I'm doing nothing
and doing nothing while i'm doing it
well
i'm getting ash on the floor,
and allowing my cups to gather dust,
and letting the rips in my jeans get bigger with each footstep,
and watching the lamp bleach grey the black CD boxset underneath its glare,
and draining the national grid of electricity,
and selecting songs to listen to,
and thinking,
it's hard work,
doing nothing.
Sunday, 22 February 2009
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Bows, Buttons and Sushi
What was it that I first saw?
To be honest, I can't remember all that well.
She filled me in on the details.
Like Bowie, she looked different every time i saw her.
But still,
everything about her was her.
and from then on, everything was her.
Even in the cold, mist, and fog streaming from the muddy brown Mersey,
just holding her hand made me warm
and it was probably only a streetlight
but it looked like a halo.
and so to plans for the future.
We're growing up, growing big,
and if we want it enough
we'll do it together.
To be honest, I can't remember all that well.
She filled me in on the details.
Like Bowie, she looked different every time i saw her.
But still,
everything about her was her.
and from then on, everything was her.
Even in the cold, mist, and fog streaming from the muddy brown Mersey,
just holding her hand made me warm
and it was probably only a streetlight
but it looked like a halo.
and so to plans for the future.
We're growing up, growing big,
and if we want it enough
we'll do it together.
An open message to workers striking this week
A union organised strike is positive action.
It is collaborating in a socially organised way to achieve positive goals.
However.
What is currently happening all over England is neither positive, nor is it socially conscious.
You fucking Stella swigging Pink-eyed arseholes are missing one key thing.
English people don't seem to want to work.
Yesterday, because of some light snow that any Eastern European would consider little more than icing dusted on cake, 1/5 of the British workforce did not show up for their jobs.
That's 20% of just under 30,000,000 people. I'll let your kids do the maths.
Furthermore, your cries of "them foreigners been takin' our jobs" is a tad unfounded, and a totally crippled excuse, as of this 30,000,000 strong workforce, 300,000 are foreign nationals.
They work harder, for longer, and with less self-righteous whining.
Who in their right minds would actually employ you? And why has this not been brought up before? Is it the reform of the benefit system? Is it the recession? Have you realised you actually have to get up off your fat arses and actually do some work?
Arthur Scargill must be ashamed.
It is collaborating in a socially organised way to achieve positive goals.
However.
What is currently happening all over England is neither positive, nor is it socially conscious.
You fucking Stella swigging Pink-eyed arseholes are missing one key thing.
English people don't seem to want to work.
Yesterday, because of some light snow that any Eastern European would consider little more than icing dusted on cake, 1/5 of the British workforce did not show up for their jobs.
That's 20% of just under 30,000,000 people. I'll let your kids do the maths.
Furthermore, your cries of "them foreigners been takin' our jobs" is a tad unfounded, and a totally crippled excuse, as of this 30,000,000 strong workforce, 300,000 are foreign nationals.
They work harder, for longer, and with less self-righteous whining.
Who in their right minds would actually employ you? And why has this not been brought up before? Is it the reform of the benefit system? Is it the recession? Have you realised you actually have to get up off your fat arses and actually do some work?
Arthur Scargill must be ashamed.
Monday, 5 January 2009
Students Today
Before I arrived at university, I had a romantic vision in my head; mainly of politically active, idealistic intellectuals who like to wear sweaters.
Then I came to Bournemouth.
During fresher’s week, I looked around at the political societies and saw nought but UKIP, Tory and New Labour. Are we really that apathetic? Where were the traditional leftist student groups? Where were the people who believed in change? Who saw the wrongs committed by their government and decided positive action was the way forward. People who GAVE A SHIT.
All I see is people who are far too fucking happy with their middle class, middle income homes. People who are far too stressed with the trivialities of their own comfortable lives to care about something which they don’t think they have a hand in.
They do.
Now, I’m not saying we be Communists or Anarchists, nothing quite so extreme, that’s not necessary. All we need is to be a little bit more aware. To know what’s going on. We need to believe that our actions can change things for the better. Because they can.
I’m not on about such clichés as taking on ‘the man’ or the Public Enemy Favourite ‘fight the power’, good activism starts at the grassroots level. Getting fair-trade food in the cafeterias (I know there already is, but hear me out, it’s hypothetical) is worth just as much as a major cultural change. Really, it is.
So let’s get it going, students of Bournemouth, let’s be young, and lets be crass enough to care.
Then I came to Bournemouth.
During fresher’s week, I looked around at the political societies and saw nought but UKIP, Tory and New Labour. Are we really that apathetic? Where were the traditional leftist student groups? Where were the people who believed in change? Who saw the wrongs committed by their government and decided positive action was the way forward. People who GAVE A SHIT.
All I see is people who are far too fucking happy with their middle class, middle income homes. People who are far too stressed with the trivialities of their own comfortable lives to care about something which they don’t think they have a hand in.
They do.
Now, I’m not saying we be Communists or Anarchists, nothing quite so extreme, that’s not necessary. All we need is to be a little bit more aware. To know what’s going on. We need to believe that our actions can change things for the better. Because they can.
I’m not on about such clichés as taking on ‘the man’ or the Public Enemy Favourite ‘fight the power’, good activism starts at the grassroots level. Getting fair-trade food in the cafeterias (I know there already is, but hear me out, it’s hypothetical) is worth just as much as a major cultural change. Really, it is.
So let’s get it going, students of Bournemouth, let’s be young, and lets be crass enough to care.
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
Generation (wh)Y
the philosophies of my generation, generation Y, do not, and will not come from the great academics or thinkers of our time. There will be no Kerouac to sum up our hopes and fears as he did in the '50s. No Orwell to comment on our political terrors as he did in the '30s. No Greer to campaign for the rights of a maligned people.
They do and will continue to come from everyday life, television, and songs.
30 Seconds of enlightenment for an accelerated culture.
In Spaced, Simon Pegg says that the family of the 21st Century is made up of friends, not relatives. and I have sat in too many living rooms, bedrooms, Pubs and fields, surrounded by beautiful people I love dearly; from broken homes and fractured families, to see this as anything but true.
They do and will continue to come from everyday life, television, and songs.
30 Seconds of enlightenment for an accelerated culture.
In Spaced, Simon Pegg says that the family of the 21st Century is made up of friends, not relatives. and I have sat in too many living rooms, bedrooms, Pubs and fields, surrounded by beautiful people I love dearly; from broken homes and fractured families, to see this as anything but true.
A Made Up Love Story Based on True Events
These two friends, right? Teresa and Steve? This is about them finding out about love.
For the first few years of Secondary School, and pretty much the remainders, Teresa and Steve were socially awkward. A few friends, a few acquaintances, not much else.
they met during a GCSE drama class, finding themselves to be kindred spirits, out among the plastic blondes eyeing up Talulah in Bugsy Malone, the sensitive guys pining for their inner Romeo, and the stoners too dumb to have taken Geography.
they drew to each other like estranged runts from the same litter. But everyone knows popularity is an empty accolade, right?
They made sure they were together for group work, sitting on the varnished Oak floor; backs resting on the smudged and dirty mirrors covering one half of the room. It was here they discussed scripts, stage directions and roles. It was here they talked about home, jobs, each other.
They drank in each others features. Steve's overlarge shaved head and fluffy chin. Teresa's heavy set, square jaw and oblong figure; the source of so much changing room ridicule. When they talked, they would stare into each others eyes. Teresa's Hazel iris, mixed and confused, striving to be two things at once. Steve's mud brown. Yough never know what you'll find at the bottom of a muddy pond though, right?
For these few hours each week, they were the popular epicenter of their own universe. They could escape from a place where everyone else mattered, to a place where only they mattered.
some time in January, when all the Christmas spirit had been drunk dry and the New Year's hangover remained like a sick, clingy toddler, Teresa and Steve were sat on the familiar floor watching the usual circus of idiocy in front of them; Students trying to bluff their way through an audition for 'West Side Story'.
"The only way these twats could get smarter was by fucking each other, one of them might acquire a few more braincells by getting pregnant", thought Steve.
"I wish my hips stuck out that much", thought Teresa.
Their turn came, their opportunity to broadcast their talent to the dramatic powers that be. they chose to perform 'Someday', the show's infamous duet between doomed lovers Tony and Maria.
Pitch perfect throughout, their faces wrought with devotion to the cause, and to each other. Every stressed syllable and elongated vowel dripping with emotion. Two nobodies reminding each other through Leonard Bernstein's music, that someday, somehow, they'll find a new way of living. Just the two of them.
The song ends, and so involved are they in their own world, this realm of fantasy made reality, that they don't even notice that are reenacting THAT kiss. It is not until the faint sounds of not-so canned laughter ring in their ears, that they realise what is happening.
So natural was the feeling of each others sould pouring from one mouth to the other, that mere mundane ridicule was surprising enough to wrench them apart. Drained, they sat down, unspeaking, awaiting their verdict.
10 minutes go by and all the main parts have been assigned to Rugby Captains, Choristers and the downright good looking. Then the list of those who made it into the chorus line. Their names going unmentioned.
Too accustomed at being overlooked, Teresa and Steve approached the drama teacher to see if there was some kind of mistake, had they not heard their names? Impossible with the amount their ears were straining.
The teacher looked on sympathetically, and said "I'm very sorry, you'll have to try again next year"
"what was wrong with it?" they demanded.
"It just seemed a bit too..."
"Yes?"
"Well... Fake"
For the first few years of Secondary School, and pretty much the remainders, Teresa and Steve were socially awkward. A few friends, a few acquaintances, not much else.
they met during a GCSE drama class, finding themselves to be kindred spirits, out among the plastic blondes eyeing up Talulah in Bugsy Malone, the sensitive guys pining for their inner Romeo, and the stoners too dumb to have taken Geography.
they drew to each other like estranged runts from the same litter. But everyone knows popularity is an empty accolade, right?
They made sure they were together for group work, sitting on the varnished Oak floor; backs resting on the smudged and dirty mirrors covering one half of the room. It was here they discussed scripts, stage directions and roles. It was here they talked about home, jobs, each other.
They drank in each others features. Steve's overlarge shaved head and fluffy chin. Teresa's heavy set, square jaw and oblong figure; the source of so much changing room ridicule. When they talked, they would stare into each others eyes. Teresa's Hazel iris, mixed and confused, striving to be two things at once. Steve's mud brown. Yough never know what you'll find at the bottom of a muddy pond though, right?
For these few hours each week, they were the popular epicenter of their own universe. They could escape from a place where everyone else mattered, to a place where only they mattered.
some time in January, when all the Christmas spirit had been drunk dry and the New Year's hangover remained like a sick, clingy toddler, Teresa and Steve were sat on the familiar floor watching the usual circus of idiocy in front of them; Students trying to bluff their way through an audition for 'West Side Story'.
"The only way these twats could get smarter was by fucking each other, one of them might acquire a few more braincells by getting pregnant", thought Steve.
"I wish my hips stuck out that much", thought Teresa.
Their turn came, their opportunity to broadcast their talent to the dramatic powers that be. they chose to perform 'Someday', the show's infamous duet between doomed lovers Tony and Maria.
Pitch perfect throughout, their faces wrought with devotion to the cause, and to each other. Every stressed syllable and elongated vowel dripping with emotion. Two nobodies reminding each other through Leonard Bernstein's music, that someday, somehow, they'll find a new way of living. Just the two of them.
The song ends, and so involved are they in their own world, this realm of fantasy made reality, that they don't even notice that are reenacting THAT kiss. It is not until the faint sounds of not-so canned laughter ring in their ears, that they realise what is happening.
So natural was the feeling of each others sould pouring from one mouth to the other, that mere mundane ridicule was surprising enough to wrench them apart. Drained, they sat down, unspeaking, awaiting their verdict.
10 minutes go by and all the main parts have been assigned to Rugby Captains, Choristers and the downright good looking. Then the list of those who made it into the chorus line. Their names going unmentioned.
Too accustomed at being overlooked, Teresa and Steve approached the drama teacher to see if there was some kind of mistake, had they not heard their names? Impossible with the amount their ears were straining.
The teacher looked on sympathetically, and said "I'm very sorry, you'll have to try again next year"
"what was wrong with it?" they demanded.
"It just seemed a bit too..."
"Yes?"
"Well... Fake"
Sunday, 2 November 2008
Joke's on Me
Thankyou, Jack Kerouac
for showing me
the immense damage alcohol consumption can do to your psyche
Paranoia, self loathing, crippling self doubt
You trapped in a cabin at Big Sur, is the same as me trapped in my cupboard sized room.
Going slowly insane.
At least you had a Donkey for company.
Fuck this, I'm going on the wagon.
Maybe i'll like myself then.
for showing me
the immense damage alcohol consumption can do to your psyche
Paranoia, self loathing, crippling self doubt
You trapped in a cabin at Big Sur, is the same as me trapped in my cupboard sized room.
Going slowly insane.
At least you had a Donkey for company.
Fuck this, I'm going on the wagon.
Maybe i'll like myself then.
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