On Record
I just want to put this on record so that if anyone claims to have thought of it, I'll say they copied me and will immediately file a lawsuit for damages in excess of a million dollars. The magical first year blog milestones are:
1:100:10,000:100,000
1 year
100 posts
10,000 hits
100,000 words
Needless to say none of these are measures of quality of writing, but then again you can't reliably measure quality of writing objectively so we'll just overlook that. Admittedly the 10k hits can be slow to start but its a general guideline for a well established website even outwith Blogging circles. If you manage these milestones then you have done exceptionally well and should afford yourself a well-earned pat on the back :)
Relating to my last rather emo-faggish blog (spares blushes) I went out and did something I haven't done for many a year: I read a book simply entitled "how to write." Even as a relatively practiced author I acknowledged the need to get back to basics and relearn the simple rules of writing that until now had simply been embedded in my being.
The inspiration came from esteemed Professor Mark Lansdale (who has, by the
way, perfected the mad scientist look), who suggested I did just the above. Not as an insult you ought to understand, but a chance for me to appreciate how it is Human Science writers differ from my Journalistic style. Anecdotally he related it to being like a young foreigner who had passively acquired a language without being able to specify exactly what rules governed it. For example, do you know what a proper pronoun is? While I had the book open I flicked to the grammar section as a refresher course on what is acceptable and unacceptable use of grammar, and let me tell you; it wasn't all self-evident. I toyed with the idea of photocopying the apostrophe use section for Beefy's late-night reading, but I enjoy laughing at his grammatical errors far too much to do that to myself.
Briefly browsing through past blogs some errors do crop up here and there but I view this as progression, and as such I feel no compulsion to go back and correct them. Thankfully the spelling appears to be satisfactory although in places unsettlingly American thanks, in part, to MS Word (too many z's for starterz).
Once I had used the library's facilities to enlighten my writing misconceptions, I toddled off to Blackwells to purchase essential course texts. High in spirits with a spring in my step, the rosy flowers and dazzling sunlight made for a pleasant and jovial spring meander. The birds were singing and there wasn't a cloud in the sky, as I fed an inquisitive squirrel a few crumbs from my choc-chip muffin out my hand. Had it been a Disney film, he'd have whistled to me on my shoulder as I skipped down the lane, but instead scurried off into the surrounding foliage.
Entering the Student Union I dipped my hat to each passer-by and bid him good day, soulfully awash with glee. As I walked into Blackwells the glorious smell of freshly stacked books overpowered me, heading towards the Psychology section so as to peruse the literature I would willingly part my cash with to part-satisfy my insatiable love of reading.
Except, that's not how it happened at all.
Trudging torpidly down towards the Student Union, I mentally prepared myself to do one of the things I hate doing most- spending money on books. Ownership of books is something I attempt to limit as far as I can, from where I'm standing once you're read a book there's no point in having it anymore. Thus, buying books can be an expensive and unfulfilling pursuit, especially as my exposure to the leaves within is minimal.
Tripping over myself, I begrudgingly headed towards the Union hands in pockets. I passed a flattened squirrel carcass on the road, the sight enough to make me feel queasy but still not replacing the intense feeling of dread at having to enter the unknown territory. Viewing the Union, an overwhelming feeling of dread made me twitch my wallet-pocket like a gunman in the Wild West. I was ready to protect my baby, I knew what I was about to do contradicted all my moral standings. Before long, I was there.
Scanning the room, I eventually managed to find the minute "Human Sciences" section located in the darkest, most dreary corner of the dank outlet. Picking up a wafer-thin text on Discourse Analysis, I noticed it coinciding with my list of necessary texts.
"Twenty fucking quid?!" I choked after flipping the book, my pulse rate collapsing to near comatose. "Sweet tapdancing Christ...". I had to sit down. It became glaringly obvious that I would have to drastically reduce my aspirations of purchasing several key texts. After much deliberation, I settled on two texts that I pray will get me through the semester. The second cost a jaw-dropping forty quid; enough to make me break sweat and grab my face in astonishment. I determined to read every last word several times to attempt to get my moneys-worth. Goddamn my tight-fisted logic.
I want to put this on record too: I hate books, and the absurd price attributed to unavoidable course-specific texts. The powers that be know you're cornered and have no other choice but to spend, it's a conspiracy I tell you. The library is always 'mysteriously' under stocked on the most expensive books which just so happen to be readily available at Blackwells. Also, the forty pound book comes with supplementary CD-ROM, no doubt to give credence to the outrageous price tag. Conveniently, Blackwells don't stock the non-CD-ROM version.
Student budgeting is hard enough without having to factor in fucking books. Looks like I'll be housebound for the next few weeks to recoup the scandalous cost of my two newest and suitably detested purchases. Anything that prevents me from enjoying a nightlife immediately becomes an object of immeasurable loathing. I'll read it, but I certainly won't enjoy it. And I'm certainly not using the accompanying CD-ROM for anything other than hammer-fodder for when studying becomes particularly stressful.
Well Fuck Me
Fifty-two percent.
Maybe it might look like more if I add a zero to it?
052%
Somehow that seems less.
Well fuck me. Fifty-two per-fucking-cent.
How did it come to this... look at me, I'm a trembling wreck. Fifty-two percent isn't that bad, I'm sure plenty has been achieved with fifty-two percent.
Oh my god, I'm delirious. I'm sick. How could a double-digit score infuse a physical illness in me? I want to cry but can't muster the somatic response to even sob. Listen to me- somatic. That's rich, coming from someone who gets fifty-two percent in essays. Perhaps I could still get a gardening job somewhere, yeah, that's what I'll do. I'll work with my hands for a while. Let this all blow over.
...
Shit man I'm losing my head. I can't concentrate. All I can think about is the ramifications of such a miserly score, it's not fair. It's unjust I say. What do you know, you're just a piece of paper with a barely pronounceable score. Fif... fift... fif- oh, I can't say it. That score. You, right there, with those judgemental numbers. Labelling me all the while, thinking you know something about me I don't, acting like everything's alright. Here's a newsflash- everything is not alright. Everything is not okay, so stop doing whatever it is you're doing and let me live.
Okay, think. Think goddamit. No, stop playing with your zip. It's no use pining about it, what's done is done. Move on.
...
Phew, deep breath. Now, where did it all go wrong?
I... I don't know. Everything's a blur right now. I did all the reading -check- went to all the lectures -check- followed instruction -check- put a lot of effort into my work -check- and handed it in on time.
Check, and double check.
Perhaps I wasn't built for this psychology lark. I wish I'd realised that in first year, but mid-way through second year is generally considered the point of no return. I understand everything but I can't seem to get it right. It's like a respectable grade is just within my reach but stretch as I may I just can't seem to grab it. No amount of work has saved me. And that's depressing.
All the pieces are there yet all I see is a jumbled mess on the coffee table. I pick and place them, working to obscene hours in the morning yet it just doesn't click. The image is half-there, but what use is a half-finished jigsaw? Nothing to nobody, like fifty-two percent. Be as well not even handing it in.
I guess that's it. I'm spent. I'm exhausted. If ever there was a craving for the easygoing days of high school it is now- a social environment where you know what you have to do to do well. The shoe is on the other foot now, and the future seems as uncertain as ever. I'll bounce back, but not right now. I'll regroup in time, but if I were to do it again, I can honestly say I have no idea what I can do differently.
If you want to know what a fifty-two and a fifty-eight (for comedy value) percent essay looks like I've attached them below. If you think you can do better, well, you wouldn't be the only one. In fact, you'd be in the majority.
Well fuck me. Fuck me, this course and my wasted efforts.
The Complete Idiot's Guide To Stuffing Up Spectacularly (52%)
The Complete Idiot's Guide To Stuffing Up Spectacularly (58%)
Things That Are Wrong With Today's Society
My handiwork at Tete's houseWho is Tete trying to kid?! We slaved long and hard over that bandy-legged goon trying to think up an appropriate nickname for him. We toyed with summation nicknames like "Barthol Compu-Bored" and even called him "Phenz" to his own desires before dropping both like they were Advanced Rocket Science modules. Many a lunch time was spent racking our brains in silence, declaring "how ab- no, that doesn't work", searching to replace the nickname "Ander" coined so inventively by his older sister who is noted for her nicknaming skills or lack thereof. For a brief period he was known as the "Milkybar kid", but we had to refrain from calling him that because it was just so poignantly accurate and was "painfully insulting" (the words of my Guidance teacher when I consulted her about it in a rare moment of moral dilemma). So the Milkybar kid title was dropped too, although not without some groans from those who had become accustomed to calling our high-reaching chum that. In retrospect a name like that would have stunted his social development for life, which didn't seem fair given he spent a high proportion of his time as the only male kid in his year group at primary. He needed a break, so we gave him it, only this once though. The long winter months gave way to summer and it seemed like Ander would never be baptised with a nickname worthy of his status. We'd practically given up on the cause until one lunchtime when I lost it, probably over something trivial like a mispronunciation, and called him something like a "doofy kid with a stupid chicken head." The chuckles abound and from that point on I started calling him Chicken Head much to his initial dislike. The name stuck for a while until a chance encounter with Yann while exiting French class. I made some passing comment about Chicken Head and Yann bellowed "Poulet Tete!" I practically fell to my knees laughing, it summed him up beautifully! Walking into lunch the four of us (discluding Tete, naturally) repeated questions like "whatcha eating, Poulet Tete" to choruses of "my name's not Poulet Tete- it's ANDER." We were eventually subjected to a short bout of the silent treatment but were adamant this name would stick and stick good, with or without Ander's co-operation. The silent treatment can only last so long. Over the course of time Ander grew to acknowledge the name Poulet Tete, but due to vocalisation issues it gradually slipped to become simply "Tete." Tete resolved his issues with his newfound nickname and began to accept it, but not quite to the delirious extent we had, howling "Teeeeeeeeete!" in uncontrolled fits of laughter. Sometimes I'd just be walking down the road and start smirking to myself whispering "Tete...!", snickering at quite possibly the single greatest nickname ever derived. The name Tete followed him all the way to his very last day at academy and still endures with those who knew him from those unrivalled days at school. During an MSN convo with Morna I called him "that ridiculous Poulet Tete", which has also became synonymous with the fair-haired giant to recapitulate his unnatural and wayward behaviour. Yet, I always had the sneaking suspicion that once Tete had evaded our company he would desperately try to reinvent himself. When I heard word that Tete was insisting his peers call him "Xander" at school I shook my head at that ingrate. Xander sounds like some superhero latino with striking dark hair and eyes, a complete world apart from the Tete I know and love (as a friend). Why Tete, why? Even "Ander X" sounds more Tete-like than Xander and not as ridiculously exotic given he's born and bred a Scot. To be fair though, I wouldn't expect anything else from that ridiculous Poulet Tete- it's the quintessential Tete thing to do. Xander indeed. I had to see it to believe it.
What's So Great About The Ipod?
The Ipod is indisputably the must-have fashion accessory of the 21st century. Or is it?
That opening line, I'll bet, would be concurrent with about every other article you've read about Apple's wondertoy, and would likely be followed up with "it's sleek, it's elegant, and you want one!". You do want one and if you haven't bought one yet, why haven't you? What you will soon learn is that Apple are the undisputed experts at whipping up hype and media frenzy over technology that is nowhere near as revolutionary or functional as they would have you believe. The Ipod is a novelty no more advanced for its time than the Tamagotchy or the Yo Yo before it, and like its fad-forefathers there is only a matter of time before consumers dissent to how desirable this bared-down walkman is.
To begin with, what does the Ipod do? It plays music. And, erm, theres a few built in 'games' that are based on the same technology the calculator was originally founded on and is embarrassingly substandard even to the original monochrome Gameboy. That is all the Ipod does. How much did you say it cost again?
Apple have always played to the minimalist strategy, convincing its consumer base that it is "hip" and "cool" to be understated. It is a lazy strategy that would rightly fall flat on its face if Apple fans weren't the doe-eyed halfwits who embrace such a lethargic culture and append tags such as "cool", "sleek" and "stylish" to the barren design. The box in which it is encased on the shop shelf is pure white with the Apple logo on one side and the words "made in California" on the other. Really jumps out at you doesn't it? Ironic then that Safeway Savers products come in a similar white casing with the words "Safeway Savers [Product Name]", yet you don't see legions of ardent wallet-burnt fans cramming into Safeways to get their mitts on some low-grade grub. Safeways Safers isn't cool, but supposedly the Ipod is. How did this come to be?
The truth is I don't know. Like many other fads it just seems inexplicable to try and see the extreme buzz and excitement about buying a pure white box (not even "eggshell" or "morning bliss" white- just white) which contains a pure-white music player, with pure-white headphones, a pure-white charger and no doubt some other assembly pieces that are- you guessed it- pure white. Perhaps it started as an anti-Microsoft movement, but somewhere along the line the feeling of the Ipod being somewhat special leaked into the mainstream.
Proud Ipod owners regularly approach me, lifting their noses peering down at my Sony/Philips MP3 player (two companies that actually know something about music) and ask "what's the memory on that thing?" Ah yes, the memory. Despite there being several products on the market that boast a similar capacity Ipod users feel superior simply by virtue of being part of the mainstream sheep shepherded by Apple's R&D department.
"It's 256mb" I reply, stating that the Ipod's useless 20min skip protection- a token gesture that makes it useful only to poser Gym users intent on ten minutes of barely-physical exercise- is of no benefit to I. Said Ipod user sneers and then tells me the only stat the average Ipod user can recite:
"My Ipod holds 20,000 songs."
"And how many do you have?"
"As many as I want!" the user-loser quips, the joke never seeming to grow old but advantageously avoids the real issue that 99% of Ipod users never use more than a gig of space. Some more informed individuals will tell you that the Ipod's memory can be used to store anything, but without the ability to store subfolders (what the hell's the deal with that anyway? Oh wait, Apple don't want it used to supplement HDD space... how charitable) it's really of no use to anyone who doesn't have a personal collection of every song ever made. Go to your my computer, click the "C" drive and unless every single file on your computer is there, you're gonna have problems. Cynical, cynical ol'Apple! See why that's not on the box now? The minimalist stance sure is convenient at hiding important issues that would otherwise be noted prior to buying the product.
Language specialists would hint at another reason for the Ipod's success- it is the only portable MP3 player that people can recognise by name. Notice how no one calls it the "Apple Ipod"? It's the same reason why Sega dropped the label "Sega" from its ill-fated Dreamcast- when a company is in trouble, it reinvents itself by disguising its heritage. Brand loyalty has been built up with the Ipod thorough Apple's Itunes; to use a hackneyed example, little Johnny's mother having bought him an Ipod for Christmas is naturally going to purchase an IMac for his next computer. Such a clever marketing ploy! Did you notice the prefixed "I" in front of their products? Imouse, Ilap... I won't bore you with examples, you can see where this is heading.
The Ipod is a byword for technological sexiness. It appeals to the masses. Bono has one. Your friend down the road has one. You either have one or want one. What I'm getting at is how influential the power of marketing and word of mouth is; when something becomes cool or in fashion, people want it. So what if it costs ?200? It plays music baby, but more importantly, it's Chic.
Well sorry, but this author isn't going to brown-nose Apple and neither will you over the coming years because of one word: PSP. Your ideas of minimalist being maximal will soon be inverted on its head and you will soon look at the Ipod and exclaim like I have "is that it?" You will both rue and lament your decision to purchase it as its metaphorical sheen of newness is rubbed off to reveal a rusty layer of steel, with the PSP being the abrasive material.
"What's the PSP" you cry, holding onto your dear Ipod, covering its earphone socket so as not to make it realise how pathetic and unfuture-proof it is. The PSP is Sony's answer to everything, and you will know all about it soon enough.
Einstein searched for a theory of everything, one unified theory that would explain everything that is, ever was or ever will be. Sony have taken this approach, licked its wounds from losing the best Walkman mantle to Apple, used their unquestioned console expertise, taken their knowledge of audio-visual devices and realised an all-in-one super-handheld the likes of which the Western world has never seen (Japan, incidentally, already has it and other technologies that put 3G about ten years behind them).
The rebuttal of the Ipod has already begun in the land of the rising sun, and market analysts predict Apple's poor attempts at updating the franchise are dejected and entirely underpar Sony's gadget. No more of this less-is-more shit, Sony mean business by cramming as much as they can into a portable device. It plays music, so already it is as good as the Ipod. It is also a console as powerful as the current PS2, making it startlingly powerful for an opening attempt at the handheld market which for so long has been Nintendo's domain.
As a side note, Nintendo do have a new handheld out called the DS. By their own admission it is the fastest produced handheld they've ever created. Knowing Sony were to release a handheld, Nintendo rushed a new handheld into the shops so that the PSP couldn't be compared to their lacklustre GBA which truly is pathetic in comparison. The DS is about half as powerful as the PSP and only plays games, as Nintendo have no expertise in other areas. Nintendo were careful not to market the DS as the GBA's successor, as they frantically rush to develop a handheld that can hope to compete with Sony's miniature behemoth. Alas, it appears Nintendo are destined to follow Sega to an early grave, much like Atari and Commodore did in the late Eighties to those two. It's sad really, but how can anyone except Microsoft hope to compete with Sony now?
As well as playing music and games it is Internet enabled, plays UMD disks (essentially supersmall DVDS), can be used as a word processor, and being flash-based you can put anything from your computer onto a flash card i.e photos and show them to your mates. Did I mention it plays video games too? The PSP is going to take the world by storm and Apple will be left wondering what they're supposed to do to compete. One more thing- it costs the same as the Ipod. That's a kick in the nuts for all you Christmas shoppers who ran out and bought one.
The Ipod is merely an overhyped music player that, for me, doesn't even look all that special. Compared to the PSP's gorgeous screen with an output of 16.77 million colours, the Ipod's monochrome screen is markedly ugly and future developments to put a colour screen in look undercooked and thrown in as an after throught, and certainly are no match to Sony's sleek wide screen movie-playing marvel. Say it with me: PSP. Slips off the tongue effortlessly, doesn't it?
I hate Sony as much as the next Sony-bashing zealot, but if there's one thing I'll be glad of it's the demise of Apple and their functionally crippled music player. Soon, you will all see the Ipod for what it is: a big overpriced design-retarded chunk of unishaded plastic. Get ready to move them music files over again, the pretender is about to be vanquished by the rightful King.
Two days after posting this article, Apple slashed the price of its entire product line in the Ipod range. You thought Apple were just being generous, but now you understand their knee-jerk reaction to Sony's killer app. Simple economics. Apple are doing desperate things now to hold onto market share, and don't you just loathe them for it? Soon, the Ipod fad will all be over. No amount of price dropping will save them.
The Complete Retrospective Sixth Year
Looking back, we as sixth year students were about as mature as a group of pre-pubescent school children trying to push each other onto a concrete slab nicknamed the "gay machine". Had I attended an all-boys school no doubt these childish actions would have been beat out of me from an early age, but in an obscure way putting your child through the all-boys system is a quirky gay-machine in its own right where there is an input [child enters school] process [child develops feelings for boys, has no other outlet for sexual feelings] and output [child develops homosexual tendencies]. Conversely, had I attended an all-girls school I'd have likely developed into a well-rounded emotionally stable individual, albeit worryingly gender confused.
But for all this speculation I was raised in a mixed-gender elementary school and the results of my first nineteen years on this planet you can observe throughout the rest of this website. Slightly neurotic, self-opinionated and aggressively goal-oriented just about sums up the 145,000 words (give or take a few) penned thus far that give clues to aspects of my personality. The nature/nurture issue aside, I grew up exceedingly childish for various reasons and never really outgrew the enjoyment of frivolous pranks and clownish charades.
Strangely enough, the frequency of arsing about would not be at its highest between the primary/secondary school transition but rather in my final year of schooling, where the art of sophisticated humour had been finely honed and duly practiced. Gone were inhibitions and "crapping it" about getting sent to Mrs Stuart's office for taking a prank too far and disrespecting authority, as these delightful anecdotes I have generously listed below will give weight to.
Generally speaking sixth year began much where fifth year ended, minus a few stoners who had decided enough was enough of the intolerant academy (my sister, incidentally, was one of them). However the main bulk of decent people had stayed on (the chav and chavettes left at the end of fourth year, thankfully) with the lure of taking some easy-street subjects like Business Management, Geography and suchlike and fulfilling the usually undemanding entry standards to get into University. The majority got unconditionals for University a month or so before Christmas which, not surprisingly, correlates exceptionally highly to the point where the vast majority of students stopped caring about the system or the people who enforce it. The result: mass lounging in the STA and mass defiance for conformity. Logic stresses that a school can't expel everyone, so as long as there is sufficiently high numbers of rebellious people it is impossible to make people examples of (although they did try, unsuccessfully).
I'm being careful here not to re-write what I wrote at the time in previous blogs. In summation though sixth-year was an open party in the STA where classes were largely optional and you could do anything within reasonable limits behind the masked STA doors. Everyone without exception in the class of '02/03 could sit back, take a deep breath and recount classic tales unique to themselves and their group of which there were four main- The Populars, The Hattoners, The Tarvis/Chilli Pepper Crew (they didn't have a name, but every one of them can be classified as either Tarves or the Red Hot Chilli Peppers fans being as one-dimensional as many of them were) and the Savages, of which I was one. Without exception, the Savages were the most banterous crew and the envy of the rest. The Savage parties gained legendary status and although many would try to deny it, the Savage table was the place to be. We pioneered Wee Issue, which still stands as a cult emblem of sixth year- far removed from the Hattoner's "Environment Club" headed by reformed Hattoner Tommy, who is now an honourable member of the Tolbooth massive. Wee Issue was banned but survived as an underground publication, forever immortalised as the physical representation of the incomparable Sixth-Year '02/03.
I want to run-down some of my most treasured individual memories of that final year, but it would be an impossibility to even attempt to put what the entire year meant into words. Take these as mere 'highlights' for me personally, but as has already been stated if you took any handful of people from that year they'd tell you countless different stories. Enjoy this short collection of banterous tales that I have to tell.
* Dabby's final warning is adorned with penises
The whole Advanced Higher English saga is one that could take an extremely long time to detail, but I will summarise the gravity of the situation Dabby found himself in as swiftly as I can manage. With the Wee Issue being rumbled moments before circulation and Dabby's appalling lack of concern or care for his demeanour or effort to Advanced Higher English, his relationship with the effective Head Mistress was sour and edgy. After a failed attempt at conjuring up a barely legitimate essay on Austen's Emma, The Hogg's temper and patience was reaching fever pitch with the nonchalant Dabby. The severity of the situation was such that Mrs Stuart only needed the slightest shred of evidence Dabby wasn't putting effort into his work to kick him off the course or perhaps worse. She needed to make an example of someone, and was betting on Dabby failing to produce an adequate piece of work given his extreme dislike of Austen.
The night before and Dabby had managed the feat thanks to the newly found Gradesaver.com. Gradesaver would become a lifeline to us who could not bring ourselves to read the utterly detestable novel, and Dabby's application of their brief summaries and quotations was inspired. Going to the canteen during break, Dabby made the unfortunate error of leaving his critical essay behind. Enter Star.
Spying the essay sitting provocatively on the bare table, I reached into my pocket and produced an HB pencil. Lifting the first page, I began drawing all manners of penises and cum-bespattered mouths around the conclusive page of the essay, giggling and chuckling uncontrollably. Grinning as he returned, the unobservant Dabby grabbed the paper as the bell rang and went for his meeting with Mrs Stuart. Following him like a pair of assassins, Tom and I laughed and nearly shat ourselves at the prospect of camping outside Mrs Stuart's office and hearing the biggest bollocking of Dabby's short life. Unfortunately, Mrs Stuart told him to stand there for a few minutes as she dealt with someone else, which gave him time to spot the sickening sketches.
He managed to splot them out using his thumb, averting a disaster that we will never know how grievous it could have been. The image of hiding round the corner awaiting Dabby's unknown fate and muffling our laughs is a moment I'll never forget.
* The sole meeting with Wee Issue's Co-ordinator
It was a meeting so cringeworthy it makes the Office look like a serious factual drama in comparison. Every club has to have a figurehead; an adult who exerts some responsibility and control over the group. However, the Wee Issue was never about following protocol, but in order to achieve publication we had to humour our co-ordinator and then immediately ignore her dispensable advice.
Little did we know she would turn out, and I quote Dabby from the deceased Wee Issue blog, to be "anointed Queen prude by general opinion." She was offended at the notion of writing anything that could be remotely construed as controversial and suggested we do TV listings and an "achievers" feature for people in Ellon Academy who had done noteworthy achievements. TK and Anna joined our group, possibly the most deplorable nerds you've ever heard of. We couldn't break it to them their book reviews weren't welcome, so we got Morna to do it. Her soul is now the property of the devil.
Her ideas of the publication were polar opposites to our own, I felt genuinely bad sitting there entertaining her repeated ridiculous suggestions like interviewing the Doc. Instead, we interviewed Feil Mary; a mental-institute escapee who lived nearby Costcutters in a caravan and spent her day cycling around the perimeters of the academy. She once played the harmonica for us in 4th year and we threw pennies at her feet.
We were told that our publication had to be respectable but we could wangle in some "street-cred" (her exact words) if we were subtle about it. Instead, we unsubtly and unceremoniously never saw her again, for obvious reasons. Who knows how sixth year would have shaped itself if we'd just taken her advice...
* Lee Christie's countless contributions to our Business Management enjoyment
Christie was a shy, retreating nerd who was mostly harmless and rarely ventured into sunlight except during school hours. Thus, he was a prime target for people who are short of material and need a quick fix. It was Christie's lamentable luck therefore to be seated behind myself and Beefy in Business Management; a pair of disinterested students who without his presence may have taken to actually doing the work prescribed.
There are too many tales of Business Management for me to try and do justice to them all with my limited time, but there are some classics. One time we asked him if he would "do" (we didn't want to be too crass towards the poor lad) Britney Spears, to which he predictably squirmed and kept trying to avoid the question. Then, to mine and Beefy's amazement, Rebecca Smith asks him "would you do me Lee?" And Laura Coonan asks "would you do me Lee?" His reaction was priceless. It was if Britney had entered the class herself just to pose that question to the bashful nerd, it couldn't have been better even if we had choreographed it.
Mr Forbes once rumbled us in the STA as half the class decided not to bother showing up to class. Instead of giving us some sort of punishment, he just sat down and told us "all the boring types like Lee are in the class" and, rather disgruntled, sat with us. It was so eloquently put that there and then Mr Forbes became an honorary Savage. One final memory is of the last day and Mr Forbes had told us to just go to the pub and enjoy ourselves. Christie was frantically scribbling away at math problems, so as an act of charity I grabbed his textbook, crumpled it up and stomped on it saying "this is the problem! This is the problem!" I was asked to stop, which I did rather discontented as my work here wasn't finished, but I really felt like I'd began Christie's path to social enlightenment. One day he will thank me.
* An inopportune bout of hystericals. Miss Duncan is not laughing.
Oh Lordy, was she not pleased! It was your average English period with Duncan as she rambled and enthused about some well-known author who no one could care less about. As she handed out her fifteenth print of some really lame and unwanted Seamus "peat bogs" Heaney poem, she paused at Dabby's desk. She told him he didn't need to put so much work on his desk and moved her way up the row.
I looked at his face and he gave the most comedy "you just can't win" face I've ever seen in my life as she moved on up the row. I started laughing uncontrollably at the notion that- for once- Dabby was being told off for being overprepared for class! I tried to play it off as sneezing but got such a fit of laughter that I couldn't hide it any longer. By the time she had pieced together what was happening there were tears streaming down my eyes as the collective classroom turned and stared at the dead man sitting.
Miss Duncan erupted, screaming "infants!" and other comedy phrases that only served to fuel the hilarity. She incorporated Dabby into the yelling bellowing "if you two can't handle the work" and other unrelated sentences that are clearly a standard pre-written telling off as outlined in the Big Book Of Telling-Offs. Her rant was lengthy and not at all related to me laughing, involving Dabby as much as me despite him actually doing what he's supposed to for a change.
* Mr Elsey is confronted with the fuzzy student
Two for one here- at the end of lunchtime I thought hey, how cool would it be to reverse my shirt, put glasses on my head and sit through English facing the wall? There and then I decided to do it, much to my own amusement. It took Elsey a full five minutes to finally twig that the hairy-faced student facing him wasn't Harry from Harry and the Hendersons. It was so out of place and un-sixth year like that it had to gain legendary status.
Also that period that wanker Dabby wrote "penis" all over my work. I tried to get it off muttering "you bender" repeatedly but the commotion only served to catch Elsey's attention. He asked to see my work and I went to front with an essay sporting the word "penis" spotted all over it. He told me I was a sick pervert or something to which I replied "it says pen fifteen." Whether he believed me or not I'll perhaps never know, but all I can say for certain is that Dabby is a class A bender.
* Modern Studies is no joke.
Just a short one here- Beefy and I were going home early, a regular feature of our Wednesday afternoons, and decided to have a cheeky spy at Dabby's Modern Studies class. There he was, sitting at the very front on his own (I suspect he was placed there deliberately) with his elbow firmly planted on the desk looking as completely bored and devoid of any emotion as I've ever seen. We started laughing so fucking hard it was embarrassing, as the whole class turned to look out the window at us, unable to get off their seats as the midget teacher continued his lesson.
We hid under the ledge and kept bawling with laughter for nigh on three minutes, peeping our heads over to glance at the sucker at the front having to endure the midget's pointless scribblings on the board. Morna said she could hear and recognise us three doors down with our unsuppressed and rather vocal belly-laughing. Towards the end we started improvising, laughing stupidly and in foreign languages playing off each other's increasingly ridiculous laughter. I don't think I've ever laughed so loudly and for so long at Dabby's misfortune.
* Miss Hogg is not especially pleased
I had numerous confrontations with the Hogg; most were well mannered affairs caused by my incomplete knowledge of eighteenth-century social ettiquette, some regarded my general disinterest in her teachings, but by far and away the most vehemently fought battles regarded her refusal to read my writing.
My writing has been described as being permanently in italics; it is both beautifully scripted and purposely formed. I will defend it to my death. The Hogg, on the other hand, feels my writing is scrappy, ugly and a pimple of the face of society at large. Its perishment is both her concern and her moral duty. One day however, I pushed her unintentionally to her limits.
She made a comment about my writing and I peered up at her from my crumpled Gradesaver notes, and decided to ignore it. Then, she pushed and kept pushing. Out of nowhere I told her firmly "the SQA don't have a problem marking it" before realising what I'd done. The class went silent. The Hogg lept to her feet and marched out the room.
I sat there alone wondering what the hell I had just started. Lauren whispers "you shouldn't have done that" and then Dabby, being the eversmug git who constantly kicks my chair during the Hogg's class, gives me his two cents as well. The anticipation was unbearable. Eventually, the Hogg's thumping footsteps are audible and then ten seconds later she waddles into the class with Mrs Bell (this is actually her name, I'm not trying to be insolent!) sheepishly in tow.
"Mrs Bell claims she complains regularly about your writing. And Miss Duncan says she asks you to type up all your work because she can't read it!"
I slumped in my chair. I wasn't going to be allowed to get away with this, the Hogg had clearly done her research. For the next five minutes I tried to worm my way out of it but the Hogg had outfoxed me and I was going to suffer her tirade. Clearly there had been some lunchroom chit-chat with the merciless Hogg and my four other English teachers, and I had to take her stinging attack on the chin. If it wasn't bad enough having to try and continually bat off the Hogg's impossibly complicated Austen questions about a book I swore to her I'd read but now I'd have to sit through all her handwriting jibes too. Incidentally, Dabby told her squarely he hadn't read the book when she asked us all and consequently got into a lot of trouble for it (see Dabby's last chance), but at least he had something to fall back on when the Hogg would ask us why Mr Knightly couldn't win someone's hand in marriage or any other blatantly obvious fact to anyone who'd even heard of the book.
The Hogg didn't especially like me, and boy did I know it.
* PSE? Sorry, we'd scarpered about two hours ago.
PSE, or Personal And Social Education, gained a new degree of tedium in sixth year where the entire year had to sit and listen to the boresome yawn-fest Miss Tomlinson rabble on about hippy issues like saving the rain forest. After the initial baptism of tedium, Yann and I decided not to put ourselves through such auditory torture ever again. As it was 5th period on a friday and we had 6th off for 'study', we would routinely scarper and leave the suckers behind to endure Miss Tomlinson's boring tirade. Eventually they would make everyone sign in, which we did, and then scarpered. If only Mrs Stuart had thought this through more thoroughly!
Usually we'd just tuck off to the golf club to play pool, envisaging Tom or Tete's face as they listened unendingly to the tiresome Tomlinson. Knowing full-well their suffering made the escape all the more tantalising and enjoyable, as we basked in Yann's room sipping cool beer and lapping up the freedom from Tomlinson and her equally-uninteresting guest speakers. We truly thought we were extra-smart, but the relatively low attendance suggested we weren't the only crafty individuals to bypass the entirely useless PSE. Still, there was a certain buzz of hearing the lunch bell ring knowing that school was out for us and we could leave three hours before the other saps. Sweeeet.
* Mr Ritchie should have been in Dead Poet's Society
Forget Robin Williams, Mbaza Ritchie is the undisputed champ of unorthodox teaching. Without notice he'll charge towards your desk, stare at you and return to his workings on the board. He'll throw chalk at you. Ritchie will do anything that isn't normally acceptable by an adult just because he can. And you know what? I learnt more from Ritchie than any other maths teacher just because it stuck. His classes were constantly fresh and enjoyable, if only for his curious and often inexplicable behaviour. Ritchie wouldn't have asked you to stand on your desks, he'd have thrown it at you.
* The RSPCA do not condone eating fish that are sold as pets
Yet another timeless Wee Issue stunt designed to shock and amuse our fellow sixth year chums. It was decided that each issue would have a challenge, and for our second issue resident stuntman Yann would eat three socially unacceptable items. The general theme was "items that can be bought in a pet shop", so it came to the fateful day where we wandered down into Ellon to purchase the items. Rather than perform the stunt behind closed doors, we made it an STA spectacle for all to admire, so returned with the three items to the STA and gave Yann about ten minutes to mentally prepare.
Very quickly word of the challenge spread throughout the canteen, leading some from the Tarves/Chilli Pepper group to boycott the event. Seeing as this form of protest caught no one's attention, they plotted to steal our third item but to cut a long story short never managed to. A large crowd had assembled around the Savage table to witness the talking point of the year, as Yann took centre stage.
The first item was a few dog treats called Schmackos, which were roughly 5% meat and the rest unsavoury ingredients I was too repulsed to investigate. Yann ate them with salivous vigour, although admittedly this disgusting act was a mere bit-part to the main event. The second item which I confidently predicted was both indigestible and unbreakable (it is, afterall, designed to withstand a dog chewing it) was a rubber dog ball. How Yann was supposed to eat it I'll never know, all I know is that he didn't manage to dent it. It was quickly pushed aside, and then the main event came.
Sammy was a goldfish we bought from Pets Paradise about thirty minutes previously. While Yann was warming up he (the fish, not Yann) almost managed to escape down a sink plug as we transferred him from his bag to a glass beaker. After that minor incident, he was swimming about the glass quite contently. After the rubber ball the crowd grew impatient crying "fish! Fish! Fish!" making such a noise it would have reverberated throughout the school. The assembled crowd truly was massive and the vast majority were really up for some pet fish eating. Yann held up the beaker and started downing away, effectively calling the numbers out on poor Sammy's life. Sammy began swimming as far away from the gaping vortex as his little fins would carry him, but alas was swallowed whole with Yann's final gulp.
The crowd were adulated and cried to the roof tops- a new legend was born. We paraded Yann briefly and for the rest of the day all you could hear were musings about the boy who ate a pet Goldfish. Later the RSPCA, tipped off by Kellogg, paid Pets Paradise a visit but alas, it was too late to save poor Sammy. The whole incident was forwarded to Mrs Stuart, who no doubt cried "Wee Issue!" while shaking her first to the ceiling.
A truly momentous day for all who witnessed it, and another feather in the cap of Wee Issue.
* Trashing Mrs Stuart's Office
On the final day I met up with Dabby to do the rounds to hand back all our books and get that final signature from Mrs Stuart herself that would terminate our association with our school of six years. I went to Elsey's room and realised I'd forgotten my copy of Emma, but continued as Dabby needed his signature. He wasn't in, so I took the opportunity to nick another copy so I could give it to Miss Duncan. She never asked us for the book so sneakily Dabby and I held onto our copies to burn at the stake at Tete's, which meant I had two copies of the dreaded book to burn. How fate deals a fair hand.
All our books returned, we went to Mrs Stuart's office to get our final signature except on this occasion she wasn't in. The temptation got the better of us. We toppled her stack of filed documents and generally trashed her office the best one can given ten seconds of frantic whirlwind destruction. It was immensely satisfying and, to top it all off, we came back thirty minutes later and put 'afters' into the devastation. One final single-fingered salute to the crowned Queen of power-tripping bitches.
* The Doc was once a badass too
The only telling off I had to sit through with the Doc regarding the Wee Issue website. For those who don't know, weeissue.blogspot.com was once a thriving anti-establishment website who had such esteemed writers as Sharon, Kayleigh, Lauren, Dabby and I. It was a medley of some very fine Bloggers, the only two remaining being of course the latter but some of Sharon and Kayleigh's work can still be found if you dig deep enough. The site would have been very well if, once again, the pathetic losers from the Tarvis/Chilli Pepper table (they didn't have much of the sixth year spirit, as is self-evident) spearheaded by Kellogg hadn't tipped off the Doc and Mrs Stuart of our underground musings.
The website got us in a shitload of trouble, possibly even more than the actual Wee Issue magazine. Soon the Doc was threatening legal action and demanded the site be shut down for defamation against members of staff. We were all threatened with expulsion, naturally, and verged on the brink of some dreadful repercussions. The Doc sat there with printouts of the site and read us some choice excerpts.
"The balding technician", Dabby wrote, "is an utter fucking bender." Not a good start. He then went on to read some more of Dabby's slander, but avoided the taboo subject of Kayleigh's weekly writings on the best anal sex and my porn of the week feature. The whole thing was exceptionally embarrassing, accentuated ten fold when the Doc told us his story of his 'underground magazine'.
The Doc painted a picture of himself being the rebellious sort, having also got the rap for writing inappropriate things. It was as transparent as fucking glass, the Doc clearly desperate to shed his stigma of being a stuffy stuck-up bell who's primary job was to call disruptive pupils to his office and offload made-up stories of his youth. Surely a man of his standing has better things to spend his time on? Usually it's left to his lesser, Mrs Stuart, to chase up unruly pupils but she must have been ill or on her period this day. The Doc was about as intimidating as Christie wielding a prawn cracker, and clearly needed some practice in being the authority figure. As I left, grinning at Kayleigh who had managed to silence the Doc with her distasteful and unspeakable sex advice, I envisaged myself in his position. If I get a doctorate in psychology like him and land up working back at Academy on the other side, I promise not to subject disobedient pupils to tales that enforce my badass credentials. Instead, I think I'll just put my Viking hat on and spare the "I was like you too" see-through crap. Still, the whole notion of the Doc being remotely pro-badass had me grinning for weeks.
And at that point, I'm gonna call an end to this chapter. It's been a wonderful trip down memory lane people, and if you happen to be involved in any of these stories, or you were a part of the irreplaceable sixth year atmosphere, do feel free to pop back some years down the line and relive the memories :) This piece will be kept in the archives filed under "Ellon Academy", which for me I haven't even scratched the surface of yet. I still haven't mentioned the other aspects of Ellon Academy, the years progressing from the library to the ledge and eventually to form the Savages in the STA. Sixth year was as much about the extra-school banter we enjoyed, but I'm afraid that's going to have to wait for another day when I feel especially nostalgic and have unbridled time to kill. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it, and I know if I wrote this back in the day, it would be laden with artistically drawn phalluses, swastikas and other childishly amusing illustrations.
Priceless memories that, now written, won't be forgotten.
Where Do We Go Now?
Yesterday, there was so many things
I was never told
Now that I'm startin' to learn
I feel I'm growing old
'Cause yesterday's got nothin' for me
Old pictures that I'll always see
Time just fades the pages
In my book of memories
Prayers in my pocket
And no hand in destiny
I'll keep on movin' along
With no time to plant my feet
'Cause yesterday's got nothin' for me
Old pictures that I'll always see
Some things could be better
If we'd all just let them be
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Got nothin' for me
Yesterday, there was so many things
I was never shown
Suddenly this time I found
I'm on the streets and I'm all alone
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Old pictures that I'll always see
I ain't got time to reminisce old novelties
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday
Yesterday.
These words you should live your life by. It seems kind of odd, but sometimes I can just get drunk listening to Guns N' Roses, absorbing their wisdom and just being so content in that state for unspecified lengths of time. I'm sure everyone has a band or some form of literature that has that effect on them, but even though I don't usually talk much about my on-off relationship with the mighty GnR, they still have a profound effect on my and other people's lives.
It makes me wonder- and this seems kind of topical in light of recent developments- could a drug artificially recreate this sense of chilled-out euphoria? It's a state of complete contentment in ones own company... no television and no other person, just you alone with mild alcohol-induced melancholy. The catalyst for me is a meaningful serenade; which turns out to be GnR, a band whom each song reflects a significant memory. I can hear songs I haven't heard for years and very strong memories appear from seemingly nowhere between drum beats, guitar solos and allusive verses. This multi-sensory store of feeling is an efficacy of combined memories, tastes, haptic perceptions and acoustic recollections resulting in a melody of pleasing remembrances.
Contrary to what you may think, there is happiness in being sad. This may be something of a paradox to you, but why else would so many seek a depressant to cure their depression? Alcoholism, by definition, is a self-punitive act whereby the depressed seek solace in their depression. There is a self-denying catharsis allocated with being self-punitive: to re-state; making yourself feel bad is a way of making up for doing wrong onto others. Thus, subconsciously, alcoholics seek to remedy wrongs by punishing themselves and wallowing in self-pity. It is a relentless cycle, but one which if uncontrolled can spiral to lengths unimaginable. Without rehabilitation, there is no cure.
This may seem an extreme example of creating a mind state using drugs (alcohol is a drug too, you know), but I just want to make the point- sanity is only a subjective description, and those who rely on ultra-humanistic support (drugs, alcohol) are merely creating for themselves a fabricated extra-reality. To wit: happiness is what you make of it. I won't elaborate it any further.
Live your life by your own principles, the bible or whatever you deem to be a fair account of an ideal lifestyle. In the end, ultimately; reality, contentment, self-actualisation and self-fulfilment are governed by your own perceptions or degrees of. You cannot hope to live by other people's standards, so create your own. Afterall, your definitions of success, happiness or contentment may not necessarily coincide with those of significant others.
Be yourself.
There are vices we are warned of from an early age, some of which are reinforced by law and some of which are socially defined. Once you reach the age of leaving the home (which, for some people, may be in their twenties) you soon begin to appreciate the value of independence. With independence comes responsibility and with responsibility, so the chain of reasoning goes, comes consequences. You're free to push boundaries but the question remains how far do you want to go?
You never really know how something will affect you until you've tried it. Despite this undeniable logic there are certain things I won't do. I may not be the best person at exercising self-restraint but there are certain places I won't go- not because I've been warned not to, but because I myself can weigh the benefits and see they aren't worth the consequences. Moderation is something that cannot be exercised with complete reliability when you're dealing with something that is a dangerous mind-altering pill. As there is happiness in being sad, likewise is there exhilaration in breaking social taboos.
What goes up, must come down.
If I have an inner child, he is burning ants with a magnifying glass. Never has it been my intention to harm others or to bring harm onto myself but there is something about that substance that can change a usually docile happy-go-lucky individual into a senseless and irrational drunk. I dread to think what an unintentional overdose would do to me. Unlike alcohol, drugs are not socially acceptable around any of my peer groups. To me, hard drugs are the domain of smackhead hardhouse lunatics seeking an ever-increasingly dangerous thrill on the rollercoaster that is underground drug dealing. Having said that, I've never met a weed-smoker who wasn't immediately approachable and friendly.
It's all about moderation and life choices isn't it? If you need hard drugs to make your night enjoyable then you're missing the point somewhere. I believe the thrill of pushing boundaries outlives the physical thrill achieved from the substance. Conversely, do I really need to drink alcohol to enjoy my night out?
In short: yes. And that's about the most damning evidence there is against my life choice to not experiment with hard drugs. All I do know, however, is I won't feel deprived if I never touch them. You have to question how far you want to go and why.
I think I'll just stick with this chilled-out ambience without the experimentation. The worst thing I'll wake up with is a headache.
I can live with that.
ADDITIONAL: Some vintage and essential Guns N' Roses:
November Rain
Patience
Don't Cry
Estranged
Locomotive (Complicity)
Yesterdays
The Garden
Dead Flowers
New rose
Human Being
Live And Let Die
Madagascar
One In A Million
Oh yes, and more search engine madness! It seems people just can't stop themselves from entering obscure and totally irrelevant searches and winding up here, no doubt extremely disappointed. What's the deal with this sicko?
S Club 8 Cleavage ~ had undone their flexi wonder bras to "maximum cleavage." After telling a ... the quintessential Edinburgh womaniser- dancing with Ho's to S Club 8, drinking beers
Why search for a nonexistant term? What next, S Club 8 pubes? And as for this next geezer, SPELLING!!
Were About In Manchester Dose Christiano Ronaldo Live On ~ he began slating Manchester United forward Cristiano Ronaldo with such compulsion it ... harrowing tale of Christiano Ronaldo living on the streets
All he learned from that excerpt is that Ronaldo lives on the streets, in Lawrence's dream world. It would be nice if someone could render a search term that would turn up a result they were looking for. However, this next guy wins the award for most stupid and inane reason for visiting Starsite:
Budweiser Horse Fart Advert ~ Mr.Jack's Birthday, the advert practically demands you, "a glass ... born on" date put on Budweiser bottles. It makes me ... unannounced, he'll let loose the biggest fart I've ever heard
Maybe I should change my writing to suit my new target audience...
Chavs, Fat Admirers, Money Shots And Magpies
Last night's terrestrial television was, for only one night, almost as good as Sky.
It is not often that I'll insinuate Sky to be inferior to the vastly lesser terrestrial tv, but last night's programming made the usual chore of picking between the five inseparably poor channels a doddle. The similarly bland melange of programmes cross-channel can be categorised into three easy divisions:
* News (10% of airtime)
* Home Decoration/Improvement shows (89% of airtime)
* Other (1% of airtime)
The only home improvement show worth watching is ITV's 60 Minute Challenge, but only for Claire Sweeny's fantastically revealing and inappropriate choice of top and lack of supportive undergarments thereunder. Sweeny has one recognisable role and that is to look slutty and gear up the workmen by constantly bending over and/or kneeling down by routinely volunteering for paint jobs (usually white, spraying all over face), and one must not forget her invaluable blowing of the 'whistle' (sexual innuendo duly noted) at each fifteen minute break. Sweeny constantly contradicts the professional designers with inane comments that are unintelligible to anyone with a passing knowledge of which colours don't go with pink; colours that, rather frightfully, include maroon and fluorescent yellow. I have been reliably informed that Sweeny doesn't originate from that regional Mecca of clueless sluts known as 'Essex', but hear the Queen is going to give her a new year's honour for her services to the partially see-through textiles industry.
So besides my daily and rarely-missed dose of 60 Second Climax, terrestrial televison particularly during the daytime leaves much to be desired. The entire situation is so desperate I took to watching Name Your Price for a brief period, before growing tired of its unrestrained homosexuality. Short of hibernating during the day or actually attending lectures, the daytime can go slowly especially if you've conquered the Mario Kart leader boards and have ran out of wool to knit with. However, all is not lost yet; while evening television suffers from much the same foibles as daytime television (minus, I regret to say, the habitually underdressed Sweeny), Channel Four has begun something of a resurgence when it comes to top-quality evening scheduling.
Firstly you should punch in the number 4 on your remote when the clock turns 9pm on tuesdays for you're sure to witness something I know is close to all your hearts- the comeuppance of Chavs. Brat Camp uses advanced psychological techniques to prove what we all knew was true that Chavs only get their sense of hardmanship from a lack of parental authority. These Chavs are used to getting their own way, doing as they want and generally feeling comfortable with being the little shits they are. Do not misinterpret the title- these kids are no different to Chappy, Ant, MacIntyre or any other hardman who have thrown away career prospects at the tender age of fourteen to live a life of petty crime and solvent abuse.
I found it fascinating that, let's use an example here, Chappy has such a well-built father painted from head-to-toe in tattoos who for all his might and showmanship can't even discipline his own sons. The product is an arrogant, self-absorbed little cunt who indulges himself in underage sex, picking fights at the bus stop and thinks he's the Johnny Big-Balls of the Ellon nightlife. I can't wait, and I say this with complete conviction, to bring my Mercedes into Chappy's place of work which, at best, will be scrubbing motors with a ragged sponge that he bought himself after losing the last one. I'll tip him good- I'll say, and I've prepared this speech for a long time:
Who's the big man, now?
And he'll look up at me from my car's wheel rim, aghast, unable to find the words to retort because his limited vocabulary can't register a sentence that sums up "not me". I'll enter the multi-thousand pound motor and drive it out the car dealership, looking at my sparkling Rolex and realising Chappy would have to work a further nine hours to match the pay I just received for my lunch hour. Of course, he'll blame the father- as do we all. Which is why Brat Camp is so remarkably wonderful and revealing.
The kids show up to camp dying for a cigarette (one of them actually quips "I haven't smoked in two fucking days!") full of the unrepressed anger we've come to expect from the most unwanted of scum currently polluting the gene pool. There is a term psychologists use to describe copulation between Chavs and it's known as "the circle of disadvantage"- When a Chav gives birth, they pass on what little they know about life and reinforce anti-social behaviour, leading to ever-increasing teen pregnancy and child delinquency rates. The kids get put on the Impact programme, which is a simple way of allowing them to test out their boundaries and witness the repercussions. There is a real gang mentality amongst the most petty and pathetic of the crew, but to give an unbiased account of what's happened, there are two who have decided just to get on with it as one says "I don't know these people, I don't care if they like me or not." Needless to say the other five grow to resent these two and actively begin trying to bully them... can you think of a real world example where this happens? Clue: Replace the Ranch with the Bus Stop, and the conformists with normal people.
What is so touching about this series is that, with a few boundaries and achievable goals, there can be dramatic turnabouts in behaviour as the two I mentioned attests to. All are intially given physical boundaries like the circle on Impact that they have to sit in, and also mental boundaries like not being allowed to speak during sleep time. By introducing these and reinforcing with punishments (lack of progression onto more favourable stages) the Chavs can learn to become marginally agreeable persons. If I were in power, I would bring back Military service if it's anything like the Turnabout Camp. The state this country is in with Chavs who flaunt Governmental rules and are practically immune from repercussions when caught or uncaught is disgraceful. As Brat Camp proves, if the parents aren't going to do their duty as guardians, then it must be up to someone who will. Chappy wouldn't last five minutes in a world where his cuntish lack of ability to conform would have serious repercussions. If anything, he'd end up like the five non-conforming kids on Brat Camp- tearful and remorseful, with a newfound appreciation for others. Instead, well, I don't need to tell you- If you really have to know, try waiting for a bus on friday night in Ellon. He'll be the one who approaches you and offers you a schmack (tip: Don't answer. Just leave).
But wait, don't hit that remote! One commendable television programme does not threaten Sky's strangehold on evening viewing. Oh no, you still have Shameless to look forward to! However, if you were me last night, you'd have also seen the shocking Fat Admirers And Fat Feeders.
Who's the fattest person you've ever seen? Was it Fat Rat? Rik Waller? Fern Britton? Now, let me rephrase that: Who's the fattest person you were attracted to? Now things are starting to get interesting.
Fat women are inherently ugly, period. I'm not talking chubby women here, although the term 'chubby' is hardly desirable and calling a chubby woman chubby will result in a firm smack across the face which, if you didn't take my advice a couple of paragraphs up, will be your second this week. I'd imagine a fat woman punching you would hurt more than a Chav's punch, both physically and mentally, but both can be avoided by keeping schtum. Ah, the benefits of not opening your gob!!
Call me brutally harsh, but fat women aren't attractive. Yet, for all my misconceptions, I really felt this one was the one that would never change. I could say before with confidence "fat women aren't attractive" and be fairly certain the sentiment would extend throughout the whole company. Even if some people were keeping quiet for fear of embarrassment, I would still walk away convinced I was right and had been all along. However, due to the advent of the Internet, a whole subculture of grotesque fetishes are surfacing and people feel safe behind their monitors openly discussing their vile attractions. Somewhere along the line, the message got round to a Channel Four producer and the rest... well, the rest is history, isn't it?
FA's (Fat Admirers) are people who until the past decade had to keep their love of giant superwomen suppressed. An early indication that you're an FA is a deep love of the song Fat Bottom Girls, oh, and a love of curvaceous women. Where FA's go one step too far is when an FA becomes a feeder and, for the benefit of Feesh, feed their wives to the point where they become entirely dependent on the FA for everything. They become bedbound or to rephrase become prisoners in their own bodies- they can't get up to phone the police, they can't cook for themselves, they can't go outside and they can't independently go to the bathroom. The logistics of that last point aren't mentioned in the documentary and some part of me is thankful for it.
The women develop incredible bed sores and their thigh leg skin can become one inch deep with the thick ropey texture of elephant skin. Needless to say breathing is a struggle and even managing to touch fingers behind their own backs is a physical impossibility. Sex becomes impossible after a certain degree of fatness because the thighs are just too huge... quite why anyone would want to shag an eight-hundred pound monster is definitely beyond me. The documentary was one of those peeping-through-your-fingers ones where you'd grimace at the titanic human and the abuse her body suffered as a consequence of her husband's twisted fantasy, but yet at the same time muster some perverse enjoyment from it. How someone can voluntarily gain so many hundreds of pounds is just mind-blowing, and goes far beyond the realms of normal decency.
I really did labour to hold my food down when she posed 'erotically' for the cameras just before she lost the ability to walk due to her leviathan size.
As for television tonight folks, I can highly recommend Desperate Housewives. There really is no stigma attached lads, it isn't Sex And The "OMFG Is That A Versache Dress?" City- just a shameless exploration of Forty-something's sexual activities set in the backdrop of a Stepford Wives-alike suburb. Ok, so maybe it is like S&TC- except it stars forty-year old hotties, and not the pension-pinching Carrie Bradshaw (ouch!).
~~~~~~~~~~~The observant amongst you might have noticed the title includes the rather random words "Money Shots" and "Magpies". I'd like to conduct a quick survey: how many people do you think read my site for money shots or magpie trivia? Well, as it turns out, several of you! Last week I rather sneakily hid a site statistic counter at the bottom of my site to ascertain exactly where people were coming from. The majority, as you might expect, basically came of their own accord by typing the address into their address bar. A handful came directly from Scottish Boozing, and one solitary visitor came by clicking the link on Dabby's blog. Cheers Dabby- it means the world to me. Digging deeper into the referral links and some bizarre results turned up. As it transpires, if you type in Money Shot into either Altavista or Lycos image search you'll find none other than Jordan unveiling her bra for the Lufbra massive as posted on this website! If you ask me that's a pretty obscure claim to search fame. Starsite- don’t bother checking out porn sites for money shots, just read some dudes blog with 'em! Additionally, should you decide to type Celtic FC Songs Downloads/Over And Over into Google, you're in the wrong place! Yet, one sadly mistaken chap decided to come visit ol' Starsite anyway, just in the off chance I was peddling illegal downloads of Celtic FC anthems. Yet, this is not the most peculiar search term I uncovered. If you ask the question What Do You Call A Thieving Bird? into the Ask Jeeves search engine the third site down is, you guessed it, Starsite! The quote that sums up my site, hopelessly bypassing the META tags I carefully put in during the site's inception, is "this had led me to call this group of kids the "magpies", for their appropriate resemblance to the thieving bird". So there we have it- conclusive proof that Starsite is not only a darned good read, but it's also educational! I bet you never imagined people read Starsite to learn more about Ornithology, Celtic Football Club chants or for softcore pornography...
This Will Change Your Life
There is something perversely satisfying about writing a website using only notepad and a pirated beta copy of Paint Shop Pro Eight.
The thrill of bedroom coding a website using only the most archaic of tools that were essentially available to designers in the twentieth century is a buzz that fewer and fewer individuals can relate to. The only thing more hardcore than coding a website in notepad is writing it on paper and transferring it to your server (bypassing ftp entirely) through a divine power of osmosis interconnecting man and machine; a gift, as legend has it, that only he named Neo possesses. Neo is a fictional character but is as jealously guarded as a figure of religious importance to old-school bedroom coders as the Christ is to the Christian faith, or Ronald McDonald is to a generation of obese PE-dodging kids who retell stories of Ronald feeding the poor with only five bacon double-cheeseburgers and portions of potato wedges. Neo is the epitome of manliness to nerds- a man who can jump in and out of binary code at will, beds hot female librarians at his leisure and beats up bullies by pulling out his laptop and dazzling them with multi-coloured graphs of varying parabolic functions. Neo has no regards for his own well being whatsoever by wearing shades indoors, a feat of ocular endurance John West wishes he could pull off without giving himself a migraine. Seeing as Neo is merely an cynical money-spinning ideal created to sell movie merchandise, I consider myself fairly hardcore in light of the harsh reality that nerds really can't bed hot women nor attain any real-world credibility.
I have Microsoft Word, but I choose not to use it. I also have Dreamweaver and an as yet unopened copy of Frontpage Express; my graphical user interface virginity is still in tact I'm delighted to report, the self-approbation of having it and knowing I can use it at any moment yet choosing not to is immeasurably and unspeakably hardcore. Continuing with the Matrix analogy as I really do strive to explain this in laymen’s terms for you incorrigible simpletons, the notepad-using website designer has the enviable ability to see pages of code and form a mental image of the site in his head. Knowing the very building blocks of designing a site gives him a privileged position and allows the designer to get his hands dirty with some seriously messy code and much like the changing room ladies (again with the pop culture, you worthless saps really need to broaden your horizons) they can turn an incomprehensible jumble of assorted letters into a fully-functioning wondersite.
Artistic vision is also preferential but as you have noticed with the very best websites like Google the miniminalist strategy is optimum. There is an old cliché that rings true not just to the online world but to every form of media that goes simply 'content is king'. You can dress a carthorse in silver robes but it a carthorse it remains. Touché, Le Sun.
So what does one do if they are blessed with the lofty ability to craft functional and eye-pleasing websites? Well they can either turn to the dark side and use their powers to code crass websites like tubgirl.com or the- I shudder to mention it- unequivocally detestable will-youngonline.com. Or, if they have seen the light, they can code marvellous feats of ingenuity such as, I don't know, the upcoming Scottishboozing.com?
The whole point I'm getting to is that Starsite is a barren wasteland compared to the currently undergoing development Scottish Boozing which I can assure you will be a corker once I'm done with it. Starsite is all about the writing; you won't find any fancy-arsed RSS feed here, and nor will you find complex scripts that change your bloody cursor and you certainly will never see anything a low-level "my first web page" Frontpage Express dad of four couldn't rattle off in a weekend with a little artistic merit and application. And you know what? It works. But as far as design difficulty goes, Starsite is degradingly 'beginner'.
We're talking big things here, people, and it's killing me not being able to run my mouth off about it. But like the master of tension I am, you're just going to have to wait until summer when Scottish Boozing undergoes its most significant facelift yet. Are you unloading in your underwear with anticipation? Because I know I am.
Things That Are Wrong With Today's Society
What happened to all the people born before Christ? Did they become the first people to populate hell?
Them wacky Christians and their double-standards.
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