I've always said that, working in a restaurant, it's weird being a customer there. That said, the last time I tested out this theory was a bit special. My family and I went on a busy evening, and we were served by my new boyfriend at the time. I think anyone would've felt a touch weird at that. Or maybe just late teenagers, who are prime for overreacting to all social occasions and taking embarassment where it's not necessary.
Tonight I am going to my work as a customer again. Just with a solitary friend, as we are bored. I am more concerned this time with not getting too inebriated by accident and breaking things. Keeping a low profile, as to make sure I don't get reprimanded by management figures. I'm even taking a voucher. I'm such a fucking bastard. I hate those vouchers gits. Smash and grab cheapskates, we are.
It's also part of the art of procrastination. Though I am no longer in meltdown mode over the essay I am trying to write, I certainly don't want to sit and stare at my laptop screen with anything relevant on it. I feel a bit guilty about being a student and not enjoying it. I am told it's an easy life, and it is. But the thought of returning to my cold house in Yorkshire so I can spend my time in the library and in the chest freezer that is our living room is not an enticing prospect. That said, I am keen on not living with my parents until I am 30. Must go to university, must earn degree that employers will not giggle at...must get...some...sort of job? I can be discerning later, when I have a mortgage.
I've been thinking about this. Rather a lot. I have been having conversations with my boyfriend. I am sure he won't mind my writing about this, as no one reads this blog except me and occasionally one or two unfortunate strays (this means you Ken). He is facing one of those moments where you have to seriously contemplate his job and home. Does one move to further a career? Do you need to make decisions quickly or let events take their own route, etc. Anyway, while it is not an urgent problem, it's a crossroads I wouldn't like to be stood at.
He is 24, boys and girls. I am 20. For all my jokes about his zimmer frames and free bus passes, I do not consider our ages to be different. He knows a lot about life and shit that I do not. He's got a lot more life experience and day-to-day life nous than I have. But at the end of the day, the idea of having to make it on my own in a few short months is kinda scary. I draw some comfort from my brother. He is 27 and I have endless respect for the man. I value his advice and friendship above anyone else's, but I don't think of him as nearly 30. He's just one of those people a bit older than me.
This said, I've always thought of him as older. Our fraternal relationship was defined by age. He was bigger than me. That's why we've never really had to be competitive or had real rivarly. It's a proper brother relationship where you value each other without having a strange complex about having to prove yourself. But there are people, who I consider basically my age, having real lives. In my daydream moments, I imagine myself with a flat, a job, a car even (OK let's not go crazy) and it's not scary in my imagination. But in my imagination I have more guts than I have in real life!
I'm hoping age ain't nothin' but a number.
Monday, 11 January 2010
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
Coup New Year
I've been thinking more about how I've not written any of those poems yet. I think I should write an amateur's guide to starting a coup. I've been looking further into rubbish Navy forces we could overtake, my followers. Something about the indendence of sovereign nation is to be respected. The civic pride presumably felt by the smaller and pluckier countries around the globe that get on with their business is something to admire and, clearly, be condescending about.
However, the Navy of Belize comprises of 13 boats and 152 servicemen. I don't know if each boat can seat 11.69 people, or if they are just rowboats seating 2 people each. Were they row boats, you'd need 26 people at any one time. No, let's say 39 and the spare 3rd person is firing a 1914 German made Luger at a Mexican warship. That means you have 3.897 sets of crewmen for each boat. Or a set for every row boat and 2.897 reserve crews.
I have no doubt that the average Belizian citizen does not worry too much on a daily basis about the provisions held by their armed forces. I have recently read a rather amusing article on the BBC News website about the head of the Somalian Navy: it has no boats, nor any servicemen to serve in any boats he might find. He's not been to sea in over 20 years. But still, head of the Navy he remains. I like looking this sort of thing up for two reasons. Firstly, I relish the obscure and lesser known little details. Purely for trivia's sake, I like knowing that the Ivory Coast's entire air force was once accidentally destroyed (all 3 helicopters of it) by the French in a military accident. And secondly I find the comparison, the differences amusing. I don't know how many boats the British Navy has. Probably more than 13. Let's say definitely more. And it is not with jingoistic fervour I trumpet how much better prepared we are for some horrible war we hopefully will never have to fight. I consider it more just amusing to see the underdogs on the other end of the scale. The Swazilands of this world. It's a bit like watching Accrington Stanley in the FA Cup.
However, the Navy of Belize comprises of 13 boats and 152 servicemen. I don't know if each boat can seat 11.69 people, or if they are just rowboats seating 2 people each. Were they row boats, you'd need 26 people at any one time. No, let's say 39 and the spare 3rd person is firing a 1914 German made Luger at a Mexican warship. That means you have 3.897 sets of crewmen for each boat. Or a set for every row boat and 2.897 reserve crews.
I have no doubt that the average Belizian citizen does not worry too much on a daily basis about the provisions held by their armed forces. I have recently read a rather amusing article on the BBC News website about the head of the Somalian Navy: it has no boats, nor any servicemen to serve in any boats he might find. He's not been to sea in over 20 years. But still, head of the Navy he remains. I like looking this sort of thing up for two reasons. Firstly, I relish the obscure and lesser known little details. Purely for trivia's sake, I like knowing that the Ivory Coast's entire air force was once accidentally destroyed (all 3 helicopters of it) by the French in a military accident. And secondly I find the comparison, the differences amusing. I don't know how many boats the British Navy has. Probably more than 13. Let's say definitely more. And it is not with jingoistic fervour I trumpet how much better prepared we are for some horrible war we hopefully will never have to fight. I consider it more just amusing to see the underdogs on the other end of the scale. The Swazilands of this world. It's a bit like watching Accrington Stanley in the FA Cup.
Monday, 28 December 2009
The End of a Decade
I had too look it up. On Wikipedia of all things. I had to look up what happened in the last ten years. I am not trying to sound facetious, I'm just very bad at associating memories or events I know have happened with actual time. I have my own little space-time continuum and it is broken. I have a series of memories about my life which I can only say happened sometime between the ages of 8-11, 13-15 etc.
But I was trying to think of definitive stuff. Stuff that wasn't just the things that are preordained to happen: Olympics, political summits, America electing someone thick (GUFFAW!)
FYI, I thought of the following: 9/11, 7/7, The sensation that was and continues to be Barack Obama, the...phenomenon that was and perhaps continues to be Gordon Brown, the Asian Tsunami of about 2005, Iraq, global warming being a thing.
That's quite depressing isn't it? Two terrorist attacks, a natural disaster or two, a war and a couple of politicians? That said, try it yourself for another decade that came without resorting to cliché. The 1990s: The rise of sushi, Geri Halliwell and New Labour. Done, in three bits. Then again that sort of cutting social commentary is perhaps better made retrospectively. So I shall share some of the nicer things I found on the Wikipedia for 2000s (decade) to brighten the end of our ten years. Or if not nicer, just things I had forgotten.
Windows ME and Vista and XP, CERN in Switzerland, Soulja Boy, the huge expansion in computer gaming, mad cow disease.
Which list is more depressing?
But I was trying to think of definitive stuff. Stuff that wasn't just the things that are preordained to happen: Olympics, political summits, America electing someone thick (GUFFAW!)
FYI, I thought of the following: 9/11, 7/7, The sensation that was and continues to be Barack Obama, the...phenomenon that was and perhaps continues to be Gordon Brown, the Asian Tsunami of about 2005, Iraq, global warming being a thing.
That's quite depressing isn't it? Two terrorist attacks, a natural disaster or two, a war and a couple of politicians? That said, try it yourself for another decade that came without resorting to cliché. The 1990s: The rise of sushi, Geri Halliwell and New Labour. Done, in three bits. Then again that sort of cutting social commentary is perhaps better made retrospectively. So I shall share some of the nicer things I found on the Wikipedia for 2000s (decade) to brighten the end of our ten years. Or if not nicer, just things I had forgotten.
Windows ME and Vista and XP, CERN in Switzerland, Soulja Boy, the huge expansion in computer gaming, mad cow disease.
Which list is more depressing?
Saturday, 19 December 2009
People keep asking me what I want to do for a living. They're not offering me jobs, or interrogating me. But inquiring minds seem to want to know. Being back in Birmingham now means there will be Christmas drinks. I had some last night. About ten of us, in the local. Nice. Still seeing friends that you went to school with a few years after probably doesn't sound like a gargantuan effort to older readers, but it's nice to affirm that when you say you'll stay in touch, you do. Well, at least sometimes, with some people. The sort of friends you can settle straight back into natural conversation with, even after half a year.
A few of my current friends went to my primary school. And my experience of parents is that after they lose touch with some of their old friends after having children, they make new ones by befriending other parents. Thus there are the Christmas gatherings with the "young people" and "older people". And whilst I am more than happy to make annual small-talk with the "older people" (calling them old, just those three letters, without making it comparative seems unkind) as to what I am up to. Except now, more than ever, with the certainty of the sun rising or the tides turning, umpteen people will ask me what I want to do with my life.
I can't decide if I find this irritating because the conversation gets monotonous or because my uncertainty about "my career" unsettles me. But when we arrive at the assumption all Humanities graduates seem to become teachers, it all starts to feel rather Brave New World. I start feeling a sort of guilt about my dual honours, especially when speaking to people whose children do Speech and Language Therapy, or something else that sounds more employable than Philosophy and English Lit. I may start up a sort of clinic: for intellectual people to come along and chew the fat about their favourite Renaissance Drama. At least that way I will have a niche to chase in the jobs market.
I will almost certainly run to be the Student Union's Welfare Officer. It is a paid position and would be a good year's work. I will almost certainly not be elected, but if I am I would probably just realise the giddy power thrill of politics and end up like Mark Thatcher. Only, the thing is, you want to go to Swaziland. I've looked into this, their military is bobbins. They don't even have an airforce. I'm a bit afraid that some reincarnation of myself is going to turn up on Newsnight as an MP, defending their moat and duck pond.
But anyway, I know what I want. I want an office, a secretary, occasional meetings and to be able to walk around with a cup of tea talking slightly louder than necessary. No company car, but a suit to work. Hard, a little stressful but work you can leave at the office. I don't know what I do all day but it's quite important and people look impressed and I earn a lot of money. Not obscene or anything, but I get to use office jargon and talk about thinking outside the box.
Fuck it, actually, I want to be the ambassador to Barbados. I wonder if you have to apply or you get picked by patronage? Either way, I reckon having: "staged successful coup of Swaziland" on the CV can only help.
A few of my current friends went to my primary school. And my experience of parents is that after they lose touch with some of their old friends after having children, they make new ones by befriending other parents. Thus there are the Christmas gatherings with the "young people" and "older people". And whilst I am more than happy to make annual small-talk with the "older people" (calling them old, just those three letters, without making it comparative seems unkind) as to what I am up to. Except now, more than ever, with the certainty of the sun rising or the tides turning, umpteen people will ask me what I want to do with my life.
I can't decide if I find this irritating because the conversation gets monotonous or because my uncertainty about "my career" unsettles me. But when we arrive at the assumption all Humanities graduates seem to become teachers, it all starts to feel rather Brave New World. I start feeling a sort of guilt about my dual honours, especially when speaking to people whose children do Speech and Language Therapy, or something else that sounds more employable than Philosophy and English Lit. I may start up a sort of clinic: for intellectual people to come along and chew the fat about their favourite Renaissance Drama. At least that way I will have a niche to chase in the jobs market.
I will almost certainly run to be the Student Union's Welfare Officer. It is a paid position and would be a good year's work. I will almost certainly not be elected, but if I am I would probably just realise the giddy power thrill of politics and end up like Mark Thatcher. Only, the thing is, you want to go to Swaziland. I've looked into this, their military is bobbins. They don't even have an airforce. I'm a bit afraid that some reincarnation of myself is going to turn up on Newsnight as an MP, defending their moat and duck pond.
But anyway, I know what I want. I want an office, a secretary, occasional meetings and to be able to walk around with a cup of tea talking slightly louder than necessary. No company car, but a suit to work. Hard, a little stressful but work you can leave at the office. I don't know what I do all day but it's quite important and people look impressed and I earn a lot of money. Not obscene or anything, but I get to use office jargon and talk about thinking outside the box.
Fuck it, actually, I want to be the ambassador to Barbados. I wonder if you have to apply or you get picked by patronage? Either way, I reckon having: "staged successful coup of Swaziland" on the CV can only help.
Friday, 18 December 2009
Wednesday, 16 December 2009
Pulitzer On Its Way
Can you get a Pulitzer if you're British? I shall find this out.
But I care not. I am channelling my creative aura. Crafting my whirlwhind of awesomeness into a finely honed laser of phantasmagoric joy. That's right boys and girls, I am applying to be the editor of Route 57. That's right, Route 57.
Many of you will not know what Route 57 is. It's a University of Sheffield thing. Being honest now, most University of Sheffield students will still be none the wiser. It is an online collection of poetry, fiction, nonfiction and drama published by the University of Sheffield English department. And I am going to put my money where my mouth is and try to, y'know, write anything. They generally ask for 4 or 5 of your own pieces that aren't crap before considering your application for editor.
The trouble being I don't really write poetry. Well, I have done in the past. I won a poetry prize in Sixth Form. And I've written a poem to my boyfriend once. I think he liked it; let's be honest, in these situations you've not really got a choice. You're definitely not allowed to call it shit. But after nearly 10 years of English Literature schooling, now in 3rd university year, I don't know how to write poetry. Not really. I know what's in it. I know about form, rhyme schemes, enjambement and caesura. That doesn't mean I know how to use them in a way that makes them not shit. I can read poetry quite competently, but I'm fast discovering that's another kettle of stanzas.
I'm having a play with a few forms. I say that, I've written a dirty limerick. I've also discovered that doing that free-running form thing where you give little heed to formal punctuation is quite easy. Congratulations Max, you're now a modern poet they teach at GCSE. If I was writing about missing my homeland, potatos and unusual relations with my father I can be Seamus Heaney. If I write about my lesbianism, cats and social issues I will be Carol Ann Duffy. And repressed childhood memories (raincoats...in a cupboard...with my father...in July) I will be Simon Armitage.
This is good though. It is cathartic. I can spend an evening burning manuscripts, a model of a frustrated genius: I'm thinking Toby Ziegler from the West Wing. Or Bernard Manning writing his children's book in Black Books. Maybe I'll write a sonnet about a possum.
But I care not. I am channelling my creative aura. Crafting my whirlwhind of awesomeness into a finely honed laser of phantasmagoric joy. That's right boys and girls, I am applying to be the editor of Route 57. That's right, Route 57.
Many of you will not know what Route 57 is. It's a University of Sheffield thing. Being honest now, most University of Sheffield students will still be none the wiser. It is an online collection of poetry, fiction, nonfiction and drama published by the University of Sheffield English department. And I am going to put my money where my mouth is and try to, y'know, write anything. They generally ask for 4 or 5 of your own pieces that aren't crap before considering your application for editor.
The trouble being I don't really write poetry. Well, I have done in the past. I won a poetry prize in Sixth Form. And I've written a poem to my boyfriend once. I think he liked it; let's be honest, in these situations you've not really got a choice. You're definitely not allowed to call it shit. But after nearly 10 years of English Literature schooling, now in 3rd university year, I don't know how to write poetry. Not really. I know what's in it. I know about form, rhyme schemes, enjambement and caesura. That doesn't mean I know how to use them in a way that makes them not shit. I can read poetry quite competently, but I'm fast discovering that's another kettle of stanzas.
I'm having a play with a few forms. I say that, I've written a dirty limerick. I've also discovered that doing that free-running form thing where you give little heed to formal punctuation is quite easy. Congratulations Max, you're now a modern poet they teach at GCSE. If I was writing about missing my homeland, potatos and unusual relations with my father I can be Seamus Heaney. If I write about my lesbianism, cats and social issues I will be Carol Ann Duffy. And repressed childhood memories (raincoats...in a cupboard...with my father...in July) I will be Simon Armitage.
This is good though. It is cathartic. I can spend an evening burning manuscripts, a model of a frustrated genius: I'm thinking Toby Ziegler from the West Wing. Or Bernard Manning writing his children's book in Black Books. Maybe I'll write a sonnet about a possum.
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Schools and University
Bobby: Look at their canteen.
Me: Ooh, it's like Columbine.
That place was pretty damn wrong. The school I went to yesterday I mean. Not that Columbine wasn't quite wrong.
Never trust thin chefs. (That Gary Rhodes has a lot to answer for.) And never trust new schools. Something about sticking 5000 cinderblocks in a shape and painting them mauve just doesn't ring true when you're trying to capture any other mood other than hopeless artificially-created despair. Regardless of how many receptionists you have. Also they were twinned with Sheffield Hallam University. Talk about reaching for the stars, kids ;-)
I don't usually indulge in the worse kind of intellectual snobbery against Sheffield Hallam, but there are many obvious jokes. Like twinning a school with Sheffield Hallam is like starting a football academy and twinning it with the Renford Rejects. Or creating a new town and twinning it with Fallujah. OK, I'm done. (I don't really have a snobby side about Hallam, I'm sure everyone there is perfectly nice, it's just an easy joke and forms a bit of camaraderie at my Uni.)
I quite miss school sometimes. Occasionally I remark upon this and a lot of people look at me a bit funny. But I liked my school. It was old, it had character. Also, nostalgia sort of filters out the shitness of something. Sometimes I sort of miss my first year halls, and pretend I don't remember the shit bits. Like my ten stone flatmate sitting on a sofa and breaking it. But we left our mark on it, just about. Through ceaseless destruction, throwing vegetables at the wall and drunken antics I'd like to think there was something a bit "us" about that first year hall.
And my old school. It was tatty, and dusty and the playground was quite literally a large concrete block with grit on. But it had personality. This school yesterday was the most insanely bland place in existance. The only mark the students making would be inflicted with the help of a Mac-11 and a partner in crime wielding a sawn-off.
Suffice it to say that their questions weren't the most original bunch we had ever encountered. But then again had a trio of homos come into my Year 10 class, I think our disinterest would have been just as perceptible. I don't blame them in the least, I just felt the persasive horrible atmosphere amongst each other. The sort of school where everyone bands into such a tight clique that no one will say anything for the fear of having the piss ripped out of them. There was such a pantomime theatre about any stutter of speech, and hesitation, I felt sorry for the kids that weren't, yknow, arseholes. Which is why I defend my school to the hilt, and should probably go to the Old Edwardians when I'm back in Birmingham. Our arseholes were at least a bit original.
The refreshing thing was that the answer to most questions seemed to be, though was not said as such: When you leave this school and see a wider range of people than inside these four walls you'll realise no one gives two shits about your possible prejudices or ideas. And that's very healthy. School's a pretty unhealthy place for people to grow up. Every behavioural trait, every affectation, every admission of deviation from the norm is scrutinised and mocked. When you're in Year 10, anyway. It's a marvel any of us make it out alive.
Me: Ooh, it's like Columbine.
That place was pretty damn wrong. The school I went to yesterday I mean. Not that Columbine wasn't quite wrong.
Never trust thin chefs. (That Gary Rhodes has a lot to answer for.) And never trust new schools. Something about sticking 5000 cinderblocks in a shape and painting them mauve just doesn't ring true when you're trying to capture any other mood other than hopeless artificially-created despair. Regardless of how many receptionists you have. Also they were twinned with Sheffield Hallam University. Talk about reaching for the stars, kids ;-)
I don't usually indulge in the worse kind of intellectual snobbery against Sheffield Hallam, but there are many obvious jokes. Like twinning a school with Sheffield Hallam is like starting a football academy and twinning it with the Renford Rejects. Or creating a new town and twinning it with Fallujah. OK, I'm done. (I don't really have a snobby side about Hallam, I'm sure everyone there is perfectly nice, it's just an easy joke and forms a bit of camaraderie at my Uni.)
I quite miss school sometimes. Occasionally I remark upon this and a lot of people look at me a bit funny. But I liked my school. It was old, it had character. Also, nostalgia sort of filters out the shitness of something. Sometimes I sort of miss my first year halls, and pretend I don't remember the shit bits. Like my ten stone flatmate sitting on a sofa and breaking it. But we left our mark on it, just about. Through ceaseless destruction, throwing vegetables at the wall and drunken antics I'd like to think there was something a bit "us" about that first year hall.
And my old school. It was tatty, and dusty and the playground was quite literally a large concrete block with grit on. But it had personality. This school yesterday was the most insanely bland place in existance. The only mark the students making would be inflicted with the help of a Mac-11 and a partner in crime wielding a sawn-off.
Suffice it to say that their questions weren't the most original bunch we had ever encountered. But then again had a trio of homos come into my Year 10 class, I think our disinterest would have been just as perceptible. I don't blame them in the least, I just felt the persasive horrible atmosphere amongst each other. The sort of school where everyone bands into such a tight clique that no one will say anything for the fear of having the piss ripped out of them. There was such a pantomime theatre about any stutter of speech, and hesitation, I felt sorry for the kids that weren't, yknow, arseholes. Which is why I defend my school to the hilt, and should probably go to the Old Edwardians when I'm back in Birmingham. Our arseholes were at least a bit original.
The refreshing thing was that the answer to most questions seemed to be, though was not said as such: When you leave this school and see a wider range of people than inside these four walls you'll realise no one gives two shits about your possible prejudices or ideas. And that's very healthy. School's a pretty unhealthy place for people to grow up. Every behavioural trait, every affectation, every admission of deviation from the norm is scrutinised and mocked. When you're in Year 10, anyway. It's a marvel any of us make it out alive.
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