To avoid the horrendous prospect of yet more depressing musings on revision and exams, I have decided to begin an occasional column chronicling the life and times of the Rt. Hon. Mr George Galloway, MP. In other words, every time that Our George says or does something stupid (and I have a funny feeling that this might not be the rarest of occurrences), I shall report it in gleeful detail.
His recent gem occurred when he was asked whether a suicide bomber would be justified in blowing up Tony Blair. I don't know whether such a bizarre question was a genius attempt to catch Galloway out, or just plain idiocy. (But given that it was asked by Piers Morgan, I'm going to assume the latter.) George responded:
"Yes, it would be morally justified."
Oh dear. Even George realised he'd gone too far this time, hastily backpedalling in the press, claiming that what he meant was that he could see, in a calm, objective, disapproving way, how a suicide bomber could construct a moral argument. Now that clearly isn't even close to what he said, but it's what he says he said, so that must be okay.
What's really disappointing is that in starting this new hobby now, I've missed the opportunity to comment on Galloway's disgraceful election behaviour, his antics on Big Brother, and the hilarity of his arrest in Egypt. But I'm sure that more will follow soon...
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Friday, May 26, 2006
Revision
...is the Destroyer of Souls.
Happily, though, the largest part of it is over. My exams begin soon - on the 31st May - and end on the 13th June. Two weeks of sheer terror, followed by blissful nothingness. Nothingness in the relaxation sense, not in the death sense. Hopefully.
In our desperation, we have had to find various ways of allieviating the tedium. Yesterday was the turn of the Paper Aeroplanes Flying Championship of the World. It was a beautiful sight, five planes of different designs all gracefully flying through the air in formation(ish) before nose-diving into the ground. Brought a sentimental tear to my eye.
And now I must return to the pit whence I came. The library awaits, eager to draw me into its cavernous maw, there to devour me, slowly, for the rest of time. Or until June 13th, whichever is sooner.
Happily, though, the largest part of it is over. My exams begin soon - on the 31st May - and end on the 13th June. Two weeks of sheer terror, followed by blissful nothingness. Nothingness in the relaxation sense, not in the death sense. Hopefully.
In our desperation, we have had to find various ways of allieviating the tedium. Yesterday was the turn of the Paper Aeroplanes Flying Championship of the World. It was a beautiful sight, five planes of different designs all gracefully flying through the air in formation(ish) before nose-diving into the ground. Brought a sentimental tear to my eye.
And now I must return to the pit whence I came. The library awaits, eager to draw me into its cavernous maw, there to devour me, slowly, for the rest of time. Or until June 13th, whichever is sooner.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Ducks and Cold Water
But, bizarrely, not together.
I always thought that ducks tended to stay by such bodies of water as rivers and lakes. After all, (and I'm moving into entirely guesswork territory here) they mostly survive on little water-based swimming things, and bread thrown by small children and tourists.
All of this would no doubt be news to the ducks in Cambridge. Not for them the quiet, placid life of swimming along a river. These ducks want some action. They want to paint the town red and hang around on street corners. Which is why, every time it rains, they all start wandering through the town centre. My college is about ten minutes (at human speed) away from the river, yet a couple of days ago there were a couple of ducks apparently trying to get into the library where I was working. They can't have meant any harm, for they were not wearing hoodies (the Gospel According to Bluewater, Chap 3, Verse 17), but were a strange sight nonetheless.
In Other News:
In what perhaps can best be described as a fit of genius, the nice college maintenance people have been round to turn off our hot water. They're supposed to be turning off the heating for the summer, but clearly don't have a clue what they're doing. Showering this morning was a disconcertingly bracing experience.
I always thought that ducks tended to stay by such bodies of water as rivers and lakes. After all, (and I'm moving into entirely guesswork territory here) they mostly survive on little water-based swimming things, and bread thrown by small children and tourists.
All of this would no doubt be news to the ducks in Cambridge. Not for them the quiet, placid life of swimming along a river. These ducks want some action. They want to paint the town red and hang around on street corners. Which is why, every time it rains, they all start wandering through the town centre. My college is about ten minutes (at human speed) away from the river, yet a couple of days ago there were a couple of ducks apparently trying to get into the library where I was working. They can't have meant any harm, for they were not wearing hoodies (the Gospel According to Bluewater, Chap 3, Verse 17), but were a strange sight nonetheless.
In Other News:
In what perhaps can best be described as a fit of genius, the nice college maintenance people have been round to turn off our hot water. They're supposed to be turning off the heating for the summer, but clearly don't have a clue what they're doing. Showering this morning was a disconcertingly bracing experience.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Pointless Creatures
Is there any point in the existence of wasps?
They seem to exist purely so that they can fly in through open windows, sting everything in sight, and then knock themselves senseless trying to get out again. Hardly the most glorious of ecological niches.
Bees are different - bees have a purpose. They pollinate things, and, as I am given to understand, procreate with birds. Plus they don't maliciously sting people just for amusement, because they end up leaving half of their internal organs embedded in your skin, which apparently hurts them more than it hurts you.
When the sun goes down and all the wasps fly back, contented in their evil deeds of the day, to whatever diabolic pit they came from, a new pointless creature emerges. Those tiny, tiny little flying things that are attracted to electric lights.
Evolution has clearly gone completely tits-up here - what kind of nocturnal creature is attracted to light? I have no idea what these things eat, but I'm willing to bet that its prey doesn't look like a flourescent light. You would have thought that natural selection would have operated to make extinct a creature that spends all its time flying into electric lights, but it doesn't seem to have happened yet. Darwin, shmarwin.
They seem to exist purely so that they can fly in through open windows, sting everything in sight, and then knock themselves senseless trying to get out again. Hardly the most glorious of ecological niches.
Bees are different - bees have a purpose. They pollinate things, and, as I am given to understand, procreate with birds. Plus they don't maliciously sting people just for amusement, because they end up leaving half of their internal organs embedded in your skin, which apparently hurts them more than it hurts you.
When the sun goes down and all the wasps fly back, contented in their evil deeds of the day, to whatever diabolic pit they came from, a new pointless creature emerges. Those tiny, tiny little flying things that are attracted to electric lights.
Evolution has clearly gone completely tits-up here - what kind of nocturnal creature is attracted to light? I have no idea what these things eat, but I'm willing to bet that its prey doesn't look like a flourescent light. You would have thought that natural selection would have operated to make extinct a creature that spends all its time flying into electric lights, but it doesn't seem to have happened yet. Darwin, shmarwin.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Scolari - A Right Balls-Up (An Angry Rant)
Unless you have spent the past week cowering under a damp stone (in which case, I salute you - it's got to be more fun than revision) then you will have heard of the fiasco surrounding the FA's attempts at hiring a new England manager.
When things go drastically wrong, people often say things like, "There's no point throwing blame around" or, "Nobody was at fault - it just wasn't meant to be." I disagree. I think it's a great idea to throw blame around, and that is exactly what I propose to do. Better yet, I'm going to structure it, with subheadings and everything, so that I can convince myself that it's valuable exam practice. Prepare yourself.
The FA
The main mistake that the FA made was to appoint a committee to do what should have been done by a single person. In the past, the Chief Executive has been sent toddling off to go and hunt down a manager and bring him back to Soho Square, by force if necessary. If this had happened, we would almost certainly have Martin O'Neill (who is manifestly the best candidate) in the job by now, because he was Mr Barwick's preferred choice. All would have been rosy.
God alone knows why the Premier League chairman, the FA chairman, and another faceless corporate mannequin were involved. And then to make matters worse, David "Impartial" Dein, the Arsenal vice-chairman, muscled in and insisted that Scolari was the best choice. Over-crowded broth-spoilage occurred.
The Press
As undoubtedly bungled as the FA's efforts were, I think the Press (that vague, amorphous entity that in this context essentially means tabloid newspapers) is the real villain of the piece.
Firstly, they reported in gleeful detail the fact that the FA was talking to Scolari. At no point did the FA make any kind of announcement - they were trying to keep things under wraps, like any sensible recruiter would in the situation. But the newspapers couldn't resist sticking their noses in, not caring that reporting that he had been offered the job meant that, if he refused it, any decent manager subsequently offered it would know that he was second choice, and may well refuse it on that basis.
After thus storing up massive problems if Scolari should reject the job, the Press then added the coup de grace by actually causing him to reject it. He said in a press conference that there were 20 reporters outside his house, and the newspapers had already started sticking their noses into his private life and comparing his wife to Sven's. He said he wanted no part of that culture, and I don't blame him.
Conclusion
So as much as the FA did make a mistake in their selection procedure, I would still like to take this opportunity to stick several fingers up at the Press, and to cast grave doubts on the legitimacy of their parentage. Not only have they stopped us getting Scolari, they've now made it very difficult for us to get anyone else. Good job.
When things go drastically wrong, people often say things like, "There's no point throwing blame around" or, "Nobody was at fault - it just wasn't meant to be." I disagree. I think it's a great idea to throw blame around, and that is exactly what I propose to do. Better yet, I'm going to structure it, with subheadings and everything, so that I can convince myself that it's valuable exam practice. Prepare yourself.
The FA
The main mistake that the FA made was to appoint a committee to do what should have been done by a single person. In the past, the Chief Executive has been sent toddling off to go and hunt down a manager and bring him back to Soho Square, by force if necessary. If this had happened, we would almost certainly have Martin O'Neill (who is manifestly the best candidate) in the job by now, because he was Mr Barwick's preferred choice. All would have been rosy.
God alone knows why the Premier League chairman, the FA chairman, and another faceless corporate mannequin were involved. And then to make matters worse, David "Impartial" Dein, the Arsenal vice-chairman, muscled in and insisted that Scolari was the best choice. Over-crowded broth-spoilage occurred.
The Press
As undoubtedly bungled as the FA's efforts were, I think the Press (that vague, amorphous entity that in this context essentially means tabloid newspapers) is the real villain of the piece.
Firstly, they reported in gleeful detail the fact that the FA was talking to Scolari. At no point did the FA make any kind of announcement - they were trying to keep things under wraps, like any sensible recruiter would in the situation. But the newspapers couldn't resist sticking their noses in, not caring that reporting that he had been offered the job meant that, if he refused it, any decent manager subsequently offered it would know that he was second choice, and may well refuse it on that basis.
After thus storing up massive problems if Scolari should reject the job, the Press then added the coup de grace by actually causing him to reject it. He said in a press conference that there were 20 reporters outside his house, and the newspapers had already started sticking their noses into his private life and comparing his wife to Sven's. He said he wanted no part of that culture, and I don't blame him.
Conclusion
So as much as the FA did make a mistake in their selection procedure, I would still like to take this opportunity to stick several fingers up at the Press, and to cast grave doubts on the legitimacy of their parentage. Not only have they stopped us getting Scolari, they've now made it very difficult for us to get anyone else. Good job.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
The Duck Returns!
I decided not to write (m)any posts over the Easter holiday, because nothing really happens at home that is worthy of your attention. That's right, gentle readers - I was thinking of you, my loyal and dedicated flock. Praise my selfless attention to your needs. In addition, there's the distinct possibility that I would have ended up scrabbling desperately for things to write about, and that wouldn't be fun for any of us.
So now I'm back at university, spending more or less every waking hour in the library revising for the exams that are now less than two months away. Revision has become a vast monster that is threatening to consume my soul.
Writing that metaphor reminded me of Shang Tsung, that rather unpleasant fellow from Mortal Kombat, the most hilariously bad film ever made. He killed people and then enslaved their souls, which always seemed a bit harsh. His one redeeming feature, however, is that he never made those tortured souls revise for Law exams. Compared to the Faculty of Law, and whichever bastard writes the exam timetables, he was positively an angel.
So now I'm back at university, spending more or less every waking hour in the library revising for the exams that are now less than two months away. Revision has become a vast monster that is threatening to consume my soul.
Writing that metaphor reminded me of Shang Tsung, that rather unpleasant fellow from Mortal Kombat, the most hilariously bad film ever made. He killed people and then enslaved their souls, which always seemed a bit harsh. His one redeeming feature, however, is that he never made those tortured souls revise for Law exams. Compared to the Faculty of Law, and whichever bastard writes the exam timetables, he was positively an angel.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
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!
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!
Sunday, March 19, 2006
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...
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!!
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!!
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
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.
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.
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