Trees and holly

I really cannot believe it. Christmas is almost here once again. I love Christmas; its my favorite time of the year. I don't know about you but I have been heartily filling up on mince pies and madeira wine, as well as decking the halls with boughs of holly and trying to do a bit of much-needed revision (I confess the latter has proved to be the hardest). I got the Christmas tree a few days ago; just so happened that was the day of the great blizzard and the car got stuck in the snow behind several other stranded cars, and so I had to make my way home carrying an 8 foot tree up a hill and through the snow. Ho ho ho. And of course I have been slipping and sliding in the ice (as per usual... I don't think I even have a centre of gravity), watching the Christmas lights and decorating the tree, but this year I have tried to steer clear of hysterical mothers and children dressing each other up in fanciful costumes made out of foam and lycra, and as such I confess that I have not quite felt the sincere religious element to Christmas. However, after listening to the King's College carol service which is, of course, very beautiful (better than our school carol service put it that way) I have been reminded that Christmas is not just about being a mince-pie-munching-turkey-devouring-present-hogging dinosaur. In my fit of nostalgia, I remembered how at my preparatory school we would do the annual nativity play, the only production which always made an effort to include every pupil in the Junior part of the school, and consequently and inevitably all their mothers as well. 


I have never been much of an actress, but when made to as schools generally enforce, I would generally prefer either to play the humorous fool or else the emotionally complex Machiavellian villain (complete with evil laugh). However despite my convictions I was consistently cast as the Angel Gabriel, which as you can imagine I was able to play with as much grace as Ann Widdecombe on roller-skates. As coincidentally suiting as the role may seem, it did not exactly match with my bouncy temperament and religious ambiguity (I was still, by this point, trying to make up my mind as to whether or not Jesus had walked on water... the only conclusion was that it was an exceptionally cold year and he was using ice-skates). But every time I pitched my thoughts, I was told it was either Gabriel or a sheep. 


The year before my promotion to the big-cheese angel, was the year I first featured in and saw a nativity play. From my teachers' flowery explanation and frequent use of the word "miracle," I was expecting to be blown away by the production. Unfortunately, the mums and the pathetic excuses for actors that they called their offspring failed to bring the characters to life in the way I had hoped.  And the story just seemed to center around everyone being really impressed with Jesus and there wasn't much plot suspense, dramatic irony, character depth and not a single battle scene. And yet, all the parents seemed to be enthralled by the production. I could see that the story had potential, but I was rather disappointed by the experience. The following year I decided that on day I was going to take matters into my own hands. My opportunity came when I was in the final year of the Junior school, and so of course felt very superior and independent, oblivious to the truth of that I was still only at the age of when one thinks Leonardo da Vinci is a famous actor who played in a film called Titanic which is about a boat invaded by aliens.
All the teachers had gone for a coffee break and so the only remaining adults were a couple of parents who had been cooking with wine and brandy and had occasionally put some in the food.
I stood up and said with great determination that I was going to reinvent the production, and that this time it would be AMAZING. I began with my own part.


I ad-libbed my lines with great sincerity, punctuating my words in a very thespian manner and announcing  to where the audience would sit how Mary was to give birth to Jesus, the son of God.
My attention then turned to the girl who was to play Mary. I felt that the plight of the character needed to be emphasized. The audience really needed to understand that she was suffering. I constructed her costume accordingly. I ruffled up her blue cloak (why is it always blue?), back-combed her hair and made her talk with a croaking stammer and walk with a cane and a limp. She was also deaf. 
I demanded that Joseph shout at the inn-keeper with passionate rage until he let them in.
It was finally time for Jesus to be born. Due to my incomplete understanding of childbirth, the scene I directed involved Jesus being tossed across the room, as if in flight, and then Mary running over to where he landed and acting really surprised to find him there.
I then ordered for the Three Kings to come and present their gifts. They came on stage and yelled, as if the baby Jesus were partially deaf or mentally challenged "HELLO JESUS. WE COME BEARING GIFTS." They stretched out their hands which were empty. I ordered for the two mothers who were now giggling uncontrollably and were also pretty intoxicated to find something the Three Kings could present to the baby Jesus. They scavenged around the room for a few minutes and then returned bearing a flower vase, a pack of cigarettes and an Elvis Presley cassette. I told them that it wouldn't do; Jesus doesn't like Elvis Presley. They replied: "Oh of course Jesus does. He and Elvis share one common trait... they are both immortal". And they both broke into raucous laughter. At this point the teachers came back to see how we were getting on, and saw two parents in hysterics, Joseph gone ballistic, Mary having an epileptic fit, and Jesus lying in the manger with a packet of fags. 


So lets all forget our troubles and enjoy Christmas with family and friends, in the spirit of giving and loving. In all honesty, Christmas is my favorite time of the year, and so this leaves me with just one more thing to say;


MERRY CHRISTMAS ONE AND ALL.

Let there be light...

Finally at long last I have re-posted! I have to owe this massive delay to the hectic lead up to universities and exams. Now is the time when everything seems to be in full drive, and I must have confess, I have had barely no time at all. When eating begins to seem like a loss of time to me, I definitely know that something is very wrong. All around people seem only to be talking of their next homework assignment, university applications and interviews, and there seems to be a general air of stress about the place. And now the days are getting shorter and ice starting to form all over the pavements, a feeling of 'health-and-safety' seems to really be in full swing. And I don't even like health and safety (goggles to play conkers.... ha) .
Walking on my way to merry old compulsory school chapel, I was attempting to prove my eclectic capabilities and do the old ice-skate-on-the-icy-pavement move in some crazy moment of impulsive behaviour. I very nearly wiped out in front of half the school, but luckily regained balance at the last minute, and casually strolled off hoping that know one noticed. Eventually we all filed into the chapel, and were seated in the most random fashion in between parents,other houses, and just plain strangers. I have to say, when the chapel was plunged into darkness, I really did feel a sense of mystery and religious comfort what with the light coming up through the stained glass windows and the choir chanting from ambiguous places. But when the lights came glaring back on at "and God said let there be light", I couldn't help but think "well gee God I thought you could do better than tungsten from Ikea". Then of course candles were lit during the service (I swear I thought someone's hair was going to be set alight at any moment), and people gave addresses about the annunciation (I've always thought Mary was such a weirdo... I mean, if some random angel came along to tell me that I was to give birth to the son of God my first response would be to say "hahahahahha..... wait, you gotta be kiddin' me man!"), and then of course the entire congregation bellowed out the hymns at full volume. I think one of the lines about Christ in the last hymn was "deeply wailing", which is probably the most accurate description possible of what it was.
However sitting in the chapel listening to the choir sing beautiful hymns with the ethereal atmosphere of candles and flowers really made me think... what if there are more important things in life than universities and exams, applications and interviews? What if these things really don't matter at all. We should all just enjoy advent and the anticipation for christmas, playing about in the snow, singing songs and forgetting about the routine and toil of school. I suppose you could say I had an epiphany of sorts; I am going to forget about all the stress and expectations, the necessary assignments and revision. I'm going to be the ultimate rebel... screw physics prep and english essays. I am just going to sit back and relax, watch the sun shine through frost covered trees, walk through the powdered snow with friends, and admire the beauty and surreality of the winter aura. After all, it seems so foolish to waste its wonder and charm on trivial endeavours and exertions. One could do worse than be a wanderer of the snow.

Right, ehem, uh, I think I should go finish my homework now.

Listen to 'Trouble is a Friend' by Lenka and 'All the Money or the Simple Life Honey' by the Dandy Warhols.

Remember, Remember

Once again, Bonfire Night has passed, and we have all gone out to enjoy the fireworks and bonfires and gunpowder. I absolutely love fireworks and bonfires; I’m a bit of a pyromaniac like that. Its not that I like running about the place setting everything I see alight or am planning blowing up the Houses of Parliament anytime soon, but there is something quite surreal and wonderful about fire. It’s unlike any of the other elements; water and earth and air are all tangible in some sense, or are at least made up of some sorts of atoms we are aware of. But fire isn’t anything you can capture or hold, its just pure, abstract energy. And for this reason, I find it totally mesmerizing (oh I am such the physicist.) However, having said this, I cannot say all my experience with fireworks has been wonderful. Speaking of ‘remember, remember’, I remember when I was a lot younger back in the good ol’ days of when all the kids in the town would meet around a massive bonfire, and then retreat to one particularly welcoming parent’s house (heaven forbid) for some jolly old fireworks. However I distinctly remember that in one year, I was particularly interested in the all-you-can-eat- buffet, which as you can imagine, I took to mean literally. So rather than being interested in the sparklers, the apple bobbing, and the eloquent conversation of fellow 7 year olds, I busied myself with stuffing my face with as much burger, sausage, avocado and cake as I could possibly fit in. In fact, I ate so much, I think I turned into a massive black-hole sucking in every possible edible thing which had been roasted on charcoal, until the world was stripped of all things smoky and covered in ketchup. Anyway, I was so busy eating all this food, I was completely oblivious to the fact that the giant ‘Golden Fountain of Midos’ had been set alight, and that everyone had retreated to the back of the garden. And suddenly, midway between bites of hot-dog, this huge explosion set off right next to me, and the next thing I knew, I was prancing about the place, yelling for someone to turn it off, trying to avoid the sparks of fire which were coming straight towards my face. My first instinct was to throw the hot-dog into the inferno, which just set on fire and bounced back at me. So not only was I avoiding the firework itself, I know had an evil fire-sausage on my trail. I was jumping about so much, that all the other kids thought I was part of the act, like some Greek sprite doing a hot-dog ritual, and so just stood there going “oooooohhh” and “aaaaahhh”. Even these days, I still have a fear of demonic hot-dogs.

Please, just please watch anything by Charlie Chaplin. Especially the ‘Great Dictator’. Frickin’ amazing. Listen to ‘Mad World’ by Gary Jules, and ‘Run On’by Moby.

Supermarket Mishaps

Well, I am not going to lie, I felt pretty crap today; although I have done my upmost best to avoid it I finally succumbed to the dry, coughing throat thing that inevitably occurs at the end of every cold. So, I decided to head off to Tesco to buy myself some nice honey and a few lemons to try and make the old ‘lemony hot water honey’ concoction to soothe my glands. Supermarkets are funny places don’t you think; not only is everything not in the place you would expect it to be, you always have some kind of awkward problem like, the scales for the self-service counter not working, or rogue trolleys rolling away from you (or in my case, with me) at a speed that would rival that of the cars in the Grand Prix. Anyway, I arrived at the local Tesco and after having grabbed some lemons (and a couple of avocadoes for good measure), I set about searching for the honey. But being a complete supermarket retard, I had no idea where to start. So I thought… if I were a pot of honey where would I be… I started in the jams and conserves section; no luck. Went over to sauces and dressings; no further discoveries there. I began to feel a lot like Winnie-the-Pooh. I passed by all sorts of rows of interesting foodstuffs like spreadable (ha) butter and Scottish smoked salmon which is in fact grown in Chile, smoked in Spain and merely packeted in Scotland, until I finally encountered the honey section, which turned out to be next to the eggs (who’d have thought.)

I chose a good old orange blossom out of countless exotic variations, and it was at that precise moment, just as I had reached up and lifted up the heavy glass jar of sweet, liquid amber when I saw them: stacked right on the top of the very top shelf of the honey section, were boxes upon boxes of the most delicious looking, sumptuous cakes. Why any supermarket would put its goods far higher up than any human could possibly reach beats me. I tried to be a true Catholic, resist temptation, not be a glutton and all that jazz, but I must confess that my inner cake-monster got the better of me. (Father, I have sinned: I ate cake.) My ‘must have food at any cost’ motive immediately kicked in, and aided by my wiry frame, I began to use my bizarre climbing abilities to scale the skyscrapers of honey jars. No-one could stop me, no-one would pull-me down, no-one could stand between me and MY cake; no-one except perhaps gravity. With each lurch I could see my goal coming ever closer, and although I could feel the distinct wobble of jars and eggs on either side of me, I ventured upwards. Meanwhile various members of the public were taking much interest in my crazy acrobatic antics that were terrorizing the honey shelves of the Amersham Tesco, and I was surprised at how many people were actually willing to take time out of their busy schedules to stand and watch an aspiring Indiana Jones in action. Mainly with their eyebrows raised.

I am pleased to announce that I got my cake and returned to earth safely without any further incident nor with the need to call the fire-brigade. However I subsequently ran into an old friend who I’d known when I was…  about 5 years old. What are you supposed to do when you run into somebody who you knew a long time ago, but have completely lost contact with? Especially in a place like a supermarket?  You used to be too well acquainted to completely ignore them and not say hello, but at the same time you haven’t seen them for so long that there are too many things that have changed and occurred for you to update them in a one-off conversation. So instead, you just stand there making small talk, and talking about… the most irrelevant thing you can think of.

“Hi there!”

“Oh wow hi! Haven’t seen you in a long time!”

“Yes, how are you?”

“I’m OK thanks… you know, just normal. How about you?”

“Oh right, that’s good... yes I’m fine… getting on with life…”

“Yes I see… so ummm… why are you here?”

“Uhhh… doing the shopping… you know…”

“Um yes of course… I’m just buying a pizza…”

“Oh cool… yeh, I once bought a pizza… it was yummy.”

“Oh right… I’m so glad.”

“…”

“…”

“Right, well, it was really nice seeing you.”

“Yeh you too… give my regards to the family.”

“Likewise. Byeeeeee.’

Completely pointless, but nevertheless, completely necessary. So I waddled over to pay for my commodities and joined the shortest queue available, which naturally, took the longest to recede. After 20 minutes of queuing and paying I left the Tesco. A labrador tottered past me with a banana in its mouth as a hysterical young child ran after it.

Whilst you’re fishing for your salmon listen to ‘Blood Bank’ by Bon Iver, and to get you through the supermarket queues, listen to ‘Dancing With Myself’ by Billy Idol.

Suitcases and the London Tube

I realize that I have not updated for sometime now, and should probably explain that the reason for this is because I have been bed-ridden with a nasty cold. Sod's law that when the half-term holidays do finally come in, you have to spend the first few days sniffling and coughing because of some nasty virus. Never-mind though as I am thankfully being slowly relieved of its grips and am gently easing myself back into society. Hurrah. 
In fact, I cannot really complain; last weekend I went to an amazing 18th consisting of boats, music, fire, red champagne (yes, red) and Smirnoff ices, complete with the all important balloons and cake which are the most vital elements to making any party successful (in my opinion anyway). However, the following morning I woke up in a bed on a river-barge feeling, not surprisingly, rather groggy and also sans voix. I am sure certain people would consider my lack of voice a blessing, but it nevertheless did cause myself a bit of inconvenience. So, after rescuing my 'half-term suitcase' and having some toast and orange juice, I set off with a trusty companion of mine to catch a train down to London Euston. The journey was very smooth up to that point and after having had a little bit of confusion with how to use e-tickets, got onto our platform and only had to wait a few minutes before the shiny train shot its way in (the last time I was using trains I had just finished Gold Duke of Edinburgh and managed to miss my train from Sheffield, resulting in not only being stranded with no money and a rapidly dying mobile phone, but also being thrown out of the station under the presumption that I was a tramp.) So armed with a headache, a suitcase, a copy of Catcher in the Rye, and a young wannabe-on-the-Apprentice business woman yabbering down a mobile phone on the opposite seat, I made my way down with mon amie. 

After arriving at Euston we went over to Camden to eat some lunch... which as delicious as the lunch was, revealed itself to be a bad idea. Turns out, the station at Camden is currently 'exit-only', which meant a jolly walk down to Mornington Crescent, which on any other day would have been very nice, except for the fact that I was burdened with a good old fat suitcase. So the suitcase weaved its way through traffic, insistent on disobeying any direction I attempted to give it, bashing into railings and fellow pedestrians' shins. Some woman was so busy on the phone that she walked straight into it and then, after giving a very girly yelp, made a nasty remark and began jabbering on at me something about the youth of today and suitcases, to which I merely blinked absent-mindedly. One problem with me is that I rarely get angry or frustrated in the moment; I stand there taking in what just happened and the emotion only clicks in subsequently, and then I have a little rant at myself about how annooooying that person was.
Anyway, back on topic, we got to the station eventually to find that the escalators were all broken; by this point I couldn't care less and so dragged my suitcase down what seemed an eternity and after many annoyed looks and 'watch-it!' threats from people (thanks to said suitcase), we reached the inner sanctum of London's pride and glory; the TUBE. Yes, that never-ending length of track and people all hustling and bustling in the depths of London city, where no-one ever dares to look into the eyes of a fellow passenger for fear that they may be burned at the stake... or look like a total psycho. I only remember once ever having had a conversation with somebody on the tube, and that somebody was convinced they were a leprechaun. Anyway, after parting ways with my fellow traveller I finally reached Marylebone, only to be confronted with a flashing, glimmering sign saying;


NO TRAINS TO AMERSHAM FROM MARYLEBONE

No trains from Marylebone...?!?! What the hell is that!!! So, I trundled out of the station and round a few blocks until reaching Baker Street... only to receive the same message: the London railway system was clearly designed by a person who had spent his childhood crashing toy trains. My headache did not allow for any feelings of frustration, so I calmly made my way with my eyes half-open over to a greasy-looking station helper, warden, officer... person. (What do you call those guys anyway?!) I asked him politely as to how I was supposed to get to Amersham and he told me something about all trains being cancelled or delayed, and I could always stay at his place for the night. Screw that. I would of been better off with the 'Fat Controller' from Thomas the Tank Engine. I asked him if there were any other trains going anywhere remotely close to Amersham.

"Dunno... probably not. They're doin' maintenance to upgrade the London metropolitan".

Meanwhile a pile of German tourists had been surrounding me, giving me the evils for 'taking too long', eager to ask the poor assistant 'vere iz ze Ogzvord Stveet pleaze?' My head was thumping. I tried to make a little joke. That’s right.  Hah hah…funny.  

"Hmmm... well so much for the metropolitan, they've certainly made the tube more cosmopolitan haven't they."

Slap-thigh moment right? 

Wrong. German death-stare.

All right, all right!  Jesus, don’t jump down my throat.  I get the idea.  Never use wit in a segue.  I’ll go home and jot that down in a novel I’m writing: ‘101 Ways To Intrigue, Excite, and Enthrall Your Various Impatient German Tourists'.

OK so thats not funny either... I should just stick to my day-job.

So after slipping away in what I hoped was in a subtle manner, I hopped onto the nearest metropolitan line train (yank with the suitcase), arrived at some random station, and then took various buses to zig-zag my way back... and I finally arrived at home after what should have been 30 minutes. I spent the rest of the evening eating cookies.

'Faust Arp' by Radiohead and ‘Breathe Me’ by Sia

The Flying Yogurt

The yogurt went flying at dinner today. Again. And this is far from a novelty in my boarding house. So, you are probably wondering why yogurt should ever be air bound, and I think the easiest way to explain why is to give an example of the typical dinner programme I have the pleasure of attending… every night.

Starter: A good dosage of Grace; “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful” to which people either mumble a half-hearted Amen, or else in my case say “May the Lord make us eternally smothered in fruit-flavoured animal bi-product. The only providence I’m going to be receiving tonight is a pot noodle.” At which point the trolleys come out, carrying with them pasta or some kind of jacket potato covered with cheese and bacon… or some lamb burgers (yes, lamb) or for the most part some kind of digestible substance. After so many years, you learn not to try and work out what it is in the dishes they give you; either they taste nice, or they don’t. Luckily, the majority of the food in my house is rather good, the only real disadvantage is the repetitiveness of the menu.

“What was for dinner yesterday?”

“Coronation chicken.”

“Hmm OK. What about tonight.”

“Oh umm… the coronation chicken that wasn’t eaten yesterday… and some Pillow rice.”

Main Course: It is during the actual process of eating the food when the real action starts. Spoons scrape trays of broccoli, forks flail everywhere, not really being directed at anything in particular, but rather in some kind of display of vain courageousness, stabbing at everything in order to try and grab anything possible; including sauce, which inevitably just spills straight through the slots. As cutlery goes flying and missing, people just take their neighbour’s knife, licking it and thus claiming it as their own. Jugs get poured, and spilt, and then thrown at the younger years down the end of the table in a manner that they automatically pick up on meaning “FILL UP THE JUICE GODDAMIT!!”. It is at this point the first culinary item gets hurled. A potato, or a sad looking lamb burger gets denied its purpose of being consumed, and instead gets propelled at 50mph and by the laws of physics and gravity, lands in the face of somebody midway to putting a spoonful of coronation chicken in their mouth.

The table becomes the stage for some kind of Darwinian experiment to publicly display the laws of natural selection at its best. The best adapted with fast snatching capabilities and quick reactions are the ones who survive, and those who passively wait their turn and are too slow remain at the shallow end of the dream pool. Thankfully, I am gifted with the ‘must get food at any cost’ drive and so start shovelling spoonfuls of chicken onto my plate, along with the rice and broccoli and any other food available.

Pudding: After having stuffed my face and finished eating in the space of about 10 minutes (another trick you pick up; wolfing down your food), I try to distract myself by conversing a bit, and pick up the fag ends of the conversation going on beside me.

“Yeh, Darren is soooo annoying.” 

“I can’t believe he did that to Tracy! I mean, what did she ever do to him!”

“I know… god, I hope they get back together”.

I try and work out which couple in the school is made up of said ‘Darren and Stacy’. Or was it Tracy… well anyway, as I ponder this it suddenly occurs to me that the people who they are talking about are in fact, characters in some soap opera about materialistic, angsty teenagers who don’t actually exist. I think; gossiping about Gossip Girl…  now that’s ironic. I listen for a while and quietly laugh to myself, and eventually move to the person opposite me and strike up a quick, pointless conversation about… oh I don’t know, use your imagination. Meanwhile, the re-enactment of the Battle of the Somme really is in full throttle, with tangerine and tomatoes being added to the artillery. I sit cross-legged in my chair munching on my 4^th pineapple muffin, hoping the yogurt isn’t going to decide to take out its revenge on me. As the last trolley is wheeled out (and after various quick reactions and matrix style moves), a momentary wave of relief passes over me, until suddenly SPLAT. An entire pot of yogurt hits me square in the face.

For a moment I am stunned, and then I feel a frown begin to form over my face. I wipe the yogurt off from my eyes and glare down the table, only to be met by the red, hysterical faces of ten other girls, similarly covered in food, and I begin to feel a strong sense of wistfulness. The frown soon turns into a smile, and I cannot help but giggle and laugh along.

‘May the Lord make us truly grateful’. I suppose, at the end of the day, I couldn’t have said it any better.

Today I went back to songs that were sitting at the back of my collection but are none the less unforgettable. ‘Dice’ by Finley Quaye and ‘Send Me On My Way’ by Rusted Root. Pancakes anyone?

Coffee and Starschmucks

So lets straighten this out. Coffee is something I thoroughly enjoy, but in good measure. I love doing the good old Italian/Parisian thing of sitting down in a café with a nice cup of coffee chatting with a friend or people watching. But it seems that since the 60s the usage of coffee has begun to be abused. Coffee originally was meant for its quality, not its quantity. If there is one thing I have observed when it comes to coffee, is working people (especially the teachers) pouring crazy amounts of coffee down their throats every hour, half an hour… hell every five minutes. Rather than the original cup of coffee which came in a nice small cup for your sipping delight, now businesses like Starschmucks and Coasta serve people coffee in ‘cups’ which seem to have the same diameter as St. Peter’s dome. The thing I find most funny is people who claim they need their caffeine fix to ‘get through the day’.

“Ooooh! But it contains caffeine which makes it addictive!”

“Yeh, well chocolate is addictive and you know what happens if you eat 50 bars a day… you get fat!”

Coffee is one of those things that is meant to be enjoyed for its taste and texture at the right moments, say after a nice meal, maybe with your breakfast, or as an afternoon break to relax you; NOT to get you going. Its silly how these days every person seems to be taking some form of external substance to ‘get them motivated’.

“Oooo, I need my lucozade before I do sport or else I am incapable of running!!”

“If I don’t have my daily intake of sugar on my cereal I can’t stay awake!!”

Seriously? It seems that today everyone has to be on some kind of prescribed whatever, for ‘a cold, for ‘a headache’.  These are just natural things that happen to everyone, and taking pills is not going to eliminate or stop them from happening.

“Here, take the blue pill twice a day, and the yellow one after every shower, and then take 10 of these before you go to bed, and that will get rid of that blocked up nose!”

“Well, why don’t I just wait for my immune system to kick in and kill off the virus?”

“Well, I suppose you could do that… but take the pills just in case.”

Christ. And then when you do go to these corporate coffee shops because they are the only ones available because they have taken over every other independent coffee shop, I don’t understand why everything has to be made so complicated. You cannot just ask for a simple coffee. It has to be either a gingerbread flavoured chocolate-topped americano, or a cinnamon sprinkled extra-fruity pineapple cappuccino, or an extra foamy chopped-banana latte. I just want a coffee. Black coffee. Just… COFFEE! And since when did small, medium and large become Tall, Grande and Venti. Venti doesn’t even mean anything, and how on earth can a small cup of coffee be called Tall? Isn’t small, supposed to be the opposite of tall? Or at least in the real world it is anyway. And if I ask for a small coffee, don’t act like I’m speaking in that Native American language used in World War II to deliver coded messages.

“I would like a coffee please.”

“Would you like the Christmas special, or the mango infused one with pumpkin topping?”

“…Mango infus…? No thanks, just a small coffee would be great.”

“So, would you like that to be tall, grande or venti?”

“I’m sorry what?... Um, I just said, whichever is the smallest.”

“OK that’ll be £17.99. Would you like to pay with your Starschumcks credit card today?”

“Credit card?! For a COFFEE SHOP?!?! You’ve got to be joking.”

“Look, I’m just doing my job.”

“Then just please go get me a coffee!”

“… Sorry, what was your order again?”

“…Forget it. I can buy myself a ‘tall’ cup of coffee for £1 at the coffee shop round the corner.”

“But then you don’t get the trendy Starschmucks coffee cup that you can carry around with you like a status symbol!”

“Go choke on a Biscotti.”

Whilst drinking your cappuccino or frothy latte, listen to ‘Louie, Louie’ by Richard Berry.

If the double espresso is more to your taste, have a go with ‘Born Too Slow’ by the Crystal Method.

The Best Thing EVER...

It was a pretty normal day today; lessons, lunch, talk to some fellow delusional student, listen to music, do homework, eat cookies, driving lesson, (should be taking my test very soon yeh!), talk to teacher, go eat avocado… the usual routine. Until somebody started talking about ‘the best thing ever’. Why is everyone using the term ‘the best thing ever’? Its fine to say that something is amazing, or that it is aesthetically pleasing, or I love this, or even I would seriously recommend this because it is AWESOME… but ‘the best thing ever’? Every single time I hear that phrase all I can think of is ‘wow your life is pretty narrow-minded’. Why should one person think they know what the ‘best’ of something is? I would be much more inclined to try something when people tell me it is really good, than when they say it is ‘the best thing ever’. We could go into all kinds of philosophical discussion about what do we even mean by the ‘best’ thing of all time (and how can we possibly know?), but even in a casual, every-day sense, I don’t see how somebody can make the claim that they know what the ‘best thing ever’ is. Say… milkshakes. Why is everyone on a mission to show me where I can get the ‘best milkshake ever’.

“Maybe another time…”

“Seriously, this is the best milkshake everrrrr!!”

“I don’t really feel like a milkshake right n…”

“Come on! It is genuinely, like, the BEST milkshake everrrrrrrrr!”

So, after about 10 minutes of persuading me to buy the ‘best milkshake ever’ there and then, I finally do so, and find out, much to my dismay, that ‘the best milkshake ever’… is crap. Total CRAP. The flavour sucked, the cream sucked, even the milk base seemed more like nuclear waste than anything else. And this only provokes them into spending another 10 minutes explaining to you why you should also see the milkshake as ‘the best thing ever’. Why can’t students just talk about, and share the things that they enjoy and love, rather than pestering fellow students into milkshake oblivion. And its not just students; some teachers (not all), but some, use this phrase to try and promote their own subject, telling you how you should have a definite passion for it, just because they do.

“Do chemistry for A-Level. Really, it’s the best thing ever! Isn’t chemistry the best thing ever?!”

“NO. Can I go home now?!”

Anyway, talking about routine listen to ‘Everyday is exactly the same’ by Nine Inch Nails and ‘I Speak Because I Can’ by Laura Marling.

No offence to chemists of any kind… its actually a very interesting subject I am sure, I was just using this to make a point. Thanks to Foamy for some of the lingo.

The Eelloominartee (Illuminati)

One of the many trials and tribulations of archaeologists is the problem of trying to decode ancient texts and runes. Of course, once you have worked out the actual language, the translation can come relatively instantaneously. However one thing no amount of analyzing can reproduce is the pronunciation. We can get some form or idea of how it may have sounded, but we will never be able to know exactly how people pronounced words, as there are no audio recordings (no duh…). We can only assume, and form a pronunciation that was most likely to have been used. We may never know whether Julius Caesar said ‘Vini, Vidi, Vici’, or ‘Weeney, Weedy, Weechy’, and similarly we will never be able to know how the Akkadians pronounced their dialect, nor the Mayans, nor the Babylonians. But when we actually have people who are currently speaking the language, it really annoys me when foreign people don’t pronounce names properly.

Today in my Italian class we were talking about Rome, and the conversation turned to the film Angels and Demons which I had watched just the other day (not for accuracy but because I like films with suspense and lots of hidden clues and treasure trails, not to mention that Rome is my favourite city), and I was a little disappointed. Yes, all the suspense, and the religious symbols were in there, but when it came to sheer accuracy it was total poppycock. In the film they moved one of the churches to a completely different location, most of the scenes were actually green-screened and not shot on site, and lastly Tom Hanks’ pronunciation of the ‘Illuminati’ was PAINFUL.

“Oh Gawd we need to get tew the Caaestell Saine Anjelloo! The Eeloominarrtee are gonna be hahding there!” (Oh God we need to get to the Castel San Angelo! The Illuminati are going to be hiding there)

So I don’t expect everyone to be able to say things in an authentic Italian accent… that would be frickin’ stupid. I don’t go around saying “I woulda lika Spaghetti Carbonara!”, but I make an effort to at least try and get the basic diction right. And yes, I know there is a flaw in this in that English people don’t call Spain ‘Espana’, nor the French call Londre ‘London’, but when people say the ORIGINAL word in their own accent? Boy is it annoying.

“I would like a Moegaall Sheehiiii curry and some Pillow rice, my good fellow.”

And seeing as we are on the topic of diction, lets move on over, to the mumblers. Among certain fellow teenage students there seems to be some kind of tendency to mumble instead of talk; and this is to anyone. Some people have evolved and adapted, and so are able to work out what these groans mean, but I am still too primitive to be able to understand them; the number of times I have asked a question to somebody, and have received a near inaudible response. I don’t know whether it is because they’re mouths are full because they are eating or because they have just been anesthetized by the dentist, but considering they do allow some form of noise out from between their lips, I am guessing they are replying. So then I end up sitting there looking like a deaf idiot, asking them to repeat their answer about twenty times, until they finally shout it out in frustration. And then I can finally understand what they are saying.

“So, what was for lunch?”

“Mmmnnph.”

“I’m sorry what?”

“Mmmmmnnnnnggghrrrmph”

“Sorry, I still can’t hear what…”

“CHICKEN AND CARROTS!!”

“Oohh. Sounds delicious.”

Just listen to the soundtrack of ‘Angels and Demons’ by Hans Zimmer. It is incredible.

Another thing I can’t stop listening to is ‘War’ by Edwin Starr.

We plow the fields and scatter....

Well, I have to say for a Sunday morning which inevitably means compulsory chapel, the weather was not that bad; the sun was shining, it was quite nice and warm, and the birds were singing. Woke up 10 minutes before we were supposed to be seated (no surprises there), and whilst walking through the doors of the stone block which is the chapel, saw a girl (probably some 3rd former) holding out a tray of bread; she wasn't even doing anything, just holding a random loaf of bread. At one point I was tempted to go grab a chunk of it, but decided against it at the last minute. It only then occurred to me that it was that time of year again... HARVEST BLOODY FESTIVAL.

But what the hell happened? Does anyone else miss the prep school harvest festival where you would actually feel like you were doing something to 'feed the poor' or whatever? You know, when you would bring in flour, vegetables, cans of sun soaked oil-smothered asparagus, and the teachers would lay everything out on a big table so that the children could point and say;
"Hey, I am so proud! Thats my can of sun soaked oil-smothered asparagus sitting next to the pile of potatoes! Oh boy I feel like such a good citizen!"
Now at secondary school, when we are supposed to be at the age of being able to be morally responsible, all we do is sit in a building, listen to some dude talk about the metaphors and symbols in some story from the Bible, sing some nice songs with a loud organ, and then proceed to take bread and wine at communion. I thought we were supposed to be giving food and drink to the poor, not eating it ourselves?! Well, I can't really talk about communion... I mean, when I was younger and my parents took me to Catholic church to see what communion was like, all I did was shout out;
"Hey mommy, are they COMMUNISTS??"
We didn't return there.
Anyway, strange to think that it is the kids who aren't even old enough to have a clue what they are doing who are the people who are in fact keeping with the proper tradition of harvest and giving. So the chaplain finished saying something about wheat and grains of rice (I think he was talking about the Chinese take-out he had the other day) and I finally returned to house, only to find that the front door was jammed. Perfect.

Bells and Avocados

I SUPPOSE after five years of living in a prestigious English boarding school, what with all its glamour and ridicule, I have accumulated enough stupidity to last me a lifetime. So, as an introduction, I should probably begin by saying what I intend to write about; everything and anything. 
This is not intended for any specific purpose or reason, and therefore is quite suitable to discuss life in general. Perhaps it will be a helpful insight for all young people in the similar predicament at school of routinely having their shampoo 'borrowed', or perhaps some people may find some relief in that they feel the same level of frustration or humor at certain aspects of British life. Or perhaps this will just be a good example of all things English, existentialist and adolescent. Who knows? (I would say God but I don't want to place my bets too early...) 

Just last month I finished all the lovely forms needed for university applications, which detailed somewhere in my 'personal statement' (which I think is where you are supposed to sum up your entire life in 47 lines... great.), and then noted all the reasons as to why I wanted to study my course, which just so happens to be Archaeology and Anthropology hopefully so that I can become the next Indiana Jones or Lara Croft (... well I can dream can't I?). Just the other day I was discussing biblical archaeology with one of my teachers who asked the rather predictable question of 'to what extent do I think that the Bible is an accurate historical source'. So I sat down and opened up a Bible and started reading, and told him that it was all pretty accurate until I had reached the part which said 'And God said let there be light'. 
At which point I left to go and eat an avocado. 
No, but really, in all honesty I find it fascinating. Archaeology is one of those subjects which seems to have an endless abundance of adventure, romance and interest. It is one of the few areas of life remaining where people care not where they are going, but merely want to know where everyone else has been. How refreshing.


But this does come with a price... well in my life at least. I am constantly late. For everything. I don't know how it happens but I seem to have a really absurd sense of time. I look at the clock just before leaving my boarding house, but no matter how early I think I leave, I always manage to arrive late:
"Its a detention for you! How dare you turn up to my lesson 2 minutes late!" 
"3 minutes actually, Sir."
This is not helped by the fact that I find it impossible to get up in the mornings. I stay up late either working, or going out (when the all-powerful, all-seeing, almighty Housemaster allows us to) or thinking, because for some reason things seem to get more interesting as the night goes on. And then of course, it gets to 7am and some weedy 3rd former does her job by charging down the corridors ringing a damn bell which probably was borrowed from bloody Notre Dame (I swear, I can now hear that bell in the mornings even when I am at home). And I lie in bed thinking 'just another 5 minutes', which then turns to 10, and then 15. Luckily as I am now in Upper 6th (and so therefore am supposed to be part of the role-model corpus of the school... fat chance) I do not have to go to breakfast, so avoid the old 'you must have your breakfast or you will not survive the day' pep talk from le grande Housemaster, but then regret this by being starving for the rest of the morning until lunchtime. 


So, to sum up, as all good A-Level students must do in their work (Goodness me...), I don't dare to assume that my life is particularly important, or special or in any way better than your own. It is filled with annoying little incidents that tend to cloud up its beauty. But nevertheless, for whatever reason, seeing the irony in it really is a blessing in disguise; it always guarantees to put a smile on my face.