Farewell to Blogger

Dear Blogger,

We've been together a long time, haven't we? Two years. That's a long relationship in anyone's book. You've been there through my rage and my joy- and that's what's going to make this so hard.

I'm leaving you. I'm really going. There have been times when I've ignored you before, I know, but this is it: it's really over. I wish I could say it was just me, but it's not- it's all your fault.

You've changed. The user interface I knew and loved has gone, replaced by something I don't understand.

Do you remember a few weeks ago, when I opened my heart to you, what you did? Do you remember what you did with everything I told you? You threw it away. Every last word I'd written, gone.

That hurt, and it was the last straw. I'm leaving you, for ever- and there's nothing you can do.

You see, I've already found someone else. I wasn't looking for it- these things just happen. As little as it matters now, I didn't act on it, I promise. I don't know why I have to tell you- I really don't owe you anything. I guess I'm just making sure you know my conscience is clear.

Much as I wanted this to be amicable, you haven't left me with much of a choice. Your customisation is limited, your scheduling just doesn't work and you've lost my work on more than one occasion.

I'm moving on with my life, and so should you. Let's make this clear- I am never going to take you back. Maybe though, if you sort yourself out, you could make someone happy again, have the relationship that we used to have.

Yes, we've had a past- a wonderful one. I just can't see us having a future, though.

If you need me, I'll be at www.sachtastic.wordpress.com. I'm still moving in at the moment and everything's all over the place, but that's where I'm going to be. Goodbye, Blogger. Goodbye.

-Sacha

Without data, a 'phone is just a 'phone

Those of you who are unmoved by sport may be disappointed to learn that this blog post concerns the Olympics. As I have just spent eleven days camping in London and attending the veues, this should not be a surprise.

For a sport-obsessive, it has been a kind of heaven. For a writer, it has been hell. My volunteering has put me close enough to the action to hear the cheers, but out of the loop enough not to know who they're for. I've been on a shifted sleeping pattern approximating that of someone living in Moscow and thus missed all the most exciting evening action. Worst of all, I have no internet.

The internet is roughly the same age as I am, and yet has achieved far more global significance than I could hope for in my wildest imaginings (where I am the unicorn-riding warrior heir to the throne of a magical kingdom). The internet has revolutionised our lives to the point where we even carry it around in our pockets.

I do not. I am far too tight-fisted for that. My mobile contract is £10 a month, which covers 500 minutes and unlimited texts and absolutely no data at all. Not bad- if this was the noughties.

It seems an exaggeration, but in the last five years, information has become accessible instantly and anywhere. This has changed journalism particularly, entirely and irrevocably. If you want to know what's going on in the world, you don't open a newspaper- that's about what happened yesterday. You log into Twitter. Once you've overlooked the utter non-news being peddled by the Beliebers and Directioners, and dismissed the likes of #PeopleIWouldDestroySexually (which led Mila Kunis to become a trending topic), you can probably find something up-to-the-minute regarding, say, whatever's been happening in Syria since I lost the internet.

See? I can't live like this any more. Much as I hate plebeian journalism, the patrician kind is becoming increasingly out-of-touch. The fact is that I broke the news of the death of Michael Jackson ahead of CNN, the BBC and Sky. Because individuals have less face to lose than major news corporations, in the social media age, we the people have the edge.

I have a smartphone, but without data, it's about as technologically advanced as a Nokia 3310- without the durability.

Some people pay 50p a day (and twice that on a Sunday) for a quality daily newspaper- full of obsolete information and a crossword that makes you feel like a moron. That works out at £416 a year. However, for an extra £60 a year, I could bring myself into this decade and buy a data package.

It's an easy decision, I'm afraid. I only wish I'd realised two weeks ago.

Well, I'm Off

I know, it's not much of a revelation, since I've not posted anything since a rather catastrophic falling out with Blogger about three weeks ago. However, today, Friday 27th July, I am off to the Olympic Games to work as a volunteer.

As you may or may not know, there are pretty tough restrictions on what anyone who has any involvement with the games can say on social media. I will be publishing a day-by-day account after the Paralympics close, but until then I will just have to censor myself. Feel free to guess the missing words.

I may have told you in person that I'm going to be working as security, but I shouldn't have done that. Firstly, it sounds a little bit too sexy for a job that mostly involves telling people how to queue in order and figuring out ways of mentioning to fat people that they won't fit through scanners without ending up with an enormous fist in your face. Secondly, and probably more importantly, security is a bit of a dirty word at the moment, what with the whole omnishambles regarding G4S. I wouldn't worry about that, incidentally- from what I've heard, the military are doing a much better job than those halfwits. Instead of security, then, I must say Venue Entry.

From 0630 on Saturday morning, I will be posted at the Olympic Park, which, by the way, is gorgeous. Though, when I saw it, my body temperature was about a squillion degrees and so I may have been suffering from delirium. I will do my job as I have been instructed: with a smile on my face.

Incidentally, for a would-be journalist, censorship is an absolute pain in the arse.

I am not allowed to talk to journalists, which I need to do because I have no contacts. I am not allowed to tweet my location live- as if I could, what with my mobile network being as rubbish, if cheap, as it is. I'm allowed to say that. I am not even allowed to publish any photos of me in uniform- until after the Paralympics are over, anyway.

I'm not complaining though, not really. The London 2012 Olympic Games has taken a lot of flak from both press and public over the last few weeks. Barely has there been a mention of the IOC's verdict- that London is the best-prepared city in Olympic history.

I will be proud to work at the Games. I will be part of history, no matter how small my role. And I will be there- maybe not to witness the golds, but to hear of the successes at the beating heart of it all.

So: all you olympi-haters can just suck my imaginary dick.

Bathe in the rays of my blazing genius

I have had a selection of brilliant ideas recently, probably due to the large amount of free time I have had recently. It's amazing what not having to study for a Physics degree will do to your creative processes.

Firstly, in a dream, I read a label on a tin of food which read "80% vegan, 95% vegetarian and pescatarian". Brilliant. First class. A low meat content is a marketing nightmare. However, vegan food is supposedly healthy (though anyone coming into contact with vegans may want to dispute this). So, sell the food as mostly vegan.

Another brilliant idea came off the back of the brilliant and comical invention of the spork. It is fun to say and to use. It is a multi-purpose camping delight. On the other hand, I think there is a gap in the market for non-functioning cutlery combos. If anyone from MenKind reads this, I wish to sell you my idea of the Spife, Knork and Foon Set, a full set of entirely useless bits of cutlery.

The Spife: the business end of the device is elliptical, entirely flat and gently serrated around the edges. It has no useful piercing tip nor hollow for scooping things up. Using it for cutting will end in frustration due to a regular back-and-forth motion being made awkward by the presence of a steep curve.

The Knork: a knife-shaped item, lacking a cutting edge. Instead, it is pronged, with the prongs lying at ninety degrees to the handle. Trying to pick anything up using this item will lead to the user looking a little bit mental.

The Foon: arguably the most useful of the three, the foon is an anti-spork. It is square headed and gently curved, but lacks prongs. Not having any kind of wall, it will make a very ineffective scoop.

All three are mine in their current incarnation, as is the idea of selling them in a set. If you steal the idea, I will find you and my rage will hurt you. Knorks of course already exist, but as useful things. However, Fofe didn't sound or look right, and combining the three cutlery names then gives me Fofe, Knoon and Spork. And everyone knows what a spork is.

I also came up with the soup spork, and the tuning spork. The tuning spork is actually a lovely idea- its a spork which chimes at a particular frequency. I just need someone to make is a physical reality, and then I'm set.

So, friends. Cast down the shackles of more intellectual pursuits, and dedicate yourself to the magic of glorious invention. It's terribly good fun.

Pick a project (or two)

With the great summer holiday yawning out in front of me like the Grand Canyon, I'm terrified. For once in my life, there's not much at all I need to do, so I need to work on something extracurricular, something beneficial to me as a person, as opposed to me as a physics robot.

So what do I do? I have no idea. I'm going to try and renovate my dolls' house whilst training to become a Football Association referee, paint some pictures for my new flat whilst writing a novel and start a scrapbook whilst dabbling in getting a basic overview on all the world's religions.

I'm an obsessive learner and hobbyist. I can't help but try and accumulate skills, strings to my bow. Despite numerous internet searches, it seems that nobody has sought to pathologise this fear of idleness just yet, or to research why or in what individuals it tends to occur. Which is probably a good thing, seeing as I'd probably try and develop a working knowledge of that as well.

I can't stand being uneducated or incapable. I'd like to think that you could engage me in conversation on pretty much any topic, and I would come out of it not looking like a fool. Then again, though I try and justify my behaviour, there's no real thinking behind it most of the time. I just think "wouldn't it be good to try and write a novel about this?" and off I go.

I never find that the wheels on a project have come grinding to a halt- very little can stop me when I have something in mind. No, the only thing that will ever put a project to bed is the birth of a new, and therefore infinitely more exciting project.

There is no way on this earth that I am alone in this. Numerous fictional characters exhibit the same trait. Wallace, from Wallace and Gromit, starts every film having just established himself as the local pest control officer or window washer or cheese-seeking astronaut, and is accompanied by various impressive, yet clearly half-baked contraptions.

Wallace is a jack of all trades. A cruel man would also call him a master of none.

Mastery is tricky to define. To call yourself a master is a tall order, and can be done through the acquisition of formal qualifications or to earn your living in that fashion. For us eager amateurs, though, it's a rocky road. To be an amateur used to be an admirable thing. It means "lover". We love what we do. Over the years though, it acquired a sting. A sting which meant amateurs aren't good enough.

I am a jack of all trades, and I am the master of my art. I am engrossing, and powerful in my ways. I am a trier, and never accept failure. In fact, I would go so far to say that any person who dismisses the work of an amateur dismisses their own abilities far more.

When you sneer and call someone amateurish, you spit in the face of their attempts to better themself. Nobody starts out a master. And nobody will end up a master without dabbling a little.

Incidentally, as a final, and appropriately off-topic, word: to all those who commended the Ukranian officials for stripping the England brass band of their instruments, shame on you. They may not be good. They may only know one song. However, they're different, and special to us. If you want to sound like every other awful team in Europe, go on. But we don't have the lungs or the spirit of the Dutch or the Irish. We do pomp and ceremony and delusions of grandeur and for that, we need brass.

The dangers of nostalgia

In my last post, I harked on a bit about something I'm quite nostalgic about. This week, I'm going to tell you how much nostalgia has scuppered us as a society, and how, no matter how cosy it feels being nostalgic, like biting into a hobnob dampened by milky tea, it will be our downfall.

That's not to say biscuits will be our downfall, though they could very well be mine if I carry on like I am doing.

The world of sport is littered with old faces. Old faces that used to be young faces, a lot better at what they're doing than they currently are.

Michael Schumacher, seven times world champion, who finished 22nd yesterday. Out of 24. He finished 19th in Monaco, and dead last in Spain. He scored a point in Bahrain, bringing his total up to two. That is not how world championships are won.

Stephen Hendry, also with a septet of world championships, caused quite a stir by managing to win two games in a row at the Crucible this year, the second to a John Higgins who looked no more likely to win than I would have. The odds of him winning the tournament were slashed, despite his attempts to douse the flames of journalists' frenzy by stating, "I wouldn't exactly call two matches a run." He was right, of course, and everyone had to wonder what they'd got all worked up about when he crashed out in miserable form to Stephen Maguire. He then kindly retired to prevent any further chaos.

Of course, Schumi could tell him that that doesn't necessarily put an end to the matter, having retired himself six years ago.

I am a Chelsea fan, and whenever someone mentioned the fact that Didier Drogba was 34, I would think that Stanley Matthews didn't retire from competitive football until he was 70, and continued playing professionally until he was 50. 34 is nothing.

Of course, I'm mental. Yet there is no way that my mind can process the idea that, though Drogba was way past his best, he was anything other than an incredible player, and integral to the team. He scored in four different FA Cup finals, scored over 100 goals for Chelsea and was key in winning both the FA Cup and the Champions League this year. He is terrifying in attack or defense- and a good bloke to boot.

He ran the Olympic Torch past my dad's shop. I was so jealous I was nearly sick.

My mind cannot compute the fact that the man is 34. Cantona retired twice before that age.

That hit me like a ton of bricks as well. I loved Cantona, with his shirt collar flicked up. I nearly forgave him for being French. And what nonsense he talked! Amazing. Manchester United were boring without him, and have been boring ever since. I know, from a Chelsea fan. I just like different things in my football, clearly. It pains me to say it, but I used to support United, but with Cantona gone, what reason could I have? The Treble? Worthless.

The England team sheet for tonight has five names I know- one of which I despise. Even if the beat France, even if they win the Euros- will I care? When you support a team, you invest emotionally. When the old faces disappear, you don't get that investment back. And so you have less and less to give.

For the sake of the England team, forget nostalgia. It's definitely not '66 any more.

Remember this?

The internet is awash with Pokemon memes at the moment, probably something to do with everyone simultaneously figuring out that you can emulate a Gameboy on your Android 'phone. If you're not following me, you probably need to trade in your Nokia 3310.

Do you remember your first Pokemon? I don't. It was a hideously long time ago, and only now have I realised just how long ago it was. When I unwrapped Pokemon Red on Christmas Day 2000, I was a week shy of my ninth birthday. Ash Ketchum was ten, and whereas he has remained unaffected by the march of time, I am now twenty years old, and have a lot more to worry about than Team Rocket's nefarious schemes.

When I was nine, my Squirtle and I skipped through the monochrome two-dimensional world of Kanto, capturing small animals wherever we went, and occasionally pausing to deal with curiously inept master criminals. Now that I'm twenty, I wish studying for my electromagnetism exam was anywhere near as easy as exploiting Lt. Surge's ridiculous type disadvantage/close proximity to a cave specialising in Digletts.

With Pokemon turning out not to be the fad our parents and teachers hoped and expected it to be, I guess we can still be grateful. With Black and White 2 coming to the EU this Autumn, our quest to catch them all seems like it will never end.

That's the problem, really. I don't have the time I used to. Despite numerous confiscations (which have had some rather sad consequences that I will get onto later), many happy days and nights were spent in the world of Pokemon. However, back then I was nine, and impatient, and really not very good at it.

I've never caught them all. I have a cartridge of Pokemon Pearl which is only a few Pokemon shy of the entire Sinnoh dex, but I've not touched it in months. Despite owning Red, Blue and Yellow, along with a Gameboy Colour and a GBA, I never managed to get anywhere near the original 150.

I know what happens. Professor Oak just says "Well done" and you go unrewarded for your ridiculously time-consuming endeavours. However, it's the idea of it, that childhood quest that went unfulfilled that has made me more determined than ever to finally catch 'em all.

Now I bring you to the sad news- the terrible consequences of confiscation. I have no idea where nearly all of my games are. Out of the eighteen main titles, I have at some point owned Red, Blue, Yellow, Gold, Silver, Ruby, Sapphire, LeafGreen, Pearl, SoulSilver and White.

Gold gave up the ghost many years ago- this I know. However, many more titles are unaccounted for. LeafGreen is still in my GBA XP. SoulSilver is in my DS Lite. I know for a fact that Blue is in my Gameboy Colour, but where that is I have no idea.

My mother is the main culprit here. Frustrated by the way that I found Kanto curiously more charming than Swindon, she scattered my game cartridges where I wouldn't find them. My brother is also a major nuisance. Being a little thief on the one hand, but terrible at covering his tracks on the other, he not only steals my games and consoles, but gets them confiscated for me.

My mother, feeling the need to confiscate items on a regular basis, has no idea where they are stowed.

So, in order to catch all the Pokemon, I must first go on an epic and mildly dangerous quest to find all my games. I expect failure- some things can't be found. I expect heartbreak- some of the older games may well be broken. I expect opposition- the evil Team Rocket, in the form of my brother, will do much to impede me. But I do expect joy- that, where I least expected it, the face of Pikachu or Blastoise or maybe even Lugia will be looking up at me, and when I slot it into a console, it flickers into life.

I am a child of the Pokemon generation, and I am proud. I grew up with the games, even if they didn't grow up with me. There are arguments that Pokemon fans are childish, or nerdy. I am neither of those things.

There was something that made me very happy when I was little. Just because it was made of plastic and circuitry doesn't mean it's any less valuable than a favourite book or a stuffed animal who brought you comfort. It was good, harmless fun which told you the importance of friendship- albeit when you were sat in a room on your own. That "something" was Pokemon.

This summer, I embark on a quest. I want to start at Pallet Town, and take my little Pokemon friends with me- perhaps all the way to Unova and even beyond. On those cartridges are stored my old Pokemon. They're not just ones and zeros. They're memories- and I'm sorry I forgot.

All there is

I've not posted for a while; sorry. Two weeks ago, I was puking everything my digestive system had to offer. Last week, I was on a flight to Spain. Yesterday, I was sitting in someone else's front room making some difficult admissions. Enough about me, though.

Except, this is my personal blog, so I am going to talk about me. It's a shame that I missed out on two excellent blogging opportunities, because I had some great ideas. Now, there's only one thing I want to talk about.

It's tonight.

Ninety minutes of blue and red swirling on a background of green that could mark the end of an era or the dawning of a new age. The Champions League final.

Anyone who has ever engaged me on the topic of football will know that it is something I can converse upon with some fervour. I think it's important as a sport, an art form and in shaping social history. The disbelievers will claim that it's all to do with money, and that the endless parade of competitions only serves to dull the joy of winning.

They are wrong, they are blind, they are many things besides.

This night, twenty five thousand English football fans will descend on Munich. Most will not have tickets. I know, because two years ago, I went to Madrid for the final there. There was no English team in the final, but in case there was, me and a friend booked ahead. I made sure I was a Chelsea member so that, if my team made it, I'd have a chance of getting tickets.

That year, the finalists were Bayern Munich and Inter Milan. From the chatter in the streets, you could have been forgiven for thinking you had ended up in Italy, not Spain. In fact, so confused was I that, although I speak Spanish far better, I began speaking Italian to a shopkeeper.

The two sets of fans were very different. The Germans sat outside cafes talking amongst themselves in groups of three or four. The Italians marched up and down the streets, singing loud and offensive songs, and trying to goad the Germans into some kind of response.

Waiting for my friend outside a cafe, which we had no chance of eating at as the tables were overrun with hungry Germans, I was passed by a march of Italian Ultras, who asked me who I would be supporting. Being sensible, and a coward, I said Inter.

I lied. I was supporting Bayern- something I will not be doing tonight.

By mid-afternoon, the streets around the Bernabeu were heaving. The bars lining the streets were rammed. We met people from the Netherlands and Cameroon, and drank beer on the grass verges. In the streets, touts offered tickets for two thousand euros each. People paid.

Football is stirring. I don't doubt, if I'd had access to two thousand, and Chelsea were in that final, I'd have been tempted. If it wasn't for exams, I'd probably have made the pilgrimage to Munich tonight with my fellow brothers of the faith.

It's mental, how football does these things. It's like a drug, or some hypnotic dance, which sweeps you up in its rhythms and carries you off. You know nothing except to keep moving, to keep following, to twist and turn with the music, to laugh and cry as the melody dictates.

Will tonight be played in a major or minor key? Who knows. It is liable to be an exciting match, with both teams having sacrificed their defences to make it this far- which just shows how much they want it. Bayern were denied two years ago, Chelsea four.

For Chelsea, there is a sense of entitlement. After a game in which they had dominated, to lose out in some soggy penalty shoot-out to a smug Portuguese gypsy... it wasn't fair. I don't know about Bayern, but on that night in Madrid, there was only one deserving team, and they were Italian.

I'm not going to speculate. I won't let my heart think it's possible. Chelsea are depleted far worse than the Germans, both by suspension and injury, and Bayern are playing on their home turf. Yet, already I feel it, that tingle at the base of my spine, slowly travelling up towards my brain and threatening to drive me mad: Hope.

The Pensioners might be starting to live up to their nickname, but I think this Chelsea team have one last trophy in them. Let it be tonight.

Democracy in action

Those wishing to vote in Liverpool’s mayoral elections next month have a tough choice on their hands, as twelve different candidates will be on offer, representing every position on the political spectrum.

I am ashamed to say that I may have left my signature on the electoral register a little too late, but even if I cannot vote, I hope I can help elucidate others, and enable them to make the right decision. Unbiased, factual reporting starts here.

Last Thursday (19^th April), the Liverpool Mayoral Debate was cancelled. It was cancelled because it was due to be held on university campus, and many students disapproved of the inclusion of one or more far-right candidates. They were due to stage a protest, and far-right groups in Liverpool were set to conflict with the protesters. The official line was that it was cancelled due to safety concerns.

However, I wanted to find out what the parties, and indeed the candidates had to say, and so I emailed them all in turn using the same stock email.

The BNP were the first to respond, with a jovial “I think this answers your question!” and a link to this article. The headline declared that the mayoral debate had been “banned” because people were “frightened” of the BNP.

It went on to claim that it was the Labour party who requested the debate to be cancelled, and also that scientific evidence does not support global warming. It went on to list all BNP candidate Mike Whitby’s planned responses to the questions at the debate, stating “This is what the people of Liverpool are effectively forbidden to hear and once again this is why the Establishment hates the British National Party.”

Unfortunately, nobody in the list of commenters seems to realise that the debate was not cancelled simply because the BNP was going to be in attendance. It may have instead been something about the large number of armed thugs/malnourished students planning to be in attendance.

I hoped for more honesty from other politicians, and then laughed at the stupidity of myself sometimes.

Independent candidate Liam Fogarty was next to respond, expressing regret at the short length of the campaign and the way everything was being rushed to fit in before the election.

Liberal party leader and candidate Steve Radford’s response can be included in full: “glad rescheduled”. I expect he has better things to do than take his constituents seriously.

Robin Tilbrook, chairman of the English Democrats, provided me with some useful information. Initially expressing the fear that Liverpool’s democracy would be poorer for the loss of a key debate, he also furnished me with the news that the debate was due to be split into three segments, an idea the party was not comfortable with.

It was due to be split by position on the political spectrum, i.e. right, established centre parties and left. This, however, would lump the unknown quantity of the English Democrats with the flavours of the political right that many people already distrust- not a pleasant idea for a party wishing to be taken seriously in its first attempt at acquiring an important seat of office. Especially not when the party itself claims to be neither on the political left, nor the right, and campaigns not on the basis of ethnicity but for the hope of a devolved English parliament such as that enjoyed by Scotland.

Conservative candidate Tony Caldeira simply forwarded me the details of the next debate, which is not what I asked for at all.

I later received another email from the North-west chairman of the English Democrats Stephen Morris, who implied that the BNP were to blame for the cancellation, stating “When Nick Griffin attended the Question Time programme […] he was shown up for what he is, he did so much damage to his party’s national standing and caused massive division internally that they have thankfully imploded. For any group to stop democratic debate is wrong”.

My next respondents from the office of Tony Mulhearn, Socialist/Trade Union candidate, doubted the English Democrats’ commitment to democracy. They agreed with the student union’s opposition to the NF, the BNP and the English Democrats, as well as the rather unusual structure at the debate, i.e. pre-prepared answers and no actual debating.

The supposed replacement debate missed out the Socialist/Trade Union candidate, leaving them without a platform. They are seeking a debate with Labour candidate Joe Anderson, who they believe is the embodiment of the pro-cuts argument they oppose.

Incidentally, Joe Anderson of Labour has not got back to me, and neither have the Liberal Democrats. This puts them nicely into the same category as the National Front, which I’m fairly sure is not what they were after.

So, there are your candidates, and their responses to the somewhat dubious “debate” planned at the university earlier this month. Makes me glad to live in a democracy, it really does.

Journalism: Exposed

Journalism has a bit of a gloss on it. Not least because the people we get our information from are journalists. Journalists write books, make television serials, documentaries, and most importantly, report current affairs.

Nobody ever wants to believe they're doing something other people can do. So journalists, with the power to tell large numbers of people something, and for them to believe it, can essentially say what they want. In particular, they can say what they want about journalism, because only journalists know what that actually entails, and even if anyone else did find out, they're not in a position to tell anybody.

So as things are, nobody knows anything about journalism because journalists are basically allowed to believe their own hype.

Not any more. I'm blowing the lid on journalism. No longer will it be swathed in mystique, starring noble lay detectives who will do anything for the truth. No longer will it star larger-than-life antiheroes, with an ego the size of the moon and a conscience that can only be seen under an electron microscope.

Nepotism aside, before starting work as a journalist, you must qualify. Before you can qualify, you must undergo a period of work experience. This is not as a means of ensuring you have the necessary skills. It's to thin the ranks.

Having just spent the best part of a week working at the Oldham Evening Chronicle in my former home town, I can speak with authority on the subject.

The first massively disappointing thing about journalism is that, if you've ever worked in an office, as most of us have or will for an enormous chunk of our lives, you've experienced the bulk of it. It is office work, in a grey, windowless environment, where lunch hour is the cue to run and find something vaguely exciting to stop you going mental. Such as a car park, or an escalator.

At the Chron, I had a desk, with a phone and a computer. The phone was not ringing incessantly as story after story came in. The only time it ever made a noise was to tell me I'd accidentally knocked it off the hook. The computer was not top-of-the range, with twin monitors, one with my current article loaded up, the other with a rolling barrage of breaking news. It was an Apple Mac, running OS 9.

For anyone unfamiliar with OS 9, you may want to go and find an abacus, and try typing up a 300-word article on that.

To access the internet, I had to go to another computer, which was shared by all the writers.

Yes, not exactly what we'd all been led to believe. Not once was I asked for a skinny latte/scotch by the editor. Though, I don't think anything about me suggests I have the temperament to stand for that kind of treatment on work experience.

When it came to chasing leads, there certainly were an awful lot of chases going on, and ninety-nine percent of those were of the wild-goose variety. I made phone calls, nobody was there. When people were there, they didn't know anything. When they did know something, they weren't allowed to say anything until they'd spoken to PR. When they'd spoken to PR, they told me I had to go through someone else, who was either on holiday, didn't know anything, or had spoken to another journalist but a few seconds earlier.

I also got a chance to go to court, which I can't say anything about or else a magistrate will come and get me.

Joking aside, it was an interesting experience, and though it did take all day to get to the case we were there to see, I saw things I'd never seen in my life before.

Journalism is largely fruitless. It's not characterised by writer's block because usually the gratefulness of finally getting the pieces of a story together will force it out of you. It's not characterised by sucking up to the boss, nor throwing away the rule book or any of that. Those are plot devices. It's real life, and it's boring.

Or it should be. It's just not, though. Maybe I'm just mental, but I enjoyed it. It's the feeling of finding a needle in a haystack. It's seeing the words "by SACHA TORREGROSA-JONES" on a real-life news article. Knowing someone's going to read it, be moved by it in some way.

One of the people I met working in Oldham had previously worked at a fashion magazine, and assured me that things were infinitely worse there. Journalists were only expected to write a single article per week, and did very little else. No wonder Ugly Betty was cancelled.

I was never bored. Not for a second. I was thrown in at the deep end and expected to keep myself afloat, and I like to think that I did. Journalism isn't for everyone, I see that now. I see no reason why it can't be for me, though.

Incidentally, I have been offered a placement at BBC Focus in September. As ever, I'll keep you informed.

Are they trying to make us angry?

I'm actually coming in pretty late this week. The event I want to look at has already been analysed and the analysis of the analysis has also been analysed.

The name "Samantha Brick" will, in around 51% of the population, spark feelings of anger. This was the woman, who, earlier this week, claimed it was difficult being as pretty as she is.

She is, as many Daily Mail Online readers spluttered angrily, and with less coherence, quite a plain-looking middle aged lady. True, she has avoided many of the pitfalls of being 41- she isn't going grey, she's got no bingo wings... but it doesn't change the fact that she's 41. And not Jennifer Connelly 41. Not even Uma Thurman 41. More of a woman-in-an-office 41. Got the money for a gym membership and moisturiser; got the discipline for a career and to keep her her hair tidy.

Not surprising, really, seeing as that's exactly what Samantha Brick is. As I will reveal next week, Ugly Betty has been lying to you, and journalism isn't all that shiny and wonderful- it's office work like everything else.

However, something compelled Samantha Brick to write that article. I'd hazard a guess that it wasn't arrogance, but a valid point. Having read the article in question, rather than the ensuing storm of criticising articles, I can see nothing but a well-reasoned argument.

She's nothing remarkable. Let's not forget, however, that nor are the majority of the rest of us. I can't remember the last time I went to the gym. My hair is a mess of washed-out green and it most certainly hasn't been brushed. I have my reasons, they're fairly good. However, in this condition I'm not going to earn myself a drink from a stranger. I don't deserve it; I've not made an effort.

I tried reading the many vitriolic comments sparked by Ms Brick's efforts, but didn't make it. Halfway down the first uninformed keyboard-bashing rant I became disinclined to listen to the general public. They've missed the point. It's not arrogance. It's experience.

Brick simply details all the times in her career when she's been put down by an older, fatter, uglier woman. Really, I believe it happens.

When I'm feeling at my ugliest, and you don't need to know the details, I will gladly bite the head off anyone thinner, wearing more makeup, wearing nice shoes, taller, with blonde hair... the list goes on. When I'm twenty years older, and know that no matter how hard I try, the "bimbos" are always going to outdo me- I'm going to be livid.

Brick claims that women hate prettier women. She's right. Cue the furious storm of media coverage that sprang up in the days following.

The photos published by the DMOnline were not, by any means, her best. The awkward, fake smile did nothing to bring out Ms Brick's charms, which, if you look elsewhere on the internet, do actually exist. So why did the website publish them?

I'll tell you why. How many people have read this article now? How many people have commented on it, written articles of their own, talked about it on social media? Enough.

The Daily Mail Online has published, at last count, no fewer than seven follow-up articles to Brick's. All in the space of four days. Aside from the 5700-odd comments that the original article received, there have been a further eleven-and-a-half thousand comments on Brick-related articles.

So, 17000 at least have taken enough interest in this run-of-the-mill opinion piece to scream into the void that the woman's not all that pretty and women don't hate women. That's nearly as many people as live in the Cook Islands. Or as live in La Rochelle, France.

Publications don't care if you hate them. All that matters is that you read them. They don't care whether the article you've just read has soothed your fevered brow or caused you to shake your fist in rage. In fact, the latter option will cause you to read longer as you scour the offending piece for exactly which words have offended you so you can put them in your furious reply in inverted commas.

The 17,000 who commented may be surprised to learn that Samantha Brick has not read their analysis. She has not taken down these people's criticisms, nor learnt valuable lessons from what they have to say. No. She has written one follow-up article, for which she will have been paid, been interviewed for another article, for which she will have been paid, and also appeared on This Morning. She's been paid for that, too.

Furthermore, her husband has also had his say- and been paid for it.

What will really stick in the teeth of all the uglies, lardies and oldies embittered by Ms Brick's failure to deteriorate into hideousness along with them is the fact that she is now famous. Her abilities as a journalist, particularly those involving sparking 17,000 commenters into action, are plain for all to see.

I will conclude in the only way I feel I can. Firstly, by raising a glass to Ms Brick and congratulating her on her achievements. Secondly, by telling you all how ugly you are, and advising you to make your friends read my blog so I can tell them how ugly they are too.

What have I done?

So, citizen journalism. It's dangerous stuff.

Well, it is. People are paid to do a job. They are qualified. They study the law, they study their craft and if deemed worthy, they are given a position. Yet, when it comes to journalism, this is being subverted.

Citizen policing is called being a vigilante. It is generally frowned upon, not to mention illegal. You can't just decide that one person needs punishing and another does not. So why can a person be targeted by "guerilla journalists"?

Before I ever get paid work, I will have to get work experience for a few weeks. Then I will have to undergo training. I will be trained to write without bias. I will be trained to understand what I can and can't write about, what will get me into trouble. I will be trained to seek out reliable sources and to verify the factual integrity of anything I try and publish.

Yet, much of the reporting on the events of the past couple of years, particularly those unfolding in journalist-unfriendly parts of the Arab world, has been done by members of the public. Like me. Except, unlike me, they're not me, so I don't trust them at all.

Every time you read some anonymous contribution on the internet, what you are effectively doing is listening to the ramblings of blokes in pubs. Except, because it's online, you can't see the fact that they're having a pint, and that what they've just told you has been directly influenced by that pint. You don't know if they're wearing trousers. You don't know if they've got bits of twig in their hair. What I'm saying is- what makes you trust somebody online when, if they tried talking to you in person, you'd probably jab repeatedly at your personal attack alarm?

I'm not saying that "democratic journalism" doesn't serve a purpose. It is essential, particularly in places where events are unfolding quicker than professional journalists can get to the area. It is also essential to add a splash of colour, a personable note to an otherwise dry news story. However, as in most things, when people contribute their opinions, the opinions are not worth it.

To elucidate this point, I have ventured onto the pages of The Daily Mail Online, which is to the Daily Mail what the Daily Mail is to a quality newspaper. I don't care if I have reduced my chances of employment with that statement- I have a soul.

At the bottom of a perfectly innocuous article regarding a black woman who was not allowed to be adopted by her white foster parents sit the following comments:
"How is this even an article?"
"Social service are a***holes!"
"a lot of social workers are damaged themselves and don't like to see people happy and apart from being dysfunctional they are often thick"

The last one sums it up perfectly. When asked to provide elucidating comments on an article, the gormless masses will leap at the opportunity, for the simple reason that the world owes them something, and that means they can voice their unfounded opinion, and polish said turd until it resembles fact. From my research (actual research) I could find only a handful of insightful snippets, based on real life experiences or statistics.

The rest of it was a vomit-inducing concoction of ignorance and trolling. Trolling ranges from the funny to the downright evil. As Richard Bacon described it, it is "the cowardly new world of internet abuse". Much as I agree with their sentiments, a large proportion of Daily Mail Online commenters read an entire article and, rather than get bored half way and stop reading the website for it's abysmal content and substandard reporting, pretend they are so outraged by the grammatical mistakes and minor spelling errors that they feel the need to post a response. "You should be locked up-preferably with no further access to writing materials" said Jon from Warrington. "awful writing" said Gemma from London.

If you meet either of these people, please kick them in the gonads from me.

If you want to see a troll in action, I would advise Yahoo Answers. This is a simultaneously sickening and addictive service, in that it collects the overall stupidity of the world into easy-to-handle portions.

A cursory glance yielded the question "How can I get lesbians to stop doing number 2 on my lawn? [...] Humane answers only, please." Suggestions included providing a photo for the lesbians to attack instead. Answers can be equally unhelpful, as this website will testify.

I get riled about citizen journalism. I even get riled about the weakness of online compared to print, but if we do insist on never paying for anything, what can we expect? There is one problem, however- I'm one of them.

I'm a blogger. I spout unverified opinions constantly. My information is generally backed up by nothing more than my personal experiences. It hurts me to be on the same level. It doesn't really happen in other professions. Trainee brain surgeons do not start out practising on their friends. They do not have to contend with guerilla brain surgeons making them look bad. Real brain surgeons will not get criticised on the quality of their work by the general public.

For some reason, brain surgery commands an awful lot more respect than journalism. If you walked up to someone and told them your cousin/friend/mentor needed a decompressive craniectomy, and asked them for their help, they'd probably turn you down. However, if you told them you had hours to finish a newspaper and would they write a column, they'd most likely give it a bash. Why? Prehistoric man got the hang of making a hole in the skull long before writing. Yet people think they can do it.

As a result, the quality of journalism has become cheapened. In tandem, the price of newspapers has gone up. We can't keep trying to get our information from the internet. I know I'm shooting myself in the foot here, but... it's all rubbish.

My day out

Went to Media City the other day for a journalism open day. Now I have lots of lovely shorthand notes that I took whilst hoping that someone would notice that I taught myself shorthand.

Reading over them, I now realise that I need to 'lk into "ctzn jnlsm"'. This incorporates blogging, though I'm not sure this blog falls into that category. Another note simply says 'cntcs'. I have no idea what I meant by this, and expect that it probably means I am yet to perfect my shorthand technique. The note 'also prctc y shtnd its absml' backs this up quite nicely.

Although it was an overcast day, the complex was still incredibly striking.

From the day, I gathered that the course would cover the NCTJ-approved diploma course, much as a far cheaper FE college could. However, the facilities there were incredible, and the environment doubly so. When looking for work experience, to have BBC radio, BBC TV and ITV all on your doorstep- applications may not prove fruitful, but it's an exciting thought nonetheless.

Furthermore, guest speakers who work in Media City are invited in on a regular basis. This gives the students some insider advice as well as the chance to make some important contacts.

The staff were insightful and interested, more keen on sparking conversation than actually answering the questions I had about the course. This would have been amazing if I knew I had a place all tied down for me, but as I don't, and I really need more information, I needed to do a lot of digging. Here's what I got:

The Sachtastic guide to postgraduate education.

1) Money - This is the primary concern these days. Undergrads can stop their whining; it's postgrads that pay the real price. In my case, this could range from £5000 to £8500, but it could well be more. The main problem with this money is that it has to come straight out of the student's pocket- the government won't tackle it for you. There are multiple options. Firstly, there may be scholarships offered by the institution, though these typically go to local students, those with an undergraduate degree from the institution or those with first class degrees. There are many other ways of paying for a course- for more details, go to DirectGov. One last thing- for journalism courses, the Journalism Diversity Fund is an option. Students from socially, ethnically or otherwise diverse backgrounds can apply for the amount of funding of their choosing here.

2) Applying - Applications typically start around a year before the month of entry. For most institutions, including at the present time all those with journalism PG courses, students must apply directly. Some departments will want to know the grade achieved when you apply- this means applying after graduation, and taking a year out. In a lot of courses, this is helpful as it exhibits that the individual has had time to attain life experience. Remember to contact important people within the department before you make an application. I made sure to ask whether deferring my entry would be a problem, as I have no guarantee of finding funding in time- and you must be able to pay for a course when you begin one.

3) Requirements - This differs greatly, just as it did when it came to UCAS stuff. Generally, a journalism PG will require a "good 2:1". This does not mean 68%. This means a 2:1 in a degree course other than Finger Painting Studies or The History of Tinned Food Manufacture and its Wider Sociocultural Impact. If you are currently studying either of these courses, now would be a good time to rethink your career options.

One other thing about Media City- there are quite a few famous people pottering about. I saw 4/5 Dragons from Dragons' Den (where were you, Deborah Meaden?) whilst I was sat having a cup of tea and a bakewell in Costa. Below are a couple of photos that may or may not have been of Theo Paphitis. Get your magnifying glasses out- there's a reason I never considered photojournalism.

Moving to Friday

I expect you have been confused as to which day of the week I post on. So am I.

Until further notice, "Is Anybody There?" will post every Friday. This is mostly because I am free all day on Fridays, whereas I am only free every other Monday.

Your jealousy is greatly appreciated.

Afraid it's only a short one this week- I will be going to the Spring Ball in the Mountford Hall tonight. Here's just a little something that happened today.

The pitfalls of being human

Humans are curious creatures. We have these strange things called 'opinions'. They divide us when they differ, and they unite us when they concur.

Unfortunately, they're not very useful for journalists.

The crux of journalistic writing is that either the piece is supposed to be completely unbiased and objective, or the 'house style' of the publication takes over, and the opinion shared is that of the editor. Either way, the personality of the man behind the keyboard is irrelevant.

I've wanted to get this piece out for a while, but I've not been sure exactly how to put it. Essentially, writing is easiest when one feels passionate about the subject. There are topics that I could easily write a thousand words on without even adjusting the grip on my pen. However, all these words would be loaded with my own opinions and feelings, and therefore not fit for publication.

Being opinionless is a skill in itself. In a job interview situation, how useful would it be to come across as the most interesting person the interviewer has seen all week whilst never inflicting an opinion on them?

Opinions are tricky things. Particularly when it comes to politics or religion, it can be divisive. Music can be risky ground as well. Admitting to a love of Gary Glitter's back catalogue could see you blacklisted, let alone out of a job.

Apparently, taking a qualification in journalism will help me cultivate my opinionless side. According to a careers lecture I attended last week, in eighteen weeks I could learn how to write without any kind of skew or inflection.

I seriously doubt that.

I know; having just imparted an opinion, I'm on shaky ground. The thing is, I've been writing for fifteen years now about the things I like and the things I don't like. How can I stop in eighteen weeks?

Bias is a part of us. Nobody can shake it off entirely. I admit, there are probably tactics you can use to disguise your controversial dislike of chocolate or that sneaking suspicion you have that the Pope might be a supervillain. It won't change you though.

When the word "peered" is selected over "glanced", it suggests a tiny undercurrent of suspicious behaviour. The word is not excessively loaded, but the hint is there of a personality behind the words.

This is why, in an interview, you can sometimes find yourself locking horns with somebody despite nothing really inflammatory having been said. I remember when I applied for college, the admissions tutor and I didn't get on. It was nothing in particular. Our conversations just became jarred and uncomfortable.

No matter how nice you are, you'll always be you. You can try and hide it, but it won't work. You're human. It's difficult, but you're going to have to live with it.

Why Yes, I Am A Natural Green

For two nights now, all of my dreams have been a variation on the same theme.

Stephen Fry featured in one. In another I had a particularly vicious cold whereby green mucus frothed from my nose continuously. One was the standard cliche dream where I had forgotten to get dressed. I am proud of the fact that, in my dream, I pretended it was my intention to appear naked, and that if anyone took issue, that was their problem entirely.

Well, what would you do, really?

In truth, I am anxious, nervous and just a bit jittery about my upcoming appearance on University Challenge. No matter how much preparation I try and do, it will simply not be enough. I have no idea what team we will be facing, and more importantly, what questions.

In one dream, my particular point of anxiety was that I would continuously answer questions far too early, and lose points. In another, it was that I was too far from the captain for him to hear me.

I still remember appearing on the (understandably) short-lived quiz series Hardspell as a child. The night before, I woke up in a cold sweat after failing to answer any of the questions in a dream.

The mind plays tricks on you. It does its level best to make sure that the thing you are most worried about is the thing you are most likely to mess up catastrophically.

After my moment of smugness and subsequent expulsion from Hardspell, I came to a reasonable twelve-year-old conclusion. I stick by it to this day. It is this: it is easiest to do well when you don't think that what you are doing has any impact.

During the many rounds of examination needed for Hardspell, people commented continuously on how cool I was. Not cool as in rap or skateboarding- I had effectively condemned myself to a school career as "Spelling Girl" and "boffin". The child who came up with those witty and intelligent nicknames, incidentally, dropped out of college and is now working as a barman. I've got nothing against barmen, just now is as good a time as any for a game of one-upmanship.

No, I was entirely calm and relaxed under pressure. Interviewers asked how I managed to stay so. I had no idea why I should be otherwise, and so, to give them an answer, I replied that I stood on one leg if I was feeling nervous, and that the act of keeping my balance would calm me down. I have no idea if this technique works, but feel free to try it.

I was calm because I knew I was good, and because I didn't care excessively. It was only at the final moment, when, stricken by the stupidity of my fellow competitors, I became smug and expected entirely to win.

The fact that I did not win has not been a massive disappointment long-term.

Neither will this. No matter what happens on Saturday, the chances are that in eight years' time, I'll barely remember, let alone care. I have done magnificently to even get the chance I have this Saturday. I may not even do my best, but I will do what I can on the day.

I think I am as prepared as I can ever be. I've had a nice new haircut, and have picked out some clothes.

Oh, and for anyone who sees me around- why yes, I am a natural green.

In Pursuit of Genius

Whilst training just a touch too hard for University Challenge, I took a little time out to read an article in New Scientist. This concerned the sought-after mental state of "flow". In this mental state, everything is possible, your reactions are sharper, and time appears to fly by. Previously thought to be achievable by only the very best, athletes, marksmen and the like, it now seems that this magical state is within the grasp of us mortals.

By this point, I was mentally exhausted. I no longer knew my own name, but I could inform you that William Rufus had heterochromia, the deepest lake in Europe is in Norway and that the Hellespont is named such because mythical twin Helle fell off a flying golden ram into it and drowned. My state of mind was not "flow". It was more "stagnant".

So, the window to this mental state seemed like a nice one to open. Unfortunately, this relies on something called transcranial direct current stimulation (tDCS) and the machine that can provide that is going to set me back £5000. If anyone has a spare £5000 lying about, it would be greatly appreciated.

Meanwhile, a phrase in the article which caught my eye was "cosmetic neuroscience". This is a DIY approach to tailoring your own brain to the demands of the modern world. Technology is evolving faster than we are, so why not use technology to make ourselves a bit better?

A quick look at a few web forums make clear why not. Some enthusiasts report temporary blindness, staining of the skin, burning and flashing lights in front of the eyes. Most alarmingly, one user reported feeling a burning sensation within their brain.

Perhaps not then. Perhaps my current state of docile idiocy is safest.

In any case, tCDS is yet to aid in the absorption or recollection of facts. It mostly helps when learning new tasks, or in the cases of people being treated for degenerative diseases, relearning old ones. There are fears, however that this may be possible in future. Just as today, ambitious students with parents to please are resorting to dopamine reuptake inhibitors to get them the university grades they need, precautions may be needed to prevent future students from "electrodoping".

I can give this advice to any university officials worried about their students using a nine-volt battery to get them through their exams. They're the ones with green-stained skin and burns on their temples.

How to Love Mondays

I currently love Mondays. This is not because I have been visited by James Reed. This is because I don't work, and have nothing to do particularly.

However, I am trying to get a job. More specifically, I am working on my dream job of becoming a writer/renowned genius/unicorn-riding ninja. Unfortunately, the number of "useful tools" on the internet is so vast that they all are made useless. Let me give you an example by telling you the state of my web browser this morning.

I opened my emails. My emails suggested I look at a job that had just become available at the BBC. This reminded me that I still hadn't posted off my application to Focus. I opened the Focus website. As part of the application for Focus, I had to include my term dates. The Liverpool University website opens.

Next, an email from my mother reminds me that I haven't posted anything on Fiverr yet. Annoyingly, Fiverr wants an example photo of my work. I'm a writer. I have to now take a photograph of a piece of paper. Whilst not taking a photograph of a piece of paper, I remember that I haven't checked People Per Hour for a while. I suggest to potential employers that they google Sachtastic or Sacha Torregrosa-Jones.

I then realise that I may have made a fatal mistake. I google Sachtastic. Luckily, my website sprouts first, followed by, annoyingly, Roblox. I try to delete my Roblox account. The people at Roblox kindly inform me that there is not currently any feature for deleting my account. I wonder how this is legal and resolve to do something about it later.

The next link is for something called Scribd, which I signed up to last March and promptly forgot about. This would probably be a useful tool if I ever had time to write anything which wasn't instantly devoured by one or other of my projects.

So, my browser window is now a mess. Happy Monday.

Far from having nothing to do, I've suddenly uncovered all the things I should have been doing when I was in university. I also have to email all the publications I telephoned last Monday to tell them, in writing, why they need me to work for free for them for two weeks.

I'm also supposed to be revising my stripy little socks off for University Challenge, going to ASDA, doing my electronics tutorial and apologising to the editors I already have for not sending them anything recently.

I want to know how I ever coped before I had Mondays. I love Mondays. They enable me not only to get things done, but also to realise how much I'd forgotten needed doing.

Finally! A reason for my blog to be.

Frequent visitors to this blog may have wondered what it was all about. I do not blame you. I must admit, I was also struggling to work it out.

Despite multiple attempts to write articles with some sort of underlying theme, my boredom would inevitably get the better of me, and I'd find myself writing about tea one week and the theatre the next.

This is a problem.

As an aspiring journalist, a blog is an essential tool. It gives me practise when it comes to writing for an audience, and also provides me with work that I can showcase. However, all articles aimed at whippersnapperish journalistic types of my calibre clearly mention the fact that a blog needs a theme. This is how an audience is created and captured.

I have no theme. I have no guiding light, I have no purpose. I do not know my audience, all I know is that I want them. I need them.

I need you.

I don' t mean to sound desperate, and I'm really not. I am assured that "Is Anybody There?" is a fairly well-read blog. Even the title cries for attention, though- I ought to be ashamed.

I am not ashamed. I now know what this blog is. This blog, like the thousands which detail the many laments of thirteen-year-old girls, is about the life of the author. However, unlike the many desperate pleas for attention flung into the ether by adolescents, this is worth reading.

I will tell you why this blog is worth reading. I will tell you why this blog is worth putting in your favourites list. I will tell you why it is worth following @sachtastic on twitter. It is worth doing all those things because I am a person worth listening to, and I have things to say.

You had a dream once. It was probably to be a fairy princess or a superhero bus conductor. You're secretly still working towards that dream, I know you are. You've changed it a little, rubbed out the physically impossible aspects, but you've still got that dream.

My dream was to be a fantasy hero, riding a white horse so fast that none could beat it. I would be adept at archery and swordfighting, as well as being an enigmatic deuteragonist with a dangerously sharp wit.

Note deuteragonist. I don't want to be the hero that everyone loves. I want to be the slightly mad one that everyone wishes they could be. Including, evidently, me.

I want to sit in the background, playing puppet master, creator, hero and fiend all at the same time. In short, I want to write. I know I can do it. The thing is, there's no point to my fantasy character if nobody reads her.

So read me. For once, this blog is not about tea, or Alan Bennett, or the perils of the internet. This blog is actually about me, about who I am, and about the course I am steering for. I am here now, exposing my metaphorical squishy sensitive parts that you might peruse me, and if the scratchy hessian mittens of criticism* bring tears to my eyes, what does it matter?

In my writing, the hero of my imagination, who put me to sleep as a child, is born.

I turned twenty earlier this month. I am into my third decade on this planet and I can't help but think that I'm going to have to start making sure I have an impact.

From now on, this blog is about the journey I am taking. I will one day be a writer, a real writer, not a blogger, not a smidgen above angsty teenager, a proper writer. If all goes well, I hope it will serve as a guide for the budding journalists and writers of the next generation. If all goes badly, I hope it will serve as a cautionary tale to the budding journalists and writers of the next generation.

Deuteragonist seeks protagonist. Must be willing to offer me a job, and to let me ride a white horse. Ta.

*Note: I am not serious about this metaphor.

Sherlock Sacha: On the case!

Spoiler alert: the following is a combined review of both Sherlock Holmes: a Game of Shadows and the last instalment of Sherlock series two. Anybody who has not seen either would be well-advised to firstly note the URL of this blog, watch either or both, and then return.

If you only wish to watch one, I can inform you that Sherlock S02E03 gets 5 stars, but Sherlock Holmes 2 only gets four.

Both films dealt with the climactic showdown between Sherlock Holmes and his arch-rival James Moriarty, the scene at the Reichenbach Falls.

Guy Richie’s blockbuster dealt with the picture with what you might call “authenticity”- keeping close to the iconic Sidney Paget image of the two men fighting over the Falls. However, the rest of the film bore little resemblance to the plot of ‘The Final Problem’. It introduced Stephen Fry as Mycroft Holmes; Fry’s performance overshadowed all else. I understand that Mycroft Holmes is supposedly far superior to his brother in terms of intellect, but Fry’s character was too much.

The story was packed with near-misses, well-calculated fights and the liberal and largely unrealistic use of artillery. Robert Downey Jr.’s Holmes was unremarkable, Jude Law’s Watson perfectly likeable. Irene Adler kicked the bucket rather conspicuously and pointlessly, but as she was a hideously irritating character, her passing acts in the film’s favour.

It is a perfectly good film, and very enjoyable. However, the margin of difference between a good film and a great film is so tremendous, that when I watched the conclusion to the BBC’s Sherlock, the Richie flick paled into utter insignificance.

I realised that big-screen Moriarty was all wrong- Conan Doyle meant Moriarty as Holmes’ equal, as an adversary worth sacrificing oneself to destroy. Big-screen Moriarty was dull, cruel where he should have been cunning, and most bafflingly of all, spoke with a Continental accent. I see no reason for this, and it was beyond irritating.

Fraction-of-the-budget telly Moriarty was vicious, a monster whose creativity was matched only by his deranged intent. Andrew Scott’s performance matches Cumberbatch’s without being overpowering, and Steve Thompson, who wrote by far the least exciting episode in the first series, made up for his dullness by constantly reinforcing the parallels between Holmes and Moriarty.

In fact, the story was so complete, so magnificent, I can think of only one criticism, and it is minor: there were far too many close-up shots of cups of tea. This will not help international relations.

So now I arrive at my final point of comparison, the very end for both Sherlock Holmes and his nemesis. Only, everybody knows Holmes survives the Reichenbach Falls, so there’s the puzzle- how do you inject excitement into a story everybody knows the ending to?

‘The Final Problem’ had a weakness in that it relied on the format of Watson acting as chronicler when Watson did not witness the death of Holmes. Both films dealt with it as well as could be done, as both Watsons saw both Holmeses fall, and apparently die.

The silver-screen’s answer was all right, but nothing special. Rarely is a prop introduced with no relevance, and so it was with the breathing device which Sherlock apparently steals from Mycroft and uses to survive his plunge into the Falls. As if a lack of oxygen would be one’s primary concern after falling hundreds of feet into icy Swiss waters.

I wasn’t taken by the rest of the series, but if Sherlock S02 had been as entertaining throughout as it was in that climactic scene, my heart would have exploded long ago. In ‘The Final Problem’, Dr Watson is taken away from the detective’s side by a note from a sick Englishwoman needing the attention of an English doctor; in the BBC adaptation, John is told that Mrs Hudson has been shot.

Holmes knows otherwise, and goes for his final confrontation with Moriarty. Rather than a fist-fight, what ensues is a battle of great, if damaged minds. Such is James Moriarty’s insanity and determination to destroy Holmes that he takes his own life. This Moriarty was everything that the big screen version wasn’t.

I was also impressed, and a little disturbed, to see a piece of what can only be described as “matter” floating in the pool of Moriarty’s blood.

Though Sherlock calls John from the rooftop, and insists he is a fake, John does not believe him. John cannot believe him because he knows him, and though I said everyone knows Sherlock Holmes survives the Reichenbach Falls, and though I knew a third series had been commissioned, there seemed to be no way that the great detective could have survived that fall.

We see the body, bloodied from falling face-down on the pavement, see John’s hurt as his best friend is stolen away from him, by Death and by ambulance-men. At Sherlock Holmes grave, John begs for one last miracle: for Sherlock to be alive. Hollywood would have had him appear behind the doctor, but Sherlock did not go to him, did not arrest his grieving.

Incidentally- it didn’t take the mind of Sherlock Holmes to realise that what John Watson really should have said at his best friend’s graveside was “I love you.” I think it must be the mark of well-written characters that were they human, they would have no choice but to love each other. The reason is this: they have been so well-crafted to suit each other that they could not possibly exist without the other.

One day I hope to give birth to characters like those. Wish me luck.

Spare Time, or What's Left of It

In the Douglas Adams novel Life, the Universe and Everything, Slartibartfast expresses his intention to take up the octraventral heebiephone. As Adams explains, Startibartfast has "the wrong number of mouths", and any attempt to learn to play the heebiephone therefore would be, "pleasantly futile".

The point behind my latest diversion into the world of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is this: when I have something important to do, my spare time tends to be consumed by a far more complicated, and therefore more enjoyable, task. One which can be described in no better manner than with the words "pleasantly futile".

I have, at the moment, a very important thing to do. This is to revise my little blue socks off for my upcoming exams. This is of course, happening, but progress is slow. The problem is this- it can never truly end, thus rendering it a task which is unpleasantly futile.

Meanwhile, I have been using my Sunday and the fifteen minutes between revision hours attempting to construct a family tree for the entire pantheon of Greek gods. This is an incredibly slow task, especially as different writers give gods different origins and different names.

So far, I have positioned 59 different Olympians, mortals, Muses, Protogenoi, Titans and so on. I have written a biography for all but a handful. I am not yet proud of it, but I do feel a sense of impending pride.

I have hit upon something of a hurdle, however. After becoming tired of the many and varied progeny of Zeus, and returning to the primordial gods for some amusement, I hit upon the Wikipedia entry for Thaumas, the son of Gaia and Pontus (earth and sea). It said that he married and Oceanid.

Not thinking I had anything to fear, I tapped the link.

The writings of Dr. Wikipedia kindly informed me that the Oceanids were the children of the Titans Oceanus and Tethys, and there were three thousand of them.

Now I accept, being immortal, that you tend to have a lot of time on your hands. Boredom is going to set in eventually. "Tethys dear, shall we try for another?" "How long since the last one, Oceanus?" "About six hundred years." "Oh, that's a reasonable age gap, I suppose we could."

Three thousand, though? And that's just the daughters. The sons were known as Potamoi. Care to guess how many of those there were? That's right, another three thousand.

When I tried to find out the names of all these children, Dr. Wikipedia pointed out that only a "relatively small portion of their names" were actually given in Greek writings. It surprised me that Hesiod hadn't taken up the majority of his Theogony with listing them. In fact, fewer than two hundred Oceanids and Potamoi are named in all known Greek works.

All I can do is speculate then, that none of them were called Blue Ivy.

I must admit, the prospect of filling out another six thousand biographies, the latter 5800 with the word "Unknown", has moved my task from the realms of the possible but daft, into the land of the impossible and barking.

Back to revision then. Or learning the names and locations of all 27 French regions.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Oceanids