Shaking the Rust Off.

So it's been a while since I posted on here. It was inevitable really. I lose interest in things so easily. I'm terrible like that and I'm sorry.

But this week has been strange. A whole cluster bomb of news set to divide and spark anger. All of which being the kind of thing that tends to force me to retreat. To hide from things which are too much for me to confront. But I've been doing that for a year now. I feel you deserve an explanation at some point.

What appears to have become highly prevalent in the year or so of coalition government is that people are speaking very openly about everything. Perhaps "austerity" is getting to people, causing them to find someone they can punish. This is not to say that they blame these people, because I imagine everyone knows that the people to blame are our apparent representatives on every level of the political scale but that it is beyond our ability to appropriately punish these individuals. So everyone has looked lower, back within their reach. That's where the fighting starts. From celebrities blaming their indiscretions on the devious journalists that hack their phones, to Tottenham kids kicking out at everything around them that seemed to glitter in any way. And to either side, a whole mob of vocal enthusiasts ready to tweet bile at each other about the wrongs and rights of every instance, glad for someone new to condemn. It's becoming fairly cyclical.

The sad thing about all these divisive attitudes is it seems to be taking us backwards as a society. The war between private and public sectors threatens to return us to a culture where everything, every basic need, will come with a weighty bill attached. An apparently principled anger towards protesters points to a society no longer influenced by public needs and opinions. Racial tensions seem to be escalating again, threatening the return of Jim Davidson to television. All things I thought we had grown beyond. All things that I fear are creeping back. But then, I am ridiculously paranoid.

But this week sadly seems like part of an eventual proof supporting a historic text into the new Dark Ages. Event One was the sudden outburst by a woman in Croyden at the racially diverse set of passengers with whom she was sharing a tram. Alone, not a big deal. Crazy bint mouths off, gets caught and posted on YouTube, everyone gets the chance to condemn her and we all feel good about ourselves for being better than a horrible racist and a horrible mother. But, having delved a little into some of the reactions, I find a fair few that actually support this woman and her totally hateful ignorance. Again, this probably isn't a surprise or, indeed, anything to suggest that racism is on the rise. But it's the angry and ignorant that shout loudest and the clever and manipulative that listen to the louder shouts. If Sepp Blatter can be a racist and remain in charge of the governing body of world football, what deterrent is there for the racists?

Speaking of loud people. We come to Event Two: The public sector strikes. Now, with both parents being teachers, I bet you can guess what my opinion is of taking strike action. Unfortunately, I happened to be at work whilst my head was threatening to rip itself in two by the time the protest march parked itself outside the front door of the shop where I work, so I was mildly perturbed by the chanting and horns and whistles that I swear to any powers that will listen were tuned to the exact frequency of the pains in my head. But, some painkillers and a lunch break later and I was feeling a lot more supportive. A lot of people, it seems, are less supportive.

Now, I can understand why some people might be frustrated. Hell, I just described how my day was disrupted by the strikes. But, surely, once everything has died down, how can people not have some degree of sympathy for people who spend their entire working lives actively supporting the public, often unnoticed and even despite negative rewards, doing what they can to secure a fair life and future for themselves as well. But division has torn a great chasm between the public sector and private sector, sparking large-scale whinge-fests on both sides. Comparing wages, pension pots, working conditions etc., etc. It's just constant bickering, which makes the action to strike seem inevitable as clearly there has been no time for reasonable discussions, what with all the sniping at each other. But, through all this, I can't help but feel this divide is being crafted as a political tool and I worry where this possibility might lead us.

And, somewhat linked to this, Event Three. Jeremy Clarkson. A conflict which is, as I speak, still forming and mutating as people either defend (and more worryingly, agree with) his comments, or start constructing a set of gallows big enough to take down his ego. Now, I don't think Clarkson is totally flawless an entertainer, as this "joke" would seem to prove. His comments were callous, excessive, shallow and, more importantly for me, not edgy. In an attempt to jab deftly into the heart of whatever point he was making about the strikes or politics or the BBCs need to be impartial (which I suspect may have been his original aim, but I'm probably being insanely kind) he missed his mark by miles and, instead, flogged the dead horse of modern society's over-sensitivity with a shed-sized club. Just. Not surprisingly, then, many people missed the point and either flat out agreed with Clarkson's suggestion or began seeking his dismissal. Both of these responses are wrong, just in case you weren't sure.

The problem with "Jezza" is that, in essence, he is a very poorly constructed persona with limited scope. He is just a giant stick with which to prod people. But "Jeremy"; the sheltered, middle-class country-dweller, often peers through the paper-thin mask and offers something at least agreeable if not genuinely heartfelt. For all the Mexican-bashing and public-sector executing he spews out, there is, somewhere, the honest outpouring of admiration and respect for modern Vietnam. That's right Mr. Clarkson, I'm calling you out for the soppy lefty that you truly are!

It's a shame that, on yesterday's One Show, he was stuck in character, as he is now the hate figure for a section of society he may well hide, somewhere deep, an honest respect for. But in calling for his head, the striking unions have ensured that they will never get an apology or any support, because the great ego that he cloaks himself with can never be stained with regret. It must fly, untarnished, in order that his career, and maybe even his mental state, does not suddenly crumble.

On the other hand, however, those berating the unions for their inability to take a joke should surely question why they consider what he said to be funny. Yes, saying that strikers should be "taken out and shot" is an exaggeration intended for comic effect. But it's not funny. You could see it in Matt Baker's eyes after he said it. He wasn't laughing, he was cringing. It was a twisted thing to suggest, even if it was an exaggeration. But there are people laughing. People saying he is right. I assume Jeremy would, in secret, disagree with these people. But this is what people need to remember as they scream "Freedom of Speech." (It's funny how a lot of people who claim freedom of speech in defence of Clarkson would probably support banning the strikes and protests.) Yes, you have a right to say what you want, but it doesn't exempt you from criticism and it certainly doesn't free you from the responsibility of the consequences of what you say. Clarkson has a responsibility, if he truly was exaggerating, to quell whatever anger has risen against the Unions thanks to his remarks. Another reason, then, not to have him fired.

In the end, Clarkson's punishment should remain the knowledge that he has further fuelled the anger against a public sector that, in secret, he more than likely supports. If Unison force the matter further, they could end up making him a martyr for a movement that could quickly smother and isolate the public sector's cause.

This has been very rambly and poorly constructed. I apologise. Hopefully I will get better with practise.

Peace.

UPDATE: Jeremy Clarkson has since apologised, in that mildly reluctant way that TV personalities always seem to do, and I would suggest that what I sort of hinted at above, that his joke was aimed at the BBC's requirement to be impartial and the reactionist habits to attack the striking workers for purely selfish reasons. Whilst I believe he was exaggerating greatly and did not wish to offend, he still did and I think it would serve him well to make his next article a more honest, genuine approach to the strikes. Assuming I am right (which is a big assumption, granted) and that Jeremy is in some way supportive of the strike action, a pro-strike piece would be a fantastic step towards making amends as well as taking responsibility for how his comments might be taken by his own supporters who may now be even more unsupportive of the Unions and the strike action. Of course, this may just be wishful thinking and that the truth is that Jeremy is just that ignorant of the general public. On reflection, that may be more likely.

I'm a Consumer...

I was so hooked. The sleek, gleaming curves and the ever so simplistic designs. I wanted to hold the shining monoliths in my hand, behold the intrinsic wonders each structure held and manipulate the world at the slightest touch. I had fallen for the sweet promises and for the lily-white innocence that oozed from every unit of its presence. I would have brought down the very mountains to gain access to the secrets they held, broken through the gets of heaven to claim its divine powers. I was, for all intents and purposes, theirs.

That was so long ago. Another lifetime, maybe. Now, the sparkling veneer has been tarnished; ruined by the stains of its own power. What shine remains is now a blinding curse, catching all in its wake and manipulating them to its deceitful process. Once we were promised freedom, and that promise now bites down like the snare it has become. The silvery towers that stand watch over the streets, drawing in the public like an electro-magnet more powerful than any Sun and parading the latest line of portable starlight available for them to take for their own. I have stood inside these galleries, just like they are now. I even made an attempt to rise above my station and become one of the annointed who stalk among the common-men, spreading the word so that they may be saved. How lucky it was that I was overlooked.

Now I know what is really true. These empowered and privileged few, so welcoming and resourceful, are simply herders. Shepherding the unworthy to a new life under the dominion of their masters. Pressing them to the new collective that resides under the spell of the unquestioned leader. Cosying those stronger in spirit so that they too may break. I have seen the darkness behind their eyes; the true intents that lurk beneath such good intentions. And I ran, slipping from the chain I had so nearly bound me to what I know now to be inevitable. The curse that can never be broken. Of this I know all too well.

For I am not truly free. Noone ever can be. But I was lucky. For some, it is far too late. They are tied for life to their masters' whim. Drained of their souls in exchange for each new upgrade, each step of progress that is made, each new vital enhancement that embeds itself into the everyday lives of those caught up in its wake. Each of us are now dependant. Each of us needs its influence in order to survive. Even now I am out of its mental hold, I am not free of its grip on my life. I am sure I never will. It is this that pushes me to fight against the shadow that has fallen over the glistening Ivory temples that once seemed like a new way of life. I can only hope that, one day, my cause will win out and I can rid myself of the plight that has such a strong hold on my life. But I do not hold such hope too strongly. The reach of the Apple spreads far and wide and its gaze can peer around any corner.


(Events have been exaggerated in the interests of entertainment. Hopefully.)

Try to avoid Stun Blasts, as they may leave you disorientated.

This weekend, I was at home. At home, I have all my stuff. Therefore, this weekend was a massive excuse to play video games in quite unhealthy doses. However, this didn't quite work out to be the case, as it took me two days to eventually start playing one of the THREE games I have yet to play since getting them around my birthday in October. The reason for this: I felt bad starting them without my girlfriend around.

In the past, when I've had a much freer access to my PS3 or whenever I've been desperate enough to use Katie's brothers' XBox, times would come about where I would play a game whilst Katie watched; apparently enjoying herself in doing so (though I have my doubts). This happened often, to the extent where she has bought me games in order to facilitate this habit. And it's really nice. There is no better feeling that swooping around Arkham Asylum whilst leaning against a comfy girlfriend. So much so, however, that when I get to situations where I have a new game and it isn't a sports sim (which is obviously where she draws the line) I wait until she is around to play it.

And so, the conundrum of the previous weekend, where I went home on the Thursday evening with Katie coming down a day later. What to do in the intervening time? Simple: I have the aforementioned three games to get going on and a whole day to kill doing it. Just like I had wanted. Except when I went to pick a game to play, I was troubled. Discounting Fallout 3 as it would have been too much to take on over 3 days, I had to decide between Enslaved and Assassin's Creed 2. Seeing as Enslaved is based on Monkey: Journey to the West and has Andy Serkis as the main character there was seemingly no contest. But this would mean starting without Katie. This was unthinkable. She'd miss the story. I couldn't do that to Katie. Which pretty much sums up how dependant I am of her, soppy fool that I am. And so, the game I had waited ages to play had to wait a bit longer for Katie. And instead I played FIFA with my old housemate, Chris. And even won a few times for once.

And then, do you know what I played Friday morning? Sim City 4. I honest-to-God cannot explain why, but I did. I scrabbled around for the disc, waited for the usual Maxis load up screens to finish trying to be funny and attacked my allotted square of land for which to try, for once, to build a tangible and thriving community upon.

Except I couldn't. That goal still eludes me. Once more the evil mistress that is Sim City laughed in my face as I constantly ran out of funds without getting one poxy skyscraper. I quite royally failed at Sim City. But I know I am not alone. The world is full of wannabee cityscapers who have had their dreams crushed in Maxis' Iron Fist of Unforgiving Torment. The thing is, that game is so insanely hard to keep balanced whilst still progressing (at least, it is for the impatient). I could just about sustain a small farming community, but the moment I pushed for the swankier gubbins that I have heard the game contains I fell flat; mocked by the red numericals that soon denoted my available moolah, hoping for a business deal to keep my income a bit closer to my outgoings. I know; that is such a boring trouble to have in a game.

But I think, maybe, that that is the point of the game. It is in fact a governmental tool to create sympathy for their efforts so they get less of a negative reaction when the do something unfavourable. If health funding is suddenly lowered than, rather than take to the streets demanding this be reversed, you sit back calmly, remarking how you know exactly what they must be going through after your troubles keeping Funkytown, USA afloat after you had to build all those Fire Stations after it expanded. If people were actually able to beat the game and build the next New York on their laptops, people would start to believe they could run things better. And that's how revolutions start. And so there is this impossible game; thwarting all who attempt it so that Democracy can be maintained. T'is the only logical explanation.

Incidentally, I did eventually start on Enslaved and it was great! By no means the perfect game but fun to play and a really novel retelling of Journey to the West. Sadly, I have no idea how long it will be till I can get back to it. This is very sad.

Click three times and say this...

As I struggle through the gates onto Platform 14 at London Liverpool Street, burdened with luggage and the now essential cup of Coffee that has wormed its way into my regular routine over the years, I take a look at the train waiting in front of me. Its face and sides generously adorned with spray-paint iconography. Illegible to the peaceful people I wish to call my own; to me it is clear as newsprint. The garish and violent conjurations bedecked before me are a message, in what I now realise is my native tongue: “Welcome to Essex. Here there be monsters.”

Though graffiti may have spread worldwide and is found commonly in most every city in the world, it is never as broadly open and confrontational as it is to the lands east of the M25. In the Fenlands I now call home, you may find tagging on park benches or etched into windows; a small symbol of youthful rebellion in an otherwise fairly, ‘old-English’ neck of the woods. Where the letter-boxes stand like proud Oaks despite the ever growing chainsaws of UPS. But in Essex, the graffiti serves as war-paint. Just like their geographical Iceni ancestors, the graffiti is an outward show of presence. It is everywhere, on every flat service. Trains run like literal telegraph lines carrying messages from Shoeburyness to Stratford.* Though it is reported that the average Briton is caught on camera at least 70 times in one day, the average Essexite is probably in view of that many items of graffiti at any moment.

I have been in the city of gleaming spires for too long now... wait, that’s Oxford isn’t it? Um. Hang on...

I have been in the quasi-city of clear disjointedness for too long now and am unable to properly acclimatise myself to lands that were once always around me. Though it is dark outside the train I know what is out there: fields, factories and failed tourism spots. But for someone who now lives in a fairly well maintained and vibrant student city, the realisation of the trouble out of the window now is hard to fathom. Drawing nearer to the coast brings a freshness of sea air heavily dulled with the twinge of decay from once vibrant but now vagrant businesses that have never kept up with the change in mentality after the decline of the Victorian era. What remains now are disused buildings; pale and wan. The idea of bright colour still clings to the weakened walls but it is lost like the custom it once saw. Everything is now geared towards London. Essex today is simply the residential extension of The City, with the only modern buildings being Supermarkets and shopping centres like Lakeside. The joys that once were and the joys that could be are overlooked in favour of the Commute. And thus the graffiti grows.

The people here are tough. The train contains a pretty extensive cross-section of the county’s inhabitants. Either short-haired and in suits, staring at laptops or brooding and shell-suited, hiding their eyes with shadowy peaks. Quiet and sullen, keeping themselves to themselves as they come to the end of another day. Eccentricities are rare here. Tweed stops at Audley End and only starts again once you hit Canterbury. And whilst there is certainly a creative streak, it highlights the harshness of reality, the tribulations of life. This is where the Emos and the Grime-Hop artists ferment their grief-stricken renditions. Essexites are strugglers, but perseverers. They battle on; ironic, gallows-humour to break up the daily grind any way they can. These are scholars of a different sort; alumni of Hard Knocks. And they come out the better for it. Certainly better than I have with my Anglia Ruskin degree.

Home again, then. To the place that time seems to have forgot; the land underneath the apparent “reality” of the TV series. Half happy for the familiarity and half despairing at it’s sad decline. We file off the train with nary a word spoken and head towards our respective rides. Stepping into the waiting car, I let out a mild sigh, knowing that, in truth, it’s good to be back. 

*Although not on the same line or rail company. You would need to get off at West Ham and get the Jubilee line to Stratford from there.

News News News!

Charlie Sheen Rockets Into Space

The actor, Charlie Sheen, has managed to achieve the vastly unlikely feat of taking the world by surprise. After another in a chain of recent "tell-all" interviews; the Two and a Half Men star proceeded to get so carried away with his own insanity that it literally launched him into the sky, leaving an onlooking news anchor speechless as she watched Sheen rise into the air.

Onlookers around the Los Angeles Zoo's meerkat enclosure; where the crazed film star had taken residence in the days leading up to his fateful interview, observed Sheen (rendered ageless by his being too "winning" for the passing of time) launch into a wild and frantic rant regarding his "pure epicness" being so strong it was visually corroding the clothes he was wearing, before screaming "I am the Meerkat King!"  shuddering dramatically as he rose into the sky at a breathtaking speed.

Speculation has mounted in the hours since Sheen's departure about how this could have happened, what risk there is to other celebrities on the wild side of Hollywood and whether or not the Hot Shots actor escaped the Earth's atmosphere. So far, there have been no sightings of Sheen in orbit, but reports are coming in from NASA that the International Space Station has been placed under alert to receive the hot-headed, party-loving famous person. In the mean time, scientists have been hypothesising as to the probable cause of the A-lister's propulsion from the ground.

Dr. Habengleiber, from the LA Institute of Advanced Improbabilitics, issued a statement, saying that, "in all likelihood, Sheen's unlikely lift-off may stem from his unique physical make-up. The few experiments we have been able to run on the combination of feline blood and cocaine suggest that even a one gram rock of crack can create a highly volatile reaction when mixed with the blood from the average stray tom-cat. Given Sheen's recent drug habits, it is therefore no surprise that Sheen has been transported from the planet's surface in this way."

The event has even triggered the change in focus of several of California's most eminent astrologers, shifting the gaze of their telescopes from distant potential solar systems to the area directly above the West Coast in the hopes of tracking down some sign of the drug-addled maniac, although such efforts could well be in vain, if local Scientologists are to be believed. Tom Cruise himself proclaimed Sheen to have in fact "ascended" to join the vast ether of the cosmos after the sheer power of his soul burst from his body. Needless to say, there is a close watch being kept on the diminutive actor in case he should follow suit.

Whatever the outcome, this event adds further weight to the worrying claims made by Sheen himself that he is the most potent narcotic. Anyone who may have come into contact with Sheen recently are being urged to report to their local Doctor for tests in order to determine that they are completely safe from his influence.

And what next for Sheen, should he ever return? Although the producers of Two and a Half Men have so far declined to comment, we can be sure that Sheen will not stay hidden away for very long.

Dana Twoolie reporting.