Invasion of Poker fanatics: Defeated.

Midst fears of invasion of the last web address, this is a completely different notion to the murky world of gambling. And as you're reading this you shouldn't be too concerned with ending up playing blackjack with intemperate foreigners. Good weekend? For my part it was a weekend that began with the most wonderful, puzzling, chaotic experience upon my first day placement at a secondary school went with a bang, quite literally in the canteen as I focused my attentions on bullying at the other end of the room.  

It’s on the edge of the city, “Run-down” according to the newly established head teacher who had already made his impact on the destructive kids and exhausted staff with some blocks demolished and new rooms built including an excellent deaf unit. Aided by an aura of confidence I threw myself into classes: relentlessly projecting a steely glare upon troublemakers in the Year 10 science class before instructing those writing short stories in Year 8 English to feature less weaponry and violence as quite disturbingly that they had the nous of a SAS veteran of combat. Their licentiousness puts the fear of God into those teaching yet I have never felt an environment so natural even a swift lunch interrupted by a large number of students concerned enough by my presence didn't deter my passion so a timetable to fit around my studies is on the cards.

The numbers of deaf children attending deaf schools are decreasing furiously with many schools closing down to the fury of the Teacher of the Deaf as I aspire to become so do sign this petition if you wish to halt such frivolous closure and in the meantime, show the Government to be the callous organization they are:

http://petitions.number10.gov.uk/deafschoolclose/

As much as the hard of hearing students of the school impressed me, as they did throughout the day with their razor sharp wit and intelligent manner that reminded me of my own cheerful innocence which defied the joyless ceremony that took place in the staff room (incidentally resembled the set of ‘Teachers’ only less hazardous acting) I still feel that deaf schooling is far greater to their development.

The weekend also coincided with the anniversary with the Munich deadly plane crash as 52 years have passed since the tragedy marked with a 5-0 win at Old Trafford yet the Busby Babes would've massacred our current side as they aare still proclaimed the greatest side that lived and will continue to be remembered for as long as Manchester United exist.  Rest in Peace those who perished.

JD Salinger: An Inspiration...

Sadly passed away at the age of 91, author of the most intelligent and liberating tales such as The Catcher In the Rye leaving vacant memories and untold stories due to his detachment from the scene to live for the next 40 years in his native New Hampshire. Away from the limelight one can only assume the brilliance his writing in that time would offer and whilst the legacy is in question, it's only right to respect his wishes and keep such material secret.

One quote keeps emerging as observers fill the blank years, "He was famous for not wanting to be famous" claimed Ian Hamilton in his book In Search of J.D. Salinger. Personally I prefer his own, "I'm sick of just liking people. I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect" which sums him up perfectly.

His letters to a ex continued interest in his life in spite of the fabulous writings he wilfully wanted to be remembered made all the more fascinating considering his educational circumstances as the Guardian commented he was 'asked to leave a New York prep school because of poor grades’. Crazy business, can you imagine that happening in this day and age? Whilst he re-embarked on an creative writing course that I ironically considered switching to at my own establishment due to my own disillusionment, it was by no means certain he'd be the accomplished renowned writer that his fate allowed him to be especially whilst seeing action in the Second World War. It shows an education is to be taken seriously but life teaches you lessons that schooling cannot midst a truly remarkable rise to prosperity and fame akin to Alexander McQueen whom I've written an article on.

Following his Paris/Milan Fashion Shows entitled ‘King of the Paris Haute Couture’ for the WWIT as well as my return for the Hearing Times. In other news: Apple apps to surge, intently so as the world awaits the growing popularity amongst trend-setters thus those without an orderly thought within their capacity to follow suit as the iPad creation will turn into a successful futuristic venture. In the least for independent, information seeking souls it'll allow access to online information to read wherever they may be whilst looking remotely dis-interested in their surroundings and whilst I clearly find it abhorrent I wouldn’t so much proclaim it’s over-priced if so long as there's a boom in readers.

Deep in the consciousness, I realize should I fail to become a teacher than a journalistic outing may be my only chance of a pay-cheque for doing something I’d happily do for nothing as J.D Salinger showed, follow the sentiments of your own choosing and in his infinite wisdom he escaped the torment of his soul, wickedly so. Additionally, this semester will allow me to follow the great works of William Wordsworth as tonight's Romanticism lecture allowed me to see the idealistic nature of his poetry and hopefully soon the craft and endeavour of Keats and Coleridge who once said:

the unhappy attempt at picture petrifactions by Bernini in whom a great genius was bewildered and lost by excess of fancy over imagination, the aggregative over the unifying faculty (CL, IV, 569).

Interesting, one could claim J.D Salinger to be the bewildered great genius lost by excess and in the most part without avoiding fanciful delirium, he wasn't unhappy with his isolation was he? Good for him to take charge of his own destiny. My own, on the other hand is questionable: I still cannot help but assert the thinking behind my lower than expected grades in the last semester for English Literature to the disempowerment of imagination and over-need for structure, pleasing quotations and popularized referencing leading to a sense of self-annihilation.

Back to Salinger, one hopes upon his entrance to the gates of Heaven that an angel appears with "J.D, take yourself to a quiet corner in heaven amongst those of similar irk who you don't have to speak with if you don't wish to, honourable chap". R.I.P

Wondrous Edinburgh...

As a joint celebration of both our birthdays and yearly anniversary, we decided to visit the mystic and beautiful city of Edinburgh for a few days before our inevitable return to University life. For such a enticing city, it’s largely populated by students and roaming tourists with such highlights as the Castle, numerous shops and galleries that impressed in particular the Turner exhibition as seen here along with the high standards of policing in the area. Also it’s quite remote, finally discovered once the train passes Haymarket after the joyous Scottish Highlands we enjoyed with it’s expansive hilly landscape. Samuel Johnson in the Journey to the Western Isles, 1775 claimed ‘to the southern inhabitants of Scotland the state of the mountains and islands is equally unknown with that of Borneo or Sumatra’, he professed that many hadn’t explored the area whilst in modern terms, it’s largely known across the World due to it’s festivals, events and fabulous buildings however it still feels despite the amusing updated profanity of locals and masses of visitors, that you are unravelling a mystery akin to the 1700’s.

As for the National Museum of Scotland, I spotted Thomas De Quincey’s postbag- rather amusing find considering the blogs I’ve done previously about him nonetheless in great condition and a fairly wonderful place to take your partner, families and friends. Much like the City itself, the Museum was full of vibrancy and exciting with a range of misdemeanours to be taken advantage of amongst the inviting hospitality. Therein, not only did we enjoy the sentimental side to Edinburgh but realised it’s greatest asset is not the pleasing views but the culture: I learnt the diversity amongst the community of locals, Italians and Spaniards amongst the Scots. There was a vibe to be envied by our English cities so much so that in an Italian restaurant close to our hotel that on appearance quiet and unassuming, there was wonderfully presented and delicious food as well as free garlic bread and side bowl of French fries to accompany our three course meal that left us utterly stuffed. I should’ve realised, an Italian gentleman walked in with his Scottish wife which I thought to be an indictment of the restaurant’s quality when a local Italian, of all restaurants in the City, visits the specific one we choose but it was most probably because they provide such extras!

Basking in the warmth of the friendly environment and soft music, I decided I wished to learn Italian for a trip there someday; Sunday Times quite helpfully had a selection of Italian phrases in their supplement: ‘Mi scusi: c’e qualacosa di strano nella mia ostrica’ for example means ‘Excuse me waiter, there is something strange in my oyster’ and my personal favourite for which there is no translation: ‘Bada bing’ which sums up Edinburgh for which I long to return to as I quite devastatingly adore it. Now I'm back to the darkness of University life whereby I must plan accordingly for the semester ahead also write an article for the hip fashion magazine, the WWIT as well as the dating article for my return to the Hearing Times whom under new editorship should thrive. Memo to self: Remember to purchase Simon Lelic's Rupture. Have an excellent week, folks.

21st Birthday, 18/01/89

Spent in a sybaritic splendour in the rural village whereby I visited relatives close by and ventured to the city with my lady, parents and younger sister following numerous shops we went to watch a film. The Road was our chosen film from a list of mediocre alternatives and whilst my family didn't enjoy it, I found it intriguing whilst foreshadowed by the original context. The novel that set the post-apocalyptic trend and much like The Human Stain by Philip Roth also Cormac McCarthy’s own No Country for Old Men: great modern-era American novelists in an unforgiving perceptive of the world.

In the screenplay, it's a different story as with Coleman Silk in The Human Stain as reading the book you couldn’t forgive him for his heartless rejection of his mother but his ideals were refreshing whereas on screen he is shown to be a pretentious individual similar to the father in The Road is shown to be a barbaric individual- killing in order to survive, forcing an African-American to take off the clothes he stole from them all deeply shocking cinematic devices not as the book reflects with his sole intention to find the ocean with his son's best interests at heart.

Much is down to the casting; Coleman Silk wasn't imagined to look like Anthony Hopkins (who played him in the 2003 film) and even now as my lady is covering the tale for her American Literature module next semester thus allowed me to re-read it, he doesn’t fit. Certainly, he isn’t American nor does he withhold the mannerisms that the author attempted to portray yet the film used another actor for his past in Wentworth Miller who did an admirable job. And in The Road, Viggo Mortensen did well to portray Man nevertheless out-performed by the wonderful newcomer Kodi Smit-McPhee whilst critics slam it's lack of action, the long walks and thought provoking notions such as the gun down throat of his son as suicide may be the only way out- this is a blinkered view of those who probably haven't experienced such love from their parents that'll defy their own contempt.

Looking at the review here from the Guardian: the compelling tale laid by McCarthy is blindly obvious but the highly elevated positioning of Hillcoat's adaption isn't as the book is far greater in character development, plot-lines and intensity whilst saying that, the film will generally create Oscar hysteria and fully deservedly so too. If you haven't already seen it, I'd recommend you read the book instead.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2009/sep/03/the-road-adaptation-cormac-mccarthy

Manchester United announce pre-tax profit of £48.7m...

An extremely concerning time for all Manchester United fans such as myself ahead of the announcements made today and numerous articles on the topic. Roger Blitz on the The Financial Times website discussed the bond issue, £500 million to be repaid by 2014 and rumours circulated as early as last year of such debts and now the reality has hit home. How the situation has progressively worsened, I assume is in part to due to global financial crisis restricting the interest rate thus no foreseeable buyer will approach the club which is what's required as current owners seemingly have no chance of repaying the bond. Gone are the days of complete financial supremacy; Match-day revenues accounted for 39.1 per cent of total revenues, media 35.8 per cent and commercial deals 25.1 per cent with net interest payments almost £42m and operating profits were just £9.3m: the importance of transferring star player Cristano Ronaldo for £80 million is now more evident than ever as the Guardian highlights.


This is an interesting business model of the club's financial hierarchy: http://av.r.ftdata.co.uk/files/2010/01/Man-Utd-corporate-structure-and-financing.jpg

Conflicting reports on the total of the debt, reported at £699 million 12 months ago as it's not disclosed in this morning’s press release – although it will be recorded in the documents that have been lodged with Companies House – but the Glazers’ growing concern over their existing borrowing arrangements has led them to the bond. But how will they manage this if the club's fortunes on the pitch spiral as the £75 million set aside for transfers are nowhere near enough. There's Sir Alex Ferguson's impending retirement along with ageing iconic midfielders Ryan Giggs and Paul Scholes also goalkeeper Edwin Van Der Sar all of whom need replacing with the financial might of rivals Manchester City and Chelsea (who have just cleared their debt) and Arsenal look to flourish in the long term.

At least, according to Bloomberg, the latest figures include an 'up-front' payment of 35.9 million from next year's sponsors AON - whose 4 yr sponsorship is worth 80 million. Clever deals and financial nous is required if the bond is to be recuperated with sustained efforts on the pitch with an helpful raise in interest rate as the high interest rates on loans already are severely damaging profits as it's clear the Ronaldo deal was a necessity. Let's hope things turn for the better.

'O England, model to thy inward greatness...'

How are we all? Coping with the snow, rapid decline in temperature and frostbite I hope? As per usual our country goes into severe panic whilst the sane amongst us sit back and enjoy the sights. My apartment is luckily the warmest amongst the newly built establishment thanks to an easily deceived caretaker who allowed us round the clock heating after one of the girls painted the image of a frostbitten student also it's facing the lighted snow covered streets amongst the stars.

What the deep freeze allows, plenty of time for homemade soup and reading with the odd game on Football Manager now the last of semester one's essays has been handed in. The lady, in her infinite wisdom, bought plenty of food just before the latest snowfall as well as detested newspapers such as the Mirror and Express & Star which I regrettably, read. However it seems there's a reason to read it- a competition to become a Mirror sporting blogger and the chance to visit their Canary Wharf HQ for a placement over the course of a month. An excellent insight into sporting journalism awaits the winner: I'm nearly done with my 200 word piece on 'Manchester United entitled 'Beckham Awaits' and another on 'Talented Youngsters'. If you wish to do so email them a 200 word blog on your favourite side and one on anything you desire: mirror-footballstaff@mirror.co.uk. Good luck.

This week has seen the Labour Party in fracas with Gordon Brown susceptible to a coup by Hoon and Hewitt whom if they had any nous they'd kept quiet and supported their leader ahead of the General Election as they have no other alternative leader or polices to grab the public attention thus defeat is on the cards then a new leader would've been sought.


Jonathan Ross: An entertaining but staggeringly arrogant buffoon who surely will be missed but hopefully young talents will thrive in his absence and the obscene pay check he received will go on promoting more drama and enhanced news coverage that shows more than just political squabbling and weather woes. Have a good weekend, all.

Poppy's Family Renaissance

Inspired by an writer whose name is often mis-remembered and an actress famously wrongly named by Gordon Brown as this upcoming favourite blog of mine shows, Renée Zellweger's portrayal of Beatrix Potter in the film 'Miss Potter' shown on the BBC proved to be an eye-opener. As I decided to write my own children's story (along with the short stories, book on deaf education I wish to produce following an Masters) and here's an rough outline of the idea that stemmed from viewing the film: set in the delightful village of my upbringing in the era previous to my birth in the mid 80's, an rebellious guinea pig began causing mayhem thus resolving with it's widowed owner falling for the local carpenter thanks to the efforts of her inventive twin daughters and spiteful landlord. Here's the opening chapter I wrote in the last twenty minutes then perhaps I'll write some more. I should ideally, be producing my Shakespeare essay but such enticement to writing such nonsensical but amusing accounts proved too mighty for even the Bard himself if Much Ado About Nothing is anything to go by. Enjoy!

Gently strolling along the garden path, out of her usual bounds nonetheless she moved confidently and assuredly. Her absence however caused anarchy in the household for the dearly loved creature could come to harm, they called her ‘Poppy’ and rather charmingly she is held in high esteem. Whilst her journey didn’t last as prolonged as feared, since the arrival of the postman by the name of Nigel whom bellowed his usual “Good morning, my dears” to the young sisters of the establishment- Amelia and Charlotte Wiggins without realizing the advancing four legged black spotted Poppy. Such hilarity regined when the mother of the children, Belinda ran like a duck through hazy grass to the feet of the animal before picking it up with moments to spare from being flattened.

The following chaos ensured that Poppy would never walk in that direction again, she was told and that a chicken coop would have to be built. For its creation, the local carpenter Andrew Dudgeon had to be called immediately, “Would you be a gentleman and encroach our garden path to build an extremely important settlement for our roving pest, Poppy the Guinea Pig?” she questioned with great hope for a positive response.

“Of course I shall, Miss Wiggins. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow afternoon perhaps?” he answered amicably despite the curiosity of whether or not she has realized his lust for her, and merely envisaged seeing her in typical flowery attire with beautiful hair curled to perfection. Mr Dudgeon is only 25 and yet, he’s seen many vicious things in such a short span of life whilst on duty in the Falkland’s in the Royal Navy. He returned unscathed thankfully and shan’t remain a worrying hindrance to his family as a fully established carpenter in his village of Hunmanby; located on the English coast midst the picturesque surroundings of North Yorkshire.

The children happily ran amok around the house in glee at such an esteemed gentleman beckoning such arrival, a carpenter! He could build them such marvellous furnishings or a summerhouse that’d be much admired in the context of their sparse garden since the shed of their father has gone. He is much missed, following his tragic death in a car accident on the A64. “Oh Amelia, just imagine a huge tree house or rocking horse for us!” Charlotte exclaimed with such ferocity that she almost burst with joy.

However their mother, haunted by past misdemeanours and triviality of recently losing her teaching position at the local school due to financial cut-backs which left her incredibly upset is in no mood for romance. She even labelled her life to her dear beloved friend, Katherine as being an "Elizabethan tragedy slowly strangled by the masquerading Norman Bates!” in the shape of her loathed landlord, Henry who took no pity on their unfortunate situation.

Unbeknown to her, the children gathered Poppy and began their plans to entice the local carpenter through the medium of an apple pie filled with heart shaped sweets that they believed would make him fall in love with her. All they needed was their grandmother to prepare them a cake so onwards to the bus stop. They had to remind Poppy she is sadly not allowed to venture outside on their exertion so Amelia patted her and placed her on the mantelpiece of all places!

A New Beginning...

As the first blog of the New Year and is it plausible that a greater need to exert panegyric and positiveness in the upcoming decade rather than dismissing optimistic foes could occur? Let's hope so, no more masked insults and in-sincerity. In an ideal society, the media end their assault of those who continue to disappoint, shock and insult our heritage and focus on reflecting on the potential. Starting with those capable of grace, wit and accomplishment with a bright future ahead of them; not just comedians, writers and actors as noted by various newspapers deciding upon their predictable list of those who shall shine in the upcoming year much like their meaningless reflections of the past decade. Allow more emphasis on unrecognized hardworking heroes of society; the council workers who gritted our streets (those who did so), the bus drivers who many rely upon to travel to work and so forth and most certainly charity volunteers that form the basis of any hope for that particular charity. Let's be inspired and moved not emotionally drained or blame others for our predicament. Let's end the hypocrisy which still runs amok in the media; Polly Toynbee has lately angered me. She has form for such occurrences and now once again criticizing the Labour Party on the first day of 2010 without hope for a regenerative effort but to pile more misery on us:


http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/jan/01/death-wish-brown-crash-labour


To call Brown, 'delusional' speaks of nothing but bitter undertones. Yet she cannot hide behind her statistics and elegant manner; her hatred blinds her journalistic instinct which we saw just 3 years ago in this article that roundly backs Gordon Brown which appears to be unbeknown to her. Whilst I accept many have changed opinions on New Labour over the course of the last reign or seek active change, one must wonder what has caused her to change ethos so drastically. Perhaps her glamorous mansion in Hampshire has lost tremendous value in the downturn or her chef demands higher pay or deeming the NHS as completely in-efficient on the basis of a friend's opinion so it's Labours fault which is ironic considering here she bellows nothing but staunch support:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2007/sep/21/comment.politics

Interesting, isn't it? I rather liked 'of all the qualities that Brown's party will welcome him for next week, still the greatest may be simply that he is not Tony Blair' which shows her complete naivety in light of the success he offered and whilst he embarked on tackling the apparently harmless Iraqi regime, I still believe he did the best he could do for our proud kingdom. To discount his efforts, talk up Brown like a fully fledged Brownite then merely discredit all association of support in the latest article shows how in-fulfilled her life must be: following the trend and jumping on any bandwagon that passes her by. And this is what must be stopped. People should form their own opinion, establish collective views on a range of topics from the NHS, foreign policies and the dreaded economy before discussing matters with friends, relatives and co-workers before voting rather than read this grovel. I wilfully wish for the day more thought provoking, interesting and coherent articles are printed/available online such as this:


http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2010/jan/02/katherine-hibbert-living-without-money 

A moving account of a squatter whom resides in the abandoned plains of British streets whilst scavenging for food in such inventive ways. She was formerly a journalist who lost her job and became introduced to a world in which most of us gladly would avoid; imagine a life of no money exchanges just pure natural habitat or darkened flat whilst eating the remains of a cafe's lunch hour service via their bins and sitting upon a armchair left stranded outside Mrs Smith's down the road. The sad state of our homing departments lead to this as in London , another issue rarely discussed: homelessness is on the rise. It's not that these people wouldn't happily work; I see many of them in this city with smiles on their faces even in such dire situations that defy any hope of employment as they do not have a fixed address.


Ultimately, it's the article allows us to contemplate how well-off we are. For instance, like many millions in this country, my joyful New Year celebrations occurred midst the cosy surroundings of my apartment filled with laughter, plenty of food and drink and the next day, I felt terribly guilty for those who had no one or nothing as such community shows how irrelevant material goods are which the author attempted to illustrate. Rather than dwell on her misfortune, she plunged all her efforts into shelter centres and finding food whilst still remaining healthy, energetic and most importantly, happy. How many of our entrepreneur, business type millionaires in this country can truthfully say they are happy? It's reminiscent of the Channel 4 show 'Secret Millionaire' and the communities they meet change their lives.

Allow 2010 to change your life for the good whilst appreciating those around you.

New Year Approaches...

As 2009 draws to a close, some will claim it was undoubtedly the worse year of their lives whilst others draw on the ideals of Jean-Jacques Rosseau whom I've learned about as I encountered a philosophy book belonging to my studious (in the field of alcohol, maybe) younger sister. He believed in the fundamental value of all human beings and if still alive, 300 years on, he'd even lend support to corrupt MPs, anti-global warming law evoking establishments, greedy bankers, Tony Blair and Chelsea Football Club. As I write an essay on Shakespeare and Gender, I realise the theatrical view of life isn't too far-fetched from reality as this year has shown some of the finest art and literature, masterful musical talents for a long while whilst on a pitiful side; the worse sincerity since time began when Sir Fred Goodwin attempted to apologise for his extravagant pay-off. What are your overriding memories of the year before us?

In 20 days time, I shall no longer be 20 years of age but 21. I find myself in a rare state of palpitated calm as I collect hazy memories of the past 12 months with the love of a wonderful person who has changed my view on life and I no longer hold everything in disdain (well, just a few things). It's ironic that in classical literature as I've displayed all year long, we can find similarities in characteristics, ideology and situations as I have just done so with Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing. When he said to his beloved Beatrice, 'in my heart that I had not a hard heart, for, truly I love none' which is how I felt before meeting my lady in a Angela Carter lecture. I didn't retain venomous hatred as I thought it was just...I hadn't a care in the world and certainly didn't love anything outside of my family yet she changed that just as Beatrice did for Benedick and Elizabeth for Mr Darcy (as highlighted in this blog, 4 months ago).


http://dementedtales.blogspot.com/2009/09/new-beginnings.html


For those who have yet to find love, that old saying 'your time will soon come' is quite apt if not patronising. I mean who actually believes in destiny? I certainly didn't 12 months ago but I'm now more inclined to believe in fate; I came to current University without a single idea about my long term future as I blindly stumbled onto a course. It wasn't until a few senior figures suggested I'd be an ideal role model and should consider a training to be a Teacher of the Deaf. Then again urging me to stay earlier on the year as I became disillusioned and since I've become engrossed in what I feel is my pathway because as we look back, we must look forward.


And it was on a jaunt through the snow covered hills of North Yorkshire through the most picturesque surroundings and villages towards Helmsley, I realized that I wished to live in a remote stone-built house with many books, floating devices that serve my food and children running around the place but first I must get a degree. I wish you all the best in your new years resolutions and remember absent relatives, friends whilst partying the night away in style.

Happy New Years, everyone.

Snowin' in Paradize...

Ah Christmas is well and truly here, since last blogging I've enjoyed and loathed the entire festive excitement in equal measure. From shopping and family gatherings, early exchanges of presents amongst housemates and partner before returning home to the white opacity and thickened snow in rural North Yorkshire. With the weather heightening the anxiousness with the crazily busy motorways whom very much like my father ignored warnings presumably to gather stocking fillers which drove me to near capitulation as I only required a few goods and yet it took insane amounts of time. Christmas is more than just materialistic greed and profiteering perhaps timely for our recession ending hopes of which Ireland has emerged from smilingly (my bitterness over this holds no bounds, the fecking Irish for Christ sake!).

However, the drive home was a pleasure accompanied by those closest to me and numerous aligned motors travelling at such a speed that was thought non-existent from the days of horse and cart and the fecund years of the Italian Renaissance with periods of traffic blockage to rival that of the Eurostar mayhem. I didn't mind terribly as aided by a surprisingly good selection of tunes on the iPod of my girlfriend's (who has heard of Manu Chao?) 'Rainin' in Paradize' is a top record along with the usual Morrisey, Artic Monkeys and Foo Fighters whom I was dragged to Manchester to see once. Also the vastness of the winter wonderland I returned to, adapted to the title above, with various scenes of dolefulness from the children slow sledging down the hilly surroundings with the sun appearing rather persistently to create an aura of tranquility and beauty of which I shall reveal once images have emerged from the digital camera.

Incidentally, looking upon this blog I've just realized that of all my recent charming pictures uploaded, none surprisingly contained a sexual looking woman. So that's part of the reason for Keira Knightley on the left hand side but also due to her play that I mentioned a few weeks ago, an adaption of a favourite of mine, Molière's Misanthrope set in the modern era opened last week and by the sounds of it isn't worth venturing to London to see. Not that I'd be allowed to, according to my strange dream the other night as I was in court for originally driving offences (no licence, insurance and dangerously swerving) whilst proclaiming my innocence as I stated I was merely taking a cab driver to hospital after he was stabbed by a irate passenger in a dispute over a fare. Ultimately, he comes out of intensive care only to point the finger at me! So I'm charged for attempted murder as well as driving like a lunatic, my hopes of teaching absconded and the family disown me, where do I go from there? We shall see...

Merry Christmas and a happy new year, everyone. I hope you have a bundle of fun over the coming weeks even if I shall be conflicting with emotions of schadenfreude as usual!

‘Wine robs a man of his self-possession: opium greatly invigorates it’

Within my previous blog on Wales, I mentioned Confessions of an English Opium Eater, as De Quincey spirals from fantasy to realism through self dramatic prose. After the heartbreaking grievances following deaths of his father, siblings, children and wife you begin to imagine why he would impart upon the feeling of guilt yet he doesn’t excuse his opium addiction or earlier at Eton, wine as he writes ‘infirmity and misery do not, of necessity, imply guilt’ and ‘Guilt, therefore, I do not acknowledge’ when incidentally the deep anguish inside of him only reveals itself within the depths of his imagination and most surely lead to such a dependence.

Following yesterday’s collection of our essays, it spelled underachievement and disappointment. I need to be getting ‘A’s and ‘B’s not just below as these grades signal those being able to teach, PGCE’s are for the superior students yet my overly elaborate, hugely researched and hurriedly organized pieces are becoming my wine, my opium. I feel, even if this is just the first semester and there’s a long way to go yet, that I have hindered my hopes and there is nothing but anguish inside of me. The end of the year and all students are exhausted, bitterly upset but many have such ability that they will perform much better and could find masses of career options whereas mine is strictly the one: teaching English to the hard of hearing.

My little petite friend, like many others are in the same pernicious situation but at the opposite end of the scale, throughout her four years at the University and swapping from interpreting to teaching she has achieved mainly ‘B’s which will lead her to the elusive 2:1 that is required however now faces the results from two assessments of critical importance that could hamper her development thus lose her prospective enrolment at another University which already had over 2,000 applicants and she found herself being one of 100 chosen for just interviews. Now, that’s pressure.

The transgressive nature emerges through the depth of his sorrow after initially suppressing any forces of doubt attempting to reason with the reader referring to fellow users. Likewise I have distracted myself from any doubt over my future with the amount of reading, writing for various publications thus travelling to various cities also for charity work and socializing; finding employment in a school however is my greatest obstacle it should begin next year will ultimately take up much more of my time. Is it too early to presume my inevitable downfall? At 20 years old, I'm in lecture halls surrounded by likewise aged, disappointed faces and the minority who got the high marks were mostly at least 4, 5 years older than us and presumably read so much more in their lifetime, experienced more and perhaps more apt for teaching yet they do not even realise what they wish to do whereas I do and it tears me apart.

You see, De Quincey had vivid nightmares thanks to his sordid drug abuse, there was deep anxiety found inside of him that ‘literally to descend, into chasms and sunless abysses, depths below depths, from which it seemed hopeless that I could ever re-ascend’ and equally I find myself imagining all sorts of depressing thoughts and wondered if the fortune teller who got so much information spot on, is correct in her observation I shall find myself working for the Police rather than teaching.

Turner Prize: And the winner is...

Richard Wright, the outsider whom I hoped to win due to his admirable ethos and endeavour. Rather than conceptional designs or modernization he seeks pleasures from medieval ways and below is his gold leaf piece, rather stunning isn't it? I've written before of my adoration for the Renaissance period of literature and art which has shown it's vitality over the past year and many outstanding artists emerging yet as Wright's win proves, age doesn't matter- I'm 20 years old and my writing shan't reach it's peak for many years (before I perish in a hotel fire as my frightful imagination whenever I close my eyes reveals). As for the piece itself it could do with a name and with Carol Ann Duffy presenting the award, I'm sure she'd thought of something worthwhile to label it but on a side note-she looked rather stressed and perhaps the joys of sherry and poetry are getting to her. Another problem being Wright's name as it's synonymous with a dead musician at least at 49, he won the prestigious title in admittedly his last possible chance yet one hope it's not the last we see of him...

Of course the other artists had interesting views and ideas in particular: the intriguing manner of Roger Hiorns and the whale's skull by Lucy Skaer (I'll be honest, she wasn't as pretty looking as her name suggests). It showed, firstly the talent dripping through and secondly the merits of the competition and hopefully it's revitalisation in a depressing climate whereby people wish to be inspired and stunned even for a brief fragment of time much like Wright's piece which will soon disintegrate. It is perhaps symbolic, his artwork will not last 5 months nor will it be seen by many juxtaposed with a distant legacy as it'll fail to outshine the financial crisis and climate talks but it'll keep us joyfully entertained for now as 2009 nears an end.

Especially required now Christmas shall soon rear it's ugly overly inflated head, have we all purchased our presents yet? Typically, as a man I haven't and not probably won't until I damn well have to but spare a thought for poor old Tiger Woods- that's alot of presents he'll have to buy thanks to his transgressions and his black book must be filled with numbers of available, sex-hungry and money influenced ladies so perhaps that'd be a neat gift for a cousin or someone. Let's hope his sorry ass disappears sooner rather than later and the tabloids return to normality... there's more chance of Wright's art dealer, Larry Gagosian suddenly revealing he is in fact, a woman. At least the semester comes to a close on Thursday with Shakespeare with one more assignment to hand in...

Harsh realities set in...

After a unremarkable day of lectures, the distant recollection of the calm weekend have ceased to exist and the impregnable hatred of all around me has returned. Forming a bond of complete ignorance and incompetence, our University tutors ladies and gentleman... one of which, upon marking my research proposal has created a new letter, a cross between 'A' and 'B' revealing a strange Japanese letter shape and in the confusion, nor do I realise I have the highest mark or second. Her explanation for such tawdry marking is due to the masses she has to produce, 78, whilst referring to the complexity of my writing which she finds overly confusing. It seems I have to abide their principles thus writing how I feel it should be wrote- nullified in order to grasp high grades at the cost of high intelligence.

Of all the rioting, conferences and deaths in the evening news; this topic is the one that frequently pops up, deaths on school-trips or in this case hiking for a youth organization. The poor girl stood no chance, the group should in hindsight had returned home from the moors and returned home yet one unfortunate slip lead to her untimely death with a shocking body temperature of 'less than 30C'. This happened to me once, on a school jaunt with the temperatures well in the minus and unaware I was utterly freezing as At 13 year old I wasn't too bothered then on a long hike covered in blisters and shaking yet fought on only to slip into a river almost floated away as my diminutive self of non-existent swimming ability evaporated in the strong current.

Luckily I was surrounded by good teachers who pulled me out otherwise I would've perished then concerned I'd be suffering from pneumonia as had done before at 3 years old but once again, quick thinking allowed me to be wrapped up and taken away without a fuss. In this instant, the girls were left unsupervised and the weather was appalling. Surely this shouldn't have happened but as one of life's expectancies, things happen that we cannot fathom only mourn her loss and retain vilified anger over the mis-management and carelessness.

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/article6947512.ece

'Wales is the land of my fathers. And my fathers can have it'..

A fabulous weekend spent in the depths of lands previously unconquered, a place I found to be ultimately relaxing, inspiring yet deadly concerning as despite it's lively nightlife (some nice bars and clubs however avoid Ice , the most mediocre club in the UK.) It's suffering financially with many shops closing as the shopping centre featuring typical favourites thrive and it's regeneration plans as the City looks no nearer to achieving the targets set. Whilst on the train through the darkness upon returning, I scribbled down a poem explaining my thoughts of Cardiff and Swansea prior to bypassing the likes of Bridgend which isn't a particularly enjoyable place to live by any means.

The poem itself, utterly terrible and as you can see I thought it'd be a chance to experiment rather than follow Thomas' structure with a disarrangement of syllables as hypermetrical lines appear with no thought for rhythm and yet it enabled the poem to find stability within complete chaos (much like the places I saw desperately trying to build a future) whilst the present is uncertain. Strangely, I was reading Thomas De Quincey's Confessions at the time so the poem is inscribed within another complex character's retelling experience of opium whilst Dylan Thomas liked a drink hence the first line is due to him possibly deserving a posthumous knighthood, not only for his poetry but disclosure of thoughts as the title quote shows, well in my opinion anyway.

The home of my idol (Sir) Dylan Thomas,
I transpired through the fields of splendour,
Amongst distant hilly lands thus unemployment harass,
Extenuated by Industrialism galore,
As the ageing ships and fisherman boats pass,
Beautiful surroundings upon the shore,

Now a strong wind blows there’s a sinking feeling,
Fine baroque features and marina tarnished,
As the unpolished regenerative effort is left reeling,
Equivocally economic woes mis-managed,
A City of such history empowering,
The home of my idol Dylan Thomas.

Due to the close proximity of the hotel to the marina, the refreshing sea air lead to thoughts of the Copenhagen summit that'll decide the future aims of combating global warming. I thought of a short story to write called Modern Dilemma, as Government shenanigans (inspired by the Thick of It and recent idiotic behaviour by MPs) and coinciding with concise lack of action to solve climate change with an intense rivalry as subplot. Alarmingly, the story isn't too unrealistic with places like the North Yorkshire coast whereby I was brought up with waves pounding any defence in place into submission and once habituated by natural forces as a means of displaying it's powers lead to a hotel crumbling away as this article pinpoints:

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/environment-when-england-falls-into-the-sea-who-picks-up-the-bill-1233625.html

Look at the date on that, 1997 and imagine how this shall be regularly occurring in the future so in the last decade or so no huge improvements on sea defences over the years. Why, perhaps money is tight enough or it's not seen as required at this moment in time? It's incredibly worrying as the weather and Chinese/American polluted air will worsen without unprecedented action.

News Just In: I've Quit The Union Newspaper...

of which I was formerly editor and in doing so I took on the role of Malcolm as seen below from the brilliant Thick of It by stating the draft copy of the latest issue as being 'a consummate piece of fucking incompetence’. So I lambasted the layout designer (put in place by the Union, not me!) for not only the shocking appearance but writing an article openly criticizing the newly elected Diversity officer which the Student Union approved of! A complete embarrassment on her behalf and a shame as the rest of the team assembled did rather well and managed to do some good pieces, I interviewed a top upcoming band and wrote many pieces whilst editing yet the additional articles by the friend of the electoral runner up was horrendously biased and so hurriedly written that I didn't know where to start editing. The underling matter, we were censored from the off and I couldn't stand for any more perhaps I'll look back on this as a moment of madness but for now, I must concentrate on my partner, the degree and charity work with duties as a best man to my brother's wedding to fulfill.

Malcolm played by the inch perfect Peter Capaldi and the writers specifically Armando Iannucci whom I've mentioned before on his excellent Paradise Lost documentary, won one BAFA in 2006 but the new series shows a continuous theme of mayhem with the stellar cast and dynamic, witty dialogue that must be roundly praised for it's ingenuity. From Series One for instance of which I hugely agree with Hugh Abbot played by Chris Langham (according to Ewar), smiling should be banned:

Hugh Abbott: I want a new driver. Get me a new driver. I don't wanna see this guy ever again.

Glenn Cullen: On what grounds?

Hugh: Smiling! Inappropriate smiling! And smirking! Smiling and smirking! I don't wanna see that smile or smirk ever again, OK?

Other news, I shall soon be starting a new placement at an nearby school with a hard of hearing unit arranged by my employers of the Black County Scheme (start soon as the school get the funding to pay me) whom say I'd be ideal role model for the hearing and D/deaf alike so should be a great experience. So an interesting weekend, prior to the dramatic turn of events that took place, I spent the day in Liverpool with the lady visiting Tate Gallery and the museum, walking along the splendid Albert Docks and taking in the architecture and modernity of the largely inspired city following the award of City of Culture in 2008.

How did your weekend go? Do comment, I feel my blog is rather naked without the comments of you dear readers and I'd quite like to know if you feel I acted in the right manner. I'm considering sending an email to the layout designer who supposedly had years of experience of writing for an obscure online publication which doesn't even exist according to Google and as a 30 year old she acted irresponsibly whilst spelling disgracefully through out. Perhaps I'll say ‘By flying so close to your bright sun, like Icarus, I could have crashed to the earth and died but escaped thankfully'. Or is that quite overly dramatic and I should keep my head held high and leave things be?

Goodnight.

There is light at the end of the tunnel...

An update on the Union newspaper of which I'm the editorial mastermind (haha) so for those who may be interested, read on... The utter failure of my PR staff has lead to many missed opportunities but no more so than the Little Boots interview that agents willfully got in touch about and would've arranged something for us yet no one responded nor informed me. Now many of us have completed various assignments for our degrees we can concentrate on making a success of this yet I doubt they are overly concerned so I've taken it upon myself to arrange such meetings, bookings and check/respond/delete over 300 emails, sent many to possible contributors and bands we could help promote whilst clearing the clutter and editing various articles which primarily is my job.

However, I'm fairly confident this can be a successful jaunt with many pieces I've written (fashion, political observation, events also news. disability charity update) and shall announce a meeting next week to discuss it all before print then look for more contributors so if you wish to write something no matter what the topic is then email us at: crywolf2009@hotmail.co.uk

The picture of course is Dylan Thomas, the famous Welsh poet in a stylish attire complete with a neat cravat that reminds me I must purchase some to complete my brooding looks. I shall be visiting his house soon as I'm taking the lady on an early December romantic visit of Wales before Christmas followed by a return home to the delightful setting of North Yorkshire to celebrate the birth of Christ. Next week however shall see more University woes with several lectures before visiting London once again for Youth Workers Party and discussions also a weekend trip to Liverpool with the lady. Plenty to be getting on with but as Thomas once said 'He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest'.

Talking of the North West, it is there where the flash floods has caused havoc, the tragic news of the policeman swept away http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/article6925387.ece was just terrible. An awful way to die however an heroic act under the duty of his profession and he shan't be forgotten. Rest in Peace.

'Anger is never without a reason, but seldom with a good one...

Another quote by Benjamin Franklin, oh how I admire him. I have a reason for such high inflated sense of aggression- firstly the mundane task on defending either Adam or Eve over their role within the Fall attributed to Paradise Lost that our class must undertake and the Manchester Fiction Prize (if you recall I entered over the summer period two short stories that I took two, three months to write whenever I had a moment to spare). Over 1700 entered from across the Globe and of course I wasn't expecting to win, a dream riddled with doubt nevertheless imagine my surprise at such a list of those shortlisted and whom ultimately became successful.

As a lowly student of 20 years of age and profoundly deaf amongst the literacy wannabes and heavyweights I had no chance. Still, in my naviety, I passionately imagined to be at the award ceremony in a Ralph Lauren suit glaring at those who applauded me and delivering a speech that would knock them off their silky socks prompting them to spill their chateau wine over M&S bought attire. But no, it was never going to happen amongst the calibre of opponents many of which I've never heard and judging by their short stories, ever wish to hear of. Make no mistake, I don't even wish to be a writer but a teacher yet I couldn't possibly bring myself to accept that my stories weren't worth their time as I believed that they were especially considering the tales that deemed success worthy. Taken from the winning story a fairly wonderful piece of literature by Toby Litt, 'a very big black cock, uncircumcised, with a pink bell-end that – when exposed – looked the colour black flesh does when third-degree-burned or napalmed' so there you go truly inspiring as I'm sure you'll agree...

To summarize, I'm not bitter nor envious but angered that a tale about 'fucking' won the title that I ambitiously dreamt about winning- the Young Person's Writers Award won incidentally by a 24 year old teacher from my birthplace of Leeds. Goes by the name of Halmshaw who I'm sure is a fantastic chap with a sharp wit that'd cut my fingers yet the promiscuity of his story doesn't particularly impress me. For instance his opening line: 'It’s impossible to meet women here,’ Petrov says. ‘You talk to a barmaid and she thinks you want to fuck her. Sometimes you do want to fuck her – this is when you’re really screwed. Or you see a woman at the bar. Even if all you want to do is pass the time, she thinks you want to fuck her'. I was positively stunned at the distastefulness and quite brazen way in which the story is conveyed haunted by it's lack of charm. How could he possibly think anyone over the age of 16 and under the age of... 12, would read on? It tried so desperately to be 'cool', certainly isn't demure staddled with a Fight Club complex and a wishful dialogue that neither enhances the story nor does it bring anything but pure disdain and I'm sure my girlfriend would feel the same if she was conscious at this moment (no, I haven't killed her in a rage she's merely sleeping).

Just for kicks, compare it with the opening lines to my entered stories:

- In the Hazy Days of the 1940's, I wrote ' It’s 1943; the war that started on a whim has ravaged the nation with battles still being fought and lives of staggering magnitude lost. In the maddened wind, three men walk over wearily; they are Flight Lieutenants Edward Holmes, Bill Chamberlain and Frederick Lynch of Royal Air Force No.617 Squadron'

- In Vendetta of Silence, 'Placed in a darkened interview room the alleged murderer is at the receiving end of a bombardment of questions by the ruthless Detective Inspector Kuzneski with such intent to immediately provoke his suspect from his comfort within a languid world. On a table were four pictures of recent victims to a brutal dual murder and then just the one of a sullen corspe of what was once, a beautiful woman'

Which would you envisage upon reading onwards with? My setback shan't halt my sideline writing progression as all famous and respected writers had to overcome barriers and fruitless success in various competitions. My main aim is to encourage my students to write, allow their imagination and talent to flourish despite our lack of hearing much like parents hope for the best for their children and I'm determined not to let them down upon my return to Leeds for a Masters in a couple of years. Yet I shall always wonder what shall become of that competition and why such renowned writers overlooked the potential of unknown writers in bid to promote the talents of god-awful writers with the flair of a rotting wall plant draped with human faceas.

As you can see, I'm a perfectly charming person! I bid you good day, take care.

Syntactic Hell to Idiotic Twittering...

Forgive the acronym, it's quite late and I feel like well... nevermind that, so how are we all? The weekend is virtually upon us, a joyous time it shall be for those of us with assignments due in today. On the subject of which, I'm nearing the completion of the third essay of the week on the linguistics of British Sign Language (synatic structure, word class e.t.c) which is a lot more complex than expected so I shall submit it in the afternoon rather than in this early morning hour. A written language, on the other hand, has to convey a message simply with words, clauses and sentences thus relies heavily on more or less strict set of grammar rules. It should've been done, seeing as I cannot blame Robert Enke's suicide (which did shock me and concern me!) I shall confess that distractions since the Shakespearean lecture yesterday evening with Plashing Vole halted my pragmatic and phonological analysis.

Primarily the loud music, company of the lady and housemates either cooking with or sitting watching an Italian gangster film on the plasma, the award winning Romanzo Criminale based on Giancarlo De Cataldo’s 2002 novel featuring a fine soundtrack and cast. Highly recommended with subtitles of course and in the words of Lebanese 'I can't stand posh bastards'. Even when eventually onto the laptop typing up my drivel it leads to taking a look upon the Times, Guardian and Manchester United websties along with irrelvance of Facebook and checking emails then of course blogspot....

Never shall I succumb to Twitter as my personal disgust at the utterances of random people every damn second hold no boundaries. However it seems the Twitter revolution shall become a television enterprise according to the Times. A rarity, a twitter account of actual comic innervation: a 72 year old American named Samuel renowned for his witticisms and verbal brutality shall be the inspiration thanks to his son's twittering such lines as my personal favourite: "Who in the fuck is tila tequila? Is she a stripper?...That's her? Yeah, that's a stripper, son, I don't give a shit what you say."

http://twitter.com/shitmydadsays

An American unafraid to voice his worthless opinion to one who is frightened of peripatetic chaos and losing public support: Barack Obama and the Afghanistan war which I still view as essential yet more troops risked rather then pulling them out. It reminds me of the words of Milton, ‘Your change approaches, when all these delights/ will vanish and deliver ye to woe’ (IV, 367-8) said Satan to Adam and Eve. So will Obama live to regret ever becoming President? They said his honeymoon period was over weeks ago, what's this then? As Samuel said to his son: 'Son, marriage is about not having to lie about taking a shit'.... is Barack shitting us? Are the Americans therefore we, the Brits his allies, shitting him? Does anyone give a fuck?

Goodnight.

"All this haste of midnight march"...

The quote proclaimed by Satan whilst whipping his rebels into a frenzy in Book V of Paradise Lost. Hopefully shall be the last I mention of the much unadorned epic (certainly amongst my classmates who desest it) as my latest assignment is at it's end but so too is the life of a good man hence another reasoning behind the quote. The shock passing of Robert Enke the German footballer, leading to my stringing LACK of haste to complete the work sub-consciously allowing my work ethic to flounder at this early morning hour as such a kind natured man overcome with grief ended a full life buoyed by his footballing talent and family:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2009/nov/10/robert-enke-germany-died

Television channel ARD reports that the site of Enke's death was a mere 200 metres from the grave of his daughter, incredibly saddening. He leaves a loving wife and adopted daughter whom I presume was introduced to lessen the deep hole after the little girl died of a rare heart problem. My condolences are marred by thought to whether he received enough support during his mental torment which forced him to miss many matches, the finest German keeper at the time aged just 32. Manchester United wanted him a few years ago and in some ways, I wish we bought him not only for his outstanding talent and fact he could've been an almost ideal replacement for a crazed Frenchman we had thus installing stability yet also the quasi-political sense that he may still be alive.

Now that's off my chest, onwards with the essays. I'm not surprised however to hear of this boom, a revolution within theatres across the UK. I've attended a fair few shows in recent months which something I've not done since school years as it's a high quality (when done rightly with a good cast) interactive form of entertainment that television, film and even watching people stagger home drunkenly does not offer. It's quite reasonably priced especially in comparison with getting drunk on a whim in a obscure nightclub I tend to grace nearby, far greater to learn from the classics perhaps reading certain modern novels- I'd certainly wish to see Shakespearean classics that I'm studying at this moment especially after thoroughly enjoying an Hamlet performance years ago. Interestingly at the bottom at the article: 'The Misanthrope Keira Knightley makes her West End debut in Molière’s classic. Comedy, SW1'. The exact play I mentioned last month as a source of inspiration and I'm sure it'll be wildly entertaining so tell me if you wish to go.

Burgeoning Aspirations...

After a weekend of remembrance for those brave men and women who served our nation so well including relatives and friends of my family, it's worth noting that they died fighting for our security, future and aspirations alongside Allied troops from Americans, Canadians and many more. That said Churchill would be ashamed by the behaviour of Gordon Brown at the weekend; his non-bow at the ceremony has been highlighted and now the letter he sent in a hurry to a victim's family citing many spelling errors but it shows a personal touch at least and yet he receives more criticism. Even if he wrote a poem with perfect dactylic hexameter about the joys of Britain with tribute to our favourite past-times, celebrities and sports whilst dismissing fellow Scots as 'vile', we'd still be on his back as we collectively despise him.

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/Afghanistan/article6909326.ece

Why though? No, it's not his appearance or lack of charm but mainly down to the fact Brown won't pull out the troops with the death toll increasing. Nevertheless it shows the important to live life to the full. these soldiers are fighting for our right to do as we please without fear. They are facing adversaries, some of the most sadistic men on Earth in the most dogged of terrain just so we can walk to the shop without apprehension. Rightly I felt we invaded both Iraq and Afghanistan, the Iraq War for instance was required to dilute the threat Saddam Hussein posed. One thing for certain, our country shall never forget their service especially in the Great War and fight against the Nazis.

I've been informed about a Cricket World Cup for the Deaf to be placed in New Zealand, training for the England side takes place in the New Year in a wonderful setting of Shrewsbury. Now I'm not a cricketer as such and the technical skills I retain in football I have developed over the years whilst respecting others however I did not hence the lengthy ban at sixth form. Yet the chance to escape to a country I've always wished to visit, win a competition and bring home the trophy is too much to bear so I shall hope to make the team.