Insane In The Brain
People who don't get sarcasm
Now I know the internet isn't the easiest medium to detect sarcasm with; in fact, it can be bloody difficult at times. For this reason the sarcasm smiley should always be at your immediate disposal, or if you've left home without it, a healthy sprinkling of italics should be applied liberally to the sarcastic text. Some people simply don't get sarcasm or extreme case formulations due to their hideously gullible nature, and some are just so trusting that they believe what they want to believe.
The internet also has another significant drawback in that it is a breeding ground for crackpot weirdoes to spread their wild propaganda and theories, sometimes traversing the line between the outcasts and socialites. By nature the internet can be as passive as you like it: you can be an anonymous entity jumping between chat rooms or you can choose to furnish your online persona with a picture. Besides this, there really isn't much else to separate you out from anyone else. If you want to break communications with someone, you close the window. And you'll never be able to trace them. Given this level of anonymity, there is no shortage of socially inept people trying to reach out to find the < 0.001% of people who also find The Hitchhiker's Guide interesting, or those who believe that mobile phones are a Government conspiracy to fit us all with tracking devices.
They're mostly harmless people, on the whole, and every now and again one will reach out and grab your hand on the mouse from behind the screen and try to suck you into their world, filling your head with mindless drivel concerning their entirely implausible theories. Just such an event happened to me this morning.
It was perhaps my fault for attempting humour on my msn profile. Under the "interests" section I put "I spend most of my free time in a darkened room listening to babies screaming on loop." It's probably not what you'd expect on someone's profile, but it raised a few chuckles in me none the less (I have a dark sense of humour at times). This comment lay dormant for some time until this morning, when I got a brief email from a girl who read my profile.
If it wasn't for her msn pic I might have mistaken her for a fairly normal person. I've said this time and time again- you just 'know' about people the first time you see them. There is so, so much you can deduce and infer from someone upon first sight, whether someone is a chav or a doctor, you just know by looking at their face. And for the most part this is correct, and I could show you photos of a doctor's face and a chav's face and you would know which is which. Similarly, I can tell a fruitcake from a sumptuous, curvaceous carrot cake, if you follow that analogy. You will also when I decide to show you this picture.
So I clicked the link and braced myself for the worst. She suggested we "chat," which I'm tempted to do just to see what nonsense flows from her mouth. The curiosity is starting to get the better of me, you know. Of all the websites she could have put as her personal homepage, guess which one she chose. Was it the BBC website? Or, perhaps, was it a personal blog? Oh no, let me show you:
Ever wanted to know what actually happened on 9/11? Well, now you can! How typical, a nutter who opines on 9/11 disbelieving the official line (far too much X-files late at night, methinks). So yeah... there's your 9/11 right there. Wacko.
I'm now going to test you on your ability to pick out a nutter from a perfectly sane individual. This will prove beyond all reasonable doubt that we all have the amazing innate power of pigeonholing the insane. For fairness, I have pitted a control person who is of equal attractiveness and clearly not pulling an overtly "sane" pose. It's the fairest I could make it without it being obvious.
Q: Which of the below are completely, and utterly, insane, to the point where they find listening to screaming babies in darkened rooms a mutual and perfectly acceptable past time?
You must choose, regardless of how closely matched they seem |
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Answer: B.
Changing Seasons
Posing is not a hobby- it's a way of life |
Summer is finally here, so rack me up and toast me brown: it's loungin' time. Exams in this weather are only an incidental pest, one that goes away with a quick swat of the wrist and a casual dumping of textbooks. It's so easy to forget what's happening in the wider world at times like this. If I was more artistically gifted, I would formalise this feeling as a delightful poem. As I am not, I will attempt to convey it as prose. Today I sweltered and roasted under the sun's unforgiving rays a million miles away from strife, responsibility and duty. Basking on Lawrence's cozy couch, relocated to the garden, with only the sweet sounds of GnR wafting over from the uninhabited room, I was in paradise. As I bronzed alone in the tranquil garden I perused lecture notes as and when I saw fit, periodically sipping from my ice-chilled bitter lemon. The secluded garden lent itself a cloistered appeal, as if I had somehow found myself a deserted island to call my own with no outside interference, save the peaceful chittering of a swallow nesting utop a fence post. I was free to be my own man, to make my own decisions, to fill my day as I pleased; but despite all this, I moved not once from the couch. The sun's glorious rays held me prisoner to the heat, as I succumbed to its exotic charm and wiled away the hours in front of its warming gaze. Truly, I was a king among men. In my mind, anyway. All semester I'd never felt this relaxed, self-satisfied or content for any prolonged period of time that didn't involve alcohol. As depressing as that sounds I think I might have hit the nail on the head. There are few people I know here who are spontaneous (they tend to live on campus), and those who are tend to be nighttime acquaintances (none of whom I live with, as it turns out). As a result daytimes tend to be pretty enclosed affairs, where it is nearly impossible to persuade anyone to do something that hasn't been pre-arranged a week in advance. Even trying to get someone to go into town is a laborious Herculean effort, the excuses of which range from the ridiculous to the sublime. Any naive intention of ordering a group takeaway is quashed with thunderous silence, as the meek excuses slowly filter in. As for night times, I don't go even go there anymore. Unless I'm asking Juan to do something, even anything, you name it, it will be dismissed with unabated resilience. "Erm, well, you see, I've got coursework to do" sums up one half of the household while "I'll see if Tom/Jibba/James/Omar are going and then decide" covers the other half. It gets to the point where you stop asking. So how refreshing it was to do something that I wanted to do with no backlash to follow, no stubborn refusal or reliance to expect. Lying under that wonderfully ablazed sunlight it was all about me, satisfying my humanistic desires with no care or concern for anyone else. It was as relaxed as I've been for a long time, it was like a great letting-go. A massive two-fingers up to shit English weather, a furious wanker sign to exams, and a whole range of expletives to the nay-sayers who, as the name suggests, make saying "no" a life habit in pursuit of wasting away the best years of their lives indoors. From behind tinted glasses the house stood peacefully in front of me, occupants two. How nice it was to get out of that room, to get away from those four walls and to submerge myself in the beauty of nature. As clouds lazily patrolled the evening sky I found myself sitting in reflection, thinking about how far away I was from the other side of my dual life. When working in the sweaty running shop, on my feet for eight hours a day, I dream about days like this, sitting in the sun listening to music without a care in the world. I imagined what it would be like if Dabby, Tete, Beefy, Tommy and Tom lived here. How would things be different? It's hard to imagine really. I don't think I could find a more agreeable set of housemates than the ones I have now; if there are disputes, they are negligible. I can study and train without any hassles and the ambience is always, without exception, positive and fun. I think the only real change would be the social life aspect, with the five listed above I think I'd find myself in a tighter-knit clique and going to the cinema, the pub, or wherever as a group more often than with surrogates. We'd probably do more as a group in general, from shopping, to playing drinking games, to going to concerts. Apart from that, I doubt much would be different at all. I'd still be sitting on that couch under the sun, but perhaps with more people around me, that's all. I'd still be sipping bitter lemon on the rocks in one hand with a book of notes in the other, I'd still be tanning to the same degree and I'd still be chilling out. Nothing beats living away from home. Nothing. It is an incomparable experience, yet one that has to be put in a jar and left behind during the vacation months as I migrate north to Scotland. Being down here I have no parents to answer to, I have no long hours to work selling shoes (it's as exciting as it sounds), I have no lectures, I have a fantastic training group like I do at home but I have the independence I need so much. There is a different quality of life here that I would not swap for anything, but at times I do miss the way it is back home. Maybe it's just the people up north but the people I've befriended are more spontaneous and susceptible to suggestion. You never know exactly what you could be doing at any given night, and I love that. Even if it's just to chat at the pub, to shoot pool or to go round to someone's house there's more of a willingness to take that tantalising first step out the front door without all the stipulations. Basking in the sun my mind wandered to Easter, Christmas and the summer before that. There were crazy nights, some outrageous banter, and spontaneity the likes of which haven't been repeated for some time. There was weed smoking at a ned's house at 4am, there were 6am drinking game deciders, there were wheel spins on Balnagask golf course, there were birthdays at the Moorings, there were many gnomes rehoused, there were 6 mile treks from Tarves to Ellon in torrential rain, there were urinations in Shell's food supply cupboard, there were chases from campus police, there were giant penises constructed from Beefy's pebble driveway, and there were mornings where I awoke with a new wardrobe courtesy of the Exodus clientele, along with a slew of memories too evocative to ever be successfully transcribed to ink. On reflection, perhaps I have all the peace and tranquillity down here I need to succeed at University. Lazy summer days these may be, but as far as night times go, they pale in significance to the antics guaranteed this upcoming summer. And if any of the lads tell me they have coursework to do this summer and won't come out I will burn an effigy of them, erect it on their lawn, and file it under "capade." Right now I am recharging my batteries in preparation for a long and eventful summer. As the photo below hopefully conveys, I am looking towards the future out from the frosty landscape of now. 
The Seasons- has there ever been a better metaphor for change? |
The Poulet Dance
The bottom two shots show the professional Poulet Dancer, Tete, show
the apprentice, Dabby, just how a real Poulet pecks and squawks |
The Poulet Dance is a time honoured tradition held in the highest regard amongst the chicken-headed tribe of outer Bartholl, which only happens during very rare occasions of vodka inebriation. Adopting the role of anthropologist, I was stunned to witness the Poulet Dance in full flow during a particularly lengthy drinking game for the first time at the remote region of Bartholl. It is reputed to be a mating ritual, used to entice a potential mate into the coup, but these reports are as yet unsubstantiated. I intend to visit Amy to discover if the power of the Dance seduced her into the nest in a forthcoming study scheduled this fall. Lately I've been privaledged enough to gain exclusive access to the Tete's abode in Glasgow to study in stunned awe his ridiculous ways. The Poulet Dance is likened to a lycanthrope's physical changes during a full moon; without provokation, Tete spontaneously rises from his seat and for a full minute, like an epileptic suffers a seizure, he is powerless to resist the Dance. However for the Poulet Dance to commence, it seems necessary for the animal to have consumed copious amounts of alcohol. After which, I bargain with the Tete to coaxe a response: Star: Okay, if the coin says tails I will take a triple shot, and so will Dabby. Dabby: What?! Star: Shut up. And if it says Tetes (heads), then you have to do the Poulet Dance.... for a full minute. Tete: A full minute?! Dabby: Hey, we're risking a triple shot here dude, be reasonable. Tete: [Ponders] Star: [Shakes shot glass teasingly] Tete: Okay, fine. Whatever man, you're fucked up. It's a gamble, to be sure, but I'd gladly chance a triple dose of vileness for even a fleeting view of the magical Poulet Dance. Tete doesn't dish them out for free though, you have to earn the right to view his trance-like Dance. But believe me, it will be very best minute of your life.
The Quiz
I have invented a massively cool new game entitled simply "The Quiz."
The Quiz was devised primarily as a drinking game but it can, just like Cleudo and Dominos before it, be altered to not involve drink. Here's the 10 easy steps to Quiz fun:
- If you don't already own a copy of msn messenger 7 download it now for free
- Click on msn music to open the music download service
- Appoint a Quiz Master
- The Quiz Master pours five shots out into separate glasses, of any combination of spirits he chooses
- All players must be faced away from the screen
- The Quiz Master types in the name of any album he chooses and clicks the "30s preview" for five songs to queue them up
- The snippets will now play in order, the challenge for the players is to guess the title of the song before their opponent does
- The clips last only thirty seconds so if no one guesses the song within the time no one is owed a shot
- Count how many each player won and for each song guessed correctly they choose a shot to issue, in order of the games won
- Once the shots have been consumed the Quiz Master is changed and the cycle repeated until each player has had one turn as the Master
Like all good drinking games there is a tactical element in the choice of album: if you choose an easy album, like Queen Greatest hits, then your opponents will share the five shots for certain. However if you pick a niche album, like Nelly Furtado, then a player like Dabby could capitalise and make his opponent take all five shots with his insider knowledge. Or you could go for the mixed bag approach and pick Now That's What I Call Music 40 and test out knowledge of their disco classics, the opportunities are limited only by your imagination. Now to find one person with a knowledge of hip hop and someone who doesn't...
What Is Wrong With Psychology
I've tried so hard, really I have, to take a mild interest in my coursework but I'm finding myself more and more disinterested in the meagre goings on of the psychologist's world. Physicists have the laws of the universe at their beckoning, playing a substantial role in sending rockets into outer space, something that is immensely fascinating with far-reaching implications both physically and metaphorically. Chemists have the power of the atom under their thumb, with the claim to be being able to blow up our entire planet several times over by applying their elemental discoveries. Engineers have incredible monuments that testify their greatness, from Canary Wharf, to the Golden Gates suspension bridge, to the very first who engineered great monuments such as the pyramids and the Great Wall that still stand to this day. In every science, from biology to anthropology, there is a myriad of great discoveries and inventions that typify the science and make exploring it a humbling experience. Great men have emerged from each of these sciences, great writers and thinkers have emerged, and with them the highest accomplishments known to man.
Even the smallest finding can make all the difference; where would we be without the light bulb for example? Where would we be without the realisation that fossils can be used as fuel? Where, I ask you, would we be without the ability to preseve food? To fly? To cure and heal our bodies? The world is an extraordinary place quantified by an incredible race, the greatest of whom make all the difference and shape our very landscape and climate. Look around you- everything you see is likely to have been discovered, invented and then manufactured by man. Not nature- man. We mould this world to our will, and only humans are capable of changing the world to any significant effect.
So where do psychologists come into this?
The answer? They don't. And here's why:
Psychology is a relatively 'young science,' that is to say it has only been around for the best part of a century and is barely even a science if you get into the fundamentals of it all. The distinction between psychology and philosophy lies solely in the notion that psychology is a testable study (thus making it a science), and conforms to a Newtonian paradigm of experimentation. The trouble is, humans aren't exactly the easiest subject matter to experiment with as no two humans are ever the same. While biologists can get around this little inconvenience (because our innards are pretty much made of the same things, just assorted differently) it is a massively confounding situation for psychologists who desperately want to create a science where laws apply to everyone from every culture but simply can't, because people differ so radically in their thoughts and behaviours. So to start with we have a science that is pretty much screwed from the start, vainly trying to apply accepted scientific measures to unearth phenomena that they know won't apply to the majority of subjects. And this isn't the half of why psychology is such a stunted science.
The only way to make a significant finding is to assume that there will be errors along the way, the confidence interval of which is assumed to be over 95% at the alpha level. What that means is that for a given population, say students, for every twenty experiments you do that are insignificant and are caused purely by chance one will turn up with a significant result. In order to keep the funding coming, psychologists need to discover things. So they mess with the results, they retest, they remove outliers, they screw with the data and omit classes of people and then finally, at the end of all this, they apply a mathematical test they know will shine a favourable light on their results. So from one in twenty being down to pure chance you can lower that figure drastically after all the screwing about and you will soon discover that it is no coincidence that all psychological papers you see have significant results. You don't get funding by reporting insignificant or worthless tests, it just doesn't work that way. Instead of creating a hypothesis and trying to disprove it, they go about searching for any complimentary evidence and for each one they find they throw it in the final results section. The doggedness in pursuing a worthless hypothesis by this manner would astound you, as you flick through the journals and- slap face- all the results compliment the starting hypothesis!
If you've been keeping up you'll duly note that when psychologists test something, it generally works out, and when it doesn't the hypothesis is tweaked and the results transformed so that bingo, it's all significant. The journals might then go on to print it in a year's time; they won't if your experiment doesn't say anything. They make "box models" of theories, which is about the biggest farce I can think of. As soon as any contradictory evidence comes along they append another box to the diagram to take it into account and et voila! the model is unquestionable again. Until more evidence comes up and another box is added, and so on until the next paradigm shift. This method is always self-correcting, so that a box model is always assumed to be truly and indefinitely correct even if it was never right in the first place. Yet despite all of this, it isn't why I think the study of psychology is such a pointless exercise.
I take it none of you have ever actually read a psychology paper? If not, I need to place a prelude to my vituperative tirade so that this can be given in its rightful context. The purpose of a psychological paper is not to further enhance the field of psychology, but rather with the aim for it to be eventually published. Like a car dealer only does a car up enough so that it will run for a couple of thousand miles so it is with psychology; if a paper cannot be published, it is of no use to the department or the people who awarded the grant for the study to be undergone in the first place. The majority of studies are never published, and those that are can wait up to two years before it is finally printed. Those marked "for immediate publication" tend to be published around a year after submission, and the majority that will be published are sent back to be altered at least once but possibly two times as well before being shown in an academic journal. The process is long and marred with red tape, and only a select few actually make it, putting further pressure on the academics to make sure their study levels up and delivers an important finding.
The definition of "an important finding" in psychology is:
An imp.ort.ant find·ing, n.
1. At item that has been discovered that is of merit.
2. In psychology: A pointless fragment of non-information that applies to only a majority of Caucasian participants and has no real-world value.
The studies that are bandied about in lectures as being "all-important!" and having "serious overtones" are, in actual fact, run-of-the-mill phenomena that don't describe anything of productive value. I strain to think of a single finding in psychology that has any serious calibre to change our lives, and even then the only thing that the layman associates with psychology, Freudian psychoanalysis, has been proven to be as effective as having no consultation at all. In fact, chemistry has a better track record of curing mentally ill patients than psychology does. Do you want to know the "fascinating" discoveries that I can confidently masturbate to at night? Did you know that short-term memory may or may not be stored acoustically? Did you know that young infants perhaps have no understanding of object permanence? Or did you know that it is harder to recall words when you repeat "the" between them? Have I just enriched your life?
Of course I haven't. I haven't told you anything of worth, I've just told you shite that doesn't change your life or mine and is of questionable scientific integrity. Imagine having to learn each of those points, and then learn who did the study, and at what date, what the historical context was and how it can be used in further study. This is my life. Welcome to it.
Psychology is, like most university subjects besides Art, multi-faceted. We also get the pleasure of being immersed in the wonderful world of statistics, qualitative analysis and, forgive me if I blow my load recounting this, the role biology plays on the mind of rats! Yes, rats! Rats are the accepted norm for psychological study, despite having a brain size several hundreds of percent smaller than ours, being antisocial (in retrospect, a lot like chavs! Haha!) and without opposable thumbs the psychologists are convinced that these obtuse rodents can represent a real alternative to human testing. Biologically, I am inclined to agree, but putting a rat in a fucking Skinner box does little to teach us of the intricacies of the complex human psyche and unless you're a behaviourist, you are probably agreeing with me right now.
There's a nice module I'm doing entitled "Qualitative Design and Analysis" which is about as close to 'real' psychology as you're likely to get. It's a largely discredited study, again with little real-world application, whereby you analyse how people say things and why. It's interesting but at the end of the day I am compelled to take a step back and think "what's the point of all this?" Sure I know how people are saying things, and why, but what larger good will this do mankind? I'm at a loss to answer that question, as with every other facet of psychology I can think of. As fun as it is actually being allowed to analyse what people say, the only time you get to analyse things in psychology despite the misconceptions, there really isn't much point to it at all.
Furthermore, I get really agitated at the attitude of the department here. I'm assured this isn't just a Loughborough psychology issue but this is prevalent in all psychology courses. If you study psychology you will wince when you read this: CITATION.
Citation is what killed originality. Citation, that loathsome word, is the initiation into the higher ranks of respect in the small, insignificant world of the would-be psychologist. Citation is the process whereby academics are "quoted" (I use the word loosely because I don't want to get into fine details) with studies that back up a statement. You cannot, like a philosopher can, make a statement without quantifying it. You can't say "most people like being happy" without having a rigorous scientific experiment to prove this and seeing as you can't single-handedly prove everything, you need to rely on others to help you. If you write "most people like being happy (Bradford et al., 1977)" then it is acceptable, any other way and it is not. This is just how it is with psychology. The lists of citations on most journals are the benchmark to which the study is judged by; if you can prove you have done your research, by systematically writing down each person's study as mentioned in your experimental write-up, then you are on the path to acceptance in the psychological world. At a rough estimate 90% of a scientific journal is balls-licking of other people's work, with very little scope to pen your own opinions and thoughts. You have to do this or your article will not be published. Is this theme of duty sinking in yet? If you're especially perceptive, you'll have noticed that paradigms must progress from previous opinion.
You cannot, and I repeat cannot, state a radically different opinion. Not ever. You can't cite anything that hasn't been inferred before, so all work is stifled by the perverse need to bring in previous work. There are exceptions, but on the whole you cannot make a marked difference unless you are a very well established and respected psychologist in the field. Psychologists don't just 'burst on the scene' with exciting ideas, they emerge over time and even then, as I've argued, their findings are stale and largely irrelevant to anything of any worth. There is just so much wrong with the way this science is conducted and executed that I am disillusioned to the point of rejecting it completely.
The findings are so insignificant, so worthless and so inconsequential that I struggle to find any non-financial incentive to undertake it as a vocation. To make any impact on psychology would involve playing the game, citing the countless other arbitrary studies, and crossing your fingers hoping that the journals take kindly to your non-conformist ideas (which, of course, they wouldn't). It's a pathetic state of affairs, and I pity the man who attempts to garner a self-fulfilling job in the field of psychology. Look at the greater picture; you're but a small brick in a wall that is founded on bad principles and serves no purpose other than to occupy the time of the builders. The psychologist makes money, of course, but is played for the fool. They are stifled by infrastructure, common objectives, policy and purpose; the psychologist is the eternal citator and must accept his place as being nothing more than the lapdog of the journals. They cannot form their own identity for they must conform. They will do whatever is necessary to be published, by skewing results, populations, or engaging in meaningless material.
For you, the psychologist, I pity. I pity the misguided people who attempt to etch out a living from this most microscopic of endeavours; for them, it is a hollow and pitiful existence. For me, it is a laborious burden, but at least one that I can deshackle after graduation.
Other sciences have great monuments, feats, achievements and prestige attached to them. They have great influence and impact on the world, since the dawn of manhood to the present day. What does psychology have to say for itself? Not a lot. And you can take that from someone who doesn't have any financial, moral or societal obligations.
Star What?
It's not often you get to hear the other side of the argument against Star Wars, so I find it refreshing that a newspaper as renown as The Guardian has managed to magically sprout balls and do just that. Star Wars is, in my view, mildly entertaining but seriously over-valued and rated considerably higher than it ever should have been. Lord of the Rings, it is not. Despite this, I'm going to see it on thursday with Bran and company, mostly as a social event and not because I simply have to be amongst the first to see it and I won't be dressed in a Storm Trooper outfit with plastic "lightsabre" (ahem). Bran ordered these tickets about a month ago and still blocks his ears and sings "la la la I can't hear you!" when a trailer or news article comes on the television about the much hyped Episode Three; what a dorky little midget he is!
If you fancy a dose of comedy check out the 40 reasons why Star Wars sucks as written by an intelligent qualified journalist, and not some spotty-faced opinionated teen whose grasp of English hasn't developed since primary school and whose principle argument is simply "CUZ I SAID SO."
A quick snippet:
10) The thing Yoda does
The font of all wisdom, the teachers' teacher, is Yoda, a big eared, green skinned, 900-year-old elf. A problem with the English language has he. Plonking platitudes he generally utters. Spot this in case we, an amusing quirk he has been given. Sentences he chops in half! Then back together puts! The way round wrong! "The Force I sense in you," says he. "Teach you more, I can." Later, himself he excels: "Hard to see the Dark Side is." It was impossible to imagine a more irritating character - but Lucas managed it (see 27).
Comedy!
BUSTED!!
I am a freaking genius!
As a practicing super-sleuth I routinely go on wild goose chases that lead me into the unknown in the hope of unearthing a juicy secret at the end of the search. To do this I gather clues like any self-respecting detective and piece them together like an elaborate jigsaw manufactured by Tomy. I knew that putting a discreet site counter on my page would give me a third eye to watch over the search engine activity like a hawk.
Most of the search results are pointless and don’t reveal much, typed in by idiots who want lewd pictures of naked sisters and suchlike. Yet sometimes, on those rare occasions where something eyebrow-raising does take my notice, it can be the first clue towards a treasure trove of fascinating secrets. Today, I encountered such a result.
Remember Katie, my course mate who barely ever shows up to lectures? Well, today I managed to unearth a delectable find using my amazing powers of clicking links and checking birthdays. Browsing the referral links I managed to uncover this little beauty:
The untrained eye sees a useless list of links: a sleuth sees a complex tapestry of clues |
There were many searches above and below it; one for “lecking pussy” (whatever “lecking” means), “things that damages a singers voice” (for those who don’t know but are curious) and “ellon sucks” (is that a question or a statement?). Sifting these out I clicked, purely by chance, the link result derived from the input “lufbra blog.” To my surprise Starsite came up fifth on the list, which seems relatively well-established and a result that I’m pleased with. However before closing the window a link caught my eye, a link that intrigued me. The accompanying text stated: ”... BLOG STYLE. CALENDAR. PAGE: 1 2 ... I do Psych at Lufbra! I know, everyoneseems to do Psych at the mo! biggrin Start term again on 4th Oct-wehey!”Were it not for the word “psych” I might have been tempted to just ignore the result and continue with my everyday browsing. The words “psych” and “Lufbra” just begged a quick glance, even if it were only to see someone who’d left the Uni about ten years ago but whose page has somehow stayed in Google ranking limbo, wandering the web like a soul stuck in purgatory. Without further ado, I clicked the link. Clearly the site was created by a punk-styled vixen called “Brogan” who had created the blog using the suicidegirl mold that resembles Deadjournal if anything. The site clearly caters for the deviant-minded promiscuous girls of Britain who are itching for a medium to express their gothic sexual activities, at least this is the impression of someone who has spent the last five minutes browsing the website. Clicking control-F I searched for “Lufbra” and there, hidden amongst the trawls of comments was the snippet of text that caught Google’s meta robots and indexed the page under the relevant keywords. Intent on checking out the poster’s profile, I continued with feverish anticipation. What I saw astonished me. In the top-left hand corner of the page I was amazed, and taken aback in equal measure, to see before my very eyes a very sultry looking Katie pseudonym “Innocence!”  Of all the remarkable coincidences this one floored me, as my eyes greedily gorged the textual feast laid out in front of me. As a suicide girl, “Innocence” is implored to open up about risqué material under the suicidegirl anonymity guise; clearly something a gentleman would ignore, but not I. This was Grade A gossip, as I devoured the information and tried to get into the sections marked off-limits to non-members. What I saw you too can also see, by simply typing this link into your address bar: http://suicidegirls.com/members/Innocence. Isn’t she pretty? There isn’t too much there of embarrassing qualities, but I do know that my good friend Katie lost her virginity at the tender age of 16 and she loves it doggy style. This admittedly doesn’t say much, I mean we all like it doggy and losing your virginity at 16 isn’t something I’m about to contact the national press about. But still, it’s a wonderful find and surely something that a voyeuristic student pal like myself should never be privy to. I might consider becoming a member of the suicidegirl family, if only to see exactly what these no doubt dodgy and slightly erotic pictures of Katie look like :D I use the word “suicidegirl family,” but if this is the case then surely that makes me no better than the pervert who found his way to Starsite by typing in the highly societally-inappropriate “posed erotically sister.” So maybe I won’t take a peek at the lascivious pictures… Or then again…
Pool
Only a montage could do this post justice |
It's been a long time coming, but boy has it been worth the wait! For the first time in my life, at age nineteen, I achieved what most casual pool players can only dream of in the form of the illusive and much-acclaimed 7-ball break. Not only was this a seven-baller, oh no, I managed the equally enviable feat of grannying the fast-improving Juan Carlos Coles in the process, meaning that at each point there was always in the region of eight to sixteen balls on the table at any one point (including the white, smart ass). All this might seem distinctly unimpressive to you, in fact, you might hum and tap your fingers on the desk as I recount the wonderful tale, branding me an insufferable brag. Needless to say I play for fun, but to turn out such a performance marks out a significant peak in my short pool career that can confidently be compared to being right up there alongside taking my first steps, passing my first exam and leaving home as significant lifetime milestones. It all happened out of the blue on the now famous "frame three," with the frames level at one-all I knew I needed to pull out all the stops to reassert myself against my would-be conqueror. After a sharp break from Juan, a lazy shot from myself and an equally lazy retalliation from my competitor I grabbed the cue, fires scintillating around the white of my eyes. Amazingly, the proceeding minute would become a blur in my memory with only vague shreds of recollection available to me of the manic minute. Displaying a characteristic recency effect for the moments just before completing the grandiose deed all I can remember with certainty is the final three shots. Having drained the table of four balls I played a classic backspin to leave me on for the double on ball six into the middle pocket off the opposing cushion. Sparing little time to calculate angles I let my gut instinct dictate the positioning of the shot. By this point the idea of a seven-baller hadn't crossed my mind as I continued with extreme tunnel vision to pot the cardinal shot that would be the keystone to achieving the unforseen feat. With absolute precision the ball doubled into the middle pocket setting me up perfectly for a divine thunderball into the same pocket from whence the six had fallen. The black was lying at a thirty-degree angle from the white, leaving a standard knock-in into the frame-winning pocket. Seconds before letting go Juan made one last attempt to faze me, asking the non-existent audience "will he pot the seventh?" Before he could finish his question the ball rocketed into the middle and pool folklore had been created. As far as I know it's a family record, age-wise at least. The next target is to repeat the feat on a traditional English sized table, then do it on all seven continents, and finally to achieve a 147 in snooker. The only difficulty I foresee will be scoring a seven-baller in Antarctica, if only for the logistical difficulties and the fact that locating a table will be a challenge in itself. The rest seem easy enough. Until then I've been dining out on the story, telling anyone who'll listen to my tales of bravery, accomplishment and my own personal struggles with God. No one seems to have heard from Juan coincidentally, who is reputed to be seeking citizenship in a gulf state to flee the taunts and ridicule of being grannied. If he's reading this then take it easy man, don't do anything crazy. There's nothing you can do when you let someone on the table, except try to psyche them out if you're an intrinsically poor sportsman, even then I'd like to see a verbal faze strong enough to put me off a shot. It reminds me of the time when I grannied a guy on Yahoo pool. Back then I had a weekend addiction to the game, thinking it rather neat being able to challenge others across the globe at pool and gain the equivalent of experience points in the form of a player rating. Sure there were plenty of people who abused the player rating system, in other words cheaters (or 'lamers' as they're called, the only nerd slang that's actually quite funny and otherwise useable if it were not created by nerds), and you get your fill of jerks intent on ruining any enjoyment you can muster from the social element of the game, as with any online experience whether it be it email, forums, surfing the net or playing online games. What it is with empowered nerds I don't know, some of them just go out of their way to cunt you about while others defend their supposed 'reputations' with aggressive zeal, determined not to allow their hard hours of laborious slog to be tantamount to a tarnished name who no one really respects. In fact, much of the online addiction surrounds the thorny issue of 'respect' which can be attained by being good at the game (i.e. in monetary terms, experience, level or whatever) or known as an active member, the definition of which changes from game to game but almost always involves spending copious amounts of time connected to it. Sorry, I got a bit sidetracked there. To cut a long story short I quickly grew disillusioned with the game during my short time as a Yahoo pool member when I learned just how people were beating me- they were using a 'hack' software package which basically projected the route the ball would take when hit and where it would end up. I can deal with the outwardly annoying nerds, and I can deal with losing player rating points (which, to be fair, is only there so people have an incentive to play) but I can't deal with people being unfairly advantaged by a piece of software that takes all the fun and guesswork out of the game. So I left the community, never to return. Real pool is infinitely more fun, rewarding and challenging than its online counterpart, even if it can be a more costly experience. In my opinion you can't beat a spot of bar-room pool with a few lads, a few coins and some beer, it really is the perfect chilled out sport that genuinely anyone can play. How many other sports can you name that you can play in front of a widescreen television in a bar with a pint in between turns? If you can't play already go pick up a cue, it really is as easy as it looks! Easy to learn and difficult to master, that's what makes pool such a great game and you can guarantee that almost anyone you go out with will consider themselves a untapped talent at the sport; even after a few beers, I should add. In fact, especially after a few beers. Afterall, being good at pool is only ever incidental to the enjoyment garnered from the game.
Then There Was One
It was only sitting in my Social and Cognitive Development lecture this morning that I realised, sitting next to me, is the very last thread from my small pool of course mates that is stopping the concrete term "loner" from plummeting down on me from a great height.
Everything started off so well this year, there were five of us: Tutmoses, Andy, Katie, Rich and myself. By the process of mathematical induction it is now possible to work out who Tutmoses is, but to be honest, if you're reading this and know vaguely who I 'frequent' with (I use the term loosely, as you will soon find out) you probably worked out who Tutmoses is anyway. If you're scratching your head and wondering why all the ambiguity it refers to the disclaimer, a little-visited portion of my site found at the very bottom-right hand side of the page.
Andy, who is a girl contrary to what the name might suggest, is quite dedicated and to her credit shows up to maybe sixty to seventy percent of lectures. I first met her at our tutorial group, which held all the above five people mentioned and a couple of others, and we pretty much just meshed as a unit. The other was a guy who's name I forget, I kept a passing friendship with him but he came across as too intense; he had an addiction to alcohol, his skin was greasy and covered in boils, and his breath was less than appealing. He reminded me of the Summoner from the Canterbury Tales actually, so he kind of just drifted away from us and over time we gradually stopped exchanging pleasantries.
Andy lives with Katie with a few lads in a house that's a good twenty minute walk to most lectures, as a consequence the effort of making 9am lectures accounts for the majority of Andy's absences. As has been the characteristic trademark of our group (as yet unnamed) she tries hard, does the reading and hands the work in on time but yet still manages to find herself in the lower quadrant of the marking curve. Her housemate Katie, however, defies all accepted University-passing convention.
Ever since semester two of first year Katie has neglected to attend any lectures. I'm not being funny here either- she flatly refuses to attend lectures, regardless of time or importance. Yet when the results are posted in the human sciences department her ID number is always on the list, usually several rungs higher than mine or anyone else in our group. How does she do it? The answer is no one knows, not even Andy when she's probed Katie for the secrets has managed to find any definitive answer. It seems some people are just predisposed to achievement, like my sister Jenny who did virtually no work for her highers but still walked away with AAAAB and a place in Glasgow School of Dentistry. Some people are just like that I guess.
So many a month passes and no sign of Katie, it's been so long since I last caught a glimpse of her that I'm starting to forget what her face looks like. That's a brief summation of Andy and Katie, the important points to take out of that is that half of the time I see neither but yet I save a seat for both in the off chance that they grace me with their presence.
Richard has since left University, after crashing his car and killing the passenger last Christmas. Richard was a great lad, very reliable and attended almost every lecture despite having to travel from Leicester each day where he stays with his parents. Several times he would come to the house and I'd serve him lunch, we'd play fifa and generally just got on well like two friends should. He was a talented pool player and once beat me using his left hand, a feat that still stupefies me when I attempt to recollect the motions of completing such an achievement.
Then, after Christmas, the rumour mill started churning that Richard would attempt his exams. Surely enough he entered the exam hall and a hushed silence befell the converted gym hall, as he sat down to attempt the difficult exams with less than ideal preparation. I invited him back to mine after the first lecture back in semester two and, unprovoked, he told me a little more about the accident. It was a tentative recollection, more of a glossing over really, but little did I know it would be the last time I would see him. I got a photo of him that day, which I still have.
Heartbreakingly, when the list of results were put up I could see his score on some exams in the mid sixties, in the 2/1 band. In semester one he managed the outrageous mark of 80%+ in the Experimental Design and Analysis exam, a mark that is well in excess of a 1/1 grade. Richard was a precociously gifted psychologist, and the day of graduation has almost certainly been robbed of one its most accomplished undergraduates. He has since taken up a job in Leicester, doing what I'm not exactly sure but I heard on the grapevine he's a carpet fitter, and the decision to return to University hangs in the balance but given his reluctance to inform the University of his departure, I don't expect to pass him on the way to any lectures next year.
If you've been keeping count, that only leaves Tutmoses and I. Today it dawned on me, although I'd have probably worked this out earlier if I'd set my mind to it, that we're pretty much just in a friendship of convenience. There is no substance to what we have; she shows up without fail, so do I, we locate near each other and discuss much the same topics each day.
Do you think Andy and Katie will show up?
How's the coursework going?
It's been good weather hasn't it?
Which way to the bathroom?
The script is set in stone whereby we exchange pleasantries, discuss University work, attend to the lecture, and then bid farewell. Quizzing myself during a particularly tedious spell of lecture ten, I asked myself the crude question: where would I be without Tutmoses? The answer, quite plainly, is where I am now but I would be the honorary class loner. Indeed there isn't a class loner, everyone seems socially adept enough to hold even a loose bond of friendship, myself included. For now, at least.
Tutmoses has taken a placement next year which means hello gapyear and goodbye friends. It's a brutal decision to make, it's like sentencing yourself to resitting a year without your mates. In childhood it is the unthinkable, to willingly leave your friends and sit a year with a bunch of people you don't recognise. It's something that has confounded me, how can anyone take a year out and hope to remember even fragments of what they learned two years ago? Maybe I'm being too romantic about this, but it means packing up and leaving your coursemates, your housemates, your present life and placing it in stasis for a year and then returning to finish off what you started. Such a decision bares with it immense implications, but I guess Tutmoses isn't all that hung up on it. She's happy with the decision, she instigated it, and I wish her all the best.
Then, there was one.
Perhaps the people who are on a gap year this year will become my 'new' coursemates next year, who knows. I've concentrated so hard with making housemates, running mates and mates like Juan who don't fall into either category that I've barely noticed my rapily depleting pool of coursemates whittle down to just the one. I'm still holding out for Andy and Katie to be more active in attending lectures, but I'm not about to delude myself, there's more chance of Chinese Democracy seeing a UK release this year than those two gaining a combined 100% attendance record.
I can't say I'll miss Tutmoses' banter, for it's akin to watching Feesh and Goldie watch paint dry together in a bare room, but her companionship even for those brief hours is enough to keep the impending "loner" jeers at bay. There may be a glimmer of hope in that at the busa ball I met a girl on my course in the female cubicles (don't ask), who I got bantering to. If you have any vague knowledge of the people on my course, you'll know her as a close personal friend of The Nerd. I made a mention of The Nerd in conversation, to which she replied "[The Nerd] is a great drinker, he's really cool!" imploring me, I think, to give him a chance before I mislabel him unfairly. He is a nerd, although whether he is a cool nerd or not is yet to be seen.
I might opt for the Norman route, although to be perfectly frank I've labelled the four girls and one guy the Normans purely by virtue of The Nerd having achieved the highschool CompSoc appearence with long ungroomed hair, protrusive glasses and an incomprable knowledge of upcoming lecture topics. She was really cool to talk to and happens to be on the Loughborough athletics team, as a sprinter! Could this be a coming together of fast and slow twitch? I doubt it, I fear The Nerd will see me encroach on his territory and shoo me away, possibly by spraying the surrounding area with Nerd Pheromones like they do in the animal kingdom.
She'll be known as "K" from now on, if I need to reference her. Next year is make or break for me- I either make with the better group, or stick with the Andy/Katie duo and hope for the best. It smacks though of the likes of Jason defecting from the Savages to the Populars, for those who remember it. Sure the Savages had their issues and dysfunctions, and we weren't in danger of becoming extras for the O.C., but dammit I couldn't have asked for a better high-school ambience. If these situations are comparable then I'll be damned if I take the Jason route by dumping my clique without notice, however if they are not, and I'm starting to suspect that these are two very different situations, then progression is good.
Not being a loner is also good. Making meaningful friendships is also very good. Looking at The Nerd's notes is, also, exceedingly good practice. Jumping ship?
Well, when the ship's about to sink, there's nothing dishonourable about jumping free. This isn't a mutiny, nor is it about some progression up a ladder, this is about evaluating worthwhile friendships.
Isn't it always with me?
BUSA Championships And Athlete's Ball
It was clearly Pi$tol's first time on a bus |
Here's my definition of a long weekend: travelling for seven hours up to Scotland to spend four full days at a competition during the peak of exam revision. If my extra-curricular and outside work hardcore rating was ever in any doubt then the naysayers have been convincingly silenced by this most lengthy of adventures above the border. The trip started in earnest at 10am outside the student Union where the gathered mass of athletes awaited boarding one of the two buses Scotland-bound. I elected to sit with the rather ineptly nicknamed Pi$tol Pete, a man of great character and social networking ability, who was on a mission to blag his way to the championships on a shoestring budget. He turned up wearing a tattered potato sack as overgarment which he pilfered from a nearby farmer's field with crude tears where his arms and legs stuck out from, although I jest, I would not have put it beyond him should the need have arisen or were it laundry day. The banter was fairly steady for the duration of the mammoth trip which would incorporate only two stops as we watched Jumanji followed by Mission Impossible, the latter encapsulating the general feeling of the opposing teams to surmounting the mighty purple army. When we finally arrived I shared a room with Matt "the violent sleeper" Warley with Pi$tol kipping on the floor using complementary towels for blankets and sanitary towels for pillows. I went for a half hour blast around the derelict Renfrew area, a place clearly designed by a bored city planner who evidently cut-and-pasted many of the identikit residential suburbs, taking in the local scenery of row after row of bland granite buildings along the flat. It was the most tedious and unchanging thirty minute run I've ever endured, akin to running on a treadmill except with a treadmill there's more chance of encountering a radically different locale, the odds of which, if you're following this abstract line of reasoning, is precisely nil. I got back and the Warleyswolde had headed with the main bulk of lads to the aptly named Sprinters Restaurant, while Pi$tol and I headed due North to Nemos fish bar; pretty much your standard chippie. It was here that I would develop a love interest with the pizzas; pizzas of such a high calibre I am almost compelled to pen a Scottish Boozing review right now, but with Desperate Housewives on in the imminent future I fear time will once again pay the decisive blow to any aspirations I have of further contributing to the abandoned website. Eating the pizza and chips at the Hotel, watching snooker and swilling Maximuscle Viper, would become a thrice-nightly tradition for us two and an enjoyable one at that. The following morning, at exactly 5:02am, Warley would awake us with a blood-curdling scream that made me shout also in turn. The reason for this rude awakening concerned Warley's dream of his sister laying in bed next to him with a monkey's head, I don't know which concerned me more- that his sister had a monkey's head, or that he was dreaming of sleeping next to his sister. Either way it was a flimsy excuse for robbing me of much needed shut-eye, but being a fellow sleeping shouter I sympathise whole-heartedly at his misfortune. Mere hours later and we were awoke this time by the unsoothing bells of Pi$tol's alarm at the ungodly hour of seven, a tone that almost matches my Siemen's clinically developed personal hell which essentially sounds like DER-DER-DER-DRRRRRRRRRING looping again and again presumably to piss you off in the morning and set you up for a foul-tempered day. As a delightful change I opted for the cooked breakfast, swilling it down with copious amounts of inclusive fruit juice to somehow redeem some of my money in a petty and rather childlike manner. I drank so much I felt bloated for hours afterwards, but I made my point abundantly clear to the staff who stood aghast at my display of astonishing gluttony. The day itself was good with blazing sunshine and solid performances from the Loughborough team. Returning to the motherland was a good feeling, and I related the whole experience to "playing a home game." Sidetracking many of the finer details, the day was a glorious bask for myself as I didn't have to perform until the next day. We had our team t-shirts custom made with the presumptuous slogan "BUSA Outdoor Champions 2005," envisaging people asking us "so, you got them as a memento of your victory?" with the reply being "nope, we had these printed before we competed." Unashamedly arrogant but being the student competition the BUSA is, banterous in equal measure. We also sported african-violet wristbands not dissimilar to the LIVESTRONG bands except ours stated simply "Loughborough for life" on one side and "thanks for coming" on the other, another cheeky reference to our domineering side. Day two and when I awoke again at seven I could hear the feint patter of rain hitting the window. Wiping the sleep from my eyes and opening the curtain I could see the hotel grounds awash with water as the rain charged down upon the building. Typical Scotland- you get one day of sunshine and you're punished with monsoon rain for the rest of the week. It would be a cold and miserable day in the stands for sure, although for someone with such an immensely untouchable hardcore rating the cold weather could only be described as mundane and unimaginative at best, unable to faze or displace me. As the hour of my race loomed closer I did a warm up with Soos and Smart, trying to stay out of the rain as far as possible. There was a bit of a debacle surrounding qualification which was eventually resolved with the outcome being the top two to qualify by right with six fastest losers, spelling a packed 16-man final. Soos and Smart qualified easily by right with Settle producing an outrageous Wild Boar finish only to finish marginally outside of the top two hence not making the final. In my heat we went through in a relatively sedate 2:08 with the pace unfaltering until the final lap when Maclean put the backburners on as I challenged him with 250m to go. As we approached 150m the heavens opened as the strongest rain of the weekend hailed down, I checked back to see my position to see that I could qualify easy and afford to cruise in. The final lap split was a high 58 which could have been a low 57 if it were the final itself, so to run 3:54 off the back of a 2:56 and ease off is extremely encouraging. In the final itself I could only manage 3:53 as I was still a bit tired from the previous days exploits, the ridiculously large field didn't make running a reasonable racing line any easier. To run a 3:53 at this stage in the season is encouraging though and the performance on the whole was satisfying, getting the elbows out to force my way through. The night before Comedy, Green and I shared a cold then hot ice bath (not at the same time!) in the hotel thanks, in part, to the courteous staff at the bar who clearly have more ice than they can get rid of. In the end we won the competition comfortably and had the photoshoot by the water jump, standard procedure really for an outfit who have won the title twenty-one years running (and throwing). People level criticism at Loughborough for being cocksure, but to be honest, and to dispel some misconceptions, it's only the sprinters who are arrogant cunts. They do nothing to bolster the team's reputation, jeering "easy!" at each victory and singing football supporter like chants. They're also insufferable to sit near to on the bus for reasons that should be self-evident by this point. Also they run 50 seconds for 400m and have the audacity to call themselves the "fast twitch," something I tend to disagree with and is an embarrassing time for a so-called sprinter to run and a time that several of our middle-distance athletes have bettered in training and competition. So that pretty much sums up the BUSA in as condensed a fashion as I can muster given that we were gone for four days. Last night was the Summer Ball, used in part to celebrate our success and also a fantastic excuse to get pissed. Comedy came round early as we nailed a half bottle of Jack Daniels, that cool spirit that tastes like fermented piss but makes you look hard as nails. We sat in the garden on Monseiur's relocated couch in the sun dressed in suits with the barbeque smouldering in the background. When we got to JC's most of the guys were there, each at their own unique level of inebriation. Worst of the lot had to be Grandad, who managed the breathtaking feat of throwing up before the hour of seven o'clock and even before embarking the bus to the hotel. Truly an outstanding performance, he would later drink drive by pulling Drives... mmm, vomit flavoured kisses! Comedy was looking worse for wear as he sipped Stu's Stella/Vodka hybrid, but to be honest everyone was fairly on their way before we even go to the hotel. When we arrived we watched the football mainly as Liverpool took Chelsea back to school with a controversial 4th minute goal. The meal was essentially a single sausage wrapped in beef with a miniscule token vegetable portion beside it. The dessert wasn't much better but by this point it was all about the mission to get drunk, so eating less kind of helped this target in a roundabout way. That night Tommy would beat up the toilet tissue dispenser, Ivemy would disgrace himself by getting smashed and lying outside the hotel like a homeless bum, and he would also throw up in the girl's toilet, and there was a comedy food fight culminating in Gandy pouring Grandad's pint over his head. I would later argue the case for the slow twitch to Ashleigh Swain, who is deluded by the notion that they can actually beat us over their principle distance on the bus home. When we got back at 2am we hit the Union for a bit and then stumbled off for a kebab, capping off a large night that saw pretty much everyone get thoroughly mauled. If I had any photos I'd print it below, but as it turns out I don't. However what I do have is a photo of our unrefined home-made barbeque made out of an old shopping trolley, some ingenuity, cling film and sticky back plastic. I knew the tiresome after-schooling of Blue Peter would some day serve an ulterior purpose other than allowing me to oggle Katie Hill's fantastic rack for a boxer-bursting half hour. 
The barbeque was both portable and multi-purpose |
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