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.