Finding Howard

OK, so as some of you who I speak to may already be aware, I'm setting a website called (atm) 'Howard Bingleton Solves Social Situations with Science'. Howard is a fictional character, and his website is a guide for surviving modern life. He knows not everyone is cool or sexy, and he's the first to admit that he's neither, but he argues there are rules you can follow, algorithms to prevent you making a tit of yourself (my words, not his).

Illustrating the website for me is Liz Greenfield, you can see her other examples of her work at www.lizgreenfield.com

Along with each article, Liz will provide an appropriate image of Howard to really spice the whole thing up. I'm very excited about it all, but we still haven't quite figured out what Howard should look like yet, so I'm posting some of Liz's sketches, with the hope that you'll tell me which ones you like, or seem to fit his voice. And beneath the images, here's a prototype article of what will be appearing on the website once it gets online. Please please please comment, and let me know what you think.



How to hug a woman

In your friendship with women, there will come a time when they will let you touch them. They are very specific about where, and for how long, but this is contact all the same. Women call this Hugging. It is not the petting zoo you might have imagined, there are strict rules to follow, and cries of sexual harassment if you don’t.

Many people hug, so it’s important to remember that it’s a convention, not a privilege. Accordingly, you shouldn’t view it as a chance to ‘cop a feel’, but instead, behave responsibly, and return the hug without implications.

The First Hug

The first hug is the most exciting and dangerous. It will tell you a lot about the woman, and how they feel about you. It will become a template from which all future hugs will spring. Get it right first time, and you’ll soon be hugging with no clothes on for minutes at a time.

One of the many rules is that you let the lady dictate the pressure, but it’s difficult to gauge this on the first hug, as it will last only a matter of moments, so it’s best to play it safe.

The first few hugs will be more a meeting of the shoulders as you lean towards each other, instead of any torso-to-torso intimacy. Let your arms rest on them, whilst applying only minimal pressure. I call this The Drape. It is relaxed and non-threatening. Remove your arms as soon as she begins moving away. Keep it simple, and without any excessive flourishes.

Words to describe actions you should avoid:

1. Stroking
2. Caressing
3. Lingering
4. Grinding
5. Tonguing

If you’re worried about your technique, practise on a large cushion. If you can hold the cushion without changing its shape, then you’ve got it right.

Key to knowing if you’re pressing too hard:

1. You feel her breasts flatten against you.
2. She screams.

Latest Special K

Special K: That's not my name

I've been trying to upload this for like a week, and now it's here in all it's disappointing glory. Should have the next vid up in a few days. Enjoy.

For all you nostalgic folks

New Special K

Little update and more Special K

I know, I know. I haven't made any real posts in ages; fobbing you off with extracts from la novel, and now videos from some shmuck called Special K.

I do miss writing the blogs, but I'm a busy boy these days. At the moment I am:

* Setting up an actual website, with content and everything
* Writing a radioplay
* Working on the novel
* Making weekly videos
* Other boring uni stuff
* Watching Grey's Anatomy

I might find some time to write something proper in the future of some alternate universe, but for now, this will have to do.



If you're new to this site, then take a look around, there's some good stuff in the archives I reckon.

Special K: Too Feminine?

This one is a bit random, soz.

Special K: Is that my friend?

New Vlog: Special K hates horny drivers

This was a bitch to upload, being almost a gb, it took five hours. Which I had to do twice! I stopped enjoying it a few days ago, but hopefully as my computer skills improve, I'll be able to get these videos out faster. Just waiting on a new tripod so I can resume filming. Enjoy

Vlog Launch

Hello friends, I have an announcement to make. You can now see me in animation. Wonder no longer about how handsome I really am, see for your self!



OK, so it's my first video, it's a little rough, a bit rambly, but I'm new to this. Even if my videos never quite break out of mediocre, there shall always be enjoyment in the title sequence, which would be nothing if it weren't for my exploited friends.

Irisz Heathershaw assisted me in creating the logo, and Stephen Barlow knocked together the jingle in under three hours when I arrived on his doorstep and demanded he help me. He would also like me to point out that I requested the solo guitar be amped up. It was just so camp I couldn't help myself.

I would like to sincerely apologise to them for making such impositions when they both so busy, and to express my deepest gratitude and awe for their work.

Sorry for neglecting you

So I finally came back with another actual blog post, and not a cop-out excerpt. Allow me to apologise profusely to all ten people who actually follow this blog, really, you guys mean a lot to me. I was pretty dismayed to see that I only managed one post in August. That's pretty pathetic, especially compared to my fifteen in January.

For the time being, most of my creative juices are being expended on the novel, which is sometimes going well. Looks like it's gonna need another couple of months before I finish it, and that's before I even get down to editing the son of a bitch.

For those interested in any of my other creative exploits, I've ordered a lovely Creative Vado HD which I'll be using to start vlogging. Will this replace my blogs? Probably not. But I think the website that I'm setting up for my third year will. Stay tuned for more deets. Or follow me at my twitter.

Why smokers look so cool and how to stop them

There’s something about the act of smoking that speaks to me of moral corruption. Perhaps it’s because I have always wanted to, but never dared. The teachers from school and parents, the institutions of guardianship, instilling their values so thoroughly, their voices loud with an unquestionable truth. Smoking is bad.

Perhaps this is why smokers appear so dangerous to me. If they’re willing to do that to themselves, where do they draw the line for others? All I’m saying is that second hand smoke is just a taster of what they’re capable of. These people habitually carry around the tools to start fires.

For them, smoking is freeing. It’s a gateway into a life of anti-authority. They’re aware of the overwhelming evidence which condemns them to a shorter lifespan. They read the block capital portents of misery and infanticide on every packet, and ignore them, becoming stronger with each tiny act of rebellion.

In truth, I’m jealous; I’m weak enough to actually feel threatened by a slow and tar ridden death. But perhaps this is what appeals to them. They are controlling their own death, deciding their fate. Leaving the door unlocked for that assassin, so they can greet him in their armchair, and rasp their goodbye. People have been dying from cigarette related illnesses for years. There’s a certain comfort in that, in the predictability of the symptoms, which can be traced and measured, related anecdotally to other smokers, charted against each other, graphing their own timeline, whilst sharing a hacking and face-purpling laughter.

It would seem the government has mistaken humanity's health concerns. Smokers share cigarette packet labels, these banners of mortality with a private revelry, buying cigarettes not by brand, but instead by effect: “Can I get the ‘Causes harm to unborn babies,’ please?” If we can’t appeal to a smoker’s health, then perhaps we can appeal to their wallet, displaying instead the price in wide bold letters, £5.45, and what this equates to in their life, such as an hours’ wage, or a Coldplay album.

If we take this further, each packet would come with a calculator to determine what else they could have bought compared to what they spend in a year. The results wouldn’t show the meaningless numbers, but instead precious items in a glorious and high definition display. I’m not thinking so much rubies, but Xboxs, cashmere garments and conservatories. Or for developing countries, twenty camels.

From what I can understand though, the real reason many people start smoking is because it looks cool, and there’s very little evidence to undermine this claim, because it does. All musicians and actors smoke. Fact. Or at least the cool ones do. There’s something very mysterious about a figure with a cigarette. They’re introspective, probably because their hands are occupied, they have no choice but to confront their thoughts. When I think of smokers, I think of an unshaven man sipping whiskey at a bar, staring into the middle distance. Unapproachable, untouchable. Or a writer pouring over a manuscript, squinting through his haze of smoke. These are images cast from film, but the reality is much less cinematic. We have to be aware that cigarettes are like berets, people who own them tend to have smelly breath.

And wear stripy blue and white shirts. And speak French. What I’m saying is that there are side effects. But then again, we live in a world of skinny jeans and high-heeled shoes, piercings and tattoos. In youth we constantly sacrifice comfort for image, looking ahead only far enough to realise the immediate impact, and screaming to our future selves, “Fuck you future self!” And our future selves, who stopped caring about the way they look the day they wore slippers to Tesco, who feel only embarrassed by the Chinese character tats that were once emblazoned on a chest taut with muscle, but now sag unreadable, beneath three layers of wool. They think about their young unruly selves, how they were such a different person, only connected by memories, and they moan back to the past in phlegmy rattling breaths, “Damn you past self, damn you…”

Excerpt 4 - David and the trophy cabinet

In the university main house, in the hallway that visitors and prospective students are most often ferried down is a long wall smothered in framed photographs. Photographs from fifty years ago to the near present, of high achievers, and graduates, receiving various awards, medals, trophies and oversized cheques. In the centre of this hallway is the glass cabinet housing these accolades of student achievement, these embodiments of graduate brilliance. Valueless metal cups are inscribed all the way round and down with names that have lost all meaning, of dubious characters whose deepest impressions were left on these glorified containers. What promise these names must have once held, but where are they now? What kind of stories unfolded after these displays of heroic sport and grand intelligence?

Would there be the usual tales of marriage, children and the eventual divorce? From rising to the giddy heights of regional manager of a prominent paper company, to the mid-life crisis, that led to cashing in that old life in search of something new, young and dangerous. Or did these individuals live blessed lives? Was this merely the beginning, the first realisations of the kind of potential that they would learn to harvest?

I read the names, instantly forgetting them, as if they were the ingredients to recipes made up in the kitchens of talentless, yet enthusiastic cooks. They feel familiar, the kind of names you read in a phonebook, lumped together with thousands of others, all written in the same small and neat font. Impossible to distinguish from one another, they seem doomed to averageness. These impressions left on these unremarkable awards are just a blip in lives that quickly resumed normal paths, unexplained anomalies, but proudly recounted to future partners and offspring.

There is one recurring name, one name which draws the eye again and again, as if it were etched more deeply, and more conspicuously onto the awards: David Misen. It is my brother’s face that I see again and again, shaking the hands of the university principal and the heads of staff from various denominations of sport, English and philosophy. Everyone smiles in these pictures. They smile so broadly, it would seem impossible to link these smiles with the death of the most promising student of the university’s history. Looking at these pictures, no one could see anything but brilliance in that smile. No one could say that suicide made sense.

“Must be weird, seeing your brother everywhere,” says Natalie. She has crept up on me; I have no idea how long she’s been standing there – how long she’s been watching me watch my brother. How long have I been standing here?

“I’m used to it. There were plenty more of these at home.” Almost every picture we have of David is professionally shot, whilst he shakes the hands of important men. Men David earned respect from, even from a young age. I can’t think of any pictures that contain us together above the age of six.

“And what about you, are there many pictures of you at home?”

“I don’t think there is enough room.”

She smiles sadly at me, expressing not only her sympathy towards me, but my right to her sympathy. Natalie has an air of understanding everything you say, as if she’s not just hearing the words, and not just seeing what you want her to see when you express yourself, but also what you wanted to say, but felt too embarrassed to share. Somehow Natalie knows all that I want to hide, and simultaneously assures me that it is okay.

I wonder how well she knew my brother, and what she understood about him. Perhaps she knows something I don’t. “I had no idea David had left such an impression here. Though it doesn’t surprise me, it’s just…he never said.”

“I don’t think David thought too much of all this,” she points to the cabinet of applause, as if she thinks as little of it as David did. How well did she know him? How well did she understand him?

“It just makes me realise that I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. Especially since he came here. We spoke occasionally online whilst he was away, but the last time I actually saw him, actually heard his voice was before he went away for his second year.”

“You only have to ask, David knew a lot of people, perhaps if you start asking, you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

“What I’m looking for? I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“Answers?”

Who gets social etiquette? - Not me

I hate social etiquette; of course I respect politeness to a certain degree, but as a mainframe, as a body of rules driven in to me; overriding my ability to respond to questions in a reasonable and true way, it is a lot of bother.

Take for example those instances when something is offered to you, in British homes this is traditionally a biscuit. This may take the form of a custard cream, or a Hobnob if you’re really lucky. Somewhere inside me, on someone warped level, there is a belief that it is rude to accept this domestic gift, particularly on the first offer. It’s so minimal that it hardly exists, and yet it provokes this kneejerk reaction of “No thank you,” whether I fancied a Bourbon or not. What is this ingrained reaction? Is it some Catholic hangup, from the same group of people who made us think sex is naughty?

Whatever the case, once I’ve rejected the first offer, it becomes increasingly difficult to subsequently contradict your answer, for fear of being ‘awkward.’ If by their third offer you still haven’t agreed to that cup of tea, there’s no sensible way of changing your mind and keeping your dignity intact. By that point you’re too far-gone, they already know how things are going to play out, and the third offer is just a courtesy. They’ve likely resigned themselves to remaining seated – already mentally relaxing – knowing that they aren’t going to have to negotiate your bizarre demands of two dashes of milk, three quarters a spoonful of sugar, and a drop of vanilla honey from Mount Mainalo.

One of the worst case scenarios for not accepting a host’s hospitality is when you are asked first amongst a group, and not wanting to put the host out, you politely decline, only to feel an increasing amount of regret as every other guest accepts the offer, thereby making your sacrifice redundant. What’s worst about this situation is that it’s nearly impossible to forego your initial response; the level of embarrassment is equivalent to making a public apology.

In these cases we seem to be punished by our social laws, but experience tells us that they protect us as well. In the last instance the most you can lose is a digestive, perhaps a Jaffa Cake if you’re very unlucky, but what if you were to say yes, hoping to lead the pack by example, saying, ‘It’s okay to accept,’ only for them to turn their back on you, and one after another decline the offer; leaving you stranded on your island of gluttony and social exclusion.

Despite the guidelines that social etiquette provides, enabling us to get by without offending anyone, whilst simultaneously winning them over with our impeccable politeness, I can’t help but find some elements distasteful. I’m speaking of the general dishonesty and phoneyness that pervades social occasions. Such as the time when you receive birthday presents on your birthday, and you have to say things like, “Oh, you didn’t have to do that!” and smile sincerely, all the while reaching out to gladly receive, but at the same time displaying that tiny possibility that you’re not going to accept it, that it would be presumptuous of you to do so. And you wouldn’t want that.

WTF?

In what way is it presumptuous to expect gifts on one of the two days of the year where the act of present giving and receiving is not only warranted, but encouraged? God knows you’ll be annoyed if they don’t, however well you hide it, and I usually find the ones who are most obvious about their displeasure at not receiving presents are the same who act most surprised when they do.

I myself find it difficult to engage in this day-to-day pretence, of always being delighted by acts of kindness or generosity, especially as most of them are so predictable. Such as the mock row and fight over who gets to pay for dinner:

“No, no. I insist.”
“Well, I doubly insist!”
“It doesn’t matter, you paid last time.”
“But that was only for the two of us at a fast-food joint, it hardly compares.”
“Be that as it may…”

How easily I lose this fight. When someone makes an offer once, that is more than enough for me. Case closed. You win. Game over. Lights out. Short declarative sentence. See you later.

Excerpt 3

When you’re drinking, it doesn’t matter whether you know the people you spend time with. You’re all just so happy to have company. We sit on a long couch that extends across the back wall of the upstairs room in the club. People talk over circle tables across from the couch. This is not a booth, this is not our contained world, we are connected with the other drinkers. I drain the rest of my beer. I need to be drunk. I need to feel connected. A guy sitting next to me starts to clap.

“Reeehh!” he says, and puts his arm around me. He takes a large gulp from his own lager, letting it spill over his face. He wipes away the dripping lager with his forearm and then levers his head upward to belch loudly; using his whole torso to create an impressive rumble that sounds like thunder from a distance. He turns to me and raises his eyebrows. Is he trying to challenge me?

“You alright, mate?” he says.

“Yes, are you well?”

“Fucking ace, mate!” he nods drunkenly.

I wonder what he means with his insistence of the word, ‘mate’. I wonder if he truly means to befriend me, and if he thinks that by calling me ‘mate’ he can convince me that we are already friends. I am not easily manipulated, and don’t appreciate when people are dishonest with me. Why can’t we be more accurate with our labels, and call each other ‘Stranger’ or ‘Suspicious Drunk’?

Kanye West says, “Let's get lost tonight, you can be my black Kate Moss tonight.”
“Fucking choon!” says Excessive Lad.

“We’re gonna hit the dance floor again,” says Fraser, “you coming?”

As much as I want to be away from Uneducated Troglodyte, I can’t stand the thought of re-entering that pit of sweating and oversexed bodies. “I’ll stay here,” I say.

“You sure?” says Daisy, surprised that I’d picked bonding with a male stranger over the euphoria of the dance floor.

My housemates leaves, but Meathead’s arm remains. Has this not overstepped the mark of masculine camaraderie to a come on? His friends seem to think nothing of it. They look as trashed as he does. His arm connects me, by association; I’ve now become part of his group.
I look around the room to see who is looking at me. I will meet their eyes and tell them that this is normal. Do I want to be part of this group? I want to join this group as much as I want Kevin to pant in my face. People can’t tell this though, there’s no way they can read my thoughts, but they can read my face. And what face am I wearing? I try to smile, but it probably looks unconvincing. People can tell a fake smile, there are a lot of facial muscles that don’t get used in a fake smile. I’ve read you can tell by looking at the eyes. I wouldn’t have this problem online; there is time to edit yourself, to present whatever image you choose. There are representative emoticons. Smileys. I will wear a smiley. Maybe people won’t notice, I’ll be so normal. Maybe too normal, strikingly normal. But someone has noticed.

She’s tall and slender, like a model. It’s times like these you realise that most girls aren’t built like models. Most girls are short and fat or tall and broad – bulky. She’s not a model at all, no ones looking up to her (besides literally), she’s a freak. She sticks out like a sore thumb on a row of toes. I notice her because she’s just come up the stairs. I notice her because the first thing she does is look at me. She looks at me as if she was looking for me, and now she’s found me, she’s not turning away.

We lock eyes, something I’m not usually good at. I find it hard to maintain eye contact with women because when you see them looking at you it means they can see you looking at them. She’s walking over now, and she’s biting her lip. She’s got something to ask me or something important to tell me and I can’t look away. I just can’t believe she’s still looking at me, and coming towards me, just as if we know each other. Do we know each other? Perhaps sometime from the first semester? Is her name Karen?

She’s crossed half the room now and isn’t changing course, it’s too much now. I break her gaze and look to the rugby players that I’ve somehow become a part of. I don’t want her to think this is who I am. I take Meathead’s arm from around my neck and place it in his lap. He turns to me, looking hurt. I just rejected him. He then turns to the girl fast approaching, and his mouth falls open stupidly.

She strides the whole way, and doesn’t break her motion until she’s sitting next to me. I continue staring ahead. If I keep looking ahead, maybe we’ll just forget that we were even looking at each other. She’s sitting so close to me, her hip is touching mine, and she’s cold, as if she were a dead body left to float down stream. She floated and drowned for so long, but then she finally shored and she got up and sat next to me. She could be dead or in my head, but Meathead saw her. In fact, he’s still looking at her.

“Ahrun?” she says, turning to me.

Our faces are very close now. I can’t smell her breath, but I’m worried she can smell mine.

“Yeah,” I say.

“I know your brother, David.”

“You mean, knew.”

“Yes, I knew him very well.”

I’m almost afraid to ask, and I already think I know the answer, “Were you his girlfriend?”

“Yes, at one point. Your brother had a lot of girlfriends.”

“My brother had a lot of girlfriends,” I say in wonder. Of course, it makes perfect sense. He was handsome, though not as handsome as me, and a genius, and a charmer. He was always the charmer. I guess I figured he’d be a catch, but he never told me about his girlfriends.

Meathead says, “Mate, do you know this bird?”

“Natalie,” she corrects.

“She knew my brother,” I say.

“Who was your brother?”

“David Misen,” says Natalie.

“Misey?” Meathead says back, his eyes becoming moons.

What the fuck does he mean, Misey?

“Lads, lads” Meathead says to his fellow Meatheads, “this is fuckin’ Misey’s brother!”
The rugby players all turn to me with the same mooneyes as Meathead. I am the brother of David Misen. I am the brother of a dead guy. The amount of awe is overwhelming, there is too much of it for anyone to say anything, only for them to breathe heavily and gape. I’ve had to become used to this reaction, no doubt they will now feel impelled to share their experiences with me.

“Mate,” says one of them, “your brother was a good player. He was a fucking tank. I mean, he was a fucking weed, but people just couldn’t take him down. It was like his feet were roots that went deep into the earth, he was always upright. At the end of every game his kit was always as clean as when he first put it on,” he licks his lips. “It was like people were afraid of touching him. Like they might break him. No one wanted to be responsible for destroying something so rare; there was so much potential in those bones, in that face. You could see it. And when people grabbed hold of him, their hands never stayed, like they got burned, like he was on fire.”

A hushed sense of held breaths falls over the rugby players, as if they think their words might break what is left of David. This is all that is left of David, the words of others. Even the music seems to have drop a few notches, out of respect, but more like it’s been muted by a filter that makes it sound like it’s on the other side of a wall. They do this in dance tracks.

“Why the fuck he have to go kill himself?” The players turn to me, looking to me for the answer to this question. And who else are they going to turn to. I’m his brother. I’m the brother of someone who killed himself. Only he didn’t kill himself.

What they’re looking for is family tragedy, so I’ll tell them what they think they know, “David was a genius, but he paid the price. He thought too deeply about things. Things that are best not thinking about.” Of course this untrue. David was the most well adjusted person I knew, at least in our family. Our family has a history of malfunction. My grandfather and two uncles committed suicide. My dad might have killed himself if he hadn’t have been killed first. History has a way of repeating itself, and when suicide gets into a family, it gets set on a loop. The same story, again and again. I always figured it would be me. I think even my mum thought it would be me. I’ve felt something from when I was about six. A very real desire, sometimes a whimsy to extinguish my life, or just a life. I become paralysed when I cross over railway bridges. What if I were to suddenly throw myself over? Half an hour later I think, I could be dead now. I can’t decide whether this is terrifying or liberating. It doesn’t seem so bad to not be living anymore.
Natalie says, “Your brother became very distant before he died.”

“The last time I spoke to him, he was happy,” I said, “then three months later we received a phone call to inform us of his death.”

“He became very preoccupied in his final months, he wasn’t his usual self.”

“Did he become involved with anyone? Dangerous people?”

“He was involved with everyone. Everyone knew him, and everyone loved and admired him.”

“David didn’t do this to himself. He couldn’t. He wasn’t able to.”

“You don’t think David killed himself?”

He mustn’t have killed himself. It’s important to me that he didn’t kill himself.

House Hypochondria

House M.D is a hospital drama about solving medical mysteries. The ailments are almost always fatal and the patients are almost always saved from the jaws of death, or about 38 minutes into the 40 minute episodes. If we were to breakdown an episode, most of it concerns the specialist and expert crew of House’s (that’s Hugh Laurie) lackeys brainstorming potential suspects (it’s usually a tumour), whilst prescribing the wrong treatment three or four times, nudging their patients ever closer to death, as the time ticks loudly away.

It sounds like a good show, I know – that’s why I watch it. The intro to each episode starts with a new set of characters who seem healthy enough, or show only the mildest of clues that they may be ill – a cough, a twinge, a bleeding anus. So each episode is a guessing game of whose seriously ill. You see teenager reach for his prescription medicine, and you begin to think, this guy ain’t looking so good. But it’s usually a red herring, because his mum is now clutching her chest as she takes a sharp intake of breath. The onset of a cardiac arrest? No, it’s turns out to just be heartburn because who’s really got our attention now is the boy with cream coming out of his ears as he goes into a seizure. The point here is that, everyone seems healthy enough, and the person who hits the deck is never who you think it is. How is that these people, who exhibit little or no symptoms, are suddenly attacked by the most violent and often humiliating of viruses?

This show seems to be suggesting that this is how life-threatening illnesses make themselves apparent. Striking without warning and with maximum damage or a mysteriously bleeding anus (that one’s happened a few times, actually). This must be the worst show to watch for hypochondriacs, as it encourages the view that even common symptoms are indicative of something far more foreboding. I myself have fallen prey to this alarmist response to anything unusual in my body’s function. Every twitch of the eye, creak of the neck, every skipped heartbeat and bleeding anus becomes transformed into a death sentence, masquerading under the names lupus, Wilson’s disease and lymphoma (my medical knowledge has skyrocketed since tuning in). It’s become difficult to function since worrying about every hurty knee and itchy nipple (so far just temporary).

What’s scarier still is just how fast the patient’s health declines, and how it pushes the genius House to his mental limits until someone makes an off the cuff remark about another case that just happens to link to his, like, “the woman’s having twins,” or perhaps someone’s anecdote triggers a moment of realisation, shown through a big close up of House. With a face that says, ‘My god, it’s been there all along. It’s been staring us in the face this whole time, how could I have been so stupid? Wilson!’

Of course, most of the ailments are easily treatable, so that the episodes can end happily, but the bigger problem facing the team of specialists is the correct diagnosis. Throughout each episode they exhaust so many options, performing expensive tests one after the other. You get the sense that normal doctors are idiots, and if weren’t for this detective department that is unique to that hospital, all these patients would die, the reasons only becoming clear on autopsy.

So where can we turn? If you’re British, you’re lucky enough to have the NHS. What’s great about the NHS is its self-diagnosing facilities on its website. Now an informed database of symptoms and their corresponding illnesses can be accessed by those who looking for comfort in their time of worry. It uses a traffic light system to let you know how scared you should be. Green is ‘visit your GP.’ This is the least scared you should be, and yet you still need to see a doctor. There are apparently no symptoms where the website simply tells you to ‘Not bother, there’s nothing to worry about.’ I would at least expect a ‘Put an icepack on it you idiot.’ Surely a program with such a wealth of knowledge could afford to be more specific in such minor cases of health issues, such as ‘apply Deep Heat to area of pain’ or ‘make vertical incision along trachea.’

What should be next in this traffic light system is amber (it’s orange, really), but the NHS feels that anything more urgent than a skin rash is a serious threat, and so you are presented with a red page that screams at you to dial 999 and ask for an ambulance. And if the whole red page thing didn’t quite shout danger enough, they’ve also provided an exclamation point in an orange triangle.

The combination of shows like House M.D and the NHS’s hysterical advice page is enough to send hypochondriacs into a frenzy. I can understand the sensationalism of entertainment, but the NHS is basically asking for timewasters and really annoying ‘self-diagnosers.’

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my nipples are raised again, which either means I’m cold, or dying. The emergency services have been informed.

Liquid Soap Official Trailer

Trailer found here.

Enjoy

The Best of Keyboard Cat

I'm sure you're all aware of the wonderful keyboard cat, so I present to you the best three videos inspired by this phenomenom.





This is also absolutely genius, and must not be missed.

Excerpt 2

This week is another excerpt from the novel. Is this laziness? I guess so, but I'm also writing more than I ever have and am just plain struggling to maintain this blog as well. This will probably be the case until the end of September. If these excerpts don't feel adequate enough a replacement then kick up a fuss and I'll try harder. Little context for this passage, Ahrun, the protagonist, is in a nightclub. Enjoy.

* * *

I see many familiar faces of students from different classes. Their names escape me. I knew them only last semester, and now we know each other no longer. When their eyes meet mine they don’t register recognition, because all they see is a stranger. This is not true of all students though. Some of them can’t shake the fact that we no longer need to speak anymore. One such catches my eye, his name is Kevin and he has acne. He nods casually at me, I nod back, thinking nothing of this harmless exchange, but he’s misread my nod, he thinks I’ve called him over.

Clubs aren’t designed for talking. They’re for the wordless communication, the mating rituals that existed before chivalry and language.

“Hey,” he says, reaching me. His voice carries easily despite the deafening decibels that drown out all else.

I say hi back, but I can’t even hear myself.

“How’s it going?” he says, stepping forward. The fetid stench of wine breath punches me in the face.

I assure him all is normal, and return the question. Can he even hear me?

“Yeah, haven’t seen you around in a while,” he says this as if this is a great shame, but can he really mean it? Or is his insincerity so honed, so practised, it is indistinguishable from his sincerity? Can he even tell which he is being?

I return the sentiment, and make a wry observation about it being part of the uni experience.

He laughs politely, expelling clouds of condensed stink into my mouth. It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t standing so close to me. Why is he standing so close to me?

I take a step back but he immediately presses forward, afraid he might lose me. He touches my arm to steady himself. He’s very drunk.

“What modules are you taking this semester?” I’m looking in all directions but directly at him to avoid the full force of his mouth funk.

I tell him my modules.

“Yeah, I was thinking of taking ‘Cornish Cinema’ but I didn’t have good enough grades from college.”

I start to edge away again, leaning and shuffling, making incremental and indiscernible movements to widen the gap between us. Kevin doesn’t realise on any conscious level what I am doing, but when it is soon apparent that there is now a foot in distance between us he becomes uncomfortable and closes the gap, almost stepping on my shoes. I can see the bristles of his fluffy moustache quiver as his toxic vapour spills out of his face.

“What are you up to?” he says.

I make like I can’t hear him, even though everyone within five metres can hear him. He moves closer and grabs hold of me, bringing his mouth to my ear, “What are you up to?” he says loudly. My eardrum shakes unpleasantly, but at least it has no sense of smell.

Drinking, I scream in his ear, hoping it hurts. This is it. This conversation has come as far as it can. He should know to leave now, that there is nothing to be gained by hanging around. It can only become more awkward. But he just stands there. The fool is smiling; he’s enjoying my company.

I close my eyes, pretending that this particular beat has sent me into dance trance. I begin swinging my arms wildly, as if they were possessed by the music; I let them crash into Kevin.

“Hey,” he says, taking a step back.

I do this for a while longer and then peek through my lids. He’s still standing there, watching in wonderment.

I feel hands clap on my shoulders, “Looks like you’ve pulled,” says Fraser.

Kevin is still standing there, watching both of us.

I introduce Kevin, saying, This is Kevin.

Kevin says, “I’m Kevin. Ahrun’s friend.”

“Fraser; I’m shit-faced,” they shake hands. Fraser says to me, “Where you been, mate? You need to get your drink on. You’re gonna get some minge tonight, I can smell it.”

I motion a goodbye to Kevin as Fraser and I head for the bar.

“Wait,” he says, “we should meet up sometime.”

Definitely, I say.

“Give me your number.”

No, I want to say. No, don’t talk to me anymore. I watch him for a while, and his face begins to fall. Did I say that out loud? OK, I say. He’s smiling again, but maybe he was smiling all along, anyway. He never stopped smiling.

I wonder if I’m really going to do this. My uncertainty rises when he passes me his phone to type my number in. I type the standard 07 and then make up the rest of the numbers.

“I’ll just prank you, so you have my number,” he says.

No.

He presses call and holds the phone to his ear, as if he were calling someone that wasn’t standing in front of him.

I get my own phone out and hold it, like I really believe his call is about to come through. He calls, he calls; my phone is tellingly silent. When will he realise that I gave him a fake number? I’m trying to think of an excuse when my phone comes to life, chirruping at me, and the name ‘Kevin’ comes up. Kevin cuts the call.

“I’ll call you sometime,” he says, before disappearing into the press of bodies.

I’m still looking at my phone. A cold heavy stone drops through me and lands in my testicles. Kevin has my number. I gave Kevin a false number, which at the same time is my number. Am I a false number?

* * *

Still Here

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Dealing with Social Pariahs

How to identify a social pariah

In every school and in every workplace you will find these creatures. They appear human, but there is something distinctly wrong about them. It’s hard to place, but you notice it in the way that they walk. It’s different, it’s not dysfunctional but it lacks grace. As if they read about walking online before they tried it. They go through the same motions, but everything they do is a cheap imitation of human behaviour, a foreign knockoff.

It is perfectly acceptable to ask after someone’s plans for the weekend, but if they start getting too specific with their questions you may be in danger. Watch out for this line of questions: “Got any plans for the weekend?…oh bowling, where do you go to do that?…I know the place, what time will you be arriving?…and how long will you will stay?…yeah, I know each game doesn’t have a specific time but if you were to make an educated guess?…OK, OK, there’s no need to get angry…will you be wearing my fav- I mean, your favourite jeans?”

One of the pariah’s most obvious traits is its need to please. A pariah will fall over himself to perform favours of any kind for you. A typical conversation with a pariah might go something like this:
Me: Seen any good films lately?
Pariah: Yes, I re-watched The Dark Knight last night. It is brilliant.
Me: Oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to watch that.
Pariah: (pulling out a copy) You can watch mine.
Me: You just carry it around with you?
Pariah: I wanted to be ready in case you asked.
Me: Is this signed by Christopher Nolan?
Pariah: Yes, I bought it for £138 on ebay.
Me: Wow.
Pariah: Do you want it?

Notice in this example the act of present giving. This is another common ploy of the pariah. They believe that present giving is acceptable at all levels and a fast way to curry favour. This is not to say that gift sharing is weird, just that there are certain boundaries that we all follow, and a pariah will often reveal himself by stepping over these boundaries. For example, giving a work colleague 10p so that they have enough to get a toffee crisp from the vending machine is decent, if not encouraged. But buying a toffee crisp each day and leaving it on their keyboard in a ribbon is creepy. The only way to make this situation worse is by waiting for them to look up in gratitude so you can offer your sickly grin. A grin that says, “I only want you to love me!”

The threat they pose

Everyone wants human connection, but none more so than the social pariah. They crave it with an alarming intensity, reaching hungrily towards it like a wilted flower to sunlight. Indeed, their desire is so strong, that it is impossible for them to hide it. They wear it like an ugly mask – more unnerving than any Halloween equivalent.

Outcasts thrive on your attention; they leech off of it like life-force. The best piece of advice I can offer is to treat them like a bully. I.e. ignore them. If you see an outcast crying into his lunch, wiping away his tears with his cheese and pickle sandwiches, steer well clear. This is one of their many ploys to gain your sympathy. It is the only way they know of attracting others, trapping them into ‘friend’ status.

You see, when you become ‘friends’ with an outcast, however loose you may consider this term, you’re actually entering a relationship. The outcast will latch on to you, developing a rapid dependency multiplied by any goodwill you send their way.

How to get rid of them

Much like leeches, pariahs are sensitive to heat, and are most easily removed by extinguishing matches on their bellies. Another option is imitate their behaviour in a more frightening manor. Turn up at their house late at night and hang around till they come home. If they invite you in, refuse by saying you better be off now, and then wank on their windows.

Closing thoughts

What makes pariahs so dangerous are their abilities to tap into the kinder man’s natural sympathies for its fellow man. When an outcast presses us with it its piercing questions, despite feeling unsettled, we would rather tell vague white lies than be rude, because god forbid we should offend the freak. Perhaps we need to reassess the way we treat these social pariahs. We shouldn’t be looking on with benevolence, but instead take the opportunity to satiate our deeper, and repressed cruel instinct. They only use our compassion as a weapon against us anyway, so why not take this opportunity to dump our pent up ‘badwill’ on them?

We’ve all had days when we want to hit and scream at our loved ones, and when is that ever productive? Why not save it for those who are used to the abuse? Those that have made a life out of suffering; those who even in their own minds have thoughts only of self-deprecation. These of all people are equipped to deal with the pain of a nation. They should not be feared, but revered as a gift to soothe our ugly sides that would disgust a normal human being.

It’s a controversial theory, but what other choice to we have when to be kind to an outcast is to be cruel to yourself?

Liquid Soap

Yesterday, we started filming the comedy web series that students from our uni (Bath Spa) have been working on. We began with an episode I wrote co-wrote which I also acted in. During filming the BBC dropped by and later showed this piece on the West Points 6:30 News.
Seem to getting a fair amount of media attention, The Bath Chronicle and Heart FM also stopped by today.

Party Fail

I recently semi-organised one of the most unsuccessful parties in my life, if not in history. The Facebook group confides that 109 guests were invited, and guess how many turned up? No, it’s actually embarrassingly less than what you thought. It’s 4. This equates to a 3.6% turnout, the result is so hilarious it seems impossible to feel insulted. I feel more as if the absent guests were taking part in some grand joke, only they weren’t in on it together, they all made private and separate decisions that led to such a small turnout that I wouldn’t have thought possible.

So where did it all go wrong? I can’t help but feel that the event was titled somewhat ambitiously, parading under the moniker ‘Epic Houseparty Awesomeness’. ‘Houseparty’ itself denotes a significant gathering of people, or at least twenty. We probably thought this was a safe bet when we invited over five times this amount. As embarrassing as a 20% turnout would have been, it would undeniably be a house party, just neither Epic nor Awesome.

I wonder if people felt intimidated by the name, perhaps they didn’t feel ready for such heady experiences. Or perhaps the more cynical among them felt that the party had oversold itself, that by using Epic and Awesome in such close proximity their expectations had risen to dangerous heights, and they knew in their heart of hearts that no party whether epic or awesome could match their frenzied imagination.

Perhaps this is just indicative of the noncommittal attitude prevalent among students. An attitude masked by politeness. The most prominent group of invited rsvp’d as ‘Maybe’. Of course, everyone knows that ‘maybe’ doesn’t constitute a completely neutral position that may swing either way. It’s for people who feel too harsh being categorised as someone who has rejected your invitation. In this case it was as good as no, evidenced by no one on the maybe list showing up. On Facebook, even ‘confirmed’ doesn’t mean yes, it just means they intend to come, or at least they did before they realised that the new series of House is on.

If we lived in an alternate universe when confirmed meant confirmed and maybe meant probably yes, then excusing all the people that I’m still waiting on for a reply and those who admitted they wouldn’t be able to make it, I’m looking at 55 potential partygoers. In real life 4 came. Which meant there was a pullout rate of 92%, which is higher than a teenage boy with no condom.

I think we could have expected a larger turnout had people been drinking prior to the party. There’s nothing like alcohol to lubricate the loose bonds formed at a jamboree. Oh, how we reach out for the camaraderie of strangers with a fervour and raw enthusiasm, and what comfort we find in the bosom of their attention! How we agree that from this moment on there will be plenty more meets, getting togethers, getting to know one anothers. Only once the alcohol has worn off do we retreat to our solitude. Why did I agree to that? We think, and pray the other party has forgotten.

Of course, they’re usually thinking the exact same thing, but it isn’t always the case. Sometimes they ring back, and what a terrifying experience that is. In these circumstances it is perfectly acceptable to change your SIM card and passport photo.

In the end, the party became a small gathering of men and one lady. We played Rockband all night and had ourselves a ruddy good time.

Older

I’m 21, but sometimes my body tells me I’m older. There are little signifiers to watch out for. Like the little groan that escapes the back of my throat when I get out of a chair, and the corresponding sigh of relief when I fall into one. Is this really necessary? Is my body that out of shape that it likes to remind me that the transition between sitting and standing is a stressful one to me?

I’m stuck with it now, it’s not going to get any better, but neither will it get worse. There never seems to be much range in this noise, depending on just how decrepit you are. I think it would be a good indication as to how old someone is. In your thirties it’s the sigh, barely noticeable above the sound of the TV. In your fifties it becomes an inappropriate bark, almost angry, as if lifting yourself out of a chair is a battle. By seventy, you’re screaming; afraid that every ascent may be the death of you.

I’ve tried to rectify this problem and eliminate it from my system. I refuse to have it until I’m a dad. So now, I hold my breath, and by the time I’m on my feet my face is purple. For whatever reason, the sighing eases the process, as if there was a major difference in air pressure between my height and the level of the couch. As if the sighing releases a valve that makes it safe to be upright. If I somehow fail to eject myself from my chair (one of the hazards of not breathing) I may have to wait a good quarter of an hour before I’m stable enough to try again, or I risk passing out.

I wonder if there is more to the ‘couch sigh’ than first meets the ear. Perhaps it is a modern rites of passage, that suggests a new phase in life that every man comes to at one point or another. A time when father and son both expel their breaths in agreement, as if so much were contained in their sighs. It suggests experience, a wistfulness and resignation, but an acceptance of life. At this point the father could turn to his son, his eyes shining with pride, whilst his shaking hand proffers an ancient technology. Passed from fathers to sons in livingrooms across the country. As if to say, you can’t control life, but you can control TV.

The sighing in unison is a rare and mystical phenomenon. At a family gathering I once stood up at the same time as my dad and one of my uncles. The resulting noise was a chorus of effort, as if we were an a cappella group demonstrating a synchronised cough. It was like four doors of a car being shut simultaneously, so that it didn’t sound like four doors, but instead one huge booming door. This occurs as seldom as the perfect alignment of the planets in our solar system, but with less catastrophic events. In this instance we accidentally blew out the candles on my cousin’s birthday cake.

Shirt Shopping

As anyone who’s bought a shirt for work or special occasions will know, your size is based on the thickness of your neck. I was making such a purchase the other day, when I approached a sales assistant for help. He was a stately man of great height, as if his height was entirely influenced by how well he thought of himself. Even without speaking to him I picked up an air of authority emanating from him, though this may have just been his broom moustache. I went to tap him on the shoulder but thought better of it; I noticed a coiled tension in his back muscles, as if they wanted to burst free. He became quickly aware of my presence and spun round to face me. Without further adieu he looked at me piercingly, his eyes seeing something indiscernible to everyone else. “I’d say you’re 15 and a half inches,” he said with confidence. I was about to ask him how he could possibly know that when I realised he was referring to my neck.

I was awestruck by this display. This was surely the coolest party trick ever, to just by looking, gauge the circumference of someone’s limbs, to peer at their appendages and croon sagely, “Yes. Just what I thought, you have a fat neck.”

What worried me is that this man saw more than just my 15 and a half inches, the amount of scrutiny he gave made me wonder what else he observed. Perhaps the eyes aren’t the windows to the soul at all, we’ve been looking in the wrong place all along. He surprised me when he followed up with, “You were never happy as a child, were you Khyan?”

I was stunned into silence, although I didn’t ask how he knew my name, he answered me regardless, “I have ears everywhere.” His eyes darted to each far corner of the room to indicate this. My own eyes darted to follow his gaze, very much expecting to find fleshy lobes hanging from handrails, invisible to me until now.
“I was happy,” I said uncertainly.
“Don’t lie,” he said, “I can always tell when you lie.”

I’m not lying, I wanted to say, but his piercing glare had now become scarily wide-eyed. I felt a sensation of weightlessness descend on me, as if I were falling from a great height until a cough developed from deep within me. I was able to retrieve my handkerchief just in time to splutter what felt like a warm mucous. I looked into my hanky to find a stain of blood.

“Blood,” the sales assistant confirmed. He seemed please by this development, and offered me a clean handkerchief, apparently in trade for my soiled one. I felt wary about accepting any gifts from such an unnerving man, and re-pocketed my own hanky. The sales assistant was now very close to me, his head bent down towards my own. The smell of menthol was overpowering, which he blasted into my face with exertion. I soon became aware of a massive hand invading my pocket; it seemed less concerned with finding the hanky than violently groping my leg. His breaths now became short and sharp whilst his eyes bulged. They bulged so much I was afraid they were going to fall on me. And then just as suddenly as the hand was there, it was gone, taking the hanky with it.

We looked at each other for a while after. I had no idea how I should react, and oddly felt little need to. My reverie was broken when I heard the pounding of feet behind me; the sales assistant reacted physically, bolting into a graceless run, as if he were unused to using his legs. Two burly security guards charged past, giving chase and calling to no one in particular, “It’s him again! The bastard’s back again!”

Afterwards I was called into the manager’s office, a glorified cupboard with cheap wood panelling. The manager, a tired looking man who hid his girth behind a dinky desk said to me, “That bastard,” which was how he was commonly known around here, “that bastard did it again. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. It won’t be the last.” He turned suddenly to face the miserable view out the window, and he let the silence build, perhaps to weight the importance of his words. I was impressed with how long he drew this out, until he said again, this time with less conviction, “It won’t be the last.” The security guards, who flanked him on either side of the desk – and made the room even more claustrophobic – looked uneasily at each other, as if their boss did this a lot.

The manager turned back to face me, looking older already, as if he aged by the minute. He pulled on a drawer in the desk, and retrieved a brown envelope and gun which he placed on the desk in front of him, then quickly replaced the gun in the drawer and looked at me anxiously, as if he was worried I saw. He pushed the envelope towards me, “If you could not say anything…” he said, letting his sentence drop off, either too embarrassed to finish it, or happier just suggesting it. I took the envelope and had a quick look inside, disappointed to find a thick wad of Marks and Spencer vouchers. One of the guards got the door and let me out, immediately closing it after me.

I went home and showered for a long time after that.

Mr. Crane

Last night I cricked my neck in response to an attacking crane fly; you could say I was craning my neck. It was more like a twist though, but it would be fitting to refer to it as craning. Perhaps that is how it got its name. However, it also commonly goes by the name Daddy Long Legs. Now, I think we all understand the Long Legs part, but Daddy? How could this possibly have come about?

Was an orphan scholar woken in the night by a flickering at his oil lamp, and on seeing a creature unfamiliar to him, which on closer inspection was surely a common fly but a fly granted the power of spaghetti legs, he called out uncertainly to it, “Father?”

It seems somewhat diminutive to refer to the daddy long legs as a fly. I’ve always considered it a winged spider, which is perhaps why I always regard it as more of a threat. I don’t like spiders as it is, so the idea of giving a creepy crawly aviation is monstrous.

The naming can give a creature more power. Think of the dragonfly for example. How proud must it be to have ‘dragon’ in its name? They are probably the most boastful of flies, but their arrogance is ill founded. They are not nearly as impressive as their name suggests. I remember people talking about them as a child. I imagined them as great beasts the size of human torsos. How bitterly disappointed I was on meeting the reality; a pin stripe with wings. They exhibited no dragon like abilities. I wouldn’t even call them dragon-esque, even for the insect world.

It didn’t actually work out that well for the daddy long legs, in order for it to defy gravity, there was a great deal of slim-lining involved. Yes, it decided to keep its spider legs, but it had to compromise if it wanted to be light enough to fly. Consequently its legs are detachable. They’re about as strong as spider web, and can be popped off with ease. Not only are they one of the most ugly of creatures, because they only live a day, they never learn to fly with any grace; and what could be graceful with those legs, spread uncertainly in all directions? They’re like a plane that’s left its wheels out for the whole journey – if those wheels were giant gay roller blades.

Much like moths, it is the unpredictability with which they fly that scares me most. There is an urgency in their movement which suggests chaos. Whereas the grounded spider prowls, sometimes creeping; it is like an omen. Even this is preferable to the devil may care daddy long legs.

I believe the daddy long legs knows my fear. I believe they are drawn to my face, which is as attractive to them as a 40-watt bulb. They seem determined on exploring my head’s orifices.

This is a major difference between the spider and the crane fly. The spider takes refuge in darkness, like a ninja. Stalking pray, its presence hidden. By comparison the crane fly is the football hooligan of the insect world. It demands your attention, seeking the brightest light it can find and bashing its skull against it, “Fucking c’mon!” It craves intensity. Perhaps because it only lives for a day, its only goal is to live its last day like its last, spreading havoc, herding humans over cliffs like a wayward sheepdog.

After fifteen minutes of ineffectual batting with my Guitar Hero controller – the crane fly was having none of it – I resorted to the old trap-in-a-glass-and-slide-paper-under technique. Predictably, it lost a few legs in the process. How pathetic you truly are, I began to think. I brought him over to my open window and ejected him into the night sky, almost throwing the glass in the process. I checked the glass several times afterward to make sure he wasn’t still desperately clinging to the base, ready to take his revenge on my face. I shut my window, and haven’t opened it since.

Toilet Seat Up: Match Point

There’s been something on my mind that needs to be settled. I’m sure you’re all familiar with a bathroom rule that’s been set by our lesser halves that continues to go unchallenged. Fear not men, I have come to champion our cause, no longer shall we replace the toilet seat once we have finished our business.

First, let’s look at the logic that our female counterparts have touted as to why the toilet seat should be left down. There is none. Let’s just be clear about this. What possible reason could there be other than their own preference?

I’m actually in the habit of leaving the seat down, but only with the lid down as well. This is because it looks neater and you can place things on it, such as towels or children. It also prevents the two million germs that are ejected from a flushing toilet from flying at my toothbrush. But it’s mostly the neatness thing.

Girls never seem to complain when they see the lid down, perhaps because they do not suspect that a boy is responsible, or perhaps a downed lid brings a natural harmony to the bathroom that puts them at ease. They see no object to lifting the lid, but when it comes to putting a toilet seat down you better believe they’re going to be pissed, or in some anomalous examples, terrified.

I have spent a great deal of time speculating on this matter (some would say, too much time), and I’ve come to the conclusion that there are only two possible reasons to explain this reaction.

1) Women have underdeveloped triceps, making it difficult to move things toward them in a downward motion.
2) They regard their toilet habits as a sacrosanct ceremony, which must be properly prepared for. They take great offence when a man does not respect their rituals and will either lash out verbally or use the sink in protest.

From a health and safety standpoint, it is in fact more considerate to leave the seat up. Allow me to explain: We now live in an age of (debatable) gender equality, where female bankers are not considered witches and house husbands are not poofs…well.

But it wasn’t always like this. In a time when a woman’s only boss was her husband, a time I like to refer to as The Golden Years, women actually evolved a stronger back so as better to carry offspring and linen baskets. This now means bending over imposes less of a strain on the small of their back. And as women tend be shorter, they’re already closer to the toilet seat, thereby decreasing the angle of the bend and the risk of slipping a disc.

This is a classic example of evolution doing its best to bring out the stronger traits of each gender. You may be interested to know that since The Enlightenment men’s necks have actually gotten thicker so as better to support their scholarly brains, imitating a pedestal, if you will.

As it happens, I’m gifted with an unusually long neck, which holds my head aloft most others I deign to speak with, lending me a regal air, and allows me to look down my nose at almost anyone.

The second point in my case is what should be fair.

If we want to talk about ‘fair’, let me tell you what is definitely unfair. If the woman expects the seat to be down and ready at all times, it would mean the man expends infinitely more energy in seat related lifting and closing. This is more than 100%, because 100% more than nothing still doesn’t mean anything.

Surely it is fairer if both sexes leave the toilet how they please? However, even in this instance, it would still favour whichever there are more of. For instance, in my house of five, I live with three other girls and a guy. So the chances that I enter after a girl is more than 3/5 (as I’m unlikely to use the toilet twice in a row). But even on a more even ground, the house still favours girls, because about 1/10 of a guys toilet functions will require the seat.

It looks like there is no winning this one, at least not with any arguments of fairness. Even so, women don’t learn through reasonable debate, much like monkeys, they learn from practical example. If I were to try and explain my theory, I could expect a stock phrase response such as “Fuck off” or “What?” But if I piss on the seat every time it is down, then they learn through the repetition of my actions. This may be the only act of domestic vandalism that I can feasibly get away with, so I try to take as much guiltless pleasure as possible. I like to imagine it is her favourite pincushion, and douse that motherfucker.

I’ve found this has had mixed results, from the lady in question terminating all contact and relations, to her learning to pee standing up, which is about as novel and miraculous as a cat that opens doors.

You want to talk to me about toilet seats? You lose.

* * *

Khyan is pleased that Microsoft suggested he make ‘mother fucker’ a single word.

Personality test results from discredited psychologist, Dr Mikel

Took an online personality test and learned a few things about myself. The results follow.

ISTJ – Introverted Sensing Thinking Judging. Inspector or Duty Fulfiller

Often referred to as Inspectors, the ISTJ has an almost needless attention to detail that is rarely of any use. They make a grand show of being careful and thorough in everything that they do, perhaps to cover up the fact that they seldom know what they are actually supposed to be doing. Indeed, they spend a great deal of time floating through life in absolute confusion. Nevertheless, they enjoy cultivating their image as an inspector, and can often be identified by their monocles, whether they have good vision or not.

ISTJ’s are the most conservative and traditional of the personality types. They fear the chaos of individuality, and find great comfort in the homogeny offered by uniform, feeling uncomfortable in any clothes not decided by an authority.

ISTJ’s like to emphasise the importance of being true to their word, indeed, they consider this the most binding and effective of contracts as they rarely learn to read. They regard written characters with a mixture of reverence and fear, and feel greatly discomfited when books are left open too long.

ISTJ’s are known for being hardworking, but no matter how much time they spend on any project, their results are always the same. Their work lacks pizzazz or distinctiveness and is at best, unremarkable. ISTJ’s never pursue a career in the arts, and are often mistaken for being colour blind, due to showing no preference whatsoever when it comes to decorating their homes.
Extravagant gift-wrapping is the fastest way to anger an ISTJ, and the sight of a bow can cause vomiting. Their font of choice is Times New Roman.

ISTJ’s can be difficult to approach because of their serious airs, which can lead other personality types to thinking them dull. They are also often mistaken for autistics because of their inability to distinguish irony, and their literal minded approach to everything. However, it is encouraged that you take the time to get to know an ISTJ, as what they lack in social flare, they make up for in foreign currency collections.

Much like a dog, the ISTJ has an unquestionable loyalty to anyone that calls themselves master. They pride themselves on their dependability, but oddly enough, frequently end up in positions of leadership. There is no real explanation for this phenomenon, but what’s more unusual is their ability to maintain their job without attracting any attention, or making any major faux pas. Some attribute this to a powerful intuition, or perhaps even psychic tendencies, but further study has linked 95% of ISTJ’s work based decisions with their reliance on magic 8-balls. Their preferred sexual position is missionary.

See you soon

No post this week because I'm snowed under with uni work. I'm being dramatic of course. If I was a real man I could shovel it all away in six dedicated hours, but I'm not. I'm a whiny little boy. You might see the results of my personality test instead, which I've sent to McSweeney's first. So once they've given me the courtesy of rejecting it, I can post it here.

In other news, I've joined the Internet phenomenom that swept the virtual plains ages ago, Twitter. I needed something smaller to keep me distracted whilst I do my work, and if you look to the right of the page you'll find a new Twitter widget that displays recent posts, so you don't even need to be a member to admire my dull thoughts, how great is that? If you are a fellow twitterer, then feel free to stalk me. The first person who does gets a medal, redeemable value is one comb tooth. Tarra

Going Public

There’s something inherently depressing about buses. Strangers bound together by a reliance on public and grotty services. I’ve never seen anyone happy to be there, and the thought that usually strikes me when I step on is: This is where ugly people go to die. Why else are there are no seatbelts? It’s like a bottom rung reject club, where the only requirements are that you can’t find or afford other transport. This hardly makes up for the most pleasant of company, who are only there because they don’t have any friends with cars or because their license was revoked after drink driving. Conversation is made almost entirely of gestures that ask ‘Is that seat free?’ and the blank response that says ‘I will stab you if you sit there.’

This dynamic changes if you recognise someone you can sit with. Be careful though, make sure you have plenty to talk about before you sit next to them, as unless you want to avoid awkward silences, there’s no polite way of moving somewhere else once you run out of words for each other. The friend you find on the bus is always someone you haven’t seen in years, and after you start talking, you’ll remember why. Using a prop, such as a book or an iPod is a good way of signifying that the conversation has ended, and a great way of saying to your ‘friend’ that it’s okay, they don’t have to talk anymore.

However, there are some people that don’t understand this rule, and will begin speaking to you even when you have your headphones on. All you will hear is garbled noise, at which point you have two options. Either take off the headphones, or just pretend you can hear them and make generic responses to their noises. I usually find that ambiguous hmms and yeahs are your best bet, and just pray they don’t say anything like, “I’ve been really depressed lately, I think I’m going to end it all.”

The trouble with the first approach is, you are unlikely to start a full conversation again, so simply turning your device off won’t be worth it. Instead, you’ll end up playing that game where you constantly remove and reapply the headphones as you engage in awkward and stilted chat, where every response from you begins with “What did you say?” You will often feel as if you are in a terribly unfunny comedy sketch, as they only find something to say once they are certain you’re not listening.

When the bus approaches a stop, I find that people are always so anxious to be prepared, as if getting up and moving to the door takes any longer than two seconds. Perhaps they are worried that the driver is particularly unforgiving, and only allows neat time windows of door opening, and will close the doors even when they are only halfway through, trapping them – screaming and wailing until the next stop. Let me assure you that this is not true. I myself like to remain seated for as long as possible, partly because I like sitting down, and partly to save myself the embarrassment of holding my balance when the bus comes to a sudden halt.

My departure habits do not pose any issues if I have an aisle seat, but if I’m locked into a window seat, you have to let the person know to let you out. Sometimes they read the signs too early though, and begin standing up when I’m just putting my bag on my lap. Not yet! I want to command them; there is still 15 seconds of good sitting time. What do you think you are doing? It’s apparently unreasonable to expect them to wait in the aisle until you are ready to stand.

Super?

If you’re anything like me, then you’ve noticed the pump at the petrol station that boasts ‘Super Unleaded’ and thought, what’s so super? Is it a regular unleaded by day, but by night….? Surely it’s either unleaded or not, in what possible way does ‘super’ fit into the equation? “Well it’s more unleaded, isn’t it?” If that’s the case, then where will it end? Why not create a range of products, going from Pretty Unleaded to Really Unleaded to More Than The First Two Unleaded. Surely this could continue until they finally arrived with Definitely Unleaded.

When I try to find out the actual benefits received from paying 10p more a litre, I mostly get vague answers like, “It’s nicer to your car…treats it better…cleaner.” I suppose it’s the motor equivalent of toilet paper. All the different toilet papers do exactly the same thing, but there’s a huge range in price and quality. On the upper end of the spectrum, you get ‘quilted’ sheets, presumably to make your bum feel like it’s going to bed. Indeed, the experience of wiping your arse can become so luxurious that you’ll be taking four shits a day just to feel like your anus is being kissed by money. And of course if you’ve got cash to burn, and want to truly feel decadent in your post-defecation process, why not just use a satin handkerchief or pashmina scarf. Perhaps you are driven by a need to express a socio-political statement, so use a gold bar or some traveller’s cheques.

As students, our house tends to opt for the cheapest excuse for bog-roll available. It’s not usually pretty; I once had to resort to using the label from a baked bean can. I speak from experience when I say don’t use anything laminated. For the smallest amount of money, the range tends to offer something that is either atom thin or sand paper. When going for the former category, you need to buy in vast quantities, as you’ll be using a roll at a time to avoid staining your hand.

It’s always good to be green, but I draw the line at recycled toilet paper. First of all, I’m naturally suspicious of processes I don’t understand, and the act of transforming a desk chair into Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code is as mysterious as alchemy. I’d feel more at ease if they just called it ‘Magic’ and that we had normal bins and Magic bins. I’m uncertain as to what extent recycling can be used. Can you turn a teddy bear into a machine gun? I want to know what this toilet paper was before. Perhaps it was a children’s pushbike, the wing of an aeroplane, or a carrot.

What worries me most of all, is that things are recycled from the same ‘family’. So recycled toilet paper, was toilet paper once before. How many generations of sphincters had these humble sheets hugged? And how quickly does the recycling process take? Does the sewage system filter straight into a recycling plant, that works overnight to have those same sheets dry-cleaned for next day delivery, so the very same sheets could be getting familiar with you once again come Tuesday?

On the first way round, how soon do you think they know what trees will be used for what? They probably label them: Timber, firewood, Ikea, Harry Potter, toilet paper. It must be incredibly humiliating for these trees, with all their friends going to Sweden to live the good life, whilst knowing that their only purpose is to be stained by human refuse and rot in a septic tank. I wonder if they bow their trunks in shame, unable to ever look another tree in the bark again. :(

Facial Foliage

I’m currently growing a beard. It’s official. I’ve made a conscious decision to grow hair on my face. It’s not as if I have any say in the matter, sure I can shave, but the hair grows regardless of any mental effort to stop. So I’ve decided to stop arguing with my face. You win this time, Beard. It’s been a constant battle since I was about 16. I even like to think of my razor as a tiny sword.

Admittedly, when I was 16, my face was putting up a bit of a pathetic fight. A fight that I wanted to lose. Because every boy at 16 just wants some fur for his top lip. He wants to look more mature, but you can’t really grow anything worth boasting about. If you try to sidle down to the breakfast table, pluck up your collar and ask the family, “Notice anything different about me?” They’ll probably think you forgot to wash your face.

I remember when going to college though, I found out that this wasn’t entirely true. There were exceptions. Boys with all the maturation of a thirty year old, sporting full tramp beards. I used to look at these boys in wonder. They weren’t really boys at all, but Manly idols. How did this happen?

Perhaps young Jimmy was walking to school when he noticed a tear in a hedge. A hedge that had always seemed so ordinary and unnoticeable. But then he remembered what Old Man Jenkins had whispered to him after Jimmy had finished mowing his lawn in exchange for lemonade, “Take the uncertain path…look out for hedges,” and for some reason “crazy golf.” But at this same time, he remembered what his parents had told him on the first day of school, “Stick to the roads…stay away from the hedges,” and when he had asked why, they had looked at each other with a deep sense of knowing, and his father said, “Just because…damnit.”

Now once that something had been forbidden, there was no turning back for young Jimmy, and so through the hedge he went and fell head first into a vat of testosterone. There really is no other explanation.

I didn't mean that

For me, predictive text is the way to go. It’s come a long way since it was first introduced, and has a respectable dictionary. However, it has one glaring oversight. Something myself and my housemate Sarah Jane Chambers noticed whilst sipping on scones. It doesn’t have ‘fuck’. Or any other expletive, for that matter. It is totally innocent, apparently.

If I want to write ‘fuck’, it suggests ‘dual or duck’. Name me one person who doesn’t live in the country that will use either of those words more than ‘fuck’. It can’t be done. Fact. Now stop thinking.

As much as it does miss out a vital part of my vocabulary, it does also make sense. It protects the more easily offended from being asked, “Did you mean, ‘fistfucker’?” You may be intending to send a perfectly honourable text to one of your family members, but instead of saying “Hey aunt!”, accidentally say “Hey cunt!”

So you have to go back to typing in the letters yourself, for those crucial curses. The only problem is, I often forget to turn the predictive text back on, and carry on unwittingly, sending out texts like ‘Gdw gmw wmt dmgmg?’ for the rest of the day.

Check out Bill Bailey's song about the problems with texting.

Another problem with using predictive text is that you don’t always use the punctuation you had intended. This can have a big impact on the meaning, and dangerous if you’re in the early part of a relationship and are asked a direct question. I was once asked by text “do you miss me?” Now this is the first time she had asked this question. It’s one of those more vulnerable moments when you open your heart to someone, and say, kiss or cut me. I wanted to end my response with a love affirming, “miss you!” I text back immediately to reassure her, but went wrong. I’m not quite sure how this happened, but I instead ended with the challenge, “miss you?”

This was less love affirming than it was relationship ending.

I’ve become more of a fan of the exclamation mark of late. It suggests positivity and energy. However, I do draw the line at using them to ‘enhance’ a joke. I believe it does not have this quality. However, this is not a unanimous view. One not shared by an older generation. You see it worst when your parents join facebook to share comments! Make unfunny, parent jokes! Like, you don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps!

They seem to think the exclamation mark has some inherent comedy value, which will transform their shitty little aside to comedy gold. Every time I see that exclamation mark, I think of their face, a prize of glee, their eyes wide with farcical madness, barely able to contain their own laughter as they add the punctuation, and now as they see it for themselves, well they’ve never seen anything so funny. And then for a wild second it occurs to them, how could they make this funnier? No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t possibly. But already their right hand is holding down the big shift key, and their left is edging guiltily towards the ‘1’. It hasn’t even been entered, but already the suspense is too much. Their face begins to crack as sharp and shallow breaths are taken, and then the finger comes slamming down, crashing through the keyboard, lodging the ‘1’ into a permanent state of ‘pressed’. The !!s file one after another, replicating like chromosomes in mitosis. An endless stream, a parade of mirth in symbols. The laughter is coming thick and fast now and the parent is struggling to find breath. He has never laughed this much in his life. It is unbearable. He has to leave, but his eyes hold fast, as if in a trance; there is no looking away. The joyous hiccups have turned to uncontrollable wheezing to epileptic fit. The eyes are bulging and the tongue drying up. He clamps his jaw in order to stop himself, but succeeds only in smashing his teeth like dishes, the shards of which he breathes in, slicing his lungs into wet pillowcases. He dies a bloody and unfunny death.

May this be a warning.

Don't Touch My Crutch

I was in WHSmith today, browsing the magazine rack. I knelt down to get a look at the mags on the lower shelf. I reached for TimeOut, and only noticed once I was touching the magazine that I had reached between a man’s leg and one of the crutch’s he was using. Was this rude, to reach between a man’s leg and his crutch? I had gone unnoticed, but for how long?

I began to wonder if he thought of his crutch just as he would a real leg, and it was therefore improper to put my arm between them. Perhaps it was even more sensitive, and there were laws in fact. Laws that only the Crutched knew of, inscribed on a papyrus scroll rolled inside the crutch. Laws of a Divine nature, number 11 on Moses’ Tablet: Thou Shalt Not Reach Between A Man’s Leg And His Crutch. It seemed unlikely, but the thought was uneasing me.

I had put myself in an awkward position by reaching, but now I had frozen, unsure as how best to get out of this situation in the most dignified manner possible. For one mad second, I decided it would be a good idea to pass the magazine to my other hand, but for my other hand to reach, I had to move in closer. I bent my arm to make the pass. Now I was hugging the man’s crutch, which was seeming more and more like an artificial leg. I found myself wondering, had this man become so accustomed to his crutches that they actually felt like his own limbs? Extensions of his body.

I had still managed to go unnoticed. Either that or the man had thought it best not to say anything to someone being intimate with his crutch. Either way, I needed to change my tactics. I decided to pull the magazine back through the cavern between real and fake leg. I started wheedling my arm through, trying to avoid any contact, like those electric wire games that give you a buzz if your hoop touches the metal. Except this time the buzz would at best be social embarrassment, and at worst, prison.

I was almost out of there when I saw the gap beginning to close, the metal crutch drifting towards his thigh, only it looked more like a guillotine. I would rather my arm be cut off than unintentionally stroke this man’s leg. I watched in horror as the gap became smaller, and I knew that a minor collision was becoming unavoidable. There was a point when I could have cut my losses, dropped the magazine and retrieved my hand ninja-stylee, but this chance was already milliseconds passed, which in my adrenal state felt like years. I saw it all unravelling before me with a terrible inevitability, there was no turning back.

At this point, I estimate I had the strength of four retired boxers, and so when I whipped my hand back, my arm swept through his support like leaves. He fell like a skittle, his face ploughing through the rack, each shelf at a time. I tucked the magazine into myself and performed a commando roll for effect, emerging from the chaos into a bull-charge that the security guard was too scared to challenge. I ran all the way home, stopped only by my front door which I knocked off the hinges. I don’t think I’ll be going back there for a while.