Revision, etc...

I don't know if this is a common sight everywhere, but in my town I often see a small group of hapless people running around the town in the late evening, wearing leotards and t-shirts. They're members of some form of running club, I believe, which, judging from the look of the people involved, also dabbles in the odd bout of sado-masochism and witchcraft. Judging a book by its cover is underrrated. They also have all the survival instincts of a green-haired, blue-wearing lemming, and love nothing more than running out in front of my car without even the most cursory of glances.

It struck me recently that revision is a lot like going running. When you're about to start, you dread it, and start desperately thinking of excuses to avoid it. Once you get going, you can feel it slowly starting to shrivel your soul and transform you into a beastlike form, but press on anyway, pretending to enjoy it and convincing yourself that its actually doing you some good. Then when it's all over, it leaves you drained and fit for nothing, able to communicate only by grunts and having lost the ability to read. At least, that's what revision does to me.

On a pleasingly random side note, I've noticed a grave loss on our television screens. Those of you who are as elderly as I am may remember that, just before the adverts came on, there used to be a little black and white striped box in the top corner. Where's it gone?? I think we should be told.

Televisions - Rocket Science?

One of my most vivid and repeated memories from primary school was those exciting occasions when the teacher felt that the furtherance of our learning could only be achieved through televisual means. "Or they just wanted an hour of peace with their feet up", I hear you cry. You cynical bastard.

Whenever this treat occurred, we would all be herded into a special room and the Television (teachers are fantastic at pronouncing capital letters when talking about technology) would be wheeled out. As our excitement rose, the teacher would, with a flourish, insert the video and press a button on the remote. Inevitably, it never worked. Cue every teacher in the area being called in to cluster round and lend their technical "Is it turned on?" expertise.

The same thing always used to happen in secondary school, except with more laughter from the audience and some people offering to help and then spending ten minutes delaying proceedings by pretending to be baffled, while carefully avoiding noticing the fact that the DVD Player wasn't plugged in to the Television. Not that I was one of those people, perish the thought.

I thought I might have left these adventures behind, but happily, I was wrong. Imagine my delight when, sitting in a courtroom as part of my mini-pupillage experience, the prosecution decided to produce some CCTV evidence that was on a DVD. It took the combined efforts of the prosecution barrister, the court clerk, the usher and the security guard to get this esoteric Device working, while the magistrates looked stonily on. It's good to see that nothing changes!

V For Vendetta - A Film Review (Of Sorts)

On Friday night, to mark the last day at university before returning home, a small group of us went to see the new film, V for Vendetta. I was slightly sceptical, because the screenplay was adapted from a graphic novel ("They're just over there, next to the comics, sir" - great days working in a bookshop), but on the bright side, the people doing the adapting were the Wachowski Brothers, who fully deserve their capital B.

The bright side won out, and the film was fantastic. Having decided I can't quite be bothered to write a full review, I am instead going to recreate arguments that I've heard from people who didn't like the film, and then destroy them. Destroy them like only a lawyer can...

"You can't bond with a character who always wears a mask."

You shallow, shallow person. Do you have to see someone's face before you decide whether you like them? Do their words and deeds mean nothing? I personally thought that this would be tricky, but Hugo Weaving's voice is easily dramatic and powerful enough to pull it off. You really end up sympathising with this (somewhat mental) man.

"It encourages terrorism."

No, it doesn't. The appropriateness of actions depends on their context. V doesn't live in our world, he lives in a totally different, much darker and more oppressive world. In that world, trying to blow up the Houses of Parliament was the right thing to do. In ours, it's not.

"It was too violent in places." (from one of my companions)

I don't quite understand this concept of a film being "too violent" - the phrase has always seemed a bit like an oxymoron to me. So I'll just let this quote stand for you to read in all its lunacy.

I was going to go on, but I'm tired of carrying out what is essentially an argument with myself, so will probably go to bed instead. Bed is good. Suffice it to say, if you've read 1984, and spent most of it wishing that Winston wasn't so useless and would actually grow a pair and fight back, then you should enjoy this film!!

When Work Ends

Today was a special day.

I was waiting for someone to shout "Why?" so that I could say, "'Why?' I hear you cry", but I don't think that's going to happen. Sometimes the world just doesn't know how it should behave.

The reason for today being so special was that it marked our last lectures this term. From 5pm this afternoon, we were joyously free to gambol heedlessly in the meadows. Or to finish writing an essay; I forget which. Happily, though, said essay is now finished and sailing its merry way to my supervisor, which means that I no longer have any work to do! Back of the net.

Until, that is, I get home at the weekend, and then immediately start a mini-pupillage on Monday. I still haven't made up my mind if this is a good idea - I think the plan was that, having just finished term, I'd still be in the mood for working. The flaw in this plan is, of course, that I haven't been in the mood for working since 1998, but I'm hopeful that I can overcome that. I have signed a confidentiality agreement so won't be able to post in any great detail about it, which is obviously gutting for my legions of fans who hang on my every word. C'est la vie.

The Mooting Grand Final

In case anyone was wondering why it's been so long since the last post, just ask my supervisors - those people who have set me thirteen thousand essays to write, and unholy numbers of books to read, in the last two weeks of term. Some day I may take vengeance...yessss, we will, precioussss, we will...we will takes the preciousss, put the fat hobbitses eyes out, make him crawl!!!

Ahem.

Anywho, it'd be a crying shame to have a post titled "The Mooting Grand Final" without any mention of said event. Confusion might occur. Essentially, it was a more hardcore version of the previous rounds of mooting (see earlier posts), with lots of Scary and High-Up People (tm) doing the judging.

Their probing and doom-laden questioning almost made me burst into tears, and I was sitting in the audience. And not even in the front row. Heaven alone knows, then, how the mooters themselves felt. I would imagine it was somewhat akin to having the flesh blasted off your bones by one of those machines they use, so I am told, to make Chicken McNuggets. But they all survived the onslaught admirably, with their flesh intact. Much applause.

The Dreaded Ballot...Of Death

Selwyn is, at the moment, in the middle of the highly stressful procedure known as ballotting. Essentially, this is an advanced form of psychological torture, roughly akin to experiencing sensory deprivation whilst undergoing Chinese water torture and being electrocuted. On a rack. With a sharp pendulum blade swinging above you, and a fiery pit beneath.

Despite the main purpose of this procedure being to provide some innocent, harmless amusement for the college Fellows, a happy by-product of it is that you end up with a room for next year. I shall have a very nice room with an amazing view of Old Court out of the window, so I suppose it was all worth it in the end.

On a side note, any perceptive readers will recall that I was awaiting the result of an application for a vacation scheme with an unnamed London law firm. (If you do not so recall, go back and start reading all the posts again. And pay attention this time.) Anywho, the long and short of it is that this firm recently bestowed upon me a rejection email, with one of those wonderful clauses at the end that say "Don't bother asking us why". Nice.

In order to safeguard the law firm from reprisals from my army of loyal and dedicated supporters, I shall describe them only as "J. Day." Or on second thoughts, I suppose "Jones D." would be better. Whichever floats your boat.

Tony Blair & God - An Angry Rant

(Originally published Saturday 4th March)

Why doesn't anybody listen?

I'm going to use the row about Tony Blair as an example. In an interview on Parkinson, he said that, ultimately, it was for God to judge him on whether he was right to send the army to Iraq. Immediately, everyone leaps for the throat, moaning about how there's no place for God in politics, and how a Prime Minister shouldn't make decisions based on his personal faith.

Now all of this is probably true, but it's entirely beside the point. If these people actually bothered listening to what Blair said, he was very careful to avoid saying that God told him to go to war. He said that the decision had to be made based on personal conscience (and, presumably, dodgy intelligence dossiers - whoops), and that the decision would be judged by God. That's something completely different - all he's really saying is that he believes judgement after death, not that he makes his decisions based on his perceptions of God's will during life.

Now I'm usually the last person to defend the current government, but it seems that every time they open their mouths, everyone queues up to misinterpret what they're saying. Just look at all the idiots queuing up to spout rubbish about how Muslims are now going to think that the Iraq war was the Crusades all over again. That's just stupidity, pure and simple.

And then everyone moans about "spin", and how politicians never tell the truth. When people grossly misinterpret everything they say, is it any wonder?

I'll get you next time, Michael Fish...

(Originally published Friday 3rd March)

Well, it looks like all chance of snow has gone beyond recall - I'm told that it's going to start getting warmer over the weekend. The Met Office chose to send us nothing more than a few flurries, cruelly teasing me with the prospect of proper snow before dashing my hopes on the rocks of weather-related despair. I've decided to do the only thing that a mature man can do when things don't go his way - sulk. Until next winter.

At the moment I'm working on International Law. I've decided that it's probably my favourite subject, partly because we're currently learning about the use of force. Essentially, it's all about when it's legal for you to do the international equivalent of punching another country in the face, because that country did the international equivalent of looking at you funny, insulting your mum, or dissing your threads (so to speak). The advantage of this is that when people start talking (at dinner parties, and so on) about whether the invasion of Iraq was legal (as they always do, apparently) then I will be fully qualified to nod sagely and say "Hmmm".

Who says a university education is worthless?

It's cold. No, seriously.

(Originally published Tuesday 28 February)

The temperature here has, for some reason, dropped by about five thousand degrees overnight. Walking back from the library a few minutes ago, a journey that is only about two minutes in duration, I could almost feel my nose freezing solid, shattering into a thousand pieces and then forlornly melting on the ground. On the bright side, I now have first hand experience of what absolute zero feels like. When they come calling for volunteers to trek to the Outer Nebula and out into deep space, I'll be ready.

A cynical man might think that I am writing about the weather because I have little else to write about. And this is indeed the case - I have spent the day having inordinate numbers of lectures, as well as a supervision, and for the remainder of the time have been huddled over a book about Administrative Law. This leaves very little time for anything worthy of writing about to actually occur. I could have written, instead, about the technicalities of judicial review, but frankly I'd rather saw my own face off.

In an extraordinarily exciting development, there were a few flakes of snow earlier today. In the event of it snowing properly, I will stop complaining about the cold, and regress back to my childhood. Fun will happen.

Busy busy...

(Originally published Monday 27th February)

A few days without a blog! I must apologise for such a grave dereliction of duty. But I have an excuse. Indeed, I have several excuses. In fact, excuses seem hardly necessary - it's not like anyone pays me to write this. Although if you would like to pay me in the future, then please, don't let me put you off. I accept cash.

Part of my excuse is that yesterday, I wrote two essays in one day. Pray sit back for a moment, gentle readers, and allow the enormity of this task to sink in.




TWO law essays. I can think of only one comparison to convey just how much of an achievement this was. Imagine the desperate, soul-wrenching effort that it took Frodo to get to the top of Mount Doom and cast the Ring of Power into the dark chasm whence it came. Fairly tough, I'm sure you'll agree. Now imagine that he had no Sam, no elven bread, and no legs. If you can imagine that, then you'll be pretty close to grasping how difficult it was to write two essays in one day. And yet, somehow, I did it. Go me.

On a less self-congratulatory note, I have spent the best part of today on trains, heading for London, heading around London, and then heading away from London. And for why? A 30-minute interview with a law firm who may be offering me a vacation scheme in the summer. If I get it, the tortuous journey will have been worthwhile. If not, expect bitter rantings here in a week's time.

The only difficulty in the experience was forcibly stopping myself from humming the "London Underground" tune while waiting for the Circle Line. This cessation in humming occurred when a rail employee, who was obviously familiar with the song, looked like he was going to kill me. (For anyone who doesn't know it, I beg you, click here - it is most droll, and far from complimentary about Underground staff. For the hard of thinking, you'll need to click on the Listen tab, and then the headphones symbol next to Track 8.)

It's done!

(Originally published Thursday 23rd February)

At long last, the dreaded Essay of Death has been vanquished! It took an epic struggle, lasting longer than I thought possible, but eventually I was able to use my superior firepower, with a little help, to beat down the essay and force it into submission. Okay, so I might face problems when everyone finds out that, contrary to what I told them, the essay did not in fact have weapons of mass destruction, but that's a problem for another day. At least it's defeated for now, and the world is safe again. Except from me.

So exhausted am I from this Herculean effort that not only do I have no more energy for creative thinking, but can also feel the warm glow in my wrists that, presumably, heralds the onslaught of RSI. Either that, or leprosy, in which case I might wake up with no arms tomorrow and not be able to post any more. If that is indeed the case, I bid you all adieu.

A moot by any other name would smell as sweet

(Originally published Wednesday 22nd February)

Today I had the pleasure of watching the final qualification round in our college mooting competition. For those of you who do not have the misfortune to be law students, you may not know what a moot is. Pray permit me to explain.

Try to recall that old television show, Gladiators. Remember that most manly of events, which I believe was called Duel, in which people used to hit each other with big foam sticks, each aiming to knock the other off their platform. It always used to be Shadow representing the Gladiators, because his eyes bulged out (in a highly intimidating fashion, naturally) while waiting for the humorously Scottish referee to tell them to start. Eye-bulging makes good television.

Now, take away the drug-fuelled (that's why he left the show, apparently) big black man, and the scrawny contestant who looks self-conscious about wearing a leotard, and replace them with four people wearing suits, ties, and gowns. Take them off those little platforms. Remove the referee (John Anderson, I've remembered his name!), and replace him with a judge. Take away the big foam sticks, and hand each contestant the weighty weapon of the Law.

And that, essentially, is a moot. And that's what I've been doing this evening, which means that my essay is still unstarted. And yes, I am still reading bloody Elements of bloody Land Law, and may well be doing so until I'm 70. Bah.

The joys of land law

(Originally published Tuesday 21st February)

Sitting in the college library today, my mind started wandering. It didn't go anywhere exciting, you understand; just read over my shoulder for a while, went outside for a breath of fresh air, and wandered aimlessly around the law section playing that old favourite, the Find The Oldest Book game.

Meanwhile, the rest of me was having much less fun. The reason for this was the vast tome in front of me, This book is, without a doubt, the biggest, heaviest book ever written. It makes the Encyclopedia Brittanica look like a pamphlet for a takeaway restaurant. I have no doubt that its mass is so great that it exudes its own significant gravitational force, which seems to be strong enough to pull my head down towards the table, and pull my eyelids closed. Strange thing, gravity.

Having provided some much-needed procrastination, away from the accusing stare of the blank page that should contain my essay, this post has served its purpose. At some point I might actually write a proper blog, but alas time does not allow. I must return to the library, and face the demons of land law head on. Preferably with a big stick.

And so it begins

(Originally published Monday 20th February)

Oh, hello there.

If you're reading this, it's likely (nay, certain) that you have stumbled across my shiny new blog. Despite having sworn all my life not to bother writing things like this, I've decided that the sum total of my wit and wisdom is too great to keep in one head. Head explosion is a horrible phenomenon, and I have no intention of being the cause of high cleaning bills when it comes to picking up scattered pieces of brain.

So, really, this blog is for my sake. I don't actually care about any of you at all. Go away.

Having said that, I will actually be very excited if anyone actually reads it, and even more so if anyone enjoys it, and tells me so. Praise is nice. If you're very lucky, future posts may even have some actual content. No guarantees, though...