised an evening out for us, which I messed up and also got a parking fine. Then we got together, and yeah, now we're no longer 'Single Pringles'.

Just a note to anyone reading this and thinking 'I knew it' or 'I told you so'… Shut up! You may think you're some sort of 'Cupid', but you're not. I knew you were right. Even you knew you were probably right at the time, but you didn't actually help push the 'true course of love', so you have no high ground in this debate. I don't think anyone actually believed me when I said I didn't like her…

I have now become the person I hated as a result of this changing relationship status, but I love it. In fact, I love her. I used to take it as a personal insult when people held hands walking towards me. I hated strangers locking lips next to me. I disliked friends who were all over their partner in my presence. Due to my cynical disposition, I could not see why people couldn't just be all loved up in private. However, circumstances have changed my view because I walk towards lots of people holding the hand of the other half. I kiss her in view of many people. To save it for when we're in private, now seems impossible. I know, you're allowed to puke if you want; I would have if I was reading this in my single state.

I'm somewhat of a different person now. Most would say for the better, but I'm sure others would not agree. I don't hate hearing abstract nouns. In fact, I use them very frequently these days: 'I love you'. I am not as much of a cynical misanthrope as I used to be. Depression has been at a bare minimum, and happiness has been the dominate emotion I have been feeling, since we became fully affiliated with each other. I think I am also a nicer person since we created a stronger bond between us, in that I am more tolerant and less angry than I used to be. These have, unfortunately, led to a decrease in the amount of blogs I produce. If I am angry about nothing, then how can I write an angry, extravagant blog bemoaning the topic? That is a question I am yet to answer; but I'm sure when the time comes, normal blogging service will resume. And if not? Well, you'll have to put up with blogs about flowers, sunshine and bunny rabbits.

Who knows when I might blog next. I might blog soon about the Guardian debate I'm attending. I might blog about the finale of Doctor Who. Or, I might not blog again for weeks. I don't know, but all I know that I am now starting my fourth year of blogging. Who would have thought that a small project for ICT would turn into something which defines me and gave me the drive to pursue a career in Journalism?

In one of my first lectures, we were asked if any of us blog. A few put their hands up. I was asked what I blog about, after a girl who was asked responded with "My gap-year experiences". It made me realise just how insignificant and pointless my blogs can be. But hey, who cares! I'm going to keep writing them regardless, AND I'm at University in London with my beautiful girlfriend. Screw you!

Miracle Day Dragged On For Ten Weeks

The American bastardisation of what could have ended up as a British drama classic if left be, has come to the end of its first series as a coalition between two sides of the Atlantic Ocean. My initial reaction, as I stated in my blog "Americanised; Synonyms: Bastardised", which was written three episodes into the series, was not a positive one. I thought the series was slow to start and felt it had been somewhat ruined and therefore, disappointed with the whole thing. I hoped that it would pick up with excitement and the usual Torchwood charm which previous fans loved, but were my hopes fulfilled?

Yes and no. Some episodes were fast paced and exciting, and others, continued to be slow and rather boring. Some episodes were created to purely create a back story, or to create an emotional connection with a new or departing character. Some episodes seemed to be there purely as an afterthought to bridge a gap. However, there were the odd episodes that managed to grip you tightly by the attention strings and not let you go until the credits began to roll. The reason for this inconsistency seems to be because different writers wrote different episodes. Although top-guy Russell T. Davies wrote the series, he actually only wrote the opening and closing episodes for the series.

One of the major problems with the series was the characters. Captain Jack Harkness (John Barrowman) is undoubtedly the main character of Torchwood, and has been from day one. Without that character in the story, it cannot work. Jack has not had the role in this latest series that he should have had. He has been put second behind new American characters. The writers have assumed that we care about these new American members, so attach personal storylines and tragedies to them. These don't really work purely because we have not had time to get to know them. The character of Gwen has been somewhat underestimated this series too, with her not being used to her full potential, and only a handful of times does she seem to fully be the strong, independent character who we knew in the previous series. She still has those personal stories, which are there to help the audience relate to the consequences of Miracle Day however, but her strong character is under minded as a result.

Another reoccurring character who I'm not sure if we were supposed to despise or sympathise was Oswald Danes; a convicted felon who had been given the death penalty for murdering a young woman, but had survived. First we hated him. He was taking advantage of miracle day. Then he got shafted by the system that was using him, and he regularly got beaten up for no reason. Then he became selfish again and blackmailing people. Then be became a hero, before showing his true colours before finally dying. I have no idea what the writers’ purpose for that character was, and therefore, far too confusing.

We only have one episode out of the ten, which I feel felt like an original Torchwood episode. That was episode 7: "Immortal Sins". It was by far my favourite episode. The episode consisted of flashbacks of Jack's life, and  whilst in the present; he is being taken hostage by Gwen. The episode contains the only contact we have with an alien in the entire series. It is the only episode that seems to actually fully except that Jack is gay, and takes full advantage of that. Those are the four ingredients to a great, original Torchwood episode: Jack, Gwen, Aliens and outlandish gay scenes, and guns if you wish to garnish it off with a fifth ingredient. Davies seems to have completely sold out on those ingredients, which he could once put together brilliantly, just so he can have larger popularity state-side and have more money to play with.

The series itself has been over stretched too, which has completely weakened the series storyline. If we hark back to the previous series of Torchwood: Children of Earth, the storyline was squeezed to just five episodes. This series was stretched to 10 episodes, and as a result, some episodes have no purpose at all. Take the second episode where Jack and Gwen are being deported to the America in the plane flight. That flight lasted the entirety of the episode, with no relevant events actually occurring. All that footage could have been chucked in the bin, and it would have made no difference at all to the series. Those sorts of episodes, as a result, just seem to be irrelevant and an afterthought. Once again, you would have never had that with the older series of Torchwood. Every episode was exciting and gripping with an alien who promised to spark imagination and enjoyment, and maybe even an orgasm or two.

The lack of any aliens is the biggest crime for this series. Torchwood was once full of aliens. It was an extension of Doctor Who and all of their aliens, and sometimes they would overlap too. Now, they both seem like completely different shows which have nothing in common. They were once such close friends, but now, over time they have fallen apart and now keep very distant from each other. They still remember each other occasionally, but otherwise, contact between them is zilch. They have lost each other’s numbers and have no desire to get back into contact. Torchwood has changed into something different since the contact was lost, and that is shown in the lack of any alien action.

So how could they have improved the series? Aliens and more of Jack. Two simple requests, yet for some reason the writers decided to completely overlook them. I was so very disappointed in the ending when the event turned out to not be of a result of an extra-terrestrial being, but instead to be of ordinary, boring, bastard human beings. It was such a cop-out for Torchwood and Russell T. Davies.  It certainly is no longer Torchwood, but instead another spin-off going under the same alias.

Then take the series cliff-hanger. Rex, the black American, is now like Jack: indestructible and can now live forever. That is the biggest mistake of them all. The entire dynamic of the show has been altered. One of the great things about Jack is how individual he is from every other character on the show. Changing that, I think, will be the death of Torchwood. The next series could very well be its last, but maybe that isn't such a bad thing. It is painful watching Torchwood going through this painful change. Injecting American blood into something which is distinctively British through and through is causing vital organs to stop operating, and the entire body will slowly die, even if they do inject more of Jack's Miracle, life saving blood into it...

Gok Wan: The Serial Rapist

To women, Gok Wan is the greatest thing since sliced bread, seeing how it meant they didn't have to cut it themselves every time they made their man a sandwich. To men, Gok Wan is the most insufferable thing since Sex And The City. Men have to sit and watch a skimpy man of Chinese heritage, go around referring to the shape of women by various fruits, and watch him fondle the same woman, whilst screaming bangers enthusiastically, like a spoilt, northern toddler who wants a sausage…

We all know of Gok Wan as a 'fashion expert'. Essentially, he can just tell what clothes and colours complement each other best, and the best colours and clothes are suitable for different woman. I can do that. I always walk down the street judging the clothes woman wear, and bitching about how tight they look, commenting on how they make someone look 5 months pregnant or just plainly having a sense of disgust for anyone wearing a jumpsuit or 'harem trousers'. If someone were to wear harem trousers over a jumpsuit, they would look like a Genie taking a break from attempting to change the oil filter on their car. Not the greatest of looks, I'm sure you will agree.

I think the arrogance that Gok Wan has about his 'talent' is actually very shocking, but that is the fault of thousands of under-confident women and the media, for making him seem like a God-like figure in the fashion World. He is not considered as a personal shopper, which is essentially what he is sometimes, but in fact someone who has the power to positively change a life. He is Channel 4's answer to Nick Knowles and D.I.Y S.O.S. Friends and relatives of a D.I.Y fashion victim will contact him, and he will look judgingly at them, during a montage of the person being miserable, depressed and fading into the background of a crowd of better dressed, happier people. We look at the 30-something, blonde, mother of three in jeans and a cardigan, and feel sympathy. Then, by the end, we have a montage of clips of the person looking happy and chipper, with her new hairstyle and brighter, make-up laden face, walking down the street, with a camera focus that specifically draws your eye to her, all because she is wearing a dress instead. 'She feels like a woman again', or some similar sound bite to the same effect, is played over the top. We are all happy for her, as well as being depressed that we wasted an hour of our life.

He has elements of a serial rapist/killer to him I think too, and it is all part of the process of making a woman 'more confident' and 'beautiful'. Personally, I think otherwise. He puts a female, in a large, white room, placing her in front of the only object in the room; a mirror. He then tells them to strip down to nothing, and they do it, because every woman does what Gok Wan tells them too. This is a woman who hates her body. He then tells them to stare at it. 'Go on, stare at yourself! Look at every wrinkle. Look at every flabby bit. Go on, shake it about a bit. Stare at your sagging cleavage, go on; STARE! Look at the veins in your legs. You think you're revolting, don't you?' He then stands behind the woman, pinching their flabby arms, and then breathing down their neck, sniggering, while he man handles their breasts, he whispers how 'fabulous' they are, in her ear. If he were to then offer them a suicide pill, most women would probably take it at that point. However, surprisingly, he doesn't rape and kill them. He tells them how they should show their body off more and be proud of it.

Women will believe anything that falls from the lips of Gok Wan. If he said on one of his shows, that aubergine shaped women would look better if they dived head-first into a pool of purple paint every morning, and then dressed themselves in something from the Asda cleaning products isle, such as a dustbin bag and a bucket, they would believe him. That very isle in Asda would have been cleared within hours, as well as every single purple paint tin in every B&Q and Homebase being purchased within minutes of the stores opening. Within a week, 80% of the aubergine-shaped women of Britain would be on public transport and walking down the high street, in different shades of purple and wearing mops, dust pans and brushes, all being held in place with green washing line wire.

Gok Wan is the perfect person to advertise to woman, purely for that reason. If an advertising company is looking for someone to get women buying clothes from a high-street brand, he should do it. If an advertising company is looking for someone to get women to buy a particular brand of make-up or other beauty products, they should get him to do it. If an advertising company are looking to sell a particular make of vehicle, they should get him to do so, even if he does know sod all about cars. If an advertising agency wants to sell tin foil to women, they should get him to do so. Want to sell an acidic shampoo that will not only burn away the hair, but will also dissolve the scalp? He is their man. You could probably be advertising euthanasia of all women-folk, and if he done it, all women would happily march into the gas chambers to their death, with their purple skin and clothesline cover dress, happy because Gok Wan said they should.

Personally, I think he is either a complete genius and perverted man, or a very sincere and lovely person. Chances are, it's the latter, but let me just plant the seed of suspicion about him being a perverted genius, into your mind. Is it really beyond possibility that a man would pretend to be gay, just to be able to spend lots of time with lots of women, in order to see them naked and furiously grope their breasts whenever he sees fit? He has the power to make thousands of women wear low cut tops which show off inches of cleavage. How do you know he isn't high up in some London building, and with binoculars, watching them all walk past? Are you a woman who has ever been in London, wearing a low cut blouse, and heard a voice from afar shout 'Bangers!'? It could have been a straight Gok Wan, sitting with a tissue, watching YOU!

Just saying, how do we really know he is gay? Is it just because Wikipedia says so and he mentioned it in a self-centred documentary about being fat? Hmmm, how sure are you?

P.S. The scene from Monty Python's Life Of Brian, where everyone, ironically, states 'Yes, we're all individual' and 'Yes, we are all different', springs to mind...

http://youtu.be/jVygqjyS4CA

Rise Of The Morons

Once upon a time in a street in Tottenham, London, a black man was shot under dubious circumstances by a Policeman who claimed to have been in danger. However, an IPCC investigation found evidence to disprove that, such as the bullet in the policeman's radio to be of police issue, and the victim’s gun to have not been fired. The friends and family, rather graciously, disagreed and wanted a real answer to the reason for the shooting. The big, hypocritical, media Ogres seemed to ignore this news event and saw no reason to bring attention to it, like they would have, for example, if a Policeman was shot in dubious circumstances by a black man. Then, on a lovely, quiet, summer's afternoon, the victim’s family were upset, and therefore set up a small vigil outside a Police Station in Tottenham.

Then the Morons invaded from across the London borough of Tottenham. Their invasion left much devastation. Police cars were vandalised and set alight. A bus had petrol bombs aimed at it. Shops were looted by these morons for their own personal gain and set about burning various other buildings; one which had survived a World wars. The Morons of Tottenham had invaded, and the News crews had swarmed in to film the burning devastation and make irrational comments. The Tottenham Morons stood behind the various presenters, talking on their phones and lurking about in an attempt to be considered famous by their other Moronic friends. The Moron's grew weary of the vain attempts at being a celebrity, so set about destroying passing cars, before setting upon the news crews and destroying thousands of pounds of equipment. The violence continued for hours, into the early morning hours of Sunday the 7th of August, and news channels speculated from their cosy studios, miles away from the violence, about how bad it was. The morons eventually went home to sleep in their grubby council flats, gathered around the light of social network websites, and their event pages.

Many people spent the following day, insisting that Tottenham was a lovely, happy community, in which the many different races lived together in one, harmonious family which have no problems or 'issues with the black, teenage community'; despite the evidence proving otherwise. The sun began to set, and the disease of Moronicitis [muh-ron-ik-tahy-tis] had spread through to other London boroughs such as Enfield, Islington and Oxford Circus. This violence was much stronger than the previous nights, with more buildings being pointlessly set alight and raided for the consumer goods. A Sony warehouse in Enfield was set ablaze for no reason other than to course as much destruction as possible, and apparently, make a statement about race quality and joblessness. This again continued late into the night, which lead to news channels sending out their helicopters in an attempt to film all huge fires from above, while the ground film crews tip-toed around the city to film the aftermath of rioting, instead of the actual swarm of Morons, ripping their way through toughened glass and metal shutters, and occasionally farting out fire bomb. The Morons eventually grew tired of the lines of ill-equipped and ill-trained police officers following them about, and went to their homes to sleep, in their brand new tracksuit which they had just looted.

The light of Monday morning shined through London, showing the amount of destruction which was left after the swarm of Morons had made their way through the various boroughs. While the Morons slept, the news announced that over 100 people had already been arrested, and that David Cameron was to cut short his holiday to return home, after seeing that Nick Clegg had clearly ballsed up being in charge of the country; much like getting a phone call from a neighbour, to tell you that the person you asked to feed your pets and water the plants, had in fact attacked everything with a flame thrower and hearing the screeching cat through the phone. More people went to the media and to social networking sites to give their own, unwanted opinion to decry how stupid every single teenager who currently exists is. FYI: I'm a teenager, and from my eloquence, you can decipher that I'm not exactly stupid.

The darkness of Monday night loomed, and the Morons woke up for yet another night of pointless violence, despite the news that the Prime Minister's return home was looming. They went on to cause even more, pointless, copycat destruction; still claiming to have a cause to be angry about. It became evident that Moronicitis had spread to both sides of the River Thames, to boroughs such as Lewisham, Woolwich, Peckham, East Ham, Hackney, Camden, Bethnal Green, and even Stratford. The news crews hurried around, again filming the aftermath of the swarms, and interviewing random, angry onlookers who have their own personal, upsetting story, such as having bricks through the window or witnessing violent attacks etc. People which were caught up in the aftermath of Moronicitis, called into the news channels and said, usually very angrily, how pathetic the riots were being and how over stretched the police were. This was usually broadcast over repeated footage of a rampaging fire, or footage which demonstrated the police being over stretched.

As the evening carried on, it continued to become evident that Mononicitis had not only spread through London, but across the country, to other cities such as Bristol, Liverpool and Birmingham. The news had not planned for it to be so wide-spread, and therefore these events were described pointlessly down the phone by local news correspondents, agitatedly saying how Birmingham has small outbursts of violence, sometimes even played over mobile phone footage of Morons charging at a line of police with bins and wood, before running back home. This led to a change in news headline going from 'London Riots' to 'UK Riots'. Monday night was the night when Moronicitis became a national pandemic, with no cure in sight.

The following day, after the Morons had yet again gone back to their hovels to sulk in their own filth, and as the sun once again shinned over London, and other cities, there was light at the end of tunnel. Not the hope of 13,000 police in London to act as a vaccine to Moronicitis, nor was it David Cameron's speech, in which he basically said 'You should all be very ashamed of yourselves'. No. The bad and evil social networking websites, changed their allegiance, and done positive work to help the lives and communities destroyed. Volunteer clean up operations were organised via Twitter, asking people to bring brooms and rubbish sacks, and within the day, totally cleaned up all the London boroughs, as well as other major UK cities. There was hope for humanity and forces of good, just like the end of most, blockbuster, apocalyptic films. Those events remind us that humanity isn't just a violent, moronic species.

Then the evening came. The 13,000 strong army of police officers circulating the English capital, seemed to act as a deterrent, or a vaccine, if you will, resulting in Moronicitis being almost completely cured in the main problem areas. However, the rest of the country was now in the heightened grips of suffering from Moronicitis. Birmingham, Manchester and Leicester were the English cities hit badly by Moronicitis, with many shops in those cities being looted, and yes, pointlessly burnt, as well as the needless violence aimed at the Police, because they ‘like’, represent authority. One of the shops, which the News channels swarmed to, to film its destruction, was a Miss Selfridge in Salford, Manchester. How that represents racial quality issues, I don't know. That, to me at least, (and remember, I don't live in the 'Ghetto's', I live in a Middle class, consistently Conservative village in Kent) seems like needless, pointless violence.

From then on, the nightmare of Moronicitis seemed to subside, and the country, which was once in the grips of this deadly disease, is still continuing to recover. Many people appear to be very lovely and helpful, and are good advocates for humanity. Yet, we are still reminded of Moronicitis, by the facts that the disease took the lives of 5 people, as well as injuring 16 bystanders and 186 police officers, as well as the hundreds of millions of pounds of damage caused by these large swarms of Morons.

Initially, Humanity comes out of these events as a terrible species that does not deserve our place on Planet Earth, however, overall, when you take into account the willingness by the general majority to help communities and individuals recover as quickly as possible, and this 'Keep Calm and Carry On' attitude that, England as a nation has, puts a positive spin on a such an frightening and appalling ordeal, and maybe, just maybe, Humanity isn't that bad after all. I hope the people who were overpowered by Moronicitis will receive the treatment they deserve; being severely punished to the extremes of the Law system, despite their age. As David Cameron said in his speech after his return from Italy; "If you're old enough to commit the crime, you're old enough too punished". The thought of 16 year olds committing these crimes is very depressing. The thought of 10 year olds committing these crimes is upsetting and very worrying. One hopes that the families of those young offenders are also punished, and the Governments threats to do so, were not empty ones.

Anyway, if you want to look at a gallery of scumbags and recent suffers of Moronicitis, then visit 'Crimefighters'. If you recognise one those faces; Shout! Shout loudly, preferably over the phone or on the Internet, at the right source.

If you want to blame the police for the nationwide spread of Moronicitis, then go and see about having that lobotomy reversed; they done their absolute best with the recourses at their disposal. Also, if you're one of those stupid fuddy-duddies whose answer to everything is 'National Service', then go and hang your head in shame at diminishing the work done by our Army.

P.S. I'm not in the slightest bit patriotic, but some people just don't fully appreciate anything!

Americanised; Synonyms: Bastardised

What is Torchwood without people having group orgies with Aliens in the public toilets of Cardiff, before disintegrating into dust at the point of orgasm? Well, it isn't Torchwood without that. So, what is this show that is currently airing on BBC 1 on a Thursday evening under the name of Torchwood? Well, from what I can deduce, the only recognisable metaphor that could be used to describe this series is to compare it to 'a wolf in sheep's clothing'. It LOOKS like Torchwood, but it isn't Torchwood. It has the two main characters that we recognise as being Torchwood. It has scenes filmed in Cardiff. It has jokes about Cardiff. It has a supernatural storyline which is very, very intriguing and well portrayed, as well as being written by Russell T. Davies. However, from then on, it fails to be anything like the Torchwood that we British fans loved.

This program then, which is hiding under the alias of Torchwood, is brilliant, which makes it terrible. Doesn't make sense huh? Well, I shall explain my problem. Torchwood was originally this brilliant piece of British Drama, which was uniquely British with its humour, captivating (if not eccentric) stories and great characters. This Torchwood 'season' is a co-production between Britain and America. Torchwood now loses everything that was so unique about it when it was set purely in Cardiff. The British humour is sacrificed for the American audience, which is the main problem. However, the fact it is half American, means that the drama element of the program is great. The American's are creating the best quality programming at the moment by far, in all genres. How can their input in British programming be considered as a bad thing? It can't; but it is in Torchwood.

Still not getting me are you? Well, take this is an extreme example to illustrate my point. You can't all-of-a-sudden relocate Coronation Street to a French town and expect it to appeal to the same audience and remain just as popular. Torchwood worked because it was set in Cardiff. You can't all-of-a-sudden relocate Torchwood to America and expect it to appeal to the same audience and remain just as popular (however, viewing figures disprove me thus far).

I personally think that in this 'season' so far (three episodes in), they have focused far too much on building up characters and their own separate stories. The story has been heavily sacrificed as a result, as has the Torchwood feel. The first two episodes particularly were very slow in events actually happening, apart from the odd five minutes which end up being an anti-climax. I think the entirety of the second episode was completely pointless, and to me it just seems like it was a rushed afterthought. The idea seems weakly developed with pointless events thrown in, such as the drugging of Captain Jack, to provide false climax.

I will give credit where credit is due; the third episode was a lot better with it having a quicker pace, but still, there are just pointless interactions between characters which just do not need to happen and add absolutely nothing to the story. They may as well show a still image of the words 'Torchwood' for five minutes every so often. The third episode also had a slight original Torchwood feel to it, with some of the characters having sex. This makes me sound like a homosexual pervert, but as soon as there was a scene with Captain Jack about to have gay sex, I felt that just MAYBE, it was about to feel like Torchwood again. However, then there were some more pointless exchanges with some pointless American actors and it was ruined.

It's the American element of the show that I absolutely hate. Well, hate is a strong word. The Sci-fi element of the show has diminished, with it just being an obscure storyline, just like the American's 'The Event'; it's nothing but a drama about a fictional event. I want supernatural events and aliens, like the first three series of Torchwood. If this 'Miracle Day' doesn't end up being caused by an intergalactic being, I will be very unhappy. Torchwood and Russell T. Davies have sold out, just so they can have more money, and if they sacrifice the original roots of being a Doctor Who spin-off, for bigger, richer roots, then they would be the biggest sell-outs since Green Day went mainstream or when Nick Clegg had a lobotomy if favour of political power.

Anyway, maybe I'm being over critical too early. We're only three episodes into a 'season' of ten episodes. Incidentally, that's another reason for hating the Americanisation of Torchwood. They call it a season, but we Brits call it a series, so the American's ruined that too. Anyway, it might get more entertaining and it may not bother me so much as the SERIES goes on. Fingers crossed...

P.S. Both 'Americanisation' and 'Bastardisation' are spelt with S's, not Z's. It's called English, so therefore you should abide by the same rules as the English... Bloody Americans!