After The Storm

The end is nigh. Like God’s salvation of Noah, only the righteous shall be saved; the unholy will be condemned to eternal damnation. Take penance for your sins, and reject Satan to avoid this ghastly fate!

No, I doubt last-minute prayer will protect you from the ever-expanding abyss that threatens to engulf humanity; feigned contrition will land you in the Underworld, at the gates of Hades; sidestepping purgatory, and becoming a precedent for future generations – if any were to come into existence – of which to heed warning.

No, I second-guess myself. I am still undecided in regards to the afterlife. Where do we go? Does reincarnation exist? Are retributive souls doomed to wander the plains of Tartarus, or may they seek redemption on Earth? So many questions that will all continue to go unanswered…

I’d like to believe that the spirits of the ex-living are allowed to traipse the globe until the time comes when they feel that all has been accomplished. Physical involvement with humans (i.e. controlling the movement of people and objects, appearing to the living in tangible or visible form, etc), in my opinion, should the primary role for ones possessing ethereality. Then again, I have failed to establish the authenticity of “the supernatural”, including my own mind’s faith in it.

My urge to delve into the heavily disputed genre of legitimacy of incidents in the afterlife surfaces mainly due to a recent discovery of an art forum the other day. Concept themes consisted of time shifts, big vs. small and the perennially popular “Doomsday” idea. And it was amazing to see how diverse the interpretations of each theme were; big vs. small pieces ranged from the simplistic usage of a small animal in the foreground, juxtaposed against a larger counterpart that took up a large proportion of the background, to a more abstract-based observance of a prevalent stereotype (here, we see two males – one of black descent; the other, Caucasian – utilising the urinals in a public restroom. Though appendages are not made able to be seen, the look of incredulity upon the face of the white man is enough for the majority of the population to understand the artist’s humorous adaptation). The “Doomsday” posts displayed an even greater degree of variation; some took place in the midst of battle, some attempted to convey a sense of it being requisite to continue ordinary life, some portrayed “alien” life-forms as those responsible for the destruction of civilisation, with a few of these going as far in implying that these aliens have become overlords. My biggest surprise was the notable missed attendance of spectres roaming desolate lands. Does today’s youth not consider this a possibility anymore?

A hypothetical scenario: say the world were to end tonight, and for whatever reason, you survive and may continue living in this world after the events that brought its downfall. What do you see? What do you envisage has happened? Are there other survivors, or must you walk alone? Do certain monuments still stand tall? Does acrid smoke threaten to finish you off? And, most importantly; where are you, why did you survive, what will you do now, and, if it is your wish, how will you sustain your life?

So many questions…

Personally, I can never picture a scene such as this without being accompanied by a small number of companions. A few will be scared, and at their wits’ end; others, highly resourceful, and capable of constructing long-lasting shelters and scouring for food. And there’s always that one vivacious individual, who makes it seem as though life may be worth living.

Of course, numerous obstacles are posed too. At least one member of your party is gravely ill and has to be watched and assisted medically. Furthermore, another pair of members have conflicting values, resulting in them slinging death threats at each other. Finally, the true enemies are revealed to be pre-existing Earth-dwelling, mutated animals or creatures, such as giant spiders or rats. As you can see, I’ve been brainwashed by Hollywood cinema and video games that deal with these sorts of subject matters.

But what would a post-apocalyptic environment really look like? There is no one answer, and the assorted depictions stay true to this. Circumstance is key, as is time, location and the extent of damage caused. The short derivative is the aforementioned; the long derivative? Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see…

Poetry In Motion: #5- The Present Of Presence

T’was the night before Christmas,
Or so I am told.
Frankly, all that I notice
Relates to the cold.

I don’t care much for Christmas,
Except for the fact
I receive much more money
And get to contact

All my aunts and my uncles,
Who live far away
(Though I don’t wish to see them
Until Boxing Day).

Now, the jolliest present –
Someday, I will have –
Should involve Father Christmas
Just beating a chav.

It’s a chav that’s intruding
Into our fair home.
Plus, he’s struggling to stand up –
He’s drunk to the bone.

He threw up on the staircase;
Threw up on the floor.
And then while defecating,
He threw up some more.

Father Christmas came early
(Arrived, you sick freak),
So the chav felt his weapon,
Beginning to speak:

“Yo, I bare need some weed, right?
You bes’ get lost now.
Otherwise, I could shank you,
And dat can allow.”

From all this, evidently,
Saint Nick seemed confused.
He knew not what the boy said:
Did “shank” mean “to use”?

As he pondered that idea
And fondled his beard,
The dumb chav grew impatient;
A knife had appeared.

Mr. Kringle looked shell-shocked,
His face filled with fear
“No! I can’t die this evening!
I must see next year!”

He tried to negotiate
By swearing to leave;
Promised not to revisit
The next Christmas Eve.

But the chav wouldn’t listen
To his feeble cries
For the mercy of freedom:
“Let us compromise.”

I had heard a commotion,
Meaning to this scene,
I now enter, dumbfounded,
Believing a dream

Was the thing I was seeing,
So pinched my left arm.
And aghast, I stared straight at
The burglar alarm.

It had failed! “What of that?!
A chav and a man
Dressed in red and white fabrics!”
That’s when the chav ran.

But the fellow in red clothes
Stood right where he was.
He just broadened his smile
And vanished to dust!

So, tomorrow, sit down to
A family meal
And merry Christmas to all,
But Santa’s not real!

Duh!

(Edit: Ohhh, that should be “Happy Festive Holidays”! Or maybe I’ll be offending someone! Oh no! That would be awful! In regards to the religious aspect of Christmas…well, I’m sure you can all guess what my opinions are on that.)

(Second Edit: In actuality, I'm not really prepared to wish anyone a Merry Christmas, because the force behind those words has completely dissipated. But instead of going into a rant on why that is, I'll leave you with these words: be satisfied with what you have this Christmas, and only strive to procure items of luxury after purchasing the necessary.)

(Third Edit: Or simply buy whatever the hell you want from Woolworths...)

Where The Spinal Cord Roams

*shock*!

Sick To My Stomach

Sorry for my disappearance as of late. I’ve been busy/not busy, lazy/not lazy and just tired, tired/not tired at all, but lazy instead. Updates may be few and far between for a while as I push on with some coursework pieces.

Anyway, though I didn’t attend it personally, the parents’ evening the other night raised the same points that have been thrust on me ever since I was in primary school.

“He’s constantly chatting in class, and he ends up missing important notes due to this.”

“There are several homework assignments that Chris has failed to produce.”

“He needs to get his head down, and put more effort into his work.”

“He’s a very intelligent boy, who, if he tried, can achieve top grades across the board.”

And, for the last couple of years:

“He tends to be sarcastic, which - though occasionally humorous - more often than not, verges on offensive.”

Well, I have no qualms with points 1 through 3, and 5, and they’re all spot on the mark. But number 4…I’ve heard this down the years, and I’ve never lived up to the mark. Either all the teachers that have said that about me have been correct, and I’m simply a perpetual underachiever, who is so lazy that he cruises by on the bare minimum; or it’s wrong, and I’m a lot less bright than people give me credit for. I prefer to believe the second theory, mainly because I’m hyper-critical of myself and a pessimist at heart. But in reality, it just makes more sense. Somehow, if I were that bright, I’d be able to snatch that A for Spanish without exerting too much energy. The situation so far? I’m not even close.

But enough about all that. What I was planning to talk about was something I would never have expected to hear. And it was nothing to do with my academic prowess (or failure, depending on how you look at it).

It was to do with my weight.

Now, when I started secondary school, I was somewhat large for my age. I’m not going to lie; I was a pretty chubby child back then. I didn’t even know I was fat at the time, either. Which was the worst thing. Jokes would be made about my size (as they would be made about the size of many others in my school year, too), and I’d brush them off, because I didn’t believe them to be accurate.

That meant that it wasn’t until roughly Year 9 that I began to see my error, and began shedding the pounds. By Year 11, I was a lot happier with my “proportions”. But according to my favourite teacher, during Year 12, I’d taken weight loss to a dangerous level; at some stage, she’d been worried about my health.

With that, I refer you back to my second paragraph: “Anyway, though I didn’t attend it personally, the parents’ evening …” What was said exactly is solely the knowledge of the teacher, and my parents. They returned home, and mentioned that “she had been worried about me”, regarding my appearance in Year 12. The assumption is that she supposed me to be – dare I suggest it – anorexic. And again, I cannot stress it enough; I wasn't there. This is an assumption.

But the more I thought about it, the less absurd the notion started to sound. She had commented that I’d lost a lot of weight on more than one instance. Not only that, my own sister proclaimed (within the household) that I must be suffering from a disorder, and urged me to eat more at home (I distinctly remember laughing that one off). And countless others mentioned I looked a lot thinner than before. Now, I’m still sure that most of the “thin” comments were complimentary, because they came from people who knew that I was rather large in the past. Yet reminiscing has brought back the memory of myself eating next to nothing for a 2 week period. Not only that, I was frequently skipping dinner, and had a lower appetite than usual. Did all of this coincide with the worries?

I wasn’t offended to hear this come up; just surprised. If the problem actually existed, it was in a mild form. Moreover, I briefly checked with a couple of people to see whether they thought I needed to gain some weight not too long, and whether they had thought I was anorexic. No answers were yeses.

And here comes a hypothetical. Say I had had an eating disorder, and not noticed; what is the likelihood of this happening to others (male anorexia, without its recognition)? And to which other disorders could it extend?

Same Old, Same Old…Fade Grey

It’s exactly what everyone does. I’ve not previously tried to buck the trend; I simply haven’t chosen to write to in depth about my feelings. In reality, that’s the main purpose of a blog. A blog that isn’t dedicated to a particular topic, that is. I’m not jumping on a bandwagon, but instead, I’m doing precisely what I should have been doing in the first place.

I don’t know why humans feel the urge to write their deepest, darkest emotions down as a way of releasing pent-up rage/sadness/fear. I have a vague idea as to why it helps (indeed, it’s helped put me in a better mood in the past), but in reality, it never solves anything, does it? It isn’t a magic solution to all the problems we have.

Nostalgia is torture.

Every now and then, I look back. And I’m constantly reminded of how easy things were; how uncomplicated life used to be. And how naïve a child I was.

Thinking about the good times past, and the bad times past; it never leads to any good. It just reminds you of how things were, and how you’ll never be able to obtain those moments of history again.

Living in the past is one of the most dangerous things a person can do. Kavi’s inference of past, as I understood it, was that that you need the past in order to survive in the present, and progress into the future. Without a past, how does the present begin, after all? But if a person chooses to reside permanently in the past, the consequences are diabolical. Often, the person will begin to rupture the bonds they have in the present, resulting in a lonesome future where all they can do is recall days in which they believed themselves to be happier. Such circumstances can be the death of many a good soul.

Whenever I reminisce, it’s only briefly. I dislike dwelling on events consigned to the pages of history, as it’s highly probable that it will just cause me to feel unsettled by where I am now.

To my intense annoyance, I slip in and out of periods of seemingly unending unhappiness. Sure, that’s no different from anyone else, is it? No, it isn’t; lots of people have the same fluctuations. Which brings me to the crux of this piece: is it right to disregard my issues with life as being minor, just because other people suffer too?

Going through two other blogs earlier today (Kavi and Skinner), I had a short session read of the content of each. Kavi has written pieces about how he’s feeling ever since I started reading, and I only came across Skinner’s today. Both go to show that men and women experience analogous inner conflict. And both made me think more about the things I have (or have not) got on my plate.

At this instant, I’m not in a bad mood. I’m not in a good mood either. I’m on an even keel, I’ll say. Though when I started writing this, I was probably a bit cheerier than I am now. It seems to be that contemplation just brings the air around and inside me down.

I don’t know whether I realise things about myself, or I just look my situation from another angle, trying to offer myself a new explanation as to why I keep feeling glum. Last weekend was not a happy time for me in general. In a conversation, I described some things about the way I felt, and I believe it was the first I had the term “depression” slung at me. It was because I’d become listless in many of my endeavours; even the thought of writing on this blog couldn’t perk me up. I wanted to feel as though there was something I could do to escape the melancholy. And nothing sprang to mind. Then something else did.

This seemed far too appealing for the circumstance. In fact, I hadn’t thought of it in the way that I realised I had in the past. The point is that it was a bad idea.

I spoke to Peter and Abbie on the Sunday, and after a while, ended up in hysterics from on-line “EPIC FAIL” videos. And this week? I’ve had a smile on my face nearly the entire time.

But why? I didn’t solve any problems. I didn’t fix any insecurities I’ve had about myself, or any uncertainties I’ve had about my future. Once again, I took those, and filed them under “R” for “resolve later”, in my mind. They’ll know who they are when I say this, but thank you for reminding me that distracting myself is the best thing to do right now.

I don’t like to think of my problems as serious, preferring to try and help others instead, and think about myself later. But, ironically, when I do think it’s wrong to think my troubles are bad, it just makes me feel worse for thinking that in the first place. It’s a very vicious downward spiral. At the base of that spiral, you will have locked yourself away from the world, and refused entry to your mind to all. And yes, when you’re there, you couldn’t possibly think about helping others. You’re too self-centred by then. Which obviously hurts even more, because I hate to feel like that, and simply want to help out and talk to my friends.

Furthermore, when you reach your lowest points, you begin to question relationships with the people around you. You question whether those you care about care for you, and whether they’ve been bad-mouthing when you’re back has been turned. The obvious consequence? Loathing. The only answer you see to all of these questions is the negative one.

I could go on forever. But the way I see it is that either I’m not comfortable with full revelations about myself, or I just don’t wish to burden others with stuff that I convince myself is trivial. And I don’t know. It’s the not knowing which is the most frustrating thing of all. I don’t know if I’m worse than I think I am. I don’t know if people I have fairly tenuous at times, yet existing (and ones I’d like to hold on to) friendships with, hate me. I don’t know if this will be real soon, or if I’ve made the same mistake once again. With that last one, I flip-flop between confidence and dismay every day. Can I sort it in the coming week?

I’ve always been an exceptionally paranoid person. But I think my self-confidence has been waning lately. I’m almost expecting the bad stuff to be true. But have I purely been fooled by my head again?

I wish I could be the constant happy I appear to be. And the happy that I am when I see the people I love. In true fashion, I’ve closed the gate again before letting everything out.

Red Fraction

Somewhere down the line during the course of this academic year, Statistics stopped becoming a nuisance, and started becoming a delight. Don’t ask me why; I never thought the day would arrive where I admitted to enjoying A-Level Maths lessons. Because, quite frankly, last year was torturous.

Previously, I couldn’t extract any real interest from the subject as a whole. My initial reasoning for taking Statistics at A-Level was because: I lacked the natural ability to cope in French (the A* at GCSE was not a fair reflection of my understanding in the subject; though I didn’t revise particularly hard for the exams, I just knew what the examiners were expecting of me), I despised all three Sciences, and morsels of information about Computing meant that I could never embrace the idea of learning programming (in retrospect, I wish I’d tried learning it outside of school).

I think half…or maybe eleven-fifteenths (HAHAHA! Maths joke! HAHAHA!) of the reason for my sudden reversal in exasperation at the subject is my comprehension of it. Yes, that must be it. Had you asked me a year ago to convert a random improper fraction like x² + 3x – 2/(x + 1)(x – 3) into a partial fraction, then I wouldn’t have had the slightest clue where to begin. Probably because it wasn’t on the syllabus at AS, but whatever *glances from side to side*. Now, however, I know how to do it with ease!

WARNING: The following contains a heavy use of jargon that may or may not be familiar to you. For your wellbeing (and the wellbeing of your PC monitor, as in protection from flying fists), please have patience in the reading of the following. In other words, don't just skip it without even looking!

x² + 3x – 2/(x + 1)(x – 3) expanded = x² + 3x – 2/x² – 2x – 3.

Using long division, we discover that x² + 3x – 2/x² – 2x – 3 = 1, with a remainder of 5x + 1.

Therefore x² + 3x – 2/(x + 1)(x – 3) = 1 + 5x + 1/(x + 1)(x – 3).

Now, to convert into a partial fraction, 5x + 1/(x + 1)(x – 3) must be expressed in the form A/(x + 1) + B/(x – 3), where A and B are constants to be found.

If 5x + 1/(x + 1)(x – 3) = A/(x + 1) + B/(x – 3), then…

5x + 1/(x + 1)(x – 3) = [A(x – 3) + B(x + 1)]/(x + 1)(x – 3)
(multiplying A/(x + 1) by (x + 1)(x – 3) gives A(x – 3) as (x +1)/(x + 1) = 1).

Denominators are now the same, so…

5x + 1 = A(x – 3) + B(x + 1)

If x = 3, then…

5(3) + 1 = A(3 – 3) + B(3 + 1)
15 + 1 = A(0) + B(4)
16 = 4B (A(0) = 0, so A disappears)
16/4 = B
4 = B

And if x = –1, then…

5(–1) + 1 = A(–1 – 3) + B(–1 + 1)
–5 + 1 = A(–4) + B(0)
–4 = –4A (B(0) = 0, so B disappears)
–4/–4 = A
1 = A

Alternatively, since we already had the value of B, we could have put it into the original equation (where x = 0) to work out A (We’ll use this as a test to see if the values of A agree with one another).

5(0) + 1 = A(0 – 3) + 4(0 + 1)
1 = A(–3) +4(1)
1 = –3A + 4
1 – 4 = –3A
–3 = –3A
–3/–3 = A
1 = A

As you can see, A does in fact equal 1, meaning we just stick the values of A and B back into the fractions above…

5x + 1/(x + 1)(x – 3) = A/(x + 1) + B/(x – 3) is now

5x + 1/(x + 1)(x – 3) = 1/(x + 1) + 4/(x – 3)

(note that 1/(x + 1) could also be written as (x + 1)‾¹ and 4/(x – 3) could be written as 4(x – 3) ‾¹, since 1/x = x‾¹)

That’s it! I'd like to convince more people that Maths is, indeed, a very pleasurable subject. For example, when you find out why sin θ cot θ sec θ = 1, it's brilliant!

Prove sin θ cot θ sec θ = 1?

Well, cot θ = cos θ/sin θ.
And sec θ = 1/cos θ.

Therefore, sin θ cot θ sec θ = sin θ(cos θ/sin θ)(1/cos θ).

sin θ(cos θ/sin θ) = cos θ, and cos θ(1/cos θ) = 1.

Meaning...sin θ cot θ sec θ = 1!

I love that! And honestly, none of this is irony!

If you can understand why I now find this sort of thing fun to do, well done!

Moreover, if you made it to this part of the article, and read the entire thing without groaning, or skipping the mathematical section, a warm appraisal I hand out to you.

Don’t worry; future articles will not be like this one *cheeky grin*!

Tarnished Varnish (Tainted Oak)

Given the abundance of warning labels to be heeded on dangerous products that could cause serious harm to human life, a “Not safe for consumption” tag on a bottle full of poisonous fluid would surely not have been unsuitable, would it? Or did the manufacturers postulate that all inhabitants of the UK would recognise that drinking “Danish Oil” is not only highly inadvisable, but in reality, it’s plain senseless too.

I examined every square inch of that container to see if mention of its content’s ability to stop a state of living dead in its tracks, should the solution be swallowed (or injected, but that’s just completely insane) was lurking in a cranny I hadn’t previously noticed. No such luck in finding anything; for once, a company has relied on the common sense of its consumers to pull them through a period where they lack an* *cough* adequate number of safety markers on the engulfing label sheet. Due to the fact that today’s society seemingly needs every spelled out for them in matters like these, some people are going to foolishly believe that no warning means no toxins.

I am almost tempted myself to taste a minuscule amount to test whether my calculations are correct or not. The downside is that if I prove myself right – that the label should contain some sort of “Do not consume” message about it – my corpse shall have to speak for me. Right now, that isn’t a path I want to travel down. And if I’m wrong, then I’ve made a huge mistake blathering as I have done. Waste of time?

Yes, I’d have to agree. I would never take much pleasure in finding out either end result. The whole hypothetical scenario is a redundant one. Well, this article will not be without its colour.

Providing Cubitt and Peter with a lift yesterday afternoon, Cubitt and I chatted briefly about the comedic consequences should the oil fall into the hands of a person unable to identify the inapt qualities a bottle of the substance possesses in comparison to ordinary food and drink. The conversation then quickly evolved into speech about how a human mind comprehends website names, that has had various letters moved to create an outwardly innocent title when spoken aloud – though if accessed, the URL would link to pages containing content…how should I put this…”not admissible for viewing by a minor”. And we had a good old chuckle at instances where others had made the mistake of logging on to several sites of the sort.

Back to warning labels and symbols; where do you believe it all began? My guess is the US. Why? Fail to mention a hazard over there on packaging, and there will inevitably be someone who makes you pay for it. Pay thousands for it, too; cash settlements do not equate to a couple of dollars any more. It’s the “suing” mentality of many Americans that caused outrageously obvious statements to be printed on our purchases: deodorant is not meant for the eyes, glass may be fragile, and – my personal favourite, which I was reminded about yesterday – a bag of mixed nuts may contain nuts. may contain nuts, eh? By that logic, France may be full of French people. An unopened bottle of Evian may hold water (or perhaps those at the factory decided to have a laugh, and fill every bottle with dihydrous oxide instead…). The air in our atmosphere may contain nitrogen (unless someone’s figured out how to steal that. With a giant vacuum cleaner). The aforesaid “suing” mentality has, sadly, spilled over into British culture too. You don’t have to sit through 30 minutes of television on a single channel (minus news channels), without spotting a compensation advert where a woman chooses not to watch where she’s walking, and slip over on a puddle.

With adverts like that floating around, it’s the reason why I was so surprised not to find a notice on the “Danish Oil” tin. I wonder how many admissions around the country have been attributable to “oak poisoning” in the past month…

As Personal As It Gets

Saturday gone. Not last week’s Saturday – the previous one. Went to the Royal Holloway open day. Listened earnestly to the English talk. Had confidence crushed in one cruel blow.

Competition for places in the course I sorely want to do, at my first choice university, is staggering. A total of 20 slots are available, and anywhere from 200-500 applications are anticipated. I have my work cut out. Especially since my personal statement still needs modifying somewhat.

Do I believe I’m good enough to earn one of those places? At this present moment in time, not by a long shot. I’d liken my chances of success to a resurgence of the British economy within the next couple of hours.

We frequently hear those in positions of respectability raving about the uniqueness of human beings; how great it is that everyone is so very different. Then why is it the case that we all end up wanting to do the same thing? Why are the same courses being applied for, year, after year, after year? Is there a fundamental flaw in the human psyche that we must now copy what every else does in life; we’ve tacked on to the winning formulae? Or are teenagers no longer driven by self-motivation but by heavy coercion from their parents?

I see no real problem in the former (though it drifts into a grey area when it’s all about success with the applicant, with no time for enjoyment). To proclaim truth in the latter publicly is not wrong per se, but to lambast this ideology, when a figure of authority, is a faux pas. Ergo, criticism of such a belief is greatly restrained, meaning everyone wants to go to either Oxford or Cambridge, to study medicine or dentistry. I have no real quarrels with people that conform to the stereotype of a person not in control of their own life path as long as it's precisely what they want to do. I bid those people the best of luck in their endeavours, as they will be the ones that merit admission. Alex turned away from medicine, and towards chemistry, after viewing the treatment of patients by doctors, on a work experience placement. Yasmin said "no" in relation to an application for Oxford, because she had her doubts about it. I commend them both; it takes great courage to do this sort of thing. Pursuance of a place in any similar course at one of those two universities, based solely on the reasoning that “it’s the only way you can get anywhere in life” and because they are too proud (perhaps cowardly) to think otherwise, is sickening.

Worse still, these are the people that try to rope others into coming along with them, and copying them step for step, as they can't cope with the thought of absolute independence. I had a statistics lesson last week in which I heard the following words spoken:

“You got 6 A-stars at GCSE? Why didn’t you apply for Medicine at Oxbridge?”

I kid you not; it made my very blood boil. It’s an explicit revelation of the mind processes of far too many young people nowadays. They don’t stop to think that medicine isn’t for them. They don’t consider any other universities worthy of their acknowledgement. They neglect background research into life in and around Cambridge or Oxford. And they refuse to believe that any social skills are required whatsoever.

I’m not applying for medicine at Oxbridge because 1) medicine isn’t for me, and 2) (wrongly, I assume here) the lifestyles at Cambridge and Oxford will not be to my liking. Furthermore, the exact course I want to do is available to me at Royal Holloway. I’ve seen Royal Holloway, and I love it. No question about it; I can see myself studying at that university. Plus, it’s close to London, so I could travel into the city centre fairly easily if needs be. English and Creative Writing is what I want to do. Evidently, so do a lot of other people (and the whole rant about Oxbridge doctors and dentists could be applied to a number of these too). What annoys me most about the situation is that I could be rejected in favour of someone who may seem like a better candidate, and may be slightly more adroit in his or her abilities, but ultimately does not want to put the effort in that I know I will if I were accepted.

Sitting back, and griping about it, however, is of no use *shuts up, and resumes amending personal statement*.

Cutting-Edge

You could be a squeamish individual and abhor the sight of it, but I find the sight of blood oozing from a laceration on a person’s body to be a little bit wholesome. Maybe my mind perceives a true sense of humanity; vulnerability – fallibility even – from just one speck of blood.

For me, to ensanguine clothing is to revel in the mortality of being. And I am more than thankful for those who rebuff the claims that living forever is the ultimate goal; waiting on tenterhooks to be achieved. The prospect of eternal life does not appeal to me in the slightest. Why? Because, after a while, things grow terribly monotonous, and the urgency of existence dwindles briskly; why bother getting anything done now if you have the rest of time in which to do it? I’m sure if you were to ask around, you would find many others who share the same viewpoint as I.

Need I clarify, I should mention that I do not crave the sight of blood, particularly true in its larger quantities. I do not find its appearance to be of a great sensuousness (at times, its presence can instil fright and nausea), nor am I an entity with a taste for sanguinary actions. I do not thrive where other flounder around it. Simply put, the accident drawing of blood is a fix that will suit me sufficiently.

With items disarranged all around my room, circumvention of dangerous objects strewn about at floor level is an act demanding of skill. It was during the morning of Wednesday that I stepped on a shard formerly the possession of an intact light bulb. Splitting the skin instantaneously, I checked meticulously to see whether it had splintered beneath the layer of the epidermis (I saw nothing of the sort), and then proceeded to wash the wound. Yet whilst I did this, I allowed momentary breaks in the flow of water across it, in order to watch the blood seep out to the surface. Call it crazy if you must, but doing this brought a smile to my face; it uttered “you have never been more alive” in my ear.

The narrow gash has since closed without supplemental pain (I did check the wrong foot at first); evidence that there was once an unintentional orifice residing there, is hard to come by. But the fact remains that stanching the blood flow was not a first priority when the injury was inflicted.

Does small blood loss appeal to you?

Artist Watch: #2- Kings Of Leon

Those southern rockers from Tennessee; they recently came back to the forefront of music channel playlists with material from their new album, Only By The Night. And when I say forefront, the reality is that they had moseyed into the high beams of an oncoming pick-up truck of truly worldwide renown for the very first time. People went in droves to the CD outlets to buy their copies of this unhindered success (figuratively they did this, of course, as no-one really purchases CDs anymore, unless within the confines of their own homes. The only reason I did it was because it was a present for Vaishna).

Born and bred in Tennessee (or born in Oklahoma, and later bred in Tennessee), Kings Of Leon know the meaning of a tight-knit family. Three members are brethren to one another, while the fourth is a cousin whose age slots him in between the lead singer and the bassist. With an age span of seven years across the band, you might think that musical influences would vary greatly at times, resulting in conflict over new directions in which they should be taking the group. To my surprise, incidence of this is rare – almost inconceivable – with a large amount of influences being drawn in times after KOL’s formation. Caleb Followill, lead singer and front man, divulged information ad hoc: “..because of the way we grew up, we were really sheltered from music and we didn't know that much...”.

Kings Of Leon did not burst on to the scene, but their first EP was no meagre attempt at attaining stardom. Holy Roller Novocaine was effectual in its predisposal; people were inclined to procure Youth And Young Manhood upon its appearance later the same calendar year. Holy Roller Novocaine contained five songs – four of which were included on the trailing studio album (with two of these four appearing in remade forms). The fifth song, Wicker Chair, was a pleasant little ditty, though smelled strongly of the Deep South (and mildly of Caleb’s former passion for country music); it meant that to a narrower audience they could appeal. Youth And Young Manhood did not struggle to topple off the shelves in Europe, but home-based fans back in the USA opted out of an enthrallment scheme with the band named after their grandfather. Molly’s Chambers and Red Morning Light were two songs that achieved small-scale success; Red Morning Light was notable due to the fact that it cropped up on the FIFA Football 2004 soundtrack.

Where Youth And Young Manhood laid the groundwork, Aha Shake Heartbreak stepped up to the mantle and constructed an exterior of splendour that gave its fans something memorable – and left newcomers with a remarkably appealing proposition before their ears. The Bucket quickly became KOL’s concomitant song; a tag it sustained until their ascendancy at the superiority of their third album, Because Of The Times. Further tracks now rooted in Kings’ repertoire were the short and punchy Four Kicks and King Of The Rodeo.

In Because Of The Times, Kings Of Leon rightly managed to convey a sense of their growth and few could not catch sight of what the future might hold in store for them. With confidence rocketing, Caleb departed upon an alternate route: by branching out on to a pedestal of more traditional rock-sounding songs (e.g. Charmer, On Call, McFearless, and Camaro). Considered to be bravura by some, arguably, the move resulted in their best compilation of tracks to date – and that’s after you factor in their latest album release. The shift away from southern rock with these songs was combated with continued observations of it elsewhere; happily done, in my opinion, in Fans, Arizona and Ragoo.

So, what is there that one can impart with about this Only By The Night? I’ve already told you all about my impressions of Crawl, and though Sex On Fire is a catchier song, realistically, it’s not risky enough to outweigh the quality that Crawl brought to the table. As a single, Sex On Fire is shoddy; shameless title, shameless lyrics, shameless effort. Going on what I thought of the album at first, I would be obliged to confess that I heard very little of value that pressed on from Because Of The Times. Use Somebody (slated to be an upcoming single release) played on the repetition of Sex On Fire, and never intensified past the first verse and chorus. The “wedding bells” of 17 would have been appositely placed on Youth And Young Manhood; quite frankly, I found that song to be a little too immature for a band that had ostensibly entered adulthood before our eyes, with the bells being a childish, superfluous addition – imitative of conquest, and resonating vehemently, but contemptuously on our ear drums. Irritatingly enough, 17 has a beautiful chorus attached to it. Cold Desert, supposedly a sedative of an outro track, just drones on for five and a half minutes, putting the listener to sleep through boredom, not relaxation.

I’ll call a halt to the Kings Of Leon bashing now, as I enjoy their music, and think highly of them. The album wasn’t horrible. It was just fell a smidgen lower that where my expectations of the aforementioned would have placed it. And I allowed myself to get riled up about that. One thing I must say, on the other hand, is this; the opening track, Closer, is a gem. If you chose to listen to but one song on this album, let it be this one.

The Icy Exterior

Out of the frying pan, into the freezer; my room has accomplished the unthinkable by transforming itself: from clouding me with the dry heat of a sauna, to the bitter chills of a meat locker.

The boiler that stands its ground in the corner of my room makes it impossible – during the summer – to remain enclosed within its four walls without collapsing due to heat stroke in a few seconds. The nights would be the worst of all; every inch of your being screamed for the relief of a fan or an air conditioner (which I swiftly denied them access to, since it would culminate in my reliance on these pieces of equipment all through the day; a dependence I was not willing to consent to).

And in a dramatic twist of fate, what should befall this same room? You’ve guessed it; the boiler decides to give up the ghost and leave me mired in temperatures now closely resembling the Gobi desert throughout the year. Before that, dreams of a cooler climate (with, perhaps, the occasional monsoon to mix things up a little) in this bedroom would never come to fruition.

How ungrateful I am that those dreams have come true.

Three nights in a row have I awoken to feel cold’s embrace about my torso, caressing my shoulders and feet until I am forced to lash out repeatedly at the empty air. I struggle to banish its presence from my bed – grasping, clutching the covers tighter and tighter to preserve what little warmth had not yet abandoned me. Nevertheless, it would not relinquish; it clambered under the paper-thin quilt and assaulted the exposed flesh with an onslaught of taps and nips on the skin. My body convulsed at the feeling- partially in pain, partially in shock – and soon I lay there shivering, shuddering into submission. There was no doubt in my mind as to the violation I had received.

I have never been one not to complain at extreme temperature variations. A permanent foe of nature’s radiator, the Sun, it was not until about three years ago, however, that I renounced the impertinence of wintry weather with valour (subsequent to my loss of a large amount of body mass, which left me a great deal more susceptible to freezing conditions). Add to this substandard circulation, and you have a young man likely to don a thick coat and chatter his teeth at the first signs of frigidity.

Ultimately, in the event of my untimely end, should I be offered the choice, I would ardently select a means of hypothermia over hyperthermia. Compared to scorching heat, I am enamoured with the cold. Too often might I lapse into a semi-comatose state if unable to sufficiently reduce my body temperature during unusually hot British summers.

But events of yesterday did remind me that sub-zero can be just as inhospitable as +35°C. The gym at the end of my garden does not insulate heat. Try playing a game like Athens 2004 (where you button-bash insanely commonly) when your thumbs and fingers are seizing up! Poor Rachael could hardly flinch after a while. And rightfully, she had a go at me for not switching on the heater sooner.

If you wouldn’t mind, I must apply some socks to my feet, to stave off frostbite. Until next time...

Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia

Examine the word above; the title to this article. Without consulting a dictionary, or Google search, are you able to tell me what it is? It is certainly a real word.

Had you possessed pre-existing knowledge to that word’s definition, you may choose to feel a little bit smug now. If not, I’ll reveal all now…Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia is the fear of the number 666.

Makes sense, doesn’t it? The prefix “hex”, after all, comes from the Greek for the number 6. Or if you look at it with simple mathematical erudition, the hexagon had six sides, right?

It may prove difficult to get your head around the name of the phobia at first, but what the phobia actually entails is relatively easy to understand. Fear of the number 666 comes about because of its connotations with Lucifer. The superstitious among us tend to stray as far as possible away from this number; perhaps going to such lengths as refusing to write the number down on a sheet of paper.

Now, the aforementioned phobia will, more often than not, be classed as an irrational fear. By extension, all fears are irrational, but this could be said to be highly so. I’m undecided on the matter, and am not so perverse to thinking that 666 is just another number in the world. I wouldn’t try and anger any “carriers of fate” either, by conducting an experiment to discredit the worth of the theories that 666 is an evil number, and attesting that 666 is no more “unholy” a number than 665 or 667 (though I have written it four times so far).

Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia isn’t the only “number” phobia in the world. Triskaidekaphobia (fear of the number 13) is another common one, as is Tetraphobia (fear of the number 4) in East Asian culture, since the number 4 sounds like death in the Sinitic languages, and has an identical sound to death in Japanese and Korean. Following on from the long-standing worldwide saying: “13- unlucky for some”, we can also find Paraskavedekatriaphobia (fear of Friday the 13^th); a fear further sensationalised – in fact, immortalised in film (e.g. Friday the 13^th, plus its sequels).

From here on in, the phobias range from the ridiculous to the sublime (in terms of hilarity):

Panophobia (fear of everything)- Here it is; the smart child’s reason for not doing his homework. Sadly, such a phobia is often confused with extreme paranoia to everything.

Dutchphobia (fear of the Dutch)- I am dubious as to whether this one is real or not! Sounds like a scientist somewhere has said; “We need to invent a phobia that concerns the people of the Netherlands”. A more clear-cut phobia listed there is not.

Chaetophobia (fear of hair)- Must be fun having this when going through puberty, eh?

Vestiphobia (fear of clothing)- Want to streak around London? Tell the police this when they attempt to arrest you for indecent exposure.

Leukophobia (fear of the colour white)- At first, I was duped into believing this was the fear of contracting leukaemia. Were that the case, it wouldn’t have made this list, especially since white is generally thought of as being the colour of innocence and purity. Why would you be afraid of that?

Orthophobia (fear of property)- “Dear God!” Is that a house?! Flee, men!”

Ereuthrophobia (fear of blushing)- You might think that admitting to having a fear of blushing would cause you to blush…

Symbolophobia (fear of symbolism)- What is that?! A fear of differing analytical interpretations?

Phronemophobia (fear of thinking)- This must be what most chavs suffer from.

Geniophobia (fear of chins)- Need I say anything? I’m too busy laughing my ass of in this chair! Which I couldn’t do if I had…

Geliophobia (fear of laughter)- <- This…

Kathisophobia (fear of sitting down)- <- Or this.

Rhabdophobia (fear of being severely punished or beaten by a rod, or of being severely criticized)- I put this one in because of the all too specific “beaten by a rod”. Does it reflect on the “cane treatment” used many aeons ago, as punishment in school? Can’t be sure, but while we’re at it, let’s a phobia of having a fridge door close on your foot. Or tripping up over an ottoman.

Zemmiphobia (fear of the great mole rat)- Ok, there are mole rats now? There’s also a great mole rat? *gulps*. That, I’d be afraid of.

Phobias seem to have a place for every thing (tangible or abstract) on this planet. We even have phobias for things not on earth (e.g. Astrophobia, which is the fear of stars or celestial space).

Fear is weird; why do we have it? Though all human emotions are incredibly complex in the way that they can be felt for all items, all objects, all surroundings, all concepts, etc; they can all be felt for each and every different thing, depending on the person.

Japan Or Bust

Capital= Tokyo. Currency= Yen. Population= Over 127 million. Welcome to Japan.

It’s safe to say that traces of Japan feature prominently in everyday life, here in London. Your car might be Japanese; your television might be Japanese; your next door neighbour might be Japanese. No matter which angle you look at it, there is almost definitely something connecting your home, and the contents within it (or anything else that is your property), to the Land of the Rising Sun.

Prior to the emergences of the nouveau superpowers in the nearby vicinities of China and India, Japan had earned the title of most economically influential country located in Asia. When we think of Japan, brand names such as Toyota, Honda, Sony, Hitachi, Toshiba, Sanyo, Panasonic and Casio may all spring to mind. And is there any good reason for them not to? No. You instantly know that “the car in front is a Toyota”. Honda adverts are, in my opinion, immensely memorable; very possibly the best advertisements for a product you shall ever see in your life. And should you ever find yourself wandering aimlessly around Piccadilly Circus, take a glance at the neon sign that lords over you with such arrogant superiority, you may just feel sick. Happen to espy the Sanyo logo, by any chance?

Edible substances have also had success is Britain. The scale may be limited, and, once again, trumped by its Chinese and Indian counterparts, but impact and popularity of Japanese cuisine continues to increase, with ultra-contemporary sushi bars attracting many a customer day after day. Of course, the negative media attention they caught the fancy of in the murder case of Alexander Litvinenko – who was poisoned prior to dining in Itsu, a sushi bar located on Piccadilly, in London – did little to win over would-be new customers. You hear on the news that a man has yielded to the effects of radiation poisoning, so naturally the first thing you wish to do is to have a meal in the last restaurant he was seen eating at. Oh wait…No, that doesn't happen.

I have never been on an aeroplane. Yes, it’s still as true as it was in year 9, when I realised it wasn’t common for a person of my age back then to have never had the opportunity to fly. Now that I’m 4 years older than then (and 4 years wiser? I beg to differ), the opportunity still hasn’t arisen, and I’m stuck languishing in the suburbs of London nigh on every school holiday. But the reasoning for my lack of aircraft travel is not due to laze or even inability or my part, but rather a condition that forces a member of my family to veer from airlines altogether. When I have accumulated enough dosh to take myself there, Japan is one of the first countries I’d like to visit. I’ve had a fascination with the culture and lifestyle of it for several years now, and the photographs I have seen of it suggest that it is a country of beauty. The “bullet trains” are, too, something I wish to view first-hand (and if a few years time, a similar type of train may be running on the Circle Line or the London Underground), as are martial arts practices such as kendo and jujitsu. In fact, ideally, I’d like to be able to practice jujitsu myself!

Now without the intention of sounding derisive, sayonara!