I did things this weekend

On Friday night, I did something I ought to have done sooner. I was effectively bullied into it by several friends and one member of my family. I went to see Back to the Future.

I was told beforehand that, never having seen it before, I would be incapable of appreciating all the remastering blah that it had undergone before being re-released in cinemas. Whoever said this was completely right. Generally, picture quality is lost on me. Most of the time, I don't know where I am, let alone what's going on and how many hours all the little people at the end of the credits put in.

I can however, find Tesco. It's more useful than it sounds.

Anyway. Back to Back to the Future. Despite the incredulity of a certain individual, I did actually enjoy it. Marty McFly, despite being a kid in a film, wasn't excessively annoying, and though the ridiculously caricatured characters grated to begin with, it was important to portray them in this fashion so that the changes could be made clearer.

I didn't entirely approve of the film's take on time travel, and though this is apparently resolved in the second film it feels like a bit of an afterthought. The way I see it, if you go back in time, you are prevented from doing anything differently because it was never done differently. You can only do things that you always did. So Marty can't go back and prevent his parents from falling in love because they already fell in love.

Overall however, it was an entertaining film, especially at the end when everything kept going horribly wrong. I actually enjoyed that bit, except my genuinely-surprised face and my taking-the-piss face are quite similar. Four stars.

I watched something else, the next morning, what was that? Oh yeah, I remember. High Fidelity. It's one of those films that's taken me a while to get through, and I think it might be because I watched it on my own. I reckon, if I'd watched it with someone else earlier, I might have been able to follow it better.

As it was, I think I got it more this time. Things seemed funnier, to be honest, and the wicked delight I felt at his disregard of all his exes pleased me more because I could tell someone about how it was my favourite bit in the film. There's no point having a favourite bit of a film if you're on your own.


High Fidelity's quite real. It disregards a lot of the Disney magic surrounding film romances and just focuses on the things that real people do. Real people are awkward, they hang around with people they don't really like, they get into relationships with completely unsuitable people just, well, because. Also, people panic about things they have no right to panic about. It won't help or change anything.

And do you know why it's so real? The book it was based on was written by Nick Hornby. He's good. He always has a main character with a real emotional detachment from the world. So do I when I write*, except my characters are usually a lot more flawed and a lot less real. I give High Fidelity four stars.

That was on the way to London for a friend's 18th. Had an interesting time. It was interesting to see who had changed for the better, who had changed for the worse and who had not changed at all. It reinforced in my mind who my real friends were, and if you're reading this, it's most likely you. Or you're stalking me; hi.

I thoroughly enjoyed karaoke. Everyone who was there with me knows how much I enjoyed karaoke. So what if I can't sing? I can shout louder than everyone, with or without a microphone. I even had to "sing" Michael Buble, because it was just damn disappointing without me.

I reckon that I misunderstand the concept of karaoke. It was my first time doing the thing properly, and nobody outlined the protocol beforehand. I reckon though, that the people holding the microphones are supposed to sing, and take it in turns to do so. I prefer the football-crowd style roar that we had going on though. It was invigorating.

Food was nice too. I could have probably eaten more, if the spicy food hadn't run out. As it was, it did, and quickly. Delicious! If I knew what any of the dishes were called, I'd certainly have them again.

The club, though not my style, was fun. I had a brief conversation with an Irishman who guessed that I wasn't local. When I said that I guessed he wasn't either, he told me never to lose my accent. Ohoho. If only you knew. I have been having the Michael taken out of me by hmm... everyone. To some, I'm too northern. To others, I'm not northern enough. Despite "reassurances" that my accent is going to get stronger, I think it's about as bad as it's going to get. The vocabulary will be the next thing to go though.

I can speak without the accent, but it's only when I've thought of what I'm going to say before I say it. Yes, if you ever needed convincing of how infrequently that happens, the evidence is before your very ears.

Journey home was exciting as well. On the train from Liverpool I sat near a pair of fairly inebriated gentlemen. The first wanted to know if I had a boyfriend. I said no. He asked why. Any response I made from then on was met with the question "Why aren't you courting?" I was midway between explaining that we don't call it that anymore and sitting him down and explaining fully that I've only just arrived in Liverpool and give me time.

The other was very taken by my interest in nuclear power, and told me that what power stations were producing was actually steam and that the electricity was a by-product. I explained that the electricity was the whole point of the exercise. He said that in Sweden they use the steam to heat houses. I haven't researched this, but short of building houses on top of Didcot's coal-fired power station, I'm not sure what we can do. Thermal energy is incredibly difficult to do anything useful with. That's why it's often called "degraded".

It turns out that you can't explain this, nor that your primary interest is in nuclear power, more specifically nuclear fusion "like what happens in the Sun". They couldn't even grasp that concept. I said that we were going to move on from fission, to which one's response was "but it should all be 'fficient". Sigh. He then suggested burning wood "injected with oil". I suggested just burning the oil. He then replied that we needed a way to get rid of the wood. Touché. What we are all suffering from is an absolute glut of wood.

Thankfully, the train journey was only ten minutes, and I was able to disembark with my sanity intact.

*Hardly anybody has read any of my fiction. There is one story currently being edited for length, style and to separate it from Twilight (the original predates Twilight, and sickly teenage girl romance aside, there are parallels. Apparently. Though my "Edward" is brilliant.) and I'd say more, but for the spoilers. I'm very excited. As long as uni and life don't get in the way, it should be done within a year. It's hit a bit of a hitch in that I've met someone with the same name as one of the characters, and because I absolutely refuse to change his name again, I'm going to have to be careful to separate real L and fictional L in my mind. As long as real L doesn't behave like fictional L, this should be fine.

First Week

We had a project, on my lovely Physics course, to send a manned mission to Mars. Don't worry if you weren't involved, it's a lot less fun than it sounds.

By the third day, everyone had practically given up, accepted the futility of the task, and just concentrated on getting to know each other. This essentially involved winding up the other groups, producing long lists of non-essential items to be incorporated into the mission.

These included four cows, dessicated (to save weight). These would be fed pineapple on the journey, and then reconstituted on the surface of Mars for use as transport. They were also necessary to provide fresh milk throughout the three-year journey.

The Mars habitation required, for the purposes of boredom alleviation, a swimming pool, sauna, hot tub, basketball hoop and balcony. We determined that the most efficient and cost-effective way of heating the habitation was with a wood-burning stove, which, despite the habitation being only 2.5 metres tall, required a 30 metre chimney. We had to provide details of all of this to the heatproofing department, who wrote down the dimensions down without argument.

They did have issue, however, with our balcony. Not the fact that we had a balcony on a single-storey building, which, now I think about it, is an obvious flaw. No, they took issue because the dimensions specified that the balcony had 15 metre walls. When called upon to explain this, I eventually cracked, and admitted that the balcony did not actually need to be that tall.

The next question was, of course, why we needed a balcony in the first place. The explanation given was so that we could have a good view while we were smoking. I think a penny dropped for the heatproofing department here. They pointed out that we would need to carry a lot of cigarettes for the entire journey. I explained that we were only taking half the cigarettes we needed, and that we would grow the rest of the tobacco in the hydroponics facility once we were on the surface of Mars.

Another requirement we had was for a cat flap. In response to the question, "Why?", I like to imagine that someone would answer, "For the cat." In fact, there was no cat. There was, however, an autistic cheetah called Barry who had spades for hands, but who signed in on our list with his back paws. He was also, I think, writing a musical, and may have been female at one point.

So, I've met more interesting people, and I'd imagine that I may keep a few of them. I'd imagine that I said that last time, but there really are a multitude of fantastic people here.

I'm also coming to the realisation that this city is an absolutely brilliant place to live. Even without the superlambananas, it's rich in culture and history. It's also a great place to be a student, and I think that the next three years of my life are ones which I will treasure for the rest of it.

Just to give you some idea of the delights I've been sampling:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A21897192

Blanks

I haven't posted for quite a while now. I'll try and update you, but there will be a few blanks.

I quit college, and am now at the University of Liverpool reading Physics. It's Freshers' Week, so I am currently dying from a sore throat. It's really been fantastic though.

Let me fill you in on some other stuff first though. First of all, I spent the 18th (Saturday) driving fast cars, which was fantastic. I was driven around at high speed in a Porsche 911 turbo RS before getting behind the wheel of an Aston Martin DB9. Yeah, I did drive around in third, but that thing is amazing. The gizmos are neat, the decor  just makes you feel like a child, because its so futuristic that it doesn't look sci-fi. It looks real and just as if it is the best that car design will ever achieve.

I drove in the rain, but I still drove fairly fast, lapping five times in ten minutes, as opposed to the average four. I scored 92/100 on whatever rating system they use.

The next day, I was down in London for Chelsea-Blackpool with a formerly football-ignorant friend. My navigation aside, the afternoon was absolutely amazing. Chelsea won 4-0, with all the goals coming in the first half. On television, this would have made for a dull second half, but seated (infrequently) in the Matthew Harding stand, we were treated to, and participated in, some of the greatest terrace anthems you will ever hear.

And of course, the classic, "Where's my eight-nil you c**ts?"

I think my friend even sang along to one or two of the chants. If you fancy a go, or fancy a listen, check these out:  Carefree; Chelsea, Chelsea; In Your Northern Slums; Didier Drogba; Celery; Hello, Hello; F**k 'Em All; Blue Flag; Chelsea, Champions (sung as a call and response by adjacent stands); Chelsea; Come On Chelsea; Dennis Wise; Follow Malouda...

There were more, but we won't go there. There were also a couple of anti-West Ham songs. I don't think we much cared who the opposition were by the end.

The next day, I went to university. Everyone had already moved in, so I'd missed all of the introductions, but my room is opposite the kitchen and sees a lot of traffic. I've met more amazing people in the last five days than I can name. And if they end up reading this blog, hey. :)

A few links

Just a short post today, I think.

http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Tea   - All the quotes on wikiquote about tea. I was just in that sort of mood.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A61345  - The h2g2 entry on tea. I found it most useful.

https://www.bbcsurvey.co.uk/  - I found this quite fun. There's nothing I like better than a good survey, even if the results mean absolutely naff all. It tries to work out which BBC characters you are most like. I was a combination of Sherlock, David Mitchell and a Dalek. I'm quietly pleased. They are all intelligent characters with considerable unemotional streaks. It's probably quite accurate, but I'd imagine it says that to a lot of people - Sherlock, Mitchell and Webb and Doctor Who are very popular programmes.

Anyway, take a look and tell me what you think, and which characters you get.

Education For Leisure

If I could have written earlier, I would, because there's so much that I now have to tell you.

Firstly, I went to college. It isn't bad; that's probably the best that can be said about it. In my Physics lesson, topic of the day seems to be any kind of weaponry. In my first Mathematics class, I was asked to fill in a short form, with a question at the bottom that asked us if there was anything that we thought the teacher ought to know. I wrote:

"DO NOT WORK WELL WITH OTHERS

AS DO NOT SUFFER FOOLS."

His response, that those around me were not fools, was met with a raised eyebrow.

I do not mind them, and I will help and have helped them with their work. If only to stop them going "x minus four all squared... erm... x squared minus four x minus four... why does the back of the book say that's wrong?" Mostly, darlings, because it is.

No, it's all very fine and well and lovely (though incredibly noisy and busy and where can I eat a sandwich in peace?) but it's not for me. It stops me being bored, though I was reminded today of the Carol Ann Duffy poem 'Education for Leisure', which used to be on the GCSE syllabus.

According to this (http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2008/sep/04/gcses.english), that isn't the case any more, it being taken off due to some complaints about killing a goldfish by flushing it down the pan. Oh, and knife crime, but it's the goldfish that really sticks in the throat. Or the U-bend, ba-dum-pshh.

I liked 'Education for Leisure'. It prompted one of my best quotes. In response to the line, There is nothing left to kill, I assessed that the narrator was suffering from a lack of imagination, as, "There is so much more to kill." I was not implying that he should kill everything, just that he should perhaps have investigated the avenues open to him before reaching for the bread knife.

Perhaps he should have spent a little more time with the goldfish. Not having killed a goldfish myself, I know not what stress relief/boredom alleviation it brings, but I can imagine that flushing it away is barely a satisfying way to end its pathetic fishy life. It's over in a flash, blink and you miss the moment where the force of the water snaps its little flexible spine. What's more, there's no body to examine.

If I was going to kill an animal, like, in a planned way, I'd want to gain something from it scientifically. The narrative voice in the poem is evidently one of an idiot. It's someone who considers Shakespeare to be in another language. Well, there's our proof: idiot.

I've covered the Education bit with college; Leisure was mentioned in the musical Blood Brothers, which I watched in London on Friday night. I was blown away. The narrator was incredible, particularly. There was a standing ovation at the end; I wanted to give one in the middle but I thought it best to find out how the play ends.

The realism in the final scene was so strong, with police officers shouting through megaphones from the back of the theatre as if we were part of the events. I laughed so hard; it was technically brilliant.

The narrator looked so pleased with himself, too, at how everything unfolded. He was so subtle, and yet made such an impact. In case you hadn't guessed, five stars.

On Saturday, I went to watch the BBC Last Night of the Proms in Hyde Park. It's a bit of a tradition, though only the third time I've seen it live. Three times is probably enough for my short life.

Bjorn Again weren't my cup of tea (they're an ABBA tribute band), but I warmed myself by dancing along. We also had a nice bit of opera with Kiri Te Kanawa and Jose Carreras.

Moment of the first half was probably seeing the look of inexpressible fury on my brother's face at being denied the presence of John Barrowman, who was playing at The Last Night in Salford. Apparently, a video link to his performance just wasn't good enough. I am now looking to buy him tickets to his tour, despite my meagre wealth. I shall talk to my parents; my mother saw how utterly devastated he was. It was hilarious. I've never seen him so truly angry.

Brian May was really good, so good I forgot to film him. We had to wait for Neil Sedaka, who I didn't realise was pretty-much singlehandedly responsible for all of the cringeworthy songs of the 20th century. His performance started dragging the second he walked onstage.

My brother alleviated boredom by finding and stalking Jon Tickle, of Brainiac fame. And I do mean stalking, he followed him to the toilets. The boy has no shame.

Original Video - More videos at TinyPic

The above video was filmed on my mobile, and rather hastily thrown together. It's Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance, a Last Night staple, and one of my favourites. It was certainly done much better than God Save The Queen this year, which was shambolic. The Czech conductor had taken it upon himself to begin the National ANTHEM (yes, anthem, not lullaby) as quiet as possible.

As a result, nobody in the park knew what was going on. Nor, apparently, did the vision mixer who was supposed to be giving us the lyrics to each tune so that we could sing along.

Another huge insult to this great festival of national spirit was the American flag waved by the soprano who sang 'Rule Brittania'. The only thing good about her (she had awful diction) was that she was wearing a brilliant Vivienne Westwood creation, though I've seen that one ages ago. Maybe something newer, you know?

Try as they might, they can't kill the Last Night though.

Oh, and I also watched Merlin. Thumbs down for Bradley James' bare torso (where has he been? Obviously not the gym) but thumbs up for epic potential. No idea how Merlin's going to make it through this series without thoroughly outing himself. He's too obvious. I do think this will be the last series though; it looks too good for them to want to follow it up with another series.

God is music

On a whim, I have decided to learn to play the violin. Well, it's not exactly on a whim. I wanted to do it when I was younger, but as my application to the Lyceum was to study piano, my mum got pretty annoyed when I announced that, actually, I wanted to learn violin.

After that, I pretty much ignored music. Before, it had been important. At my first school, we would listen to a different piece of classical music every day, and we had to be able to name a vast number of pieces. I listened to Mozart, Holst, Handel, even Beethoven when I wasn't trying to get to sleep.

I mean, it was all music that was designed to send me to sleep, but I did used to stay up and try to listen to it. Thankfully, cassette players (consult the history books if you're unsure what one is) used to finish each side with an enormous clunking noise, which usually woke me up if I was drifting.

Family tradition also dictated that we watch The Last Night of the Proms (on telly, naturally). We watched it religiously, planning ahead, inviting the neighbours around and all the rest of it. I thought it was brilliant.

Music left my life when I was about five or six. I'm not entirely sure why, but it did.

I still haven't got it back, but I'm trying, and it's a gradual process.

The one thing that really saved me, musically, was being forced to learn the recorder at the age of seven. This was at school, and they did it because recorders are cheap. I bought my own, because of the hideous bucket of spit-scented half-chewed recorders that got passed around each week. Words cannot describe how unhygienic that was.

For this reason, I hated the recorder, because, being disorganised, I often forgot my own, nice, wooden recorder, and had to borrow one of the disgusting plastic ones.

Time went on, though, and we were split into sets for music. This appealed to my already-strong notion that I was better than pretty much everyone around me, and when Recorder Club was created, solely for the elite, I was in my element.

I did, however, hate the instrument with a passion, and this was my downfall. I jumped when extra music lessons were offered, and left my recorder-playing days behind me in favour of learning the guitar.

In short, it didn't go well. Despite my disinclination to practise, I was better than everyone else, which was a good start. However, lessons were after school. My mum got a new job and was unable to pick me up after school. That appeared to be that.

I did, later join the school orchestra, though perhaps for all the wrong reasons. I joined because all members of the school orchestra were given a shiny red-and-gold badge saying ORCHESTRA, which was effectively a fast-track to the front of the lunch queue. Although practises were only twice a week, this came in useful on the other three days due to the magic phrase "extra orchestra practise".

To begin with, I joined my old Recorder Club chums, but I quickly came to realise that it wasn't for me. I became the orchestra's one-and-only percussionist, specialising in the glockenspiel. To this day I will get quite annoyed at anyone who calls it a xylophone.

However, that too fell by the wayside when I left primary school. I didn't even listen to music for my first two years at secondary school. I only started to because of homework.

My R.S. teacher (miserable witch- she hated me) told us to listen to the Black Eyed Peas' 'Where is the Love?'. Now, today, it sounds like patronising, meaningless faux-protesting, but I liked it. A lot of people did. It reminded me that music could mean something.

I started to buy CDs. I bought each copy of the Now series, I watched Top of the Pops, I listened to the radio. In the end I got into Green Day, which led me to the Ramones, and the Clash, and the realisation that the best music isn't necessarily what everyone else is listening to.

I started to play the guitar again, then the bass guitar, and the keyboard. I got really into music lessons at school- my teacher loved me to the point where he failed to reprimand me for punching another student in the face.

I elected to study music at GCSE. I watched The History Boys, and discovered The Smiths. I will never forget the day that my mother came home to find me listening to Morrissey. Maybe it was her disapproval that spurred me on, but I've never quite gotten over him.

I realised that not everyone can read music, or can write music for a whole variety of different instruments. I wasn't special, because I wasn't good at any of it, but I wasn't completely useless.

At Cheltenham, I didn't play music, partly because I didn't have time, but also because there was so much emphasis on being good. It's not my way. I'm clever, yes, but I'm not a mathematical prodigy. I can also write creatively, draw an adequate representation of someone's face, speak a multitude of languages to tourist level. I know that there are 88 constellations, and I can tell you the names of a fair few of them, as well as their brightest stars. I can't touch-type, but I know how to run an Excel spreadsheet.

It's not arrogance to say that if there's one thing I do well, it's everything.

So, coming home, I did what I should have done a long time before. I got myself a proper instrument. I've had the violin for about 24 hours now. She's not brilliant, but neither am I. It's something we have in common. I hope I do outgrow her. Then I can take up something else.

I've wasted a few years, but it's not the end of the world. I have relative pitch, which means I don't have to stick stickers on my violin to know where to put my fingers. I can play a major scale without giving anyone a brain haemorrhage. The cat even slept though my playing.

I'm reclaiming music.

Name That Cat

I just thought of an idea for a new game show, because I just realised that, even if I wanted to go to bed, I couldn't, because my bed has been taken over by a skinny tomcat called... well, that's just it. My cat doesn't have a name.

It's pretty much up to whoever's in the house to give him whatever name they want. So far, in alphabetical order, he's been called Bob, Bobby, Bobs, Cat, Cath, Chat, Mao, Robbo, Robert, Roberto, Robs and Socks. We haven't even had him three months.

At the moment, my least favourite is Socks, followed closely by Bobs. Up until recently, I pretty much called him Robbo, but the latest guest in our house started calling him Mao and it's kind of got stuck for me. Seeing as I mew at him anyway, to irritate him or something. How do you irritate a cat? It's difficult.

Anyway, any new ideas, send them to me.

I handled a puppy today. Probably not the best idea for someone who sees a dog and instantly wants to kill it, but it had escaped its house, and the owner was obviously struggling to get it back inside. I don't think the owner would have been keen if I'd let it run or just strangled it while I had the chance.

It surprised me how trusting it was. It felt really weird.

It's probably not dogs I hate; it's dog people. The people who think dogs have anywhere near as much value as humans. Well, they can lower themselves to that level, but they mustn't be surprised when I refuse to join them.

Then there's the people who let their dogs defecate in public spaces, and then don't clear it up.I'm sorry! Do these scum think the world owes them something? Do they think it's okay for them to leave actual faeces lying about in the sun for flies to breed in and spread disease? Or for small children to fall over in? (Actually, that's quite funny, so long as you don't have to clean the child in question.)

Next time you see one of these worthless, inconsiderate, expendable wastes of human flesh, tell them that they've dropped something. Do it for me, before I have an aneurysm.

Now it's time for the reviews. I've been revisiting a couple of things in the past few days.

First up, it was The Young Ones. 28 years on, it's still got a certain quality to it. It's a violent-slapstick, alternative comedy look at the nuclear family. Vyvyan will always be one of my favourite comedy characters. Unnecessary violence, the ability to eat everything and short bursts of incredible lucidity and possibly even genius (well, he is a medical student) make him absolutely brilliant. Also, everyone knows a Rick, the revolutionary who thinks Che Guevara is a Mexican restaurant.

I think I'm more of a Neil myself. He's calm, passive, keeps the place neat and tidy. He's the mother figure. That's just me all over. I'm well into peace and love and lentils and the rest of it.

I hate Mike, because he's pointless. He's supposed to be cool, and respected, but he's more of a loser than the rest of them. Aside from Mike, the other bad points were the talking scenery, which I don't think works anymore, and the dwarf in the episode 'Boring'. Dwarves just aren't funny, especially not when they're painted. In fact, they're rarely not.

Though, aside from the mindless violence and cute destruction of even the fourth wall, there is one last redeeming feature: the music. We need music back in sitcoms. Hell, we need Madness back in sitcoms, and not just doing adverts on GOLD. The Young Ones gets 4 stars.

I also re-watched Sherlock Holmes, the Guy Ritchie film. That took me by surprise, because I didn't like it. Everything I loved about that film, it turns out, is just Arthur Conan Doyle, and okay, a nice bit of bromance. There's my point though: get lost, Irene Adler! Mary's not much better, but at least she knows her place. It's not her fault she's just not pretty.

I think the issue Ritchie was always going to have was making a good film without gratuitous swearing or violence. That's what made Lock, Stock so brilliant: in particular, a joke involving the c-word that I won't repeat here.

Oh, it's clever. But nowhere near enough, not after seeing the BBC adaptation, not after reading the books and knowing what can be done. I think the trouble was, I hated the bad guy. Really, you've got to love the bad guy, and hate yourself for it. Blackwood was ugly, and we never saw enough of Moriarty.

Now, Moriarty was something the BBC did oh so well. That line, "Westwood." It just gets me. The film though, 3 stars, though I await the sequel with interest.

Oh, what else? Ah yes. Come Dine With Me. The narrator's mellowing, as are the guests. Bring back the bitching! This week, someone nearly vommed listening to an anecdote about phlegm, and someone else was made to cry. It's not enough! Daggers out, please! Two stars.

Oh, arsehole of the week: bloke who bought the violin I was trying to buy at a flea market for £12 and refused to sell it to me for any less than £30. May everyone urinate haphazardly on his shallow grave.