Public Transport, what the statistics can't show!

As you take a deep breath and force a half hearted sigh of relief that the curriculum year is over, you know full well that the ordeal is not over yet. As you stare at your cargo, enough to sink a battleship to be exact, your muscles begin to spasm at the mental image of your body enduring endless delays and hours spent in previously unbeknown towns to you.

This is the first thought, then there is the endlessly wining children, distressed over nothing in particular but enjoying making everyone else’s trip around them more miserable than their own. However, they are not alone in this department as unsuccessful businessmen try to inflate their egos by announcing their telephone conversation to everyone is in the carriage, like a tanoi system, while normal citizens role their eyes safe in the knowledge that the human foghorn can be of little importance to his company as he is using public transport like the rest of us low grade cattle. But the final, insult which strikes fear in every traveler’s heart is the dreaded twitcher. He or she is usually void of outside human conversation in their daily lives and so uses the confined constraints of the carriage to entrap you into hours of endless, mind numbing conversations from the weather, to the youth of day (a particular favourite of the older twitcher), to the oncoming apocalypse; which you can only hope that their predicted alien invasion happens much, much sooner than they predict.

However, I have found the key to preventing yourself from sitting next the boundless number of annoying twitchers which plague the frequent traveler. Firstly your attire must be suited to the journey ahead, a perfect choice being heavy black eye makeup, unusually sized hat, leather jacket and aggressive body language.

In essence you need to look like at any moment it is quite possible that you will whip and AK-47 out of your delicately packed rucksack and taking no prisoners let a massacre ensue. This stated there is always one lonely masochistic twitcher, who is quite willing to place their life in danger all for the cause of conversation. Politely ending your, so far, peacefully journey by asking, “Is anyone sitting here?” To which you fight through gritted teeth to snarl at them and instead smile sweetly, “No, hang on I’ll move all my stuff”.

And by the time you get to your loved ones to enjoy in the Christmas cheer, all you want to do is find a quiet corner of your centrally heated house and stare vacantly into the bottom of an empty bottle of chardonnay. And to think you spent most of your monthly cigarette, alcohol and food allowance for the pleasure.

Greatest Hits... I think not!

As this is the season to be jolly, I find myself resorting to literature for entertainment. On the few occasions I leave my lightly cultural past time to gaup at the nonchalant twaddle on the television, all of which promises so much in the glossy listing magazines, I find myself not only unimpressed with reruns of Christmas specials but the many items advertised during the intermissions.

While ITV is filled with DFS furniture sales, to which I must add anyone who has ever bought a sofa from there which has not been on sale is the most unfortunate person in the world as the likely hood of their stock ever being full price is about as common as a blue moon, but moving on, channel four is filled with artists greatest hits releases.

Even at the tender age of eighteen, I remember the good old days when greatest hit albums were wondrous collections of an artist’s progression and success over decade spanning careers. Imagine my surprise when saw that Girls Allowed, yes that is Girls Allowed were pleased to announce that there lyrical marvels are to be found all on one over priced CD!

Although appealing to a certain type of clientele I am sure that in comparison to the genius potentials of Kurt Cobain, David Bowe and others they are merely pre-pubescent in their actions.

The only conclusion that I can therefore come to is that the manufacturing big guns are taking advantage of the pretty five-some’s publicity in order to finance there next Bentley or Italian retreat … personally I find the whole concept rather repugnant. So as I say this is the season t be jolly or maybe I have prematurely become very middle aged!

Ye olde Nokia

When Nokia’s are built they are built to last, this is official. After a recent debarkell with my trendy, tiny, camera wielding, slide phone, I was forced to dig through the kitchen’s odds and sods draw to find my pre-historic wonder.

Larger than a brick and baring many battle scares, I pressed the big red button of power and even though in its seventh year (in human years making it almost as old as Bruce Forthsight) the old familiar, sweet sound rang through the air as the beast breathed back to life. Its cracked screen from an unfortunate crushing accident, large dint from surviving a 30 foot drop from a window and many scraps due to my physical incapacity to be coordinated only added to the charm of the thing. Not flashy by any degree, apart from its ability to connect via Bluetooth and not infer-red (very high-tech!!!), the old shire horse has proved itself to be far more reliable than its stunning Through Bred counterpart.

So he is my advice to you, don’t be fooled by seductive gimmicks which are guaranteed to last about as long as Gordon Brown in Government, go for good, old fashioned simplicity. After all you never know when you’ll be deserted on some country road in the middle of a snow storm or trapped halfway down a ravine, clinging to a ledge by your finger nails… because trust me your ugly old friend will never let you down!

"Pay peanuts and you'll get monkeys"- I wouldn't be so sure.

Firstly, I would like to let it be known that I personally am the skirmish of the earth to every middle class gentleman and lady; with my binge drinking, chain smoking nightly rituals all a major element in the student lifestyle. This stated, I know with all of our debts and loans and outlandish overdrafts we are do not heavily out weigh the value of a multi million pound investor but surely as the future of this country we could be treat with a little more courtesy by Mr. Bank Manager?
I have always believed so greatly in the saying, “You pay peanuts and you get monkeys”. However, there seems to be one very large exception that rule and unfortunately for me this a label no more appropriately fitting than to the employees at my local bank!
They reel you in with their amazing offers of free rail cards, which guaranteed you will not be given an application form for until the closing date has conveniently passed you by.
Overdrafts destined to increase the local breweries revenue will never appear, even after hours spent pleading on hands and knees by there customer service desk!
Then they offer you a free credit card, “Increase you credit score with us” they purr seductively , pound signs flashing in there piggy eyes. Then you realize you fell hook, line and sinker for their deceit as you wonder why your online banking wont allow you to pay off your rather large credit card bill, and so you phone them in despair as your payment is due tomorrow, your branch is closed and you do not want your already exacerbated finances straining at the seams. However, you experience a similar sound when you telephone to air your polite (being very British and diplomatic) complaint, “Sorry madam” an unenthused voice poorly pronounces, “Our systems down at the minute, but if you’d like to call back in a couple of hours”.
And so beginning to form bead-lets of sweat on your forehead you call back precisely two hours later. To find there system is up and running but the issue lies with you not them? Of course you are unable to pay off your credit card, you haven’t properly activated your account via the letter you received in the post and furthermore, how could you ever forget the vital role of the card reader in the whole process which you have to order online… silly silly student , maybe its time you lay off the home brew?
And as you stand in the center of your dingy living room quite willing to take your life as your brain feels of no more substance than scrambled egg, they ask you how long you have been a resident of the small Cornish village, hidden under a sunny haze and surrounded by flowing corn fields? The physical and emotional trauma you have under gone leaves you slumped … numb, only able to whisper a reply of “never!”; anger requiring too much effort to drum up.
To which the terribly patronizing voice of Patrick your friendly help adviser replies, “Ooo, why didn’t you say, what are you like eh? Looks like we’ve been sending all your credit information to some random little village” to which you can only retort “Peachy!” in an unenthused hiss.
So there we have it! The joys of the British banking system, praise the lord that these men and women’s roles in life are of no major importance on a wider political, social and historical climate of the country…
Bring in the next generations of binge drinking, chain smoking youths, surely things can only get better!

Socio-historical Divide, Have We Not Learnt Anything?

Earlier this year my hometown of Hull celebrated the 200^th anniversary of its most famous native William Wilberforce’s contribution to the abolition of the slave trade. As a radical of the time, living in a cultural, port city, one would assume that the era of enlightenment would transcend to the 21^st century; creating a racially, politically and socially liberated community… but apparently not!
Whilst trying to fill a steady Sunday, I decided to embark on a mindless meander through our local park. However, my peaceful jolly was sort lived as the following poorly pronounced statement, aimed at my good self, boomed through the winding willows. “Take a bath you sweaty mosher!”
Firstly, I would like to establish that I am not a “mosher” as I personally do not choose to keep my long hair grease slicked to my scalp nor do I choose to wear over sized hoodies and jeans brandishing my favourite death metal band, complete with satanic symbol.
This aside, the comment that really drew close to the bone was “sweaty”, not because I am a genetic mutant void of been physically capable of perspiring but simply because of the caliber of male from which the comment came. When I say this I mean a young man minus his front teeth, clutching a can of ASDA’s own cider in his grubby mitt, having possibly contributed to the extreme teenage pregnancy and STI statistic’s Hull is renowned for the previous night.
This little tale, however, was only brought to the forefront of my memory when I read a story about a young Goth girl, Sophie Lancaster, who was beaten to death, simply for her life choices. This teamed with the endlessly lagging Wilberforce memorabilia scattered about town got me thinking.
From where has this modern form of hatred developed? Wilberforce I’m sure believed that he had quite possibly ended the greatest form exploitation this world would ever see way back in the 18^th century … but maybe his achievements simply left an endless void which will never disappear for a new discrimination to fill! Wilberforce fought to free black slaves from their repression but now I pose the question, who is to save us from our social repression, simply divisible by a person’s attire?

Sophie Lancaster Story: http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/justice/article970063.ece

Don't Ever Meet Your Hero.... The Day We Ran Over An Actor

Spending your childhood years being filled with consumerism and celebrity, like most I am one of the brainwashed masses revealing in the concept of “celebrity” and lifestyle. Today’s generation is no longer satisfied with the career of an individual but the personal life; so obsessed we are that hundreds of millions are made every year off their every movement, dietary gimmick, publicity stunt love affairs and in all honest even there bowl moments (yes, apparently celebrities are not as inhumanly perfect as we would believe).

For years I aspired to entering the manufactured bubble, where selection is only for the most aesthetically pleasing and charming; in effect those born with a silver spoon firmly implanted amongst their perfect teeth!

However, I have become one of the liberated and dissolution members of youth as the celebrity bubble was monumentally popped by one of its own privileged occupants, leaving my life void of meaning and dreams… yeah right!

Whilst holidaying in California, USA , we decided to rent a car and travel the whole length of the weird and wonderfully plastic state. Mecca for the glamorous and epicenter of the famous; we inevitably gave into temptation and bought us as little piece of Hollywood in the form of a housing map on Santa Monica Boulevard.

Whilst travelling down the many winding streets of well kept hedgerows and vast goliath walls fronted by double gates and notso much a house to be seen anywhere, we were involved in an “incident”.

My mother, who struggles with road competency, whilst driving on the “right” side of the road, was consulting the map to find the house of a certain Mr. George Clooney (the housewives favorite) when her female talent of multitasking failed her as she ‘clipped’, i.e. forced a jogger to mount the bonnet of the car. After the car and pedestrian both came to a standstill, my mother being my mother, went onto bombard this gentleman with a catalogue incoherent nervous ramblings. Only to discover that of all of the male population the man my mother hit was no one other than the comedian and actor, Steve Martin. This invariably caused my mother to enter a certain trance of confusion, to which her nearby psychotic stare at this man represented that of a diabetic entering a hyperglycemic coma.

Expecting a saintly white light to appear behind him, as his celebrity status surely required, before entering into a charming exchange of witty banter with my mother which left her feeling reassured that he had come to no harm, you can my surprise when the following happened. Martin vigorously began to bang on the front of the car before branding us with the shamefully desperately and degrading label of being, “A bunch of fucking tourists!”

And there it was…in one fail swoop… my innocence and bubble burst! In all honesty, yes, we were a bunch of bleeping “tourists” and yes I wouldn’t have been too impressed either if someone had nearly mowed me down, but that is the point. Celebrities aren’t supposed to be like me, they are supposed to be this super human embodiment of the ideal, to which I can stare in glossy magazines and on television screens and admire.

So there we have it your emulated vision of this martyr unfortunately can never live up to the reality of cold light of day, so my advice if you are unable to accept the alienating truth that is celebrities are mere mortals just about as extraordinary as you or I, don’t ever ever meet your hero!