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!

Been There, Done That, Decided Against Buying A Valueless Piece Of Memorabilia

What really churns my butter…what really fries my eggs…what really irons my shirt…just a few of those underused phrases we hear all too infrequently.

There is a modicum of things you never tire of hearing over and over again. The common phrases such as “You look nice” and “Thank you for a wonderful meal” may be plain pleasantries, but they simply won’t offend you, and – more often that not – cannot be challenged; unless you’re one of those souls who grows weary of hearing anything more than once, and believes a life should take into account a wider array of compliments to dish out without a previous prompt. Dissatisfied? No, couldn't be!

Clichés can be like enormous inside jokes. Where’s the logic in having an inside joke that’s not arcane? On the other hand, it can build up minor mutual understanding between complete strangers. I must elucidate - I find clichés useful, though at times, all too uninspired. In a perfect world, I’d be looking to strike a balance between use of hackneyed sayings and a person’s natural idiolect; somewhere around 20-80. Leaning too much on the words of others fails to distinguish ourselves from the crowd. Or might it be that I’m just being presumptuous?

Whatever the case, the ones that grate on me most are the comments that suggest hope for the future without any factual evidence to back it up. It’s when a person tells another than everything is going to be alright, when in reality, the person who says it is telling the other to have blind faith. Great suggestion! Many people recognise that I hate to sound cliché whenever it comes to comforting someone (as I state that I’ve said something trite, and it so detracts belief from anything further I may have to add); I try to be straight-talking about things instead. Half the time, the phrase “Everything is going to be alright” is denigrating to the intelligence of the other being, and does little to ease worries in the long term. To me, the perception of this phrase is about as well-received as the contraction of a common cold; I’d much rather be given a harsh truth, and be told to straighten out my act, or put more effort into something.

So, you’ve seen what my opinions are on that saying. Let’s look at a few others, whilst scrutinising the banality of each:

“You are what you eat.” – Originally intended to battle obesity through its shock value, only minimal dissection is required to reveal what an inane comment this truly is. Now, I am well known for my pedantry, and understand that this phrase is meant to correspond to the “fat” animals (e.g. a greedy person is going to be a pig or a cow), but why leave the damn thing so open ended? Would it lose its effect? Quite possibly, but it loses impact in this situation too. The consumption of chow mein does not make me a noodle; eating foie gras does not magically transform me into the organ of a goose. And if you eat healthily? Well, I see no apples walking the streets of London; do you?

“If *insert name here* jumped off a cliff, would you follow?” (or any close variants) – A common tactic employed by parents to keep their children from succumbing to peer pressure. And since so many parents thought it was a good idea to use this whenever hearing a child of theirs had agreed to take part in tomfoolery with other youngsters, the expression has so become cliché. Often, the act of misbehaviour doesn’t constitute an extreme comparison like this, which would immediately decrease the relevance of the saying in the first place.

“It’s not you. It’s me.” – Ahh! The old “how to end a relationship quickly” technique! If I remember correctly, I’ve both used this, and had it used on me; the former of which I look back on with disgust. Not a particular nice way of letting a person down nowadays, as the second anyone tries to say it, all of the truth flushes out of their body, and into the wind; fluttering away like a little butterfly made of lies. I wouldn’t recommend you ever say this; chances are that the person you’re trying to dump has heard it before and therefore knows the element of truth is missing from it. Those that suffer from having this as the real reason to break up will confidently word it differently, and elaborate precisely.

Keep in mind that not every cliché is pain to the human ear. Some clichés have rich value to them, and exist as good conversation starters. You don’t want to be going too “out there” in how you approach somebody new, as you may offend or confuse them. What I want is to see a healthy balance between the originality a human has to offer the world, and a few decent, common phrases we can fall back on to mildly flatter or engage others when necessary. Maybe next time you’re locked in conversation with someone, you could put a little bit of your own personal spin on a well-known expression to alter its reception, whilst retaining its fundamental meaning.

Phone Home

Can someone please explain it to me; why do we need to cram the functions of numerous gadgets onto one piece of equipment? Has nobody realised that the latest and greatest mobile phones are prime targets for thieves and muggers? Or have we all realised it, with everyone deciding to forego the warning? What is with this fatal attraction that causes most people to yearn for a mobile phone that can practically do everything except cook you dinner (and even then, you could attempt to use the phone’s radiation to act as a microwave)? The Luddites must be rolling in their graves!

Either that, or they’ve transformed into zombies, and are plotting the premature downfall of the earth (no longer to be caused by the implosive formation of a black hole, originating in Switzerland).

It’s the one of the few issues that makes me feel incredibly old. You would have to admit that anyone who opposes the ever-expanding growth of technology in this day and age is fighting for a losing cause, though from time to time, they have reason to object. Being inventive is one thing; using up valuable world resources on something that does fuck all to promote development – except human stupidity – is something else entirely. Yes, that’s right; some moron has already invented a T-shirt with cords attached to it, so you can pull it up like a set of blinds without lifting it like a normal person would do! Wow, just what every Londoner needs; an easier, lazier way to get naked in public.

It isn’t even so much to do with the pathetic additions they put on these phones. It’s the fact that they don’t work.

I’ve seen the uselessness of the ultra-modern mobile phone. I’d often hear people griping about this, that and the other thing: “Bluetooth is on, but it simply won’t connect to your phone” (you’ll discover that this is true in 99 situations out of 100); “I can’t connect to the Internet to check my e-mail!”; “It has a music player on it, but it only supports one format of song, and that format is only ever found on the phone itself”. These phones are not merely lousy when it comes to working as they should, but guess what happens when you drop them for the first time?

They shatter.

And I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill *breaks into two pieces* type of shatter. Or Feeder's Shatter. No; somehow, they get designed in a manner that insures that when the inevitable does happen, it explodes into so many fragments, infinity can’t describe the number of chunks there are lying on the floor.

To be honest, I appreciated the indestructibility of my old mobile. Really, it was the next best thing to indestructible (which sadly turned out to be destructible, as I found out when I finally broke the thing in a fit of rage). Those were the days where I could walk about casually, drop my phone onto a jagged rock or two, and then pick it up and dust it off. Its functionality would still be at its maximum.

Almost the same could be said about my current phone. I received it as a gift from my sister last Christmas; in all likelihood, I must have dropped at a rate of once a day. Is it broken? No. *reflects* That last sentence would have been true had you asked me it before 2pm on Monday. Yes, it’s a teensy bit damaged now, but it works; the damage caused was a lot closer to superficial than it was to detrimental to the lifespan of the phone. Amusingly, I manage to drop my phone daily and fail to give it even so much as a scratch; it turns out to be the fault of someone else when it finally decides to give up the ghost in its perfection!

I was angry at first, but not any more. There are precious few things in existence for which I hold a grudge towards for a sustained period of time.

Right, moving along…what happened to the days where you could get by with a phone, which had two purposes; ringing other people, and texting other people. That’s all I really want from my phone! I don’t want to watch films, or episodes of popular television shows on it. I don’t want to play a crummy version of a video game on it. I don’t want to listen to poor quality music, emanating from its tiny speaker. And most of all, I do not want to shell out hundreds of pounds on a "new" phone that will be obsolete in a few months anyway! Echoing modern trends, my phone might as well be referred to as “old” (not “ancient”, mind you, which would only apply to phone more than 3 years old), but why should I be roped into buying another when the current still provides me the features of a phone I truly need? Besides, newer phones intrinsically have the same, recurring problem; weaker phone reception.

Now if you will excuse me, I must find my phone and drop it on the floor a few more times to show how a person with woeful dexterity such as myself, can continue to maintain operation of a phone nowadays.

Want to buy a phone that operates as it should? The trick is to buy a brick.

From Beckton To High Barnet

2 months in, and I still haven’t written a piece dedicated to my favourite forms and transport around London: the Underground, and the DLR (the famed red London bus comes a distant third due to an ongoing feud I’m currently having with it). I want the world to now about the fantabulosity of these two public transportation systems!

My ultimate goal is to traverse London; passing through every station of every line. The progress of this aim has been hindered slightly recently; basically, I have no money to use to get on the Underground network for more than a couple of stops. 50p off my Oyster card when I’m travelling from Newbury Park to Barkingside?! That makes a very angry me (but – with an air of a serendipitous nature about it – last week, the ticket machine at Barkingside malfunctioned, and I ended up with what was effectively a free journey back home *grins*)! For all intents and purposes, we’ll ignore that minor aggravation, and look at the bonuses of the Tube (I’d choose standing inside a packed train carriage on the Jubilee Line at rush hour over a dog pile on a bus any day, if I can afford it).

Nearer the beginning of September, I chose to attend a University open day at Brunel in West London. I travelled down there with one of my friends…bah! To hell with writing that over and over again; this friend's name was Tom (others mentioned have so far been Peter [sent me a link to another blog, plus one of the two with sleep aversion; his blog link is on the right, labelled Where Is My Mind?], Rachael [was listening to same song, and endures months of agony without a good sleep], Cubitt [lost his Internet connection a while back, and naps in the afternoons], Abbie [had listened to Otherside, and is the other one of the two who refuses to sleep before the early hours of the morning], Jack [read The Catcher In The Rye before me] and Jolene & Josh [the latter of which passed his driving test at the end of August]). Back on topic, Tom and I had planned to meet at Newbury Park station at around 6:30am. As always, I was late; I am often late to things, and this time, it was by 15 minutes. We hopped on the train at around 10 minutes to 7, and knew we had a long journey in store. From Newbury Park, we would have to change to the Metropolitan Line at Liverpool Street, and then up to the western terminus in Uxbridge. The terminus! Turns out it’s a very long way away – about 2 hours – with the number of stops along the entire route amounting to 27 (it should have been 29, but displaying very mild pity, the train bypassed both Preston Road and Northwick Park). And despite this extended trip on the Tube, the journey was not at all strenuous.

And it did cross another London Underground terminus off my list, so all the grander.

The new 3-unit trains that are about to be brought into commission on the DLR are things of beauty. A very sleek appearance exterior, coupled with tidily furnished interiors mean that it’s going to be a joy to first travel around the Docklands area on one of them. But the work required to transform all platforms into sizes that can accommodate these 3-unit trains is vast, and completion is not expected until 2010.

I’m always excited to see Underground and DLR construction projects on the go. Work has now commenced on the building of an additional westbound Central Line platform at Stratford; very exciting! The DLR extension to Woolwich Arsenal is also progressing nicely (although that is an assumption based on the fact I have heard no news of major hitches in the programme). With London 2012 fast approaching, delays and service alterations may prove troublesome, but in the end, it’s guaranteed to be worth it, as we are supplied with more efficient subway/light railway systems.

I love the Tube and the DLR!

If It’s On Wikipedia…Then It Must Be True!

The trademark of a gullible idiot: believing near on everything he chooses to read on Wikipedia.

Now I wouldn’t confess to something so naïve…but I most certainly will not deny it.

I’ve become obsessed! And not in the good way. More often than not, any vandalism posted on a Wikipedia article is incredibly easy to catch sight of – usually it takes the form of a childish insult/ego boost; something like “goerge bush iz teh gays LOLZ! I pwn j00 all hahah!” (and those misspellings are deliberate, since these people are either too ignorant, or too stupid to understand the concept of English). By the way, if you need help translating that garbled rubbish (I really shouldn’t be criticising that style of contracted English, as I use it too much over the Internet; even in everyday conversations. So I’ll retract the harsh comments that appear before this), roughly, it comes out as “In my opinion, George Bush is a homosexual. I am now going to laugh at this because I am a homophobe. In addition to this, I think I am Jesus Christ reincarnated.”

Okay, so you’ve deciphered the asinine ramblings of a 12 year-old. Big deal. I could do that in my sleep (that is to say if I slept properly). But now, you notice that there’s a different breed of vandal lurking around the block. A vandal who will stop at nothing in their attempts to induce worldwide confusion through subtle, yet dramatic alterations.

Take an incident that occurred during the dying days of last week, for example. Popular – or hated, depending on your opinion of him – celebrity Vernon Kay was forced to issue a proclamation stating that he was still a living, breathing human being, following unsubstantiated “rumours” that arose due to a series of edits to his Wikipedia page. The claim was that Kay had tragically died in a yachting accident in Greece. Not only was this not true, but another edit included mention of an arranged funeral service, to be held in Bolton this Friday.

The interesting thing about this was that the two edits came from two different IP addresses. My in-depth knowledge of IP address allocation is frankly limited to the knowledge of what my own one is. And even then, I don’t fully get why it is what it is. But if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that the two “sources” transpired from either the same household, the same person using a different PC elsewhere, or two people agreeing to collaborate with one another to make it seem as though the claim possesses authenticity (a claim made by two different people is, on the outside, more credible than a claim made by one). But the foundation remains the same; it’s pure vandalism. The change is that it’s cleverer vandalism.

Anyone remember the Frosties kid? If you do, you may also remember the rumours that floated around about his "death". The supposed cause of death varied wildly, but the bulk of allegations implied that he had committed suicide due to bullying at school, or he was murdered for appearing in what was then the world’s most annoying advertisement. And in actuality, he wasn’t English – he wasn’t even British – and he’d been living happily in his native South Africa; enjoying the revenue from the advert broadcasts.

Black comedy is fantastic! On Wikipedia, however, it is difficult to assert its appearance. You need prior warning for it in text, and no self-respecting Wiki vandal is going to write “What appears below…is a joke” before their work, are they? That would blow the rebellious nature of vandalism completely out of the window! Could you imagine seeing graffiti that read “*insert tag name here*. Sorry about the inconvenience caused”? Had I read that Vernon Kay edit without knowing it was a joke, I would have taken to believing it was true, as most people did. According to an array of legitimate sources, his friends rang him up out of panic to check whether he was alive or not.

The lesson here is: don’t be like me by choosing not to digest everything on Wikipedia as fact!

Idle Hands

It’s a Monday evening. I sitting here in my bedroom, listening to my favourite songs on the PC, and – if I’m being perfectly honest with you – this is the most tranquil I’ve been in months. It’s pleasing to feel completely relaxed for once. The hectic ropes of life have chosen to loosen their grip on my wrists; the relief is heavenly.

Yet with tranquillity comes boredom. My mind’s focus shifted from fixation upon a bowl I’ve had lying in my room for a few days (I can be quite slovenly at times) to anxiety concerning a fly buzzing around my room. The number of activities I have at my disposal is very limited.

Fine, I do hear you. Most likely there is something productive I could and should be getting on with, but partial fatigue has set in, which has left me feeling rather lethargic. I don’t work well when I’m lethargic. Never have done, and never will. It means I procrastinate an awful lot (which is why I’m finishing an article referring to Monday night on a Tuesday morning).

It’s always the small things that throw off my concentration, or send me into one of my happy or sad moods. I don’t do “peaceful” too often. If I can keep myself preoccupied with something, my mood will be raised – as will my energy levels. If I’m calm – and there’s not a thing I can indulge myself in – that peace turns to boredom, which escalates to mild unhappiness.

I’m perfectly fine if I don’t myself time to stop and think about something. It’s those moments of that place you in empty surroundings which I can’t stand. I tell you, it’s progressing to that stage this very instant.

And there isn’t a whole lot I can do. The silence is deafening.

In fact, I’m not even enjoying writing this article. Not one bit. My creative skills have plummeted temporarily.

Catch you on the flipside.

Stupid Guides To Very Select Situations: #2- How To Beat Barack Obama In A Presidential Election

1. Choose a female running mate.
2. Accuse Obama of sexism.

With Sarah Palin as John McCain’s running partner, the underhand tactic employed by the Republican party to cling on to their hold of the White House was to select a vice presidential candidate based on their gender. It represents a last throw of the dice; an attempt to sway some of those undecided voters (the ones who backed Hilary Clinton) by public displaying a “21st century” style government of their own. If McCain were elected to power, and later died in office *touches wood*, then Palin would rise to the helm, and please all those pro-women voters.

I don’t question the credentials of Palin. She served the pleasing maximum two terms as mayor of Wasilla, and ran a successful campaign to become governor of Alaska. In fact, her glittering political CV suggests she is more equipped to run the US than Barack Obama is; for one, she’s run a city, and he hasn’t. She isn’t a full-blooded Republican, however, and has been known to go against her party periodically. Ironically, McCain also criticised Palin for some of her work during her time as Wasilla’s mayor.

Polls have already shown an increase in McCain’s popularity. The victor of the 2008 US presidential election is not a foregone conclusion just yet.

Pull. Push.

So I started my real driving lessons at the start of last month. Took a while for it to be fully organised – I had been waiting since February to get behind the wheel and cause chaos to the streets of London; terrorising pedestrians and whatnot.

Luckily, my eagerness to learn how to drive as quickly as possible was kept very much in check by preparations on a small test track located on private land. That, amongst other things, gave me a fairly solid idea of what to expect when I headed out on to real roads with real traffic. Obviously, you can’t compare it to the real thing, as everyone else on this track was either a learner, or simply too hesitant to practice on side roads, so the element of danger was greatly diminished (or perhaps greatly increased, if you avow that learner drivers are potentially more hazardous than qualified drivers).

Not everyone wants to start driving the second they turn 17, mind you. Exceptions to the rule may be: teenagers who are put off by the sheer cost learning to drive imposes upon them; a disinterest in the use of non-public transportation; possession of a personal car, and 24-hour right to it is not a requisite for them because they don’t have far to travel, or they can nick lifts off others.

My car was beginning to look forlorn. It’s hungry for tarmac, you see. Probably has a bee in its bonnet too, or something of the sort. It’s an automatic, meaning the amount of effort I will have to expend driving it is greatly reduced from that of the comparable manual car. This is good, since insurance premiums hit the roof for people around my age. Anyway, the car itself is nice; it’s not too big, it’s not too small, it’s just right. Maybe that’s because it used to be owned by a blonde woman and three bears (Friends still influences after all these years).

I successfully negotiated the minor stepping stone referred to as the “Theory Test” a few days before the commencement of September without difficulty. In short, I never truly expected to fail; it was just a case of keeping calm, and putting in the answers I knew were correct. Following that was the slightly more thought-provoking exercise of identifying which were the hazards in the short film clips. Overall, I chastised myself for making a couple of rudimentary mistakes in the first half of the test, but a pass is a pass. And in the driving theory, it doesn’t matter by how much you pass; it only matters if you pass.

With the theory behind me, I look forward to an upcoming – yet undetermined – practical test. Boy, how I wish I could just take it tomorrow and pass straight away! I’m jealous of my friends that have passed already; one passed just before the resumption of school, and gave a few of us a drive down the road. I’m very proud of his achievement, especially because he had only been learning for 3 months. And from what I’ve seen of him, he’s very much a proficient driver.

No matter what, I totally enjoy driving! The factors of independence and liberation from reliance on the bus are imperative.

Poetry In Motion: #4- Black 1666

The dead hath raised fury prior once said
In time they would but feast upon thy bed.
A plight so bleak, all mortals surely damned
By swarms of rodents sent by Hades hand
Up from the Underworld into the realm
Where Man hath dwelt, before t’were overwhelmed.

Soon, Pestilence reareth its ugly head;
Ten thousand souls perish unto the dead.
Resilience misused, I understand,
Proves taxing amidst bedlam Devil-planned.
No lights by yonder sea can save them now
From monumental death in which they drown.

At first, a lump appeareth on the neck
So grand none can desist becoming wrecked
And if said boil should begin to weep,
Alas, fellow! Awaits, eternal sleep.
Expect fever and pain ne I can tell
Ye. Black thou art unable to dispel.

The street doth smell of grotesque tobaccos;
And frankincense, and pepper, hops; thou know’st
The putrid air infecteth all that breathe,
In spite of stronger odours we receive
Our lungs still are bequeathed unwontedly
With poison seen in 1353.

That rhyme that children sing denotes the stage
Of history where plagues were all that raged.
A fifth of London faced a harsh demise;
Now they’re statistics, we can summarise
The tragic loss of life. Today, we’ll fix
The plague swept across 1666.

Throw Away Your Television

Television sets of the western world are quaking in their proverbial boots. And who can blame them? The poor things are close to extinction!

It may not be as plain as the nose on your face, but somewhere down the line, the television found a growth in its plastic casing, and soon discerned it was terminal. Before you go denouncing me for evoking such a tasteless piece of imagery in your mind that will soon fester there and stay for many an hour, think about the importance of your TV. How much joy has it brought you down the years?

For some people, TV has racked up enough brownie points for it to be regarded as an additional family member. And I’m not exaggerating. The television, in most households from the 1960s to the 1990s, could easily place right behind a family pet in the pecking order for love and attention. The irregular person then chose to rank their TV above any animals in their possession – though not going as far to hug it day and night, and feed it doggie treats.

But the television won’t receive the mercy of a quick exit from our lives. The death of the old "square box” will be a slow, painful one indeed. Why? Digital and HD TV have proven to be temporary cures that will drag out the process longer than it seems necessary. Nearly everything we can do on a television, we can do on a computer.

The upturn in fortunes of the computer over this present decade has trumped all efforts the television can gather together, effectively emasculating it. For the laymen, if PCs and TVs were members of your family, then the PC is the young-at-heart parental figure, who all your friends enjoy the company of, and are fascinated by the vitality of – whereas the TV is the decrepit grandfather, who stews bitterly in the corner of the room, watching all the attention his child obtains, and silently resents it. But it isn’t as if your grandfather TV lacks appeal entirely. If you trotted over, and conversed with him for a little while, you’d be reminded that his crazy stories are still fairly interesting; less so than before, as you’ve heard them all already. The problem arises when, after a while, that TV will not shut its yap, and you end up leaving to return to daddy PC, who has had something quite “edgy” or controversial happen to them in the time you spent listening to the TV. Simply put, the computer has so much more to offer than the television. As time goes by, the television will grow so irksome that we need to ship it off to the hospice for terminally ill household entertainment appliances (also known as the garage); the same one that accommodated the likes of the now long deceased gramophone and walkman; the vinyl player, which is on its last legs; the hi-fi, whose appearances almost equate to cameos now and then, as it perseveres as the centrefold at parties; and the radio, which feels rejuvenated every so often, but – no matter how hard it fights – will never be restored to its former glory.

The death of television might be especially sad for people of my age group. Many, many adolescents have grown up considering it their primary source of entertainment outside of outdoor activities with fellow young people. We were too young to be thankful for …in fact, we were too young to understand the impact radio had on generations before us, and it has only been in recent years that our craving for the Internet has begun to engulf us.

Remember the slogan, enforced to dissuade people from carrying out animal neglect: “A dog is for life, not just for Christmas”? The shameful thing is we can’t apply it to our good friend, the television. When the day arrives, on which he finally becomes obsolete, we will remember the good times, and may shed a tear or two for our fallen comrade. Then we’ll abandon him in a scrapyard somewhere, and be on our merry way.

Booked Up For The Holiday

The Catcher In The Rye. What a brilliant book.

I had to travel down to Surrey last week, to carry out mundane tasks for the majority of the day. And it just so happened that I literally stumbled upon that book, just lying in the middle of my room. I still don’t know how it ended up there, as I certainly didn’t purchase it from a book store. I, under no circumstances, purchase books indiscriminately. Though, as luck would have it, I recognised the title, and appreciated that a mate had read it last year. He seemed to regard it as a good read, allowing myself to feel as though I could pick this book up off the floor, and give it a spin.

Without a doubt, it was the first time I was able to fully engross myself in a book. Often, I wouldn’t be intrigued by a certain section in a book; ergo I would then lose interest very quickly.

It didn’t take me too long to read. I only spent around a total of 12-14 hours hooked on it.

The book is written in first-person narrative, and follows the life of a depressed and disillusioned with life 17-year old boy called Holden Caulfield. It’s no surprise he hates everything with an unfortunate name like that. Or maybe I’m just being unnecessarily critical? Either way, his love for life has waned significantly over time, and he has come to the stage where precious few things can bring him pleasure. He constantly displays his disdain for the false or dull nature of other human beings, leading him to alienate (or, as should be said, ostracise; a realisation he makes early on) himself from many characters, including his roommate in school, and for very brief periods; an ex-girlfriend he still held a good relationship with, and his younger sister, whom he clearly adored (discovered through lovingly descriptive imagery prior to her appearance in the book).

The strange thing about Holden is that he doesn’t go out of his way to make enemies; he’ll happily engage in small talk with someone he says he both admires and despises at the same time, before eventually caving into his instincts and insulting them. Moreover, he will do favours for those he holds little to no respect for. Sometimes, these people may turn out to be people he doesn’t even know. When he leaves school after being kicked, we already know that he has built up a decent rapport with several former teachers, one of whom invites him to stay around his house for as long as he likes…and turns out to be a pervert. A pathological liar, Holden struggles to keep loose inter-personal relationships going, as the majority of them are founded on deceit.

Holden is a character who can experience extreme ups and downs (archetypal of many mid-teenagers), with more downs than ups. He talks about how he grows depressed easily in the most unordinary situations, and it’s often the case that the small things knock him about more than anything major.

The penultimate chapter of the book could be considered ambiguous by some in the way that it fails to explain where Holden’s motivation for rebuilding his life comes from, though in actuality, the implicit details are all too apparent; he realises he’s too heavy an influence on the life of his sister to go off and leave all that he knows behind.

Despite not liking the ending to this book, I thoroughly enjoyed the remainder of the text. The parallels one can draw with modern day British life, and the lifestyles of American children in the first half of the 20^th century are few and far between; however, it’s the attitude and outlook towards life (rebellion and defiance are points regularly brought up; a piece of attire known as a red hunting hat symbolises this, as Holden cares not for what people think of him when he wears it) of which many teenagers still have in this current age that allows a lot of young people today to pick it up and give it a read.

If, at a minimum, a male between the ages of 15-19 were unable to perceive a small part of their own person in the character of Holden Caulfield, it would be a tragedy.

Oh My God

When you’re at the bottom of the barrel, with next to no hope left, the littlest beam of light can save you from out-and-out self-destruction.

There have been times during which my devotion to God has been tested to the limit. The extreme cases have involved my rejection of the existence of God in its entirety. Though in the early hours of the evening of the day before the day before yesterday, something happened that reaffirmed my faith in God, and fortified my belief in Him up to heights I had not reached before.

I am not a very religious person. At all. I approach Christmas and Easter with the same materialistic view most other Brits nowadays do. I, on rare occasion, attend church. I blaspheme a lot. And I will not leap to the defence of Christianity, should someone mock its traditions or values. I surmise that I don’t appreciate having religion shoved down my throat for me to digest uncomfortably, and I’m not taken by the notion that religion should play as important a role in today’s society as it currently does. Officially, I’d be classified as a Roman Catholic (ironic, as that is one of the strictest denominations of any world religion, not just Christianity), as both my parents are, and have tried in the past to convince me to follow the ideals of it; they christened me in my early years, and sent me through the Communion process whilst I was still in primary school. Both of these acted as preparatory procedures in order to allow me to fully confirm myself as a Roman Catholic around 16/17. In reality, I don’t feel obligated to progress through a confirmation, as I wouldn’t uphold the principles of Roman Catholicism, or obey all of the rules. You can see how senseless it would be for a person to join a religion under their own jurisdiction, whilst not believing in its purpose. Overall, I’d categorize myself as having views that closely represent a deist; I feel that God exists, but I strongly doubt the influence he has on everyday life, and most events are caused by people.

I’m not about converting people to my way of thinking. If a person wants to be a devout member of their religion’s community, I am not one to stop them. I may step in periodically to criticise poorly defined reasoning, but will not be accusatory in a boorish manner or label them a deluded fool. One of the best things about humanity is that people can have differing opinions on the same topics; diversity is found in more places than race, gender and sexual orientation.

However, in this advanced technological age, does the upkeep of traditional religious views and actions not warrant its place in society? When humanity is trying to push forward with new inventions and ideas, isn’t it a drawback to have something that requires people to constantly appreciate the distant past? The argument between science and religion has been raging ever since the concept of evolution was first mooted. And with science being prominent in this era, shouldn’t religion take a step back into a lesser role?

Don’t forget that I branded myself a "near" deist, so I might have a vested interest here…

Poetry In Motion: #3- The Banana Song

One banana,
Two banana,
Three banana,
Four.

This poor slave farmer
Can no longer pick bananas,
For his hands are bloody
And raw.

One banana,
Two banana,
Three banana,
Four.

These dioramas
Do not depict the drama
Of the labour
The slaves must endure.

To the hills, they should scarper;
Though instead, they work harder,
So they can buy
The little they can afford.

Five banana,
Six banana,
Seven banana,
No more.

Fall Of Fools

I experimented with inappropriate behaviour once again yesterday (precise details are to be kept esoteric). For that, I reverted back to a state where my maturity was closer to that of a 7 year old, and regret acting out in a ridiculous manner. Regardless of whether we should still be allowed to act like children every now and then – to which I firmly believe we should at least have the opportunity to do until we turn 18 – I overstepped the mark in terms of what was acceptable around the streets of London. Really, I don’t look at other people I already know, and think what they did was out of order, because they didn’t cause damage to public property or anything like that. Normally, people are harsher on themselves than they could possibly be with anybody else, and in the same train of thought, people are angrier with themselves than others would be with them. Unless they lack a sense of shame.

If you are/were an adult walking down the road, and encountered a group of young people where the odd person was being the bit of a nuisance, you may cast an eye of disapproval upon the entire set of youths. Basically, you can only make a snap decision about what this group of people is like without knowing all the facts; they are strangers to you, after all. Such judgement is unfair to the innocents, who continue to behave as suitably as society dictates. The worst thing for one of the “show ups” is when they realise they aren’t only embarrassing themselves, but all the people they care about too.

Males are a hundred times more likely to get caught conducting oneself in a manner deemed deplorable by most. Over antecedent eras of time, the difference between male and female misconduct has declined conspicuously, and in some areas of the UK (predominantly London), the probabilities of finding either a young man or woman acting like a lout could very well be even. I know that the main reasons I tend to invariably wreak pointless havoc are through boredom and frustration. But that is no excuse, nor does it provide justification for the deeds.

I am not the violent type, and I never intend to do damage to people or things deliberately. I readily admit to being clumsy, and injury-prone, which allows accidents to happen easily. Well, you also get those who go out of their way to inflict injury on others; an issue that has, in my eyes, augmented since the ban of smacking children. If that hadn’t been outlawed, shows like Supernanny would never have aired (or would have seen a greatly reduced number of episodes every series), and hardly anyone would acknowledge the name Jo Frost. To amplify the preference more and more young people have to uncivil disobedience is its prevalence in celebrity culture; people like the *cough* glorious Lily Allen have been reprimanded for assaulting members of the press. Reactions like that shouldn’t be tolerated.

And yet they are.

I may certainly bemoan my stupidity at times, but what I want most is for the younger generation to grow up, not falling into the trap of a world where they feel it is their duty to disrespect their elders and existing laws. Hearing children as young as 4 use the word “fuck” on a daily basis cannot lead to something positive.

Legalise disciplinarian-styled smacking of children. In the long term, it does more good than harm.

Kid Napping

You can never measure the exact time you fell asleep. It has to be a rough estimate, based on what you remember doing right before losing consciousness, and how you could connect that with a series of digits. The human mind cannot concentrate well enough in a drowsy state to focus on such things as clocks and watches to tell you whether you dosed off at 12:05 or 12:10. Naturally, you wouldn’t think you’d be able to recollect that time in your head in any case; you were too busy trying to get to sleep.

I don’t know why, but that sort of thing is a grievance to me, and I’d wish there were a way to bypass outside interference to find out for yourself when you drifted off.

For as long as I can recall, I haven’t – for a sustained period of time – required to sleep for an eternity to feel refreshed on my waking. The average time I awake is probably around 7 o’clock; that’s outside of school term time. Factor in the need to arise earlier in order to ready oneself for educational relief, and that average winds back an hour or so. And the approximate times at which I hit the sac can vary greatly. What I mean by that is I could go to bed at 10pm, or 2am, and it simply wouldn’t matter which is was; I would, more often than not, wake up around that mean rousing phase. I’ve definitely subsisted off around 0-4 hours before, and felt perfectly fine the following day (though eventually, later in the week, I do succumb to the need for an excess few hours). I'm lucky in that regard, as the moment I wake up - providing I move about and get up fully - I feel fully alert without caffeine or a stimulant within 5 minutes.

Most teenagers my age find it difficult to drag themselves out of bed any time prior to 10 in the morning, if given the choice to sleep in that late. Realistically, a lot of human beings worldwide would do the same thing. A couple of friends have said to me in the past that they’ve only woken up at 4 in the afternoon multiple times. Granted, they did usually go to bed at around 3am…Another chum will take naps throughout the day on his return home to retain energy. But there are other friends who find sleep hard to come by at all – one in particular has complained in the past that she can go months without having a decent night’s sleep. From what she’s described to me, her sleeping patterns are far worse than any I have experienced.

I would really love to be able to know when I took my last glance at the world before slumber seized me with a firm grip day in, day out. Would learning of a trivial thing like that interest you? Unlikely, I’d assume. But could you imagine the aid the precision would give us in everyday life? Minimal, I know. Woah, I’m putting forward a very weak argument in favour of this.

But one thing I know for sure is that practically no-one will ever be reading this article at this time of day. You’re all greedy sleepers!

I woke up at 5:30 today, and found that I'd left the television on! And in all honesty, I shouldn't have just mentioned that, since my parents may read this, and charge me for the rise in the electricity bill total cost. I may be alert, but my sense has yet to prevail.