In Lamb We Trust

In which a biscuit leads to companionship...

2011-09-18T20:39:00.003+01:00

I have recently learned that a particular hero of mine in the fields of both writing and drinking, the now long dead Jeffrey Bernard, christened his typewriter ‘Monica’. I have, in humble homage to that man, decided likewise to bestow upon this infernal machine a name, partly in the hope that this will make me less likely to hurl it through an open window when it acts up, which is whenever it is on, and often when it is not. As inanimate objects are most commonly given a feminine moniker, I have settled on ‘Hayley’. To sate the curiosity which has doubtless consumed you these last three seconds, Hayley is the name of the only girl I ever fancied with whom I am not still on even relatively frequent speaking terms. My only memory of her is, as a six year old, buying her a posh biscuit of some variety with my limited pocket money. If my infantile affections towards her were strong enough to merit the purchase of baked goods then she is as deserving a namesake for an electrical appliance as any other woman in my life, past or present, and a great deal more than some.

Such a shame then that the first thing I intend to conceive with Haley is what you are quite likely about to abandon reading. As ever these days, my brain is simply grey mush within its maned carapace, and so this symphony of slothful typing is merely an update on my scandalous life.

I am sitting, as is my wont, on the lazy-boy armchair in my new living room. I like to have the window open because, spending rather more time alone than was the case on Buccleuch Street, the dull hum of conversation from the beer garden in the courtyard outside reassures me that the nuclear holocaust is not yet upon us. Also, I enjoy how the setting sun turns the otherwise invisible haze of midges into a glowing spectacle far more agreeable than its entomological reality. I have not quite grown comfortable enough with my new bedroom and its remarkably Spartan desk to write or read through there, though with my books now lining every available level surface, and my innumerable cardigans and velvet jackets littering the carpet, it is starting to feel more like my room.

Moving home has been a rather harrowing experience. Although I was so desperate to vacate Buccleuch Street I may have started gnawing through the wall in my sleep, I shamelessly admit that I miss the old place. Fortunately, a remedial box of entirely consumable (if not drinkable) wine can be purchased from the Tesco across the Meadows for £4.29, and that walk is exercise enough to excuse my feelings of guilt at consuming (if not drinking) said plonk in a single evening. The requisite guilt is, however, waiting for me come morning, flanked by shame and, more often than not, the oppressive spectre of The Fear.

Jehovah, spare my ragged soul...

Jamie

In which I am an antiquated misanthrope...

2011-09-18T20:14:00.004+01:00

I have run out of ways to apologise for the absence of Blog entries. So I shall simply say that I have been busy frolicking in whatever pastures my attentions have alighted upon at any given moment, and we can all carry on with our lives. Good day to you...

Being a twenty-one-year-old is not something which particularly suits me, not least because I don’t know how many hyphens that damnable phrase demands. If I were a bottle of malt whisky I would by this point fetch an impressive price; my assorted subtleties, characteristic nuances and the acquired je ne sais quoi of over two gruelling decades would come together to create a well-formed and nicely rounded specimen, worthy of the attention of even the most discerning connoisseur. However, I am not a bottle of malt whiskey, despite having tried on several occasions to tip the balance of my chemical composition in that direction. Malt whisky is produced according to age-old techniques, every process of its production geared specifically towards achieving some attribute or other to enhance its quality. A Glenfiddich, or a Glen Keith, or a Glen- anything else, is not permitted to suffer the unregimented, shambolic and disheartening trudge towards maturity I have traced with uncertain steps. Consequently, I feel, if it is not too abstract or melodramatic a statement, that I have rather failed to grow into a twenty-one-year-old. It is a running joke among my friends that I completely bypassed my teenage years, and emerged from puberty a misanthropic, rheumy-eyed and absent-minded fifty-something.

It is certainly true that I do not, and cannot, regardless of my best efforts, enjoy what others my age enjoy. I find ‘going-out’ unutterably tedious. Pubs I can just about stomach, provided the company is good and the conversation frivolous. Parties garner a similar appraisal. Clubs, however, are the bane of my existence. They manage to take two of my very favourite things, drinking and music, and fashion from them a rank and soiled tapestry of sexual misadventure and wanton peacockery. My laughable physique and tragic gait do not lend themselves well to either of these things, and if I should try to drown my acute physical discomfort in vodka and cheap lager, I am confronted with teaming hordes of ne’er-do-wells incapable of forming and maintaining anything even vaguely resembling a queue. I’m actually rather large when compared to the scrawny, Topshop-clad cretins one often encounters in these establishments, so I am not easily pushed aside. Yet, still I find myself, slave as always to my anachronistic sense of etiquette, willingly granting them free passage to the bar at my own expense.

Dancing, which is apparently something people do for fun, is certainly not my forte. The stance my body adopts most naturally is one of limp shoulders, pocketed hands and downcast eyes. The sight of my bony hips gyrating is one of comedic horror, and the erratic bouncing of my floppy mane is scarcely better. If I’m in the mood to elicit laughter from my friends then I am in constant possession of the means to do so, and indignity at least, is something which becomes me on the dance floor. Though I am never quite certain what to do when a girl starts dancing with me: a rare and terrifying experience. I am equally uncomfortable when one attempts to start a conversation. At the Picture House, I was once stopped on my way to the toilet by a girl who was most keen to learn how exactly I did my hair. I simply said, ‘neglect’, and continued on my way. When she stopped me yet again to ask where I was going, I replied that I was nipping to the loo but would be back soon. Upon my return I bolted to the bar, then skirted the edge of the room to avoid her, concealing myself in the little fake chapel, where I proceeded to drink heavily.

As ever, I am a Rubik’s cube of nonsense.

Jamie

In which there are some swings and some roundabouts... and some buggery...

2011-02-06T01:09:00.000Z

I noted with ample terror not three minutes ago that it’s February, and has been for six days. Apart from the fact that this probably means all my library books are overdue, and I’ll soon be sodomised by late-fees, it has reminded me that I have failed to find a job. This aspiration (for such is the Olympian scope of my ambition) is not a New Year’s resolution or any of that old bollocks; it is simply a means of survival. To survive is not asking a terrible amount, but the longer I carry on as I am the more useless, lazy and physically shambolic I become. This makes finding gainful employment an embuggerment of the highest order. And seeing as I already have at least one metaphorical buggering barrelling towards me like a frothing, bestial rapist, I am keen to shield my fragile (metaphorical) posterior from further horror.

In all then, this evening has been one of unpleasant revelations. It’s February. My library books are overdue. I am unemployed and unemployable. I’m perilously close to running out of cigarettes, and I won’t be able to drown all this dreadfulness in corner-shop vino for another week. Truly, this time of year is the biggest pile of arse imaginable. It is the Everest of Arse, and I am stranded on the summit, having lost three fingers and my left buttock to frostbite.

At least reading Voltaire in April instead of revising has finally paid off. Just like reading The Picture of Dorian Gray the year before instead of the same paid off in its own good time. Chaps, I am making long-term improvements to my life without even noticing. You hear that, mother? I AM A SUCCESS.

Jamie

In which sleep is for the weak...

2011-01-10T04:51:00.000Z

And so, but then, it is 2011. Let us move as swiftly as our eyes can take us over my wholly inadequate apology for not updating since August... I assure you, my reasons are as valid as they are laughable. I have been horrifically busy with university work, and was unwilling to produce anything like the horse-shit nonsense I wanked out over the summer just for the sake of it. Additionally, I have been racked by debilitating confusion over what ‘dubstep’ is. I still don’t know, and it haunts my dreams relentlessly. Even more additionally, I have been in dreadful health, sporadic periods of insomnia punctuated only by weeks of nocturnalism. A mix of Polish beer and flammable carcinogens has constituted the dominant part of my diet, and I almost overdosed on adverbs on several occasions. Woe is, as ever, unconfined. But I must get up off my scrawny white arse, dust myself down, sit back down on my scrawny white arse, and bugger on with writing. The insomnia and nocturnalism I mentioned above seem as worthy subjects as any, and are anaemic enough in their significance to fit in nicely with the others to be found here....

It’s 3:32am on the morning of January 10th as I write this, which is an entirely deleterious manner in which to begin a new semester. Anyone who has endured more than trivial contact with me, God-forsaken as you are for the experience, will know that I do not keep to a conventional sleeping schedule. This, you may well protest, is nothing out of the ordinary for a student, and you would, of course, be wrong. Internally, my body is as nonsensical as it is externally. Since moving to Edinburgh I have suffered at irregular intervals periods of insomnia lasting anything up to a fortnight. These are more often than not framed by periods of ineffably impractical nocturnalism lasting anything up to even longer. When most things you have to do with your life are to be done in the daylight hours, this presents something you might like to call a predicament, but which I like to call a quandary. It’s a rather vexing pickle of a mess when one has to attend an 11am lecture, and has only managed to snatch fifteen minutes of sleep around 6am. Such difficulties does insomnia entail. It is doubly vexing when you only went to bed fifteen minutes earlier. Such difficulties does nocturnalism entail. Indeed, difficulties, quandaries, vexations and impracticalities abound when you are unable to participate in an activity which, by its very definition, requires the bare minimum of effort. Truly, there is nothing at which I cannot fail... There’s an endless whirlpool of linguistic paradox to be found in there if you’re enough of a sociopath to try.

It’s not a complete embuggerment, though. What may seem endless arsery to anyone who has never experienced it before, can actually be quite beneficial. Spending so much time alone allows one to think. Someone said something once (I strike a very cultured figure at the dinner parties I am never invited to, I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW) about how the English language has provided us with the word ‘loneliness’ to describe the misery of being on our own, and the word ‘solitude’ to describe its glory. I think that’s a pretty marvellous observation, unless whoever said it was a cunt, in which case I denounce it completely; it is nonsense and the man’s a cretin. It’s not that being awake while everyone else is asleep isn't lonely, of course it can be. And certainly, you can only drain so many cups of tea and smoke so many cigarettes before your whole consciousness is infused with the mercilessly raw notion that you are wasting your life. Actually, I can drink volumes of tea which would kill a bear. That is QUITE A BIT, my friends. But anyway, just as often as it is a lonely existence, it is a blessed one. If anyone, in a fit of madness, were to browse the times at which other Blog entries have been posted, they will discover that a startling proportion of them popped into webular existence in the early hours of the morning. It may well be that these are the entries of least quality, but that is neither here nor there (and as a side-note, the entries for February and March were, in fact, originally written while drunk in Glasgow, nestled in the ‘Man-Cave’). My love of the actor Peter O’Toole was conceived in what Chuck Berry called the ‘Wee, Wee Hours’. That was a good thing. My frequent donning of a cravat as a result was not such a good thing, but you can’t win them all as I’m sure Peter himself would agree, poor man.

Another good thing to come from sleep-deprivation is the fact that it fries your brain like nobody’s business. Often coffee will take the place of my beloved Tetley Tea, and I’m sure you can imagine that combining toxic levels of caffeine with a brain that desperately wants to sleep but can’t, is a rollercoaster ride of hellz-a-poppin’ fun. Michael, if good sense has not eradicated the memories of such events, knows full well that I can spend an entire morning in a state of overpowering energy and good cheer after such an evening. Now, I’m not saying that the delusion of happiness brought about by such unhealthy means is a good thing. That would be irresponsible. If you’re feeling upset, staying up all night chugging coffee may not be the best way to tackle your problems. In fact it may well be the worst way, short of sitting in a cupboard full of confused geese. Nonetheless, it’s a rather happy accident to stumble across every now and again, particularly when the alternative is despondency and hopelessness and all that bollocks. A word of warning though: near the end of 2010 I barrelled through a week’s insomnia and loss of appetite culminating in a hideous vomiting spree after a 9am seminar. Grounds for medical concern, you say? Nonsense. After such an experience, a real man forces a cold pizza down his throat and plays computer games all day.

Anywho, that was the Blog entry that was. Good morning.

Jamie

P.S. You can also watch pornography and not have to worry about getting caught. Lifestyle tips à la THE LAMBINATOR.

In which a fond adieu is bidden...

2010-08-26T17:30:00.001+01:00

Those of you who have been bored enough this summer to keep up to date with my assorted webular presences will be aware that I spent the first half of the holidays in Edinburgh, in my dingy flat, in the foetal position. You will be equally aware that I have spent the second half in Crieff, spending money I don't have on pints of Belhaven Best, smoking in my summer-shed, stealing Andrew's wine, and looking consistently bemused.

As enjoyable as all this has been, I confess myself relieved to be resuming my studies in September. Ask me if this remains the case in a month and I will probably be unable to answer, because my brain will have devolved to the level of a marmot as a result of the stress and the polluted urban air.

In the meantime, I'm actually quite looking forward to the small mountain of reading I have to get through. Being as I am a bumbling, absent-minded and nonsensical human being, I made the mistake of having all my books delivered to the home I'm not currently living in, so I am considerably behind schedule.

So, to all my chums in Crieff and the surrounding townships, I say farewell.

To all those in Edinburgh whose presence I can vaguely tolerate, I will see you very soon.

Jamie

In which you are made to feel uncomfortable on several occasions...

2010-08-22T01:30:00.002+01:00

Hello, and an arousingly pleasant day to you all! Hot on the heels of Thursday’s ‘The Best of Facebook: A Copy & Paste Retrospective of the Friendly Fun Times...’ I have written a small piece on what has turned out to be several subjects, some of which I’ve spoken a great deal about in the past, both in this Blog and in actual social interaction with other human beings. As you all know, I believe with a violent and temperamental passion that language is a democracy. What many of you won’t know is that this is simply my unnecessarily posh way of saying that I don’t care if you can’t spell. Nor do I really give a flying dog’s bollocks if you think prepositions are lovely things to end sentences with. If you want to throw the word ‘literally’ immediately before a metaphor, then all power to you; do it until you no longer know or care who or where you are. HOWEVER. I read something today which, despite exhibiting overwhelming contempt for linguistic carelessness, was very enjoyable, and filled with so much good sense and dry humour that I very nearly collapsed in my chair in the throes of a quivering orgasm...

Now, I doubt any of you are Daily Telegraph readers, and that is perfectly understandable. Robert Webb writes a very enjoyable weekly column, but apart from that it’s exactly as you would expect: liberty-loathing, Imperialism-loving anachronisms who still masturbate over photographs of Queen Victoria with sufficient intensity to make igniting their dried out carcasses a tangible risk. However, a chap by the name of Simon Heffer (a hilarious name, to be sure) used to write a little column called ‘Simon Heffer’s Style Notes’. As you saw if you had the decency to follow the link I went through the trouble of providing, this column took the form of an email (or more likely a letter on extravagant personalised stationery, written in ink extracted from the body of an extremely rare octopus) to all staff at The Daily Telegraph, warning of the dangers of unprofessionalism. The use of the word ‘unprofessionalism’ is probably a sterling example of unprofessionalism, as, despite reassurance from Microsoft Word, I am not convinced it is a real word. After all, Microsoft Word is trying to tell me that the last but one comma is supposed to be a semicolon! To think, some people worry that machines will one day usurp humanity in a bloody coup. If my undisciplined human brain, a soggy mass of greyness suffering from border-line senility, can grasp the concept of a semicolon, then why can’t a piece of software that thinks thousands of times faster?

Anyway... Simon Heffer is everything you are currently imagining. He loathes Americanisms with the white-hot intensity most people reserve for rival sports teams or Piers Morgan. He seems to think The Daily Telegraph is read solely by illustrious military men with moustaches and astounding grammatical awareness. You get the impression that, if he ever met one of the journalists guilty of making the mistakes he takes so much pleasure in recounting, he might well take his cane to them. I don’t actually know how old he is; I just assume he is an old bastard with a big bastarding cane...

I’ve just Googled him and...well... why don’t you Google him as well and then I needn’t burst several blood vessels attempting to censor myself. Just do a quick image search and look at the first two. In fact, here they are... one... and... two. I think they encapsulate everything about him as a human being. There is literally nothing you could say to me about this man that could possibly change my impression of him as based upon those two photos.

Anyway... Why must I always drag you along on my uncontrollable tangents? I’m surprised you don’t get lost in here for days on end...

Anyway... Despite my new-found loathing for the man, I must admit he knows his grammar, unlike a great many people who see fit to pick faults with that of others. It isn’t just grammar though. One part I found rather good was the following extract:

If you find yourself using a word of whose meaning you are unsure, do look it up in the dictionary. When we get a word wrong it is embarrassing. It demeans us as professional writers and shakes our readers’ confidence in us. In recent weeks we have confused endocrinology – the study of the body’s endocrine system – with dendrochronology, which is the study of dating trees. More embarrassing still, we accused the eminent broadcaster Sir David Attenborough of being a naturist – someone who chooses not to wear clothes – when in fact he is a naturalist.

Despite his being a pompous, conservative cunt, I find him really very funny. Another gem reads as follows:

Homophones remain abundant and show up the writer and the newspaper or website. We are quality media, and quality media do not make mistakes such as these: “the luck of the drawer”, “through the kitchen sink”, “through up” “dragging their heals” and “slammed on the breaks”, all of which are clichés that might not be worthy of a piece of elegant writing even if spelt correctly. We have also confused Briton and Britain, hanger and hangar, hordes and hoards, peeled and pealed, lightening and lightning, stationery and stationary, principal and principle, peninsula and peninsular, licence and license and, in something of a pile-up, born, borne and bourn. If you are unsure of the meanings of any of these words, look them up before proceeding further.

One can almost see the man’s self-importance seeping through the monitor and oozing down the screen. Yet, on first reading, I found this laugh-out-loud funny. I audibly chuckled. His farewell, though, merits the accolade of ‘priceless’ if anything I have read in a newspaper ever has...

Finally, may I mention some factual matters? Ottawa is the capital of Canada. Air Chief Marshal is spelt thus; and Mark Antony thus.

With best wishes

Simon Heffer
Associate Editor

The Daily Telegraph

That, gentle reader, is delicious. If I could ingest honey through my eyes, and was of sufficient mental instability to enjoy it, I imagine reading that would be a similar sensation. If I had not discovered in writing this post that Simon Heffer is, indeed, an extraordinarily conservative turd (support for Section 28 instantly puts you in line for what I call an ‘atomic frowning’) then I might think this was a clever fictional alter-ego à la Robin Cooper or Donald Trefusis. The reality is, of course, less pleasant. But that doesn’t mean he is a man entirely without merit or morals...

Sometimes we do not properly think of the sense of what we are writing. . . We wrote that “too many bomb disposal experts” had died in Afghanistan, which prompted an angry reader to ask what an acceptable number of dead experts would have been. We wrote of “an extraordinary killing spree” and were asked, in similar fashion, what would have constituted an ordinary one.

Valid points both, I’m sure you agree.

But now, my friends, I fear I have detained you too long. I hope you have enjoyed this return to what vaguely constitutes normality. I realise it has been many months since a conventional Blog post graced this hallowed webular abode, and I would love to assure you that September will play out in a similar fashion... but I must disappoint you. I must pump your anxious hearts full of lukewarm uncertainty, and justify this violation of trust only by saying that I am not sure how busy I will be in the coming weeks. I am an Honours student now, and I do not really know what that means...

But it sounds fairly serious.

So, I bestow upon you my best wishes, and kisses to be placed on whatever part of your body you deem most worthy.

Jamie

P.S. I hope to see you all at the Games tomorrow!

P.P.S. If you are reading this later than Sunday 22nd August, and I already saw you at the Games, then I am so, so sorry...

In which we reminisce...

2010-08-19T00:58:00.002+01:00

Ahoy-hoy! For my second August Blog entry I bring you something mighty special. By means of introduction I must alert you to one of my late-night hobbies. Don't worry, it isn't pornography. Not this time, anyway... No, what I often do is delve rather deeply into the misty mists of time by clicking on the 'Older Posts' button on Facebook. Somehow, re-reading the various comments and statuses fills me with potentially toxic levels of nostalgia, which we all know is one of my many drugs of choice. So, having found myself chuckling at numerous titbits, I provide for your pleasure:

The Best of Facebook: A Copy & Paste Retrospective of the Friendly Fun Times...

(Kindly note that any spelling/grammatical errors are entirely the fault of the original author...but it's mostly my stuff anyway, so y'know, WHATEVER...)

In which lunch foreshadows terrible deeds...

Michael > Me: I thought i'd inform you that i'm having Ryvita and Huomous for lunch.

just to make you angry

Me > Michael: Do you know what happens to people who classify ryveta and humous as a meal? They grow up to become rapists :(

In which high-jinks oft turn to hate crime...

Me > Michael: Michael I have been playing Master of Olympus for SIX HOURS STRAIGHT, my buttocks have FUSED WITH MY CHAIR, and I blame you, because of all your spiel about The Odyssey. Anyway, just half an hour ago, in a rather dark twist, I ACCIDENTALLY genocided the Centaurs.

Genocide is a verb now.

In which I initially misread the number of 'L's...

Abby > Andrew: Happy birthday, hope you have a fabby day!!x

In which Andrew proves his masculinity...

Andrew: Joe hands me a pint of wine to down
"C'mon Andrew, its all or nothing"
I chin it
"ITS ALL!!!"
Promptly throw up
..."Its nothing..."

In which everyone seemed to enjoy what I said...

Me: There were inexplicable crumbs in my bed this morning... AM I A WERE-BISCUIT ???

* * *

So, I hope you enjoyed that. Since it's a bit short (because it's also a bit late) I shall return to this entry and add things as I unearth them. In the mean time, the Highland Games are almost upon us, and there is only one question the townsfolk of Crieff are asking: "Is Jamie Lamb going to get as drunk as he did last year?"

Watch this space...

Actually, watch whatever space I'm standing in... If you sit at home all day staring at that space you will MISS EVERYTHING.

Peace out, honkies!

Jamie

In which sanity is relative...

2010-08-11T00:36:00.001+01:00

It would be courteous of me to warn you, gentle reader, that this particular entry lives farther from the citadel of human sanity than we have thus far ventured. Some of you may refer me back to the bizarre, nightmarish poetry I forced upon you earlier in the year, but personally, I think this is ever so slightly worse. It's another of my short fictional "monologues" (if you will) but, unlike last month's, it wouldn't require vast reserves of mental prowess to imagine this one actually being a monologue... Repeated over and over... Accompanied by the gentle rocking of hunched shoulders...

We’re conditioned to believe, from a very young age, that nightmares are a harmless consequence of possessing a multi-faceted brain. For reasons unfathomable, we have attached to the spectral phantoms of waking sleep the insignia of the villain, whilst denying their capacity for villainy. Those claws that grope blindly from the dark, we are told they are not to be feared. Those eyes that gleam moistly out of oblivion, we are informed they are the enemies of reason, and that reason alone can keep them at bay. I lack that faith in the power of human reason, my friends...

I remember the way it danced. I remember the movements of its body, and how its head remained quite still, and its face seemed suspended in deranged glee. I remember something suggestive in the curl of the lips that flaked like charred wood, and in the wetness of the eyes that leered out from cavernous sockets. Its limbs were like liquid, and this made it difficult to discern their number, as did the hypnotically eclectic pattern they drew through the thick air. The worst part though, was not the paralysed face, nor the decaying lips, nor the moist eyes, nor the incomprehensible limbs.

It was that the thing danced in silence, to the mute melody of human reason dying.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed that. I seem incapable of writing anything more than three paragraphs long these days. Anyroad, I'm still trying to write a normal entry, but I'm getting nowhere fast. Consequently, you can look forward to another fictional titbit some time in the near future. It's half finished, and in a (borderline) similar vein as this 'ere literary "bad trip". I wrote it at a time some people know as 5am! Can you BELIEVE it?

Cheerio!

Jamie

In which old age is nothing new...

2010-07-13T17:36:00.006+01:00

While I think of something proper to write about this month, I've posted one of the little, half-finished, fictional things I toss out when there is nothing of worth for me to do. This one is from the memoirs of a pensioner who confronts his rapidly increasing seniority with what you might call gusto.

The advent of old age, I found, was rather like puberty. I woke up one morning and realised my body was in the midst of changes it had been undergoing for years, but which I had failed to notice as they happened. It was just as confusing and distressing as puberty and I found all over again that it was all very embarrassing. Suddenly my body was capable of secreting fluids I was unaware it even produced. Mood swings once again integrated themselves into the fabric of everyday life and, most notably, hair started to sprout from the most unlikely of nooks and surprising of crannies. On second thought, what was most notable was that I began pissing myself at least twice a week.

Loss of bladder control in the old runs parallel to masturbation in the young. One day you discover that your genitals are capable of something extraordinary, and from that point on the frequency with which they exercise their new-found ability increases exponentially. The difference is that one is the process by which we create life from nothing, while the other is the biological mechanism which shifts bodily waste from one place to another.

Normally from my bladder to my trousers.

* * *

For those of you in Crieff, I shall be staging my triumphant return in about a week. I shall be sorely disappointed if a monument is not erected to honour the occasion. A carpet of palm leaves would be appreciated, but is not strictly necessary.

Jamie.

In which I respectfully disagree...

2010-06-11T09:36:00.006+01:00

For those of you who have already perused my last few entries (quite possibly none of you) the rapid addition of a further piece will come as little surprise. Given the profound lack of stimuli in my day to day life, a brief outline of which can be found elsewhere, I have taken to writing as a shield against what Churchill called ‘the black dog’. Right now it is half past eight in the morning, and I have been awake since three yesterday afternoon. This nocturnalism, a malady from which I have suffered on and off for a year, has recently been kept at bay by what I call ‘strategic binge-drinking’. In lieu of this my medicine of choice has been a mug of hot milk and a few paracetamol, the combination of which does to consciousness what Israeli soldiers do to humanitarian protesters.The upside of spending such extended periods of time alone is that it gives me time to think. Many of you will know first-hand the perils posed by the relentless rotating of my neurological cogs, and it will not be necessary for you to stifle gasps of astonishment to know that some of the resultant thoughts are less than cheery. I have already decided upon the conditions in which I wish to die, a decision which has provided significant peace of mind. I have come to terms with the harsh reality that none of my bizarre poetry shall ever be published without a drastic compromise of my artistic sensibilities. Over and above these contemplative gems one can find the usual tirades against the Catholic Church, some quite enlightened opinions on masturbation and, by extension (so to speak), the abysmal quality of our country’s curriculum of sex education. The product of this morning’s labours represents a thorough slating of what people call ‘respect’...

I remember watching some programme or other a little while ago. It dealt with the age old question of what it means to be ‘cool’. In search of an answer to the riddle, the intrepid presenter set out to an extremely fashionable nightclub, and asked some of the guests what it meant to them to be cool. One man equated coolness with respect, and I remember giving this some thought. Respect is one of those things in life in which a huge number of people place a huge amount of importance. Having the respect of one’s friends, one’s colleagues, one’s parents, and anyone else with whom one makes contact in life, is ludicrously important to people. I am forthwith cancelling my subscription to this way of thinking. And about time too...

After all, what the bollocks do I want with respect? Respect is basically just the approval of others. Working for approval is a perfectly acceptable preoccupation for a child. Children naturally desire the approval of others because they are too young to have anything substantial upon which to build a positive self-image, and it is therefore the only option available. But for a grown man or woman to do the same is, frankly, pathetic.

How small a cock must one have to need the respect of others to justify their existence? How deserving of pity is he or she who requires validation from others to feel important? I find this a bit saddening really; imagine having so little sense of worth that the passing approval of another is the only thing preventing you from slipping into a mire of depression and worthlessness. That’s the sort of mentality that causes women to become sluttish. It’s the mentality that drives men to buy bitchin’ rims and infeasible sound systems. It’s the bread and butter of sycophants the world over. It’s the impetus for social climbers. It has been the catalyst for countless betrayals and heartaches throughout history. It’s an addiction that takes a scalpel to the testes of society and transforms it into a snivelling eunuch.

While my contempt for the concept remains white hot, I urge you, gentle reader, to grow a pair. That’s it, grow a pair. Then grab them and say: “Actually, they’re fine the way they are. To Hell with everyone else’s respect. Respect these!”

Then whip out that pair you’ve just grown and gesticulate obscenely.

Jamie

In which mankind breathes its last sentient breath...

2010-06-10T00:10:00.006+01:00

I saw a little bit of this evening's Big Brother and, as you might expect, was on the verge of microwaving my own hand whilst holding a spoon. Unfortunately, this is impossible. Looks like I have been FOILED AGAIN by DOORS. Having said this, I did very much like the massive, swivelling eyeball, that spent the entire show surveying the hideous cavalcade of freaks and societal dregs like the merciless Eye of Sauron overseeing his legions of orc minions.

Or perhaps it was more like the maniacal Dalek Caan, cackling in mute glee as his master-plan, eons in the making, enters its final stage, ready to destroy once and for all one of the greatest evils in human history. At the end of the thirteen weeks, or however long the blasted thing lasts, he will dramatically reveal, in barely comprehensible giggles, that each and every Big Brother contestant, applicant, and viewer has, through some arcane technology, been implanted with a deadly biological, nerve shattering explosive. Having travelled through the irreality of time itself, he has discovered the grim state of earth's future, going insane in the process. In the throes of this incrementing madness, he has designed these devices in preparation for a mass cull, geared towards the prevention of mankind's degeneration into a race of drones, subservient to Davina McCall.

Pure speculation, of course...

P.S. If you've read this, don't forget about this month's OTHER entry (Oh my!).

In which dreams may prove profitable...

2010-06-09T21:14:00.004+01:00

As this month marks a very momentous occasion, I thought I’d compose something a little special. My more astute readers (which given your pitifully small number is saying very little) will have noticed that this month, June 2010, marks two whole years of “In Lamb We Trust”. That’s right, twenty-four months of more or less continuous monthly updates. Those few months which have remained lamentably bereft of entries are, I feel, more than avenged by those boasting two, or even three sterling examples of what a Blog can be at its very best. All conceited self-reference aside, I have thrown together a few tales of the weird which will bring you fully up-to-date with my life. We begin with the bizarre dream I experienced last night...

My Dream...

I find myself wandering up a grimly Dickensian alleyway, on my way to a summer party in a pleasant Victorian suburb. When I arrive, all and sundry are sprawled on the verdant grass lawn, stretching down from the front porch, to a pool of jolly flowers near the garden wall. There we all sit, sipping our drinks and revelling in idle chatter, when who should run in but Will bloody Smith, claiming that a terrorist attack perpetrated by Nationalist extremists has just taken place down the road. They have, Will Smith informs us, used poison gas on the home of a large family of successful immigrants, shooting dead the six poor buggers who made it out of the building alive. The extremists, clearly inexperienced in the field of gaseous terrorism, have lost control of the gas, and it is enveloping the entire suburb in its toxic embrace, like some monstrous creature from a low budget ‘Blob-horror’ movie. Terrified, the lot of us make a run for it, darting around the house and bounding over the fence in the back garden. Eventually, and inexplicably, we reach a gaping chasm, a vast and uncrossable canyon. To our dismay, in the time it has take us to run this far, the country has declared war with someone or other, and troops are positioned atop our side of the canyon, panzerschreking (why on earth panzerschreks?) the living daylights out of the opposite cliff-face, which boasts a network of tunnels in which are entrenched our, as yet unnamed, enemies.

The troops on our side of the canyon are powerless. They cannot, even with outdated Nazi anti-tank weaponry, breach the solid rock walls of the enemy’s geological fortress. An untimely barrage from the enemy destroys the section of cliff on which we are all standing, and we plummet with the rubble into the abyss below.

We wake up on Mars. After much exploration to confirm this, one of our number claims to have discovered a very odd fossil. We inspect it and it proves to be a peculiar looking creature, vaguely cylindrical in form, with a ridge of short tendrils stretching the circumference of its body. Some sort of brutal thorn protrudes from one of the flattish surfaces. At this point we notice the tendrils are moving. One of us suggests that it is simply the wind (we have somehow not succumbed to the carbon dioxide atmosphere yet), but another of our number, checking the wind direction with a moistened finger, declares that the wind is actually blowing in the opposite direction. We experience that numbing sense of horror and realisation that is the trademark of such stories, and Will Smith unnecessarily confirms our suspicions that the creature is alive. It turns out that this thing is the larval stage of an enormous, millipede-like creature. As it happens, many of them fuse together (with the thorny bits) to create a huge, sentient killing-machine, operating under the control of a collective consciousness (like that apparently found with swarms of ants, bees, termites etc.). One such monstrosity, an absolute behemoth, consisting of thousands of the little devils, bursts from the Martian soil, intent on devouring us. At that moment however, rescue arrives in the form of NASA, who very hospitably take us home.

Will Smith and I become hugely worried about these creatures. For some reason, knowing nothing about them, we fear an imminent invasion. You may think us silly to make such an assumption, but we do at least make a pitch to NASA for a research grant, so that we might learn more about them. I am put in charge of the team responsible for making the pitch, and we fail dismally. No one believes that Mars is populated by a species of arthropods whose physical size is limited only by how many of the little larvae are willing to latch on. We despair for our species, until one of the boffins on the grant committee sidles over to me, as I stare blindly into space, and confesses to believe us. Furthermore, he is a friggin’ billionaire and agrees to fund the mission, which is somehow ready to be put into effect within hours. Sadly, I woke up just as I was putting on my spacesuit (which was little more than a padded onesie). Lord knows what feats of heroism I might have dreamt up thereafter... Regardless, if I ever meet Will Smith, I will pitch this story to him in the form of a movie script. As long as it comes out in 3-D and is something like Avatar, I will be rolling in it after opening night.

Miscellaneous Woes and Realizations...

I have recently discovered that a surprising number of my books are more bloodstained than books are wont to be. This is largely because of my frequent nosebleeds. You see, when your face boasts as impressive a proboscis as mine does, a large volume of stuff gets blown into it, necessitating an unseemly amount of picking and rubbing and itching, all of which irritate the sensitive lining of my nostrils. I shall, however, maintain the much more interesting story that I am a vicious serial killer, whose weapons of choice are Henry James novels and Bernard Shaw biographies. I think you will agree that this is preferable to the altogether more unpleasant, probing reality.

In other news, I have found myself in a position in life where I am unflinchingly happy. Admittedly, I am unemployed, single, and as physically, fashionably and socially handicapped as ever. I fear I may have failed my European History examination (the one I had to leave prior to its start in order to dry-heave over a toilet bowl) and if I do not get a job soon I will have to move back to Crieff and work in the Hydro (both of which I am loath to do). I entertain myself during the day by shuffling about the flat in threadbare slippers, sipping tea and grumbling to myself (that and my constant sniffling is how Michael and Robbie can tell it's me who has just come in the front door), and the long summer evenings find me either watching pornography, or drinking irresponsibly, and often both. Nonetheless, I am altogether quite content with my lot in life. The financial strictures under which I currently operate will not last long if I can wrangle employment somewhere or other, and I choose to utilise my poor coping skills to quash any doubts regarding examinations by means of that time-tested and trusty mechanism which I adore: pretending problems aren’t there and buggering on like a mad man.

Romantic troubles have failed to engender tears for some weeks, and my twenty year yearning for a blissful relationship seems to have been, in chronological order: disappointed, poisoned, crippled with gangrene and blown away by the rancid, boozy farts I have become adept at producing. I have lost my long-held desire to impress women, and actually seem to be doing all the better for it (or so I like to think). Indeed, two memorable conversations with girls, both occurring on the same night, in the same pub, with the two sitting four feet from one another, saw me labelling one a “soulless monster”. I somehow inadvertently called the other (whom I actually quite fancied) a “prostitute or a porn star” on account of the thigh-high socks she, unbeknownst to me, happened to own for non-ironic purposes. I don’t remember how I managed to reverse such a slip, but I am told I did, and I think it had something to do with the socks she was actually wearing at the time. The other girl, poor thing, is, I believe, slightly frightened of me. I don’t know why Michael and Peter insist on introducing me to people. I should, by all accounts, be kept in my room, insulated from the rest of society.

Also, I realised only a few minutes ago that all the job applications I have sent using my University email account have been horrendous duds. Apparently, despite being a clever man, I am unable to use the attachment function of said email account. It is somehow a boost to my ego to believe that this is the only reason none of them have contacted me thus far, although the more I consider this, the less sense it makes...

Having updated you on my life as it stands, and provided you with the details of every vaguely interesting thing that has happened to me since last month, I must bid you farewell. It is eight o’clock and I have a rather promising dinner lined up. A microwavable steak and Guinness casserole which I may enliven (as if it is necessary, pah!) with boiled potatoes and carrots.

Jamie

In which opinions are revised...

2010-05-30T14:17:00.005+01:00

Ahoy-hoy, chaps! We’re getting nearer the end of May, all of my exams have been sat (with mixed success) and, thanks to strategic binge-drinking, I am not completely nocturnal! Good things all, to be sure. So, since all that has happened since my last entry (that riveting little number on pretension and hypocrisy) is ill-planned revision, beer, and shouting at Michael’s house-guests (all related), I shall simply plunge right into this month’s with all the merciless abandon of Old Testament God, to whom I am becoming more and more prone to likening myself. So, hide your first-born, construct an arc, or just get the hell out of Sodom, because here I fucking come...

In the past I have tackled subjects which, at some time, have been at the centre of baying crowds of oft ill-informed and always uncompromising individuals, most of whom rally to the banner of one or the other of the extremist poles of opinion. In writing these entries I daringly consulted a variety of online forums. I can assure you that nothing in this age of the world is as certain to cultivate blind rage as reading the ramblings of these morons, not least because their definition of articulate debate does not seem to extend beyond mashing the keyboard with their stupid fists and instructing each other to commit suicide, or paradoxically requesting sexual favours from those they profess to hate. That being said, there are those with intriguing, often persuasive, opinions, who seem capable of presenting them in complete sentences. Still, the overwhelming majority are cretinous imbeciles who clog the veins of the internet like clueless lumps of cholesterol, and blow their hot-gas into the consciousness of humanity. Atop the great shit-heap of human folly (moral, intellectual and other) that I perceive, these pseudo-intellectuals are poised, at any moment, to place the final banana skin which will cause the whole sorry mess to collapse, driving me to mentally implode, becoming a dribbling vegetable, capable only of rasping the words “so... stupid” over and over again.

Having just reduced these people to the level of cholesterol, I urge you to remember, lest you forget, that they are living, breathing human beings just like ourselves (albeit with Turkish delight for brain cells), and this point brings me to the subject I wish to discuss. My fury (a mere glimpse of which I have furnished you with) was ignited by the reading of a forum, for the use of students, on the morality of animal charities. It is a subject in which I am quite interested, and I was simply curious as to whether there were any out there whose thoughts on the matter ran parallel to my own. I was not disappointed in this regard. In every other regard, however, I was not so much disappointed, as forced to take a time-out, make a cup of tea and smoke a cigarette, before taking my place back at my desk. I am afraid, nay terrified, that this is a symptom of me being drawn into the realm of the internet-arguer, that intellectual cum-sock we all love to ridicule. I dare you to approach the brink of sanity and read some of the millions of threads out there. I suspect you will find that the position from which we launch our mockery is less a luxurious VIP box and more a perilously narrow arête, from which we are all in grave danger of plummeting. However, if you have done so in the past, or intend to, and found (or fear you will find) yourself slashing at the tendrils which lash themselves around your legs and, with terrible vehemence, threaten to drag you screaming into the abyss, then fear not! It is only natural that you should be outraged by what you read, but what sets you and me apart from these people, is that you and I scoff, and retreat (more you than me though, given the medium through which I am communicating with you). We take the time to calm down, and have a good, self-important chuckle about how stupid these people are, or sit for a few hours and compose an equally self-important Blog entry.

But, as usual, I have just spent a good six-hundred words digressing outrageously. What I intended to write about (which I have so far only mentioned once) is the subject of animal charities: whether or not it is moral to give money towards maintaining cat and dog sanctuaries or continuing the work of environmental activists when human beings the world over are suffering. It’s a hotly contested issue, as you will see if you read this forum.

My own views on the subject were fairly concrete until I started considering exactly how I was going to justify them. As much as I love animals (they’re like friggin’ Pokemon!), I always thought it was somewhat ridiculous to donate however many pounds a month to helping pandas while millions of human beings are starving to death in Africa, while corrupt governments orchestrate contemptible violations of human rights and while children grow up without parents due to AIDS and extreme poverty. How can people in our wealthy, enlightened, western world give their money to tigers when, statistically, at least one of their loved ones is likely to contract cancer, or some other awful, incurable illness? How many human lives could be saved if funds were diverted from cat and dog sanctuaries and invested in cancer research, or sustainable agriculture schemes in the Sahel?

Such was the pattern of my logic. Now, I am not so sure.

We in the western world have become desensitised to the suffering of our fellow man. Ignorance, it seems, is secondary to apathy. Oxfam adverts play while we are watching ‘Friends’, and we, numbed by helplessness, choose to carry on with our lives as best we can. This is human nature, I think. There is some part of us, slumbering beneath a superficial veil of western concerns, which wilts in mourning for those we see dying and suffering. But what can we do? What can you or I do, witnessing these horrors? Individually, we can do nothing. We can act, but we cannot do anything. We cannot realistically make a blind bit of difference. We, normal people, people who are just trying to live in relative comfort and happiness, are powerless. We can pop our change into a charity tub while purchasing our organic muesli in Sainsbury’s. We can fill out a form and maintain a direct debit, contributing some paltry sum to any of a thousand great causes, but really, this is just the impotent spasms of a drowning man who knows he is drowning and, confronted with the magnitude, the immensity, of the sea’s power, surrenders with a choked curse. “We can raise awareness”, I hear you cry. “If we cannot help as individuals, then we must band together, as a group!” A valiant effort, no doubt, but a futile one. In order to transcend the all too obvious limitations of the individual, one must penetrate the shroud of apathy surrounding one’s fellow man. History teaches us that such a feat is almost always hopeless.

We can implore those few among us with the means to make a difference, but the same difficulties present themselves, only magnified. Even the rich and powerful, faced with the enormity of the task of improving the world, find themselves assaulted on two fronts. Before them stands the plight of millions, whose lives teeter on the knife-edge between death and something we call ‘life’. Behind them lurks the shadowy spectre of their own insignificance, a carnivorous creature of doubt whose whispered rhetoric erodes any semblance of optimism. These people, wealthy businessmen, politicians, monarchs and all their like (at least those for whom greed and self-interest have not yet devoured their humanity) face the same reality we do: that these problems are so vast, so deep, so opportunistic and enterprising in their spread and development, that even they, with their funds and influence, stand like helpless children, while the horrors of the world swirl around them.

We are all, the best of us at least, terrified by this. The malevolence of these realities, the mercilessness of them, frightens us, not least because much of them are, if not made by human hands and minds, reared by them. What can we do in such a dire situation? What action can we take? We feel we can do nothing, and so our psychological instinct is to deal with it by other means, as we do with any painful reality we cannot control. We suppress it, and imprison it within walls of indifference. In turn, the awfulness from which we hide ourselves, feeds on our disinterest, and becomes all the more immense and unassailable.

A few of us though, have managed to release that within us which we have hidden. Some of us, and it is with enormous shame that I am scarcely able to count myself among them, stand up to the twin threats of suffering and helplessness, and in that way that is curiously and fascinatingly human, refuse to yield. If someone has managed such a feat, then who am I to say they are going about it the wrong way? If the most powerful men and women in the world cannot bring themselves to implement a solution to the world’s problems (and they have displayed this inability in the public forum many times) what right do I have to criticise how an ordinary man or woman rises above this weakness?

As humans, we constantly strive to give significance to our existence, and be damned with the fact that we are all specks of dust in the universe. These people do the same, they exhibit a localised version of what we all try to do: to make a difference in any small way we can, regardless of how poor we are, how clever we aren’t, how small and weak we may be. For us to sit back on ivory thrones and condemn some poor woman for giving money to orang-utans, or some well-meaning man for helping preserve the Great Barrier Reef, instead of aiding humans, when we ourselves may not even be doing anything, is madness. It is arrogance. To assume such a position as an arbiter of morality is something none of us has the right to do. It would be like criticising a person who, in an attempt to comfort someone in the wake of a loved one’s death, offers them a cup of tea. A cup of tea isn’t going to solve that poor soul’s problems, but we aren’t all gifted empathisers, and at least they’re having a bloody go at helping. We are too quick to attack those whom we perceive to have acted wrongly, when we should be directing this contempt at those who have not acted at all, and I assure you, they are in far greater abundance.

To return more tangibly to the subject of animal charities, I admit, I am still somewhat inclined to think that donating to human causes is preferable to others, though I admit to feeling ashamed even as I write this. As much as I am certain that this is what I believe, and that had I regular income, it would be to a human charity my £2 a month would be directed, I feel a pang of guilt for drawing such a distinction, for making the decision not only that humans are more important than animals, but that those humans helped by Amnesty International are more important to me than those helped by Cancer Research.

To make this a little clearer, if I arrogantly decree that human charities are superior to animal charities, where do I stop? There are charities out there dedicated to the rehabilitation of criminals, and as you can imagine, many people loathe them. Am I to say that these organisations are inferior to those for cancer research, but superior to those for sea turtles? In doing so, I am saying that the living things these charities seek to help, occupy a scale of ‘worthiness’, and that we should all be helping those who have their place at the top of that scale. But, as we reach the top, we have those at 100, and those at 99. Are we to say that the 99s are inferior to the 100s and are consequently not worth our money? And how do we allocate places on this scale: are victims of cancer, who otherwise live comfortably and securely, inferior to those in Africa who are impoverished, but otherwise healthy? Surely it cannot be done. All these problems, poverty disease, starvation, impending extinction: which are the most severe? Which deserve priority? You simply cannot make these distinctions. It is not because no man is clever enough, or wise enough to do so, but because it is simply an impossible decision- absolutely impossible.

And there we are.

There is that malevolent presence of doubt, powerlessness and guilt I described earlier. You and I cannot help everyone. Nobody can. Not even those powerful individuals I made reference to earlier can help everyone. It is from this realisation that apathy emerges, ready to sink its claws into anyone who succumbs to their own helplessness.

In light of this, I feel that, if you have the courage (for surely that is what is required) to contribute to a cause about which you are passionate, in the full knowledge that you are effectively denying another cause the money you are donating, then I have no right to declare your contributions anything other than commendable.

Jamie

In which you owe someone an apology...

2010-04-16T22:01:00.007+01:00

An uncomfortably warm welcome to April 2010, my first normal entry for two long, painful months! As is horribly often the case, I must begin with a grovelling apology. Having, in both February and March, subjected you to bizarre and barely poetic musings, whilst simultaneously promising additional conventional entries, I appear to have disappointed you on all counts. To compensate for the unorthodox nature of the past few months, I shall furnish you with a soul-numbingly mundane discussion on one of my many personal gripes, as I feel this facilitates the quickest return to normality. But before we begin, AND BEGIN WE SHALL, I shall provide you with a few unnecessarily inane updates on my life and the world as we know it. It’s halfway through April, and exams are looming like icebergs through the twilit gloom of academic comprehension. Fortunately, what with temperatures rising like inconvenient erections, these glacial behemoths will soon be a thing of the past, and summer can commence with trademark heavy-handed prejudice (I burn easily). I have just ordered no fewer than three Elvis Costello albums (I really like Elvis Costello), am on my way to challenge the Sinnoh region’s Elite Four in Pokemon Diamond (my Golduck knows ‘Shadow Claw’), and I am as big a hit with the ladies as ever (a DIRECT HIT, you guys)! On top of all this intense drama, apparently scientists are working on a way to lessen the number of mothers passing on genetic diseases to their children, by transplanting healthy Mitochondrial DNA into eggs at risk. Stevie Wonder is supposedly playing at Glastonbury, and that crass, sanitary-towel of a man, Tarcisio Bertone, has come under fire for his crazy claims about the evils of homosexuality within the church, and for being, to quote myself, “a cunt”. So it’s the good times all round! But, to return to the subject of this month’s discussion, I present you with a rambling tirade against the evils of IMPROPER WORD USE, and THE INJUSTICES WHICH RESULT FROM IGNORANCE OF THE MOTHER-TONGUE.

Pedantry.

Many of us dislike it, and with good reason. Linguistic pedantry, in particular, we all find unutterably tedious. The distinction between “less” and “fewer” is quite literally irrelevant in modern, English-speaking society, as is being trigger-happy with the word “literally”. Improper use of apostrophe’s (!) rarely causes anyone any bother, nor does the grammatical incorrectness of the phrase “None of them are...”

To illustrate the pointlessness of such technicalities more effectively, I’ll quickly show you (or more likely reiterate for you) the distinction between “less” and “fewer”. “Less” is used when referring to something which cannot be given a definite numerical quantity, and corresponds with the adjective “much” (e.g. less chocolate, less blood, less confusion). “Fewer” is used when referring to something which can be given a definite numerical quantity, and corresponds with the adjective “many” (e.g. fewer people, fewer chairs, fewer sexual assaults). As I’m sure you’ll agree, this is neither here nor there. It does not hinder our understanding of what someone is saying to us one iota. It is a silly, arbitrary feature of our language which complicates it needlessly. But some people get very riled up about it. The “none of them are...” kerfuffle is even worse. As we know, “none” is a contraction of “not one”, but it long ago lost the apostrophe which denotes this. “Not one of them are...” is incorrect. “Not one of them is...” is correct. BUT, the omission of the apostrophe, I would argue, nullifies this technicality, as “none” has essentially integrated itself into our language as a standalone word. But I undress... I mean, digress.

My point is one which I often bore people with at parties: language is a democracy. If this is a given truth then such pedantry must surely qualify as tyranny. However, there are times when linguistic pedantry is in the right. Admittedly, very rarely when it sees fit to concern itself with grammar, but sometimes when it concerns itself with definition, or denotation. The above example, “literally”, is not one of these occasions. People use “literally” to emphasise the truth of a statement. Sometimes they apply it to metaphors, similes or hyperbole, and are condemned by pedantic, friendless cretins for doing so. “I literally do nothing all day.” That’s impossible, of course, but we understand what it means. The speaker is putting distinct emphasis on how little he or she does. Nobody is in any confusion whatsoever.

Hopefully.

But what of words which are incorrectly used, and which consequently do confuse people? What of words we apply to one another which (we finally broach this month’s subject) are unfair because they are used incorrectly? I refer you to the two I dislike the most: “pretentious” and “hypocrite”.

“Pretentious” is the adjective form of the noun “pretence”, which in turn is the noun form of the verb “to pretend”. Correctly used, it denotes someone who is pretending, as seems obvious. Why then, do we use this word, in the most negative of tones, to describe someone who has the collected works of Shakespeare on their bookshelf, who enjoys classical music, who discusses philosophy, or who frequents the theatre? If these people are in possession of Shakespeare’s canon, the operatic works of Mendelssohn, if they ruminate on Plato or Hume, or revel in the dry wit of Pinter, what is it that makes them pretentious? If they sincerely enjoy these things then they are, by definition, unpretentious. They are true and sincere. If they own these things or do these things in order to appear cultured, and lack genuine passion, then they are pretentious, but colloquially, many people fail to draw this glaringly evident distinction. In jibing these people, whether pretentious or not, the jiber (Jibe-machine? Jibe-talker?) is him or herself, being extremely pretentious. Placing themselves in a position of self-assumed superiority to scorn someone for being more cultured and (often) just more interesting is adopting a false facade in itself. The difference is that, rather than drawing from the well of cultural elitism, this has its roots in reverse-snobbery.

As a friend recently said to me, as I gallantly defended Oscar Wilde from accusations of pretension: “Oscar Wilde isn’t pretentious; he’s an intelligent writer!” This, I fear, is the problem...

The unjustly widespread application of “pretentious” stems less from a lack of understanding of language, and more from a broader, and far more problematic source. It stems from a general lack of understanding, and the resultant feelings of intimidation and suspicion. It is simply an abstract parallel to a feature inherent in us all, but mercifully suppressed (in what I hope to be most of us) by centuries of civilisation: a hostile reaction to anything alien. Intelligence and culture, bizarre though it may sound, are alien to some people. In fact, it is alien to all of us to some degree. There is always someone more intelligent and cultured than we are. Are we not all tempted to label them as pretentious? Do we not all, by means of ridicule, seek to bring those better than us crashing down to our level, to render their superiorities insignificant by making them laughable or conceited? In doing so, we render our own deficits less severe, and therefore less painful.

Finding a solution to this is, as I have mentioned, problematic. I daresay that clever people, and people who actively try to better themselves intellectually and culturally (however successfully) will always attract the criticism of those too base, crude and bitter to take the leap to self-improvement themselves. Until then I urge you, before flinging such a slanderous term at someone, to ask yourself if it is they or you, who are pretentious.

“Hypocrisy” was a word which gave Samuel Johnson a hard time. It was one of his many pet peeves regarding the application of language, and the unjust use of the word riled him up something awful. “Hypocrisy” means the declaring of views, opinions, morals or beliefs that are inconsistent with one’s own. It’s basically lying. However, we have come to accept “hypocrisy” as meaning incongruence between statement and action, which is very different. Someone who complains about people around them smoking, but frequently smokes in public, is a hypocrite. Someone who discourages people from smoking, but smokes themselves, is not necessarily a hypocrite. As with “pretentious” the problem with this misuse is one of sincerity.

Our man who smokes in public, but complains whenever anyone else does the same, clearly lacks sincerity. In contrast, our man who discourages people from smoking, but does so himself, provided he genuinely believes in the benefits of not smoking, is far from a hypocrite. It would be unfair and insulting to accuse the latter of hypocrisy without first ascertaining the authenticity of his conviction.

Politicians are often accused of hypocrisy because they tell us what they think we want to hear, which is often at odds with their own beliefs. This is hypocrisy. The Catholic Church promotes the teachings of a poor carpenter, but have their headquarters in a building of incredible opulence. This is (horrendous) hypocrisy. Criminals sometimes go to schools to encourage children to avoid trouble, work hard, and respect others. This is NOT hypocrisy (if they actually believe it).

That’s essentially the difference. It might seem a bit confusing, and it certainly took me a little while to sift through the numerous available definitions in order to prove my point, but fundamentally it’s really very simple. The difference between a valid accusation of hypocrisy and unjust slander is the difference between someone telling the truth and someone telling a lie. It’s the difference between someone who believes what they say and someone who doesn’t. Lacking the facilities to act on what you believe, but encouraging others to act upon it, is not hypocrisy. It's just being human!

Yet even once we have come to grips with this, hypocrisy remains troublesome. It can be used, as with politicians, to conceal motives or to endear yourself to someone under false pretences. But, as I am sure you can imagine, hypocrisy can be used morally, if not misguidedly, to conceal that which is painful, to avoid confronting that which is frightening. So, just as with “pretentious”, think carefully before you label someone a hypocrite.

There you go then. Those two words have been playing on my mind for a few days now, and now they can play on yours while I get down to the very serious business of revision. I’ve got to grapple with Jude the Obscure (again), endure Hard Times in the library (again), and scour the university, North and South, to find textbooks (again). I’ll be staring at the unimaginable, corrupt horror of The Picture of Dorian Gray (squirming with the excitement of a schoolgirl - for the THIRD TIME!) and wandering the frightening, existentialist streets of The City of Dreadful Night (again - what’s the point?). Anyroad, philosophical puns aside, I shall endeavour to have another entry up in the second week of May, once these exams are good and sat. Meanwhile, if any of you are experts on the architecture of post-war Berlin, medieval witch hunting, or the Spanish Civil War, send me your brains.

Jamie.

In which artistic insecurities are cast aside...

2010-03-11T05:10:00.003Z

I shall make it clear from the outset that I am very much in the process of writing a nice, normal entry for you this month, and that you need not fear. However, the pace with which I write is... well, 'tis a snail's pace. Strangely, academic essays flow from me like ignorance from the Daily Mail; it is only these confounded Blog entries which demand such time, effort, and love be lavished upon them. So, as my March entry is spoiled rotten with ongoing additions, revisions and sexual favours, I provide for your enjoyment, and my own gratuitous self-indulgence, yet more of my bizarre poetry...

The Painter Girl

As I was led through caves that twist
Beneath the profane holy grounds,
Through pagan tunnels that resound,
With the howls
Of morals aging.
There I saw the craven mute
Whose words could woo the sculptures,
And as I wandered slovenly
Through the haunts of lustful vultures,
Upon a whim I fell in love
With the girl whose paintings weep,
Within the sulphurous parlours.

Wrapped in fumes of throbbing dark,
Peering through an emerald lens,
At creatures in the skins of men,
Locked in lips
Of meek oblivion.
The painter girl, with moonlit eyes,
Feels gazes fall about her,
As oily tongues, they promise worlds,
Her senses come to doubt her.
She sees seduction in a glass,
Which grasps with marble fingers,
And with eyes aflame,
Invites her.

Conceptions blaze upon the roof,
And on hot coals across the floor,
Through the packs of clowns and whores,
Where the painter girl
Lies crying.
As the nightmare hosts, they joust with horns,
To the parlour’s bloodless rumbling beat,
The twitching painter girl, denied,
Beholds the coils around her feet,
Which bleed upon baptised regrets,
As courtiers reap their earthly debts,
And one and all
Stand nearly naked.

* * *

Perhaps a more controlled effort than last month's hellish jig through the nuances of mortal sanity... Those who know me well, or at all, will have noticed the emergence of one of my most acute personal gripes, but it really is poor form for me to influence your own interpretation. So I shall henceforth surrender this to the public domain and say no more about it...

...other than the fact that I will invariably return to it, dissect it, reassemble it, and generally render it unrecognisable. After all, to quote the great Robert Allen Zimmerman, "He not busy being born, is busy dying."

'Til next time, comrades!

Jamie

In which a man's very mind is laid bare...

2010-02-15T17:39:00.004Z

The less said about the circumstances in which what you are about to read was conceived the better. Suffice it to say that I was accommodating some extremely unorthodox thoughts, and Ali provided me with pen and paper to record them for posterity. Whether or not posterity would be better off without the surreal ravings of a mad-man is scarcely debatable, and I concede that I am inflicting a great ill upon our species by exposing these ravings to the unwary public. Nonetheless, as Andrew requested, here is the avant-garde, stream of consciousness, prose-poem I composed while trying to come to terms with the nature of raw, unalloyed reality itself...

I ain't no fool. Tumbling through time like an olive on a pizza with no other olives. Lampshade rhymes rumbling amidst the abyss of perpetual ecstasy. Spotted zebras drowning in vodka, as bits and pieces, floating, to the detriment of young drinkers. Lipstick brogues at a press-conference, devouring watermelons like heroin. I ain't no fool. Black rappers with caps in their asses, lurking in an urban masterpiece, in a shroud of Turin. Newspapers dancing in a public toilet, like eastern whores, dolled-up in make-up. Cigarette ashes masturbating to the ceaseless rhythm of carnal drumming. Become one with nature! In a concrete prison complete with designer headgear. Bitchin'. Then jump on a train to Neverland, where you can die in pieces, like an ivory-robbed flying elephant. Frank Sinatra in a Velvet Underground, jiving to Judas Priest like a deadpan shaman. Nike trainers engaged to a boogie-woogie mad-man, composing a symphony of bi-polar disorder. It's nothing personal, chaps, I just hate you. But seriously, Paul Simon attacked me while Bruce Springsteen slashed a nationalist poster, in mud-caked boots. A nine-sided cube with leering faces, warning a young Thai man (?) not to point his gun at things he can't swallow. It's dangerous. Basketball energy, hovering in a haze of misplaced lust, distinct from reality, yet integrated into some midget variation of it. A football team with prehistoric bones, humbling to the soul, but uncertain. I'm experiencing an existential crisis, like some cannibalistic spelling mistake. A young man, nineteen years old, immersed in Eels, caring too much about someone that he's never gonna get to touch. His lollipop brain fails at simple tasks, but he finds solace in jealousy. It makes the headaches easier to deal with, he thinks. I ain't no fool. I dig his failure, like a gravedigger digs a grave for a vessel of God's consciousness. It's futile, like a Rolls Royce. But the Superbowl espouses his self-doubt, shadowed by a spectrum of white light which isn't really that white. Are you reading this? Why? This far? It makes no sense? Well, boys, that's the grand delusion, the epic circus where gypsies risk their lives for something I don't, or won't, comprehend. Art Garfunkle's over there, feeling left out. It's no surprise really. After all, the peppers on aforementioned pizza make no space for extras, least of all extras with '80s perms in the '60s, like it was natural. I'm whistling like a steam locomotive, surfing on Planet Waves. Surprised by an oblivious beauty perched between your legs (my legs?) in a Platonic diorama, but then again, perhaps she's less oblivious than she appears. Wishful thinking, my friend. Nonetheless, a bone-idle beatnik finds himself the Joker in the pack while the Aces are asleep in some predicted orgy. I'm sorry.

Plumbing the depths of reality, drenched in what men call love and women label lustful harassment. A Microsoft Word spell-check lies in wait to discover some hidden flaw in your logic, and in the logic of conscious reality, which, in itself, is less worthy of attention than a game of organised sport! Or, even better, one of organised religion! It's all that same delusion, from fashionable decadence to decadent fashion, via Catholicism and enlightened intellectualism, where theories clash like armies, engrossed in something larger than life, yet smaller. Mice and shrews in a sewer, really. Scavenging.

Love itself, with a grin, laughs at you, its nature, its gender, its existence a puzzle, like a Rubik's Cube that's been solved incorrectly too many times. Immerse yourself in a personal view of reality where raisins turn to plums and prunes to bananas! A farce! A travesty! A pantomime of wailing children, and whaling children, where something is given meaning only in the process of its creation. Inhospitable and barren, like a desert or a city, if imagination reaches the lofty heights to which its denotation aspires. Humanity, well, it's a nice concept, like cake. But it often collapses in the oven like a "punished" Jew. Lashing out against prejudice is like love, because I say it is, and who's going to argue with me? Not you. Deliciously true are your impressions of reality, which is what you make of it, like Lego. But infinitely less fun. Once more, things gain significance in the process of creation. It's the crude poetry of conception to birth. An orgy of wails and hot towels. Are they necessary? Maybe? I've never done it before. Not exactly. I was literally just there one day.

Anyway, what do I know. I'm just trying to be a poet, don't I know it. It's difficult to do when you're part of a generation too accustomed to perfection to appreciate beauty. Beauty eludes us like creation, it's too important to reveal itself. Its dimpled smile penetrates the murky gloom of life, like the beautiful woman I was obviously going to personify it as. Awkwardness, or something thereabouts, mocks me (and you for that matter) from a library of incongruent notions, where love, life, death and beauty are analysed beyond recognition. So near, yet so far, like creation (not THAT again). Let's celebrate it with flowers, anyway. And CHOCOLATES! Everyone likes chocolate, except those with allergies. I don't know... The lines blur, mirage-like, in the desert of comprehension. Words frolic like gay performers, exhibiting nothing but their own shape, their own form, their own sound. And their own impotence. She is, of course, as always, like a ray of sun, a vision from the skies (to quote a better man than I). She's a bastardisation of clichés, but she's YOUR bastardisation of clichés. She's something. Something beyond beauty, the glossy conventions of which limit her existence as much as the words I mash together in animalistic contemplation. What is she? What am I? The mediocrity of existence lurches forward like a predator. It's ripe with possibility, but stranded in an ineffective limbo. The limbo of a pensioner.

But what's the deal, chaps? If people tell us life is like a flower. It's painfully natural, bestial (in its way), but it is beautiful. Beauty, that pointless addition to Darwinian existence - a paltry, yet wondrous concept, devoid of reason, which enlightens the otherwise melancholic mendacity of thought, yet simultaneously smothers it in the sort of blind, stumbling, longing, yearning searching we experience throughout our peculiar lives.

* * *

Oh dear.

What a morbid few minutes you must have just lived through. Having just dragged you by your brain lobes through a nightmarish dream world, I shall attempt to soothe you by promising that this isn't my February entry, and normal service will resume, hopefully by the end of the week.

Yup...

As you were, then...

Jamie

In which National Pride takes a dissin'...

2010-01-26T21:18:00.004Z

If you’re anything like me, you probably organise your life around the Gregorian calendar, and will therefore have found yourself, spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch, in the year 2010 (unless you lost any of the above in the orgy of uncensored debauchery I generously label a New Year’s celebration). Depending on how far our other similarities extend, you may or may not have already experienced extensive mental, emotional and existential breakdowns this year, despite it having lasted (at time of writing) only a fortnight. At the beginning of this year, as at the beginning of each of the past five or so years, I was forced to determine with fragile mind whether the events of the preceding hours were an indication that the year could only get better, or simply an exceptionally bleak precedent. Were they a festering gutter from which to escape up a ladder of self-improvement and wise choices, or merely the apex of a very stunted parabola, from which the only escape is to plummet down the slope like a clinically-insane tobogganist? “So,” as Kurt Vonnegut wrote, “it goes.” Not that I would, for a second, compare my annual descent into madness with the Dresden bombings. Remove yourself wholly from such suspicions of crass disregard for historical tragedy. Anywho, with what discursive handcuffs shall I temporarily imprison you for the benefit of my own perverse intellectual fetishes? I must say that it is times such as these during which I regret acutely my inability to effectively tackle current affairs. Surely such mad times merit a place in my archives. What of the fast approach of a Conservative government and their inevitable legalisation of slavery? How about our country’s utter fecklessness in the face of, admittedly severe, winter weather, or the embarrassing reality that the world’s developed countries are collectively incapable of conceiving anything bordering on even a crap solution to global carbon emissions? No... I am afraid that I am still very much fearful both of becoming boring and of exposing my substantial ignorance. As such, I have sensibly opted to discuss a long-held personal gripe of mine, and litter the resultant skid-mark with additional grumblings I hope you will find any one of enlightening, amusing, or arousing...

Above and beyond all the inestimable ridiculousness that permeates conscious reality, what I loathe the most about the world is ignorance paraded as insight. Bold words, you might retaliate, from a man whose website is exactly that, but I at least make an attempt to avoid subjects about which I genuinely know nothing. A transparent attempt at modesty to avoid people thinking I’m a berk it may well be, but I would rather slash open the wrists of humility and bleed false-modesty all over you than peddle the sort of intellectual hemorrhoids certain witless cretins attempt to lance with their crass philosophies and flimsy historical awareness.

People from all over the world do this routinely, and on a huge scale. The Americans are notorious for glorifying every aspect of their history with little or no regard for the less comfortable truths. Yet, to the best of my knowledge, no nation on the face of the earth is as shameless in its smoothing over of fact as the Scottish. For the most part it is perfectly harmless. It manifests itself primarily as a sort of warm-hearted rivalry towards the English, as between brothers or close friends. It’s more or less just a bit of fun, like saying the French are all effeminate cowards, or the Italians greasy womanisers. Such trivial animosities are proof that we are, by and large, willing to laugh at how ridiculous our nations may at times appear to the world at large. As such, it shouldn’t irritate me too much when I hear people ranting about the ruthless tyranny and unyielding oppression of the English, the potential glory of Scottish independence, or our country’s vast collection of selfless national heroes.

But it does.

An example, more of a very dull town’s attempts to encourage tourism than of dunderheadedness, perhaps, is the significance the townspeople of Crieff place on what until recently was The Drummond Arms Hotel. Here, Bonnie Prince Charlie, that unadulterated rectum of a human being, held his last council of War before his army was strategically sodomised by the Duke of Cumberland at Culloden (the Duke of Cumberland was thirty-feet tall and farted acid). Without elaborating at all, this is, you will admit, a pretty feeble thing from which to draw communal pride. We identify something incredibly noble in the last of any given thing or event, and often deservedly so, but in this case it was not merely the last; it was evidently the most shit. With historical elaboration this becomes not simply a celebration of mediocrity, but also a laughably sycophantic abandonment of principles in return for a paltry boasting right. Crieff was very much a pro-Government town at the time (Rob Roy McGregor and his drinking chums were killed in the street for singing Jacobite songs in the middle of the night) and after the Battle of Sherriffmuir, the Highland army burned Crieff to the ground, and were less than reserved regarding their desire to do it again...

Pathetic.

Hilarious... but pathetic.

Bonnie Prince Charlie, of course, is another fine example of the Scottish love of romanticising historical figures, a habit exercised primarily upon those who fought against the “English” (though this was often not the case, as divisions were primarily political or religious, not national). Charles is an almost folkloric figure to many raving Scottish patriots. In actual fact, if you open any decent book on the subject, you will discover that his heroics were limited to enduring a boat journey to Skye wearing a dress, and I would wager, from what I understand of patriotic Scots, that most would recoil from any description of their darling Prince DRESSED AS A WOMAN! Besides, just look at his portrait on Wikipedia. If a more punchable face exists in any of the annals of human history I am yet to be made aware of it, and dread the volatility of my reaction if such a time comes.

As I say, this shouldn’t really annoy me, but it does... particularly when one considers the huge number of other Scottish historical figures and achievements (actual achievements- successes!)one could celebrate. Shame on our nation for consistently failing to celebrate the fact that the adhesive stamp, postmarks, tarmac, the Kelvin scale, the vaccine for typhoid AND the cure for malaria, the Encyclopaedia Britannica, the Bank of England, the United States Navy and anything made in the Tunnock’s factory are all Scottish creations. Why would a country in possession of such sterling (and delicious) credentials resort to celebrating a repugnantly absolutist, waste of a perfectly nice skirt?

Jamie

P.S. I’d just like to finish by saying that this entry goes out to my deceased home-dog, Robert Burns, a womaniser and a dedicated drinker- a true symbol of our country’s brilliance.

What Would Jesus Buy?

2009-12-01T00:12:00.004Z

Before you engross yourself in this month's entry, I want to make you aware of two things. The first is that, in the wake of my lengthy tirade against the Catholic Church last month, I endeavoured to limit this entry to a modest 800 words. Excluding the complimentary italicised paragraph I furnish my entries with, I think I did quite well, and intend to persevere with this goal in the coming months. The second is that, seeing as it is almost Christmas AND we are about to enter the second decade of the 21st century (a truly momentous occasion), I have provided a second, light-hearted piece, to take your weary minds off the subject of exams/financial difficulties/crippling loneliness (delete as appropriate). Anywhat, without further ado...

I find myself surprised, if not a little frightened, by the clarity with which I recall writing my last December entry. It may have been almost twelve months ago, but it retains a firm grip on my oft sieve-like recollection. I had written it a few days after Christmas, and had relocated to my own room to avoid as best as possible the testosterone laced roar of the new Colin McRae X-Box 360 rally game. Suffice it to say that mere load-bearing walls provided less than ample soundproofing, and I had to resort to further measures, namely listening to the Hold Steady at volumes which would have shattered the vertebrae of a lesser man. Writing that particular entry, I was in the midst of the festive period, with a substantial number of pub visits behind me, and the much anticipated Comrie New Year celebrations approaching. This year, I write to you from Edinburgh, a few weeks prior to the big day, on the commercialisation of Christmas . . .

Personally, I love Christmas, and I would marry New Year’s Eve, and consummate our union in the most lurid fashion, if such perversions were legally or physically possible. I understand the widespread condemnation of Christmas as having been whored out to corporations, or hijacked by supermarkets and television networks for the purpose of vast profits. One would struggle, perhaps, to argue that the traditional values of the holiday have not been eclipsed by materialism and commercial gluttony. Every year, the well-meaning piety of little old ladies from quaint country parishes rails ineffectually against the unstoppable money-machine that is capitalist holiday mirth and revelry as facades of yuletide humility crack under the weight of heathen materialism. I know all this and I agree that it is the contemporary reality, but acknowledgement of this does not place me in the “we-must-uphold-the-traditional-principles-of-Christmas” lobby. I, personally, don’t mind the commercialisation of Christmas, at least not as it is defined by those who denounce it.

The basis for the contempt shown by many towards Christmas in the twenty-first century is that the celebration of love, charity, peace and global brotherhood, which Christmas propagates, is dying. The multi-national corporations, those fiscal vampires, have Christmas held firmly in their vice-like jaws, and every year their razor-edged canines increase the pressure on the jugular of human generosity and kindness. I’m not certain this is true. I am certain that these corporations monopolise on the holiday season, heaving great tides of cash into advertising and the development of jazzy new gadgets, but I’m not sure this has destroyed Christmas. I like to think we, the public, are rather more intelligent than to allow our concepts of love and giving to decay under the attrition of Coca-Cola adverts. And I think I’m correct in that assumption.

So, what, exactly, is wrong with buying a loved one an iPod for Christmas? Why shouldn’t you buy your dad a Rolex? What moral incentive could you have for deciding that you probably shouldn’t buy your ten year old son a bike, or your teenage daughter a designer handbag? I’m being appallingly sexist here, of course; ten year old boys can also like handbags . . . I saw it on Channel 4 . . .

Some people would, genuinely, have you feel guilty for going shopping and buying lots of expensive gifts for your friends and family. Having quickly Googled the subject to discover what the internet-using world thinks, I discovered that an American journalist by the name of David Lawrence Dewey, believes that those who enjoy such gift-buying experiences have “somehow lost what Christmas is truly about.” This was in response to the views of a certain twenty-four year old Becky, from Florida. Becky writes: “I really love going shopping through the malls. With so many things that you can choose from, I sometimes have a hard time deciding what to buy. I just love Christmas because of the gift buying.” The image in your own head most likely echoes the image in my own. Becky is probably unnaturally slim, has been spoiled from the moment of her conception, has artificially blonde hair of blinding hue, and could quite possibly construct a revolutionary and ironic piece of sky-scraping architecture literally using her vast horde of credit cards. Such is the stereotypical, materialistic American woman. It would be quite understandable, even predictable, if you, being British, thought this woman rather a tasteless hussy. Indeed, the only representative from our fair isle of Albion, is forty-two year old Rochelle. Her views resound thusly: "Christmas used to be a very special time in England, however, the American corporate commercialization of Christmas hit England about five years ago, how sad that we have relinquished our spirit of tradition to the way of commercialization.” A Daily Mail reader if ever there was one.

Conflicting views, then, from both sides of the Atlantic puddle, but I must say I find myself more affected by the simple, naive delight of Becky than the gaseous shroud of ignorant national pride oozing from the nauseatingly sentimental Rochelle. Becky may be materialistic, but she appreciates the fun of Christmas. Rochelle seems to think we live in “A Christmas Carol”. The joy, the satisfaction, of purchasing for someone, something you know they will enjoy, what is wrong with that? Who am I; who is Mr. Dewey, or Rochelle, to criticise her? To reject her enjoyment of the season based on some presumption of a selfish incentive, that is pompous, self-serving and not in the least generous and loving.

Consider, gentle reader, the concept that Christmas is a time for fun. It may be a season of love, kindness, and giving, of family, friends and loved ones, but that makes it a celebration, above all, of life, and what is life without fun? What is life without unnecessary furnishings of pleasure? Superfluous spending once a year does not necessarily equate to mindless, corrupted consumerism. Did not the man himself, in honour of whom mankind established this celebration, say “Judge not, lest ye be judged”? This Christmas, then, do not criticise the man who gorges his ample form on turkey, wine and chocolate, and who falls asleep during the queen’s speech. Spare the hardworking mother of two your disdain as she sets about trying to locate a Nintendo Wii for her thrilled children to unwrap on Christmas morning. Withhold your scorn for myself and my friends, who will, doubtless, venture into the warmth of a pub rather than a Help the Aged fundraiser. We are, none of us, bad people. We merely desire a short period once every twelve months when we can enjoy ourselves with friends and family, and when we students can receive much-needed financial cushioning in the form of cheques from obscure relatives.

I shall conclude by wishing one, all, and some, an appropriately merry Christmas.

Jamie

A Glimpse of the Future...

2009-12-01T00:01:00.006Z

The following is taken from an article in The Times, Monday 30th November 2089...

"Here follows the obituary of Jamie Lamb Esq., composed lamentably early by the hand of his self-proclaimed illegitimate son, Frederick Archibald James Lamb, who never met the man in person, yet considers the lasting intensity of his father’s spiritual imprint source enough from which to draw the following:

* The fields of literature, micro-blogging, social criticism, woolly liberalism and, most acutely, basket weaving, have each been shaken to their very foundations and robbed of an inestimably bright spark by the recent passing of the much renowned, revered, and reproached Jamie Lamb. Above and beyond his ample collection of academic suffixes, are to be found his other, lesser known, titles, Reverend Father (the result of a colourful misunderstanding upon visiting an east-African village of less than lenient Catholicism), and Duchess of Gloucester, which aptly explains itself.

Lamb’s years at Crieff High School, professed in his best-selling autobiography to have been some of the most enjoyable of his life, were marked by scandalous social indecencies of Wildian proportions. His many enemies and critics have claimed that more than one young man left Crieff High School with the deepest of emotional scars resulting from Lamb’s ruthlessly domineering persona and heavy-handed authoritarianism, and one needn’t excavate the well publicised incident of September 2006, when a promising fifth-year girl was quite literally blinded by the man’s proficiency at Scrabble. The suspicions of supernatural, even diabolic, assistance voiced by local Parishioners were irreversibly muted by the tragic series of gas explosions which ripped through the otherwise sleepy tourist town a mere twenty-four hours before the conclusion of the official enquiry, any testimony of Lamb’s nether-worldly dealings perishing in the resultant flames.

Leaving Crieff in a dust-cloud of teenage pregnancy two years later, Lamb made the move to Edinburgh, which he was to consider his home even when spending much of the year in Oslo. Reading English Literature, he absorbed many of the greatest works in the English language. However, his extraordinary metabolism, the much speculated secret to his trim, muscular physique, was not limited to the processes of his more base organs, and the accumulated repository of knowledge which should have served him well in future life, in fact slipped through his desperately clenched academic buttocks and passed down the u-bend of inescapable memory loss. A life of bluffing, ad-libbing and sexual favours was therefore the only one which would ensure him success, and he monopolised on his late-blooming physical beauty as shamelessly as any back-street whore-biscuit.

Having been instructed by his father in the ways of hard work and honesty in his formative years, he was disowned by his immediate family for a dubious act of trade-unionism at the age of twenty-four. He was to spend the next three years travelling Europe undertaking research on behalf of the British Government. The resultant treatise, "E.U. Subsidies and their Effects on Sustainable Agriculture in Hungary and Romania", was to be his first, but certainly not his last, academic paper to receive global infamy for its border-line satanic undertones.

His health irreparably damaged by the twin rigours of national scandal and a gruelling four year divorce, Lamb executed an ignoble retreat into the life of a Daily Mail theatre critic, an embarrassment of such towering severity that, within two weeks of accepting the post, he had lost all those among his former friends who had remained loyal through his previous troubles.

One of Lamb’s less than generous reviews elicited some level of fury in the virgin breast of a practically pre-pubescent female playwright. The woman scorned him and, in an interview with the Daily Mail itself, berated him with the catalytic phrase: “Why don’t you have a go at writing a fucking play then if you’re so fucking clever?” At the behest of this disgruntled lesbian (as Lamb was to leak to the press), he was to compose his first dramatic work, entitled “The Archbishop of Canterbury: A Tale of Two Wardrobes”, for which he received extensive critical acclaim. His subsequent works, comprising six plays, four novels, an autobiography, two volumes of poetry and the script for a proposed Broadway adaptation of “Mein Kampf”, remained in print throughout his life, and contracts have been flown to the German embassy in New York to await inevitable signing.

A life, then, plagued by suspicions of devilish association, sexual and academic infamy, but illuminated by his latter day contributions to the arts, Jamie Lamb’s was one of drama from its humble beginnings to its untimely end, choked by a pair of soiled dungarees. The death is being treated as “suspicious”, and the rights to a Blockbuster biopic are presently being fought over by Universal Studios, Warner Brothers and New Line.

God speed, Jamie. God speed... *

The Duchess's belongings are to be sold at charity auction next Friday, at a time as yet unconfirmed by a rather perplexed King William."

The future, gentle reader... We never know, do we? My Wikipedia article is considerably worse...

Jamie

More left-wing Church bashing...

2009-11-13T16:14:00.007Z

Today, by a happy accident, I stumbled upon the most recent Intelligence Squared debate, concerning whether or not the Catholic Church is a force for good in the world. If you would like to watch it, and I recommend it thoroughly, you can do so on YouTube or on the Intelligence Squared web site. Here you will also find a briefing for the event which makes for a very interesting read. It's a sizable document for casual reading, both as infuriating and illuminating as one would expect, and even as I type this I have not managed to marshal the required level of concentration for such an endeavour. A number of things attracted me to the debate and a timelessly heated dispute was not least among them, although I admit myself more prone to dedicating an hour of my life to it on the basis that, counted in the number of the participants, were Stephen Fry, Christopher Hitchins and the implacable, formidable and downright frightening Anne Widdecombe. Stephen Fry and Christopher Hitchins, eerily intelligent men both, are no strangers to the medium of the televised debate and Anne Widdecombe is far from a virgin only as far as being an unaffected medusa is concerned. “Where are you headed with all this?”I hear you ask. “Surely, Jamie, you prefer to remain in your own temperate climate of frolicsome subjects in bountiful supply?” True, within what is soon to form into a pleasing aquatic simile, I am as a gentle manatee when compared to the gnashing swarms of Blog-hosting piranhas out there in the perilous waterways of the Internet. While they, with their limitless opinions and incessant howls of derision, bitterly thrashing about in obscurity, fall upon such topics with a bloodlust both fearsome and cringe-worthy, I remain, as ever, inquisitive, with a propensity for producing hot gas, but ultimately harmless and, by and large, the bigger man (atee). It pains me then, to have prepared for your enjoyment and intellectual stimulation (my criteria for “stimulation” being somewhat forgiving), an entry dealing with such a troublesome subject. Next month, expect a four thousand word investigation into the colourful, but bloody, world of NOVELTY ICE CUBES.

The Catholic Church, in the words of the Archbishop John Onaiyekan, “means a great many things to a great many people”. This, I think, is where we must begin, with a statement so simple and so vague that it can be certified as a truth. This is naturally a subject difficult to tackle unless we are firmly grounded in truth and this statement seems as irrefutable as we are likely to encounter when discussing the Catholic Church (Empiricism beginning to show...). However, despite whatever notions of benign universality this phrase may conjure, it is undeniable that it can be interpreted conversely. The Catholic Church means a great many good and wonderful things to a great many people but it means also a great number of flawed and inhumane things to many others. Where do we go from here? Well, in keeping with the theme and, indeed, the inspiration for this entry, I will refer to some of the points in the Intelligence Squared briefing, predominantly those not touched upon in the original discussion. I intend to try and maintain an air of jocular detachment, but I apologise in advance should I drift into what might be considered too serious a tone.

Readers, I warn you that now is the time to grasp your rosary beads between whitened knuckles or to wrench from its shelf your Bible, ready for page-by-page dismemberment. I warn you also that I am about to offend a great many people...

We can thank the Church for much European culture, knowledge and technology... Can we?

A great deal of Renaissance patronage came from the Catholic Church. Perhaps most famously, Michelangelo was commissioned to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling by Pope Julius II. All well and good, we might surmise, but what of the wider, and the deeper, circumstances? Julius II was known as “The Terrible Pope”. His reign was marked by exceptional levels of aggression and based largely on a forceful acquisition of Italian political control, under the Church and, consequently, under himself. He certainly had grand vision and was a great patron of the Renaissance, but remember that Julius’ reign falls in the very early sixteenth century; the situation in Europe is dire for many, their lives blighted by poverty, disease, poor harvests and famine. Where then was charitable Christian nature? It was smothered under the excess of a Church more concerned with the extent of its bejewelled grip than with any notion of shepherding mankind to spiritual peace and salvation. Michelangelo himself did not even want to paint the Sistine Chapel. He was far more concerned with his sculpting. But, of course, the Pope is the earthly conduit to God himself and that is a potent authority upon which to call. Let us not forget, also, that the premise of the Renaissance was a renewed embracing of classical artistic values. The Greeks, the Romans, were, for the most part, seen as Pagans by the Church. Much of the learning of the ancients was lost due to the intolerance of the Church. Vitruvius’ De Architectura was, at the time of the Renaissance, the only known treatise on Roman architecture. The Church pillaged the ruins of Rome for columns and stones with which to build their own structures. Even the recipe for concrete was lost for centuries. One cannot deny the importance of the Church in the restoration of artistic values in Europe, but simultaneously one must always remember that they were one of the primary reasons a revival was thought necessary.

The Bible, for many centuries, was only ever printed in Latin. Of course this is understandable before Gutenberg developed his printing press in the mid fifteenth century, as each copy of the Bible, and any publication for that matter, needed to be carefully handwritten by a dedicated scribe, normally a monk (allowing the Church an ample level of control over censorship). But after the Bible came to be (relative to the period at least) mass produced, it began to circulate in various languages. This did not please the Catholic Church. In 1517, seven people were burned at the stake for the crime of teaching their children the Lord’s Prayer in English. The punishment for owning a Bible in any language other than Latin was death. Thomas More, an infamous persecutor of “heretical” non-Latin Bible owners, was made patron saint of politicians as recently as 1935! Even before More’s time, in the fourteenth century, John Wycliffe (a man I have mentioned in my series of border-line amusing etymological Facebook status updates) had copied the Bible into English dozens of times. He believed that the organisation of the Church was against the Bible itself, a moral paradox he sought to balance. When the Pope at the time (I do not know who the Pope was at the time) discovered this, some years after Wycliffe’s death, he ordered the poor man’s bones dug up, grinded into dust and cast into the river. As a comical chaser to this shot of liturgical tyranny, I remind you that in his first manuscript, Wycliffe was forced to conceive new English words as replacements for certain Latin terms. My favourite is, understandably, the original English for “intestines”, which Wycliffe thought most sensible to name “arse-ropes”. John Wycliffe, everyone! A man whose hand I sorely wish I could shake... had it not been decomposed by the Almighty and pulverised by his chief gimp.

Can we thank the Church for “much European culture, knowledge and technology?” In fairly broad terms, my answer would be: certainly not. The Church were responsible for setting back the development of art, culture, learning, technology and everything modern society is based on, many, many years. Not to mention the fact that, for the Papal hierarchy, human decency and humanitarian education seems to have been a fairly low priority, sacrificed in favour of pomp and ceremony. For all his many faults, I am certainly grateful for Luther and his notions of Biblical self-study, and his belief in the necessity of legalising non-Latin manuscripts. Certainly a step forward for civilization, shackled as it had been by over-zealous spiritual subjugation.

Roman Catholicism delivers moral absolutes...

How comforting for common people to exist in the knowledge that they need not contemplate the morality of their actions. How secure we should all be in knowing that a set of absolute morals exists, and that we need only adhere to them to be happy. How wonderful. How splendid. How ridiculous.

Jesus taught mankind many things. He told us to “let he who is without sin cast the first stone”, a wonderful, enlightened concept, and as relevant today as it was that day nearly two millennia ago when Christ stumped that group of hypocrites in their preparations for a good ol’ fashioned community stoning. Essentially, the teachings of Christ have, by and large, been an enormous force for good in the world. This I concede without hesitation or bitterness. I am in agreement with Christians the world over that Christ’s teachings are invaluable. Of course, his divinity is always in dispute, but regardless, his teachings remain integral to many peoples’ lives. They represent what I like to think (probably naively) are our social instincts: not to steal from one another, to treat each other kindly, tolerantly, to love and to forgive and, last but not least, not to kill one another. Please, please, please, please, please don’t let yourself become confused between the Ten Commandments and the teachings of Christ. Christ’s teachings should be taken on their own merit. Remember, of course, that Christ’s death was partly the doing of religious leaders who had followed the Ten Commandments for many centuries before the coming of Christ. These commandments, and every other moral absolute the Church has peddled for years, are highly suspect in my opinion. The Ten Commandments, as Christopher Hitchins pointed out in his argument, simultaneously demand love and fear. Christ never even entreated humanity to fear him, let alone demand it. God, however, flat-out, no-holds barred, demands simultaneous love and fear, or grants you damnation, free will or none. I needn’t point out how ludicrous this is and perhaps you have guessed how this section is panning out.

Moral absolutes are terrifying to us rational human beings. We live, in this day and age, lives lasting many decades. Last time I checked the average life expectancy for a Briton was somewhere in the seventies. Seventy years is a long time, and even in just under twenty, my ideas of morality have changed enormously, and continue to do so. The human brain does not respond well to moral absolutism, as its default state is one of inquiry and of curiosity. It is in our nature to question, to experiment, to analyse and to ascertain. Indeed, one of the most exciting, fascinating and socially productive endeavours undertaken by our species is that of probing the inestimable labyrinths of human morality. To exist in a state I can only describe as moral complacency is more dangerous than I can commit to words. When societies revert to unquestioning obedience of any set of codes of conduct, they surrender that which lends them not only the dignity of our species, but the safety of ourselves, our families, friends and everyone else: our free will and our quest for development and enlightenment.

Besides, how immutable are the morals of the Church? How absolute is absolute? Historically, about as absolute as my grandfather’s bladder control. What would the Church’s attitude to slavery be today, do you think? Most likely they would consider it inhumane, an appalling violation of morality. Yet, during the rapid increase in trade of African slaves in the wake of growing Imperialism and in part due to the rise of the mercantile classes, do you think the Church spoke out against it? Of course not. Scholars investigating the Papacy’s attitude towards slavery believe the first instance of a Pope speaking out against slavery was only as recently as 1890. Before then the Church adopted a stance of, at best, ambivalence and indecision. Certain saints are known to have purchased slaves with the intent of freeing them, but this does not exactly, or vaguely or in any way otherwise, reflect the actions of the Church.

Here, then, seems an appropriate place to make essentially the same statement I made last month. Individuals pursuing a spiritual life should feel in no way besmirched by the awful things I am writing about the Catholic Church. The Church is an organisation and therefore should be considered as entirely separate from those who follow its faith in their own lives. I have said it before, as long as they actively seek to denounce that which is in need of reassessment, acting against what I have described as moral absolutism, there is no reason for anyone to have the slightest suspicion of them, and I wish them all the happiness and contentment in the world.

But, to return to topic... That such a drastic alteration in morals is possible is evidence, if any was needed, that the Catholic Church is a human institution. It is an earthly organisation run by humans. The Pope himself, indisputable in many ways though his alleged closeness to God makes him, is human. He will die. He is in no way faultless or irrefutable. It makes sense then that the Church should adapt to the times, even though, in the briefing, it is put forward as a benefit that the Church does not adapt. It no longer persecutes individuals for reading English Bibles, or Spanish, Japanese, Russian, Greek or (Heaven forbid!) American-English Bibles, yet it steadfastly refuses to alter its archaic stance on homosexuality. To paraphrase Christopher Hitchins once more, homosexuality is not merely a form of sexuality, but a form of love. A church which actively promotes the spread of love ostracising from its ranks enormous numbers of people based on the fact that they spread their love to the “wrong” people, this is madness. It is an appalling paradox.

To go back to the subject of Papal censorship, the Catholic Church does try, at every opportunity, if not to burn, then at least to censor that which it finds heretical, such as the Harry Potter books. Pope Benedict XVI saw the series as being a terrible influence on children, and the Vatican’s official newspaper included the opinion that Harry “...proposes a wrong and malicious image of the hero, an unreligious one, which is even worse than an explicitly anti-religious proposition." BUT this very paper, L'Osservatore Romano, was, only four years later, to print that the Pope thought the sixth film was the best so far and that: "There is a clear line of demarcation between good and evil and [the film] makes clear that good is right. One understands as well that sometimes this requires hard work and sacrifice." If the Pope himself, in a modern world such as we inhabit, cannot deliver a moral absolute on something like a children’s story, what hope is there that it can provide any absolutes whatsoever? Those it does stand by, notoriously the prohibition of artificial contraception, cause untold levels of death and suffering. To quote directly from what I have just now realized is a rather excellent briefing:

“Each year, 600,000 women die needlessly during pregnancy and childbirth and thousands more die from botched illegal abortions. Each year, 5.8 million people become HIV positive and 2.5 million die from Aids. Today, more than 28% of African children have lost one or both parents to Aids. Yet the Church has consistently lobbied to block international policy decisions that would make condom education and use a major tool in the prevention of unwanted pregnancies and in the battle against Aids. At a recent world conference on women and population development, it successfully led the effort to block the inclusion of safe, legal abortion on the list of basic reproductive rights for women. It has used its voice to limit access to family planning, safe abortion – even in countries where abortion is legal – and emergency contraception, even for women who have been raped in an act of war. The Church has had no hesitation in quoting specious scientific evidence to back its case. In Kenya a church pamphlet stated that HIV can pass through condoms and in 2003, the Vatican claimed that "serious scientific studies" backed this view. No scientists supported the claim. It was a lie.”

The statistics are staggering. It may certainly be an absolute, but I would feel ill if I were to seriously consider calling it moral. These statistics, in my own opinion, render the argument for the Church’s positive impact on the world heartbreakingly empty, regardless of the supposed billions donated by Catholic charities the world over. As with the arts, the Church’s interference and widespread moral authoritarianism have done more to damage the human race than enrich it. I don’t feel I need really say any more on this subject, but Stephen Fry certainly makes a compelling argument on the video.

I fear I have become a little morose, but I don’t feel I can be blamed in the slightest. I’ve certainly learned a lot today, and that I have incorporated learnings from all of my three University courses into the mix is exceptionally rewarding. I would like, once again, to remind anyone reading this that my contempt for the organised Catholic Church is just that: contempt for the organised Catholic Church. In fact, I felt terribly sorry for the Archbishop John Onaiyekan throughout the debate. He seemed to me to be one of many religious individuals who have true faith in a benevolent God. However misplaced you see this trust, it can do a great deal of good. I have no doubt there are many individuals in Africa, in Britain, and the whole world over, who actively seek to turn their faith towards improving the world. Archbishop Onaiyekan’s arguments were based primarily on statistics regarding the billion strong membership of his faith and the very large sums donated to African humanitarian causes and, at least during his solo argument, he seemed a genuine believer in the individual benefits God can bring people. He defended his faith admirably, but crashed and burned when defending his Church and this failure encapsulates and solidifies the opinions of many...

The Catholic Church have an inestimable potential to do good, but don’t. If only it were within their ability, if only they had the courage, to make changes to their doctrine, many millions would be happier and safer. The facts and figures that defenders of the Church put forward are all well and good, that during Hitler’s final solution, many Jews were granted refuge in the Pope’s palace, that the Church funds the distribution of aid in struggling, war-torn countries, and many other facts besides, are rendered almost meaningless by the larger picture. These instances are exceptional. When defending an institution in which one believes, one will understandably seek to put forward the most considerable of its achievements, but an institution with the funds, the influence and over a BILLION adherents, the largest Church in the world, should be able to do so much more. I can scarcely imagine what such an enormous organisation could do with the right mindset. But, of course, the hierarchy of the Church is one of conservatism, of obsession, of intolerance, deflection and decrepitude. An awful lot of cobwebs need dusting before the Church will live up to anything even bordering on its full potential.

Jamie

"A censor is a man who knows more than he thinks you ought to..."

2009-10-11T01:41:00.007+01:00

We’ve all been there, watching television in the evening with our parents when, suddenly, an uncomfortably passionate scene unfolds on the screen. Skirts are hoisted up, jeans crumple to the ground and perhaps a pasty buttock or two flash like car headlights from the haze of lust and eroticism (and there is also a sex scene on TV). Said buttocks have much the same effect as their companion in simile, car headlights. Shock. Sheer shock with a chaser of horror and the numbing inclination that life is about to get, at best, uncomfortable. You realize with a wave of nausea that you are watching a sex scene with your parents and it’s just flat-out, no-holds barred, wrong. But you can’t stand up and leave or it will look ridiculous. Your parents aren’t going to stand up and leave because they’re grown adults and they have clearly had sex at least once or else it would be beyond your spermy ability to sit and watch a sex scene with them. But what if your parents asked you to leave? What if other people wanted to deny you the exposure mass media gives you to the sexual side of the human race? What if you were ignorant to homosexuality until it was too late and you found it weird, unnatural, even immoral? Would you be the same person? How different might you be and how much different a place would the world be? If you will allow me, I will express my own thoughts on this month’s big question: “Is there too much sex in the media?( Leaning particularly towards a criticism of the right-wing Christian viewpoint)”. I’ll also talk a little about education, but I’m not sure how much... if at all...

Watching “The Big Question” with Andrew the other day, I was surprised at a number of the arguments put forward by the Christian right-wingers. A minority in whom I have never perceived any great threat to decent, tolerant society, they voiced a number of opinions which, on reflection, strike me suddenly as rather alarming. At the time their views seemed like the usual rectal breeze of harmless conservatism, its odour punctuated predictably by heady notes of pious self-aggrandisement. One expects the occasional example of palpable self-defined moral superiority from such fine, upstanding guardians of civilized virtues. For the most part I have always assumed these were the outward signs of a form of spiritual stagnancy reserved for neighbourhood watch meetings and those amongst Parent-Teacher Associations with their own broods of offspring. To see the Bible-totting basket cases parrying logical, humanitarian viewpoints with pomposity and prejudice elicited from me less the usual sighs of mild exasperation and more the sort of confrontational desires I normally avoid or repress. As a usually tolerant person I am, ironically, hypocritically and confusingly, intolerant of intolerance. And if there is one demographic guilty of intolerance it is the Christian right. One particularly venomous specimen, a leathery hag with a 1940s haircut so luridly conservative she made the pale, meek red-head next to her look like a punk-rock lesbian anarchist, succinctly outlined the threat televised eroticisms pose to the youth of today. Such heinous, abominable indecencies as “incest, underage sex, fornication and homosexuality” pervade our television dramas, their combined malevolence seeping like a toxin from the millions of screens which glow like neon bar-signs, parasites nestled deeply in the warm and yielding flesh of the family home. Skins has been cited as a particularly iniquitous example. It has become the target of many a Stepford wife for its bad language and depictions of sexual acts between college students and (gasp!) even teachers. Flagrant ejaculations of “fuck” (as verb, noun and general expletive), “cunt”, “arse”, “tits” and a colourful range of others have earned it simultaneously a position of notoriety among parents and of cult reverence among today’s breed of street-wise, acid-dropping, procreatin’ youngsters. And so the crowds take to the streets, pitchforks aloft and torches blazing. Headed by the likes of our aforementioned turkey-necked harpy lady, they peddle their views that such explicitness on our television screens is responsible for the world’s blights. Which is nonsense.

What strikes me most about their arguments is their definition of indecency on television and what they view as a direct correlation between life and media. By way of a reminder I refer you to the list put forward by Ms. Holier-than-thou: “incest, underage sex, fornication and homosexuality”. I’ll take these one at a time and say a little bit about them, their effect on the public and their definition as indecent and immoral. Any arguments or comments are wholly encouraged.

Incest is, understandably, frowned upon. Given the resultant tangled lattice of jeopardized relationships and conflicting social norms, I don’t understand the psychological imperatives which drive people to incest and I don’t want to judge people who are driven to it, so I’m probably just going to gloss over it by stating quite obviously that incest is a practice we, as a society, discourage. Fortunately, it doesn’t take most people an awful lot of convincing that it is a bad idea and its very occasional depiction in film (“Close My Eyes” by Stephen Poliakoff for example) and other areas of the media are unlikely to encourage people to try it. Knowing they are handling a very sensitive subject, most writers exhibit it in their work responsibly and with due awareness of the difficulties it incurs. Still, it happens. Are we protecting children by keeping them in ignorance of unconventional and, in this case, dangerous sexual practices? If they don’t know it exists, are they protected? Ignorance doesn’t protect you from the law, and, by and large, offers pretty poor armour against the ills of the world as well.

Underage sex. It happens and it happens a lot. Nobody can deny that. But, inversely, young people are waiting longer and longer to have children. Is there a connection between these contradictory statements? I think there is, but it is certainly not alluded to in the content of either. (Very) generally, those teenagers having underage sex are from poorer backgrounds. Those waiting are from more prosperous, tolerant, middle-class backgrounds. The former are never exposed to sex under the supervision of their parents and, as a result, they grow up with false notions of glamorized sex drawn from the likes of Nuts magazine and internet pornography (both fine things of course, but only when accompanied by a backdrop of balanced sexual awareness). The latter, well, the latter are those more likely to have found themselves in the awkward situation I described in my introduction. Awkward though it is, it is perfectly healthy and a safe way of young people being exposed to sex. Obviously someone my age, and probably all of you reading this, merely feel acutely uncomfortable, understanding as we do the details of sex and having at least some notion of the accompanying relationships and emotions . Someone of eleven or twelve, however, might have questions relating to what they are seeing. Now, curiosity is the healthiest thing in the world. It is natural for us to be curious about that which we do not understand. Parents are therefore able to explain sex and relationships in their own way, that way being no business of mine. Is underage sex a problem resulting from overexposure in the media? I don’t think it is. I think it has a great deal more to do with parenting, which is a whole different issue and one infinitely too complicated for me to tackle. Enforcing stricter limits on the sex which can be broadcasted on television, printed in newspapers and recorded on film will not solve the problem of underage sex because there will still be children out there, children whose parents have prepared them poorly for potential relationships and who, doing as children do, learn practically. If anything, a more “diligent” approach to sex in the media will rob those children whose parents are there to answer questions of the opportunity to ask them. It would, frankly, be criminal to rob children of that which stimulates curiosity and a desire to learn about the world and the people around them. It is an instinct which leaves us far too early and must be cultivated as actively as possible.

Fornication, fornication, fornication. For any of you who aren’t aware of the full definition of fornication, it is the having of sex between consenting, but unmarried, individuals for the purpose of pleasure. There is a lot in that definition which can elicit discussion and debate, primarily between the secular and spiritual proportions of society. I, personally, being a liberally thinking man, a somewhat mild-mannered version of Wilde’s more outrageous Lord Henry Wotton, consider fornication a perfectly natural part of modern living. Not for me, but certainly for those more blessed with looks, charm and grace. The prerequisite of marriage in a sexual relationship is an archaic concept and as a race we have long lost our dependency on such inane and obtuse points on our moral compasses. That the church and the church alone should be responsible for setting the parameters of decency and integrity in our personal lives, in our own homes and, dare I say it, in our own beds, well, it’s a preposterous notion. Should you wish to adhere to these limitations then all power to you, from the very pits of my sinner’s heart. I don’t reprimand you for succumbing to the recommendations of an outdated life model, but neither do I reserve respect for you if it is simply mindless obedience. God, I am told, gave us free will so that we might question his wisdom and thereby worship him willingly, rather than as tyrannized subjects. Your personal decision shan’t lessen my affection for you, provided it is a decision, and provided you denounce that which is plainly in need of reassessment.

But, irrelevant of the morality of fornication, does its portrayal in the media encourage its enactment in society? As with those aspects of so-called sexual indecency discussed above, its influence via the media is only limited by the intelligence of those into whose brains it is projected. An educated person, or even an uneducated but emotionally healthy person, even a child on a path of healthy emotional development, will see sex on television for the purpose of pleasure and appreciate it on its own terms and on their own terms. Viewers of Friends have the intelligence and the maturity to appreciate Joey as a comic character. Sure, he sleeps with lots of women for pleasure, and sure he isn’t always exactly mature in his approach to this, but I dare you, I dare you, to label him a bad influence. It can’t be done. People realize the hyperbolic nature of his character, just as they accept the exaggerated and glamorized world of topless models and internet web-cam girls. It is an entirely fictional sub-culture and only the prudish meddling of would-be do-gooders reveals any real threat in the mass of silicone, bikinis and sexual promiscuity.

As for homosexuality, the subject of the debate is not whether it should be limited on television and even in education, but whether it should be projected as acceptable at all. I’m afraid I must take a very definite stance on this subject, and I accommodate no views to the contrary. The fact that the Christian right-wingers, and others (I do not want to be unfair), put homosexuality forward as an example of sexual immorality is a truth which I sorely wish I did not have to face. That such views still circulate society and are considered valid is unthinkable. It’s appalling and disgusting and outdated and utter nonsense. To the peddlers of such twaddle, may your walks to work be forever plagued by rogue dog-turds and your tax returns be riddled with administrative mishaps. Propagating homosexuality as a sexual immorality is a practice which is, thankfully, dying and very soon the dusty, decaying shepherds of mankind in their cavernous churches will have to amend their moral code or be rinsed away as sense and compassion prevail over blind faith and occult, Sunday morning mutterings.

I think that might have sounded a bit uncompromising and a tad lacking in diplomacy, but really? Think about it. I’d like to add also that certain officials within world faiths and certainly many hundreds of thousands of religious individuals are doing a splendid job as far as adopting more lenient, humanitarian viewpoints is concerned. My somewhat over-enthusiastic rambling is directed at a very small minority of die-hards and not to those who go about their spirituality not bothering anyone. If it makes them happy, good for them. But enforcing strictures pertaining to passages in a text many centuries and, further back, thousands of years old and written by the over-excited hands of flagellated zealots and uttered from the corpulent lips of bureaucrats with unquestioning civil obedience on their minds, that my friends, is no way to conduct one’s self.

Realizing how perilously close I have approached digression, I feel obliged to wrap up what is already an overly long Blog entry. I hope I have aroused your curiosity and encourage you to consider the topic for yourself. Consider the nature of censorship as well. History is saturated with instances of rulers limiting what their subjects are exposed to “for their own good” as is your everyday life. Consider the role of sex in society, its effects, the feelings and opinions it inspires, the divides it creates. Compare this sociological complexity with the raw simplicity of the act itself. For anyone not too mentally exhausted by this discursive marathon, I remind you that I wholeheartedly welcome your own views on the morality of televised sex, the lamentably ongoing stigmatisation of homosexuality and the perceived obligations of religion to inform media policy, and whether such obligations even exist.

Now, if you don’t mind, Michael has kindly allowed me to borrow Florence & The Machine’s album, Lungs. Since, on moving day, within the space of two hours, I saw her on GMTV, read about her in our flat’s dog-eared copy of Heat magazine and heard “Kiss With A Fist” for the first time, I am now terribly infatuated with Florence Welch and require some alone time with the album. As you were.

Jamie

Hey you kids! Stop crapping in the rhododendrons!

2009-09-04T15:54:00.005+01:00

Feeling as I do a strong sense of duty to my tiny cluster of readers, I strive diligently to concoct interesting takes on interesting subjects each month. However, sometimes I find it difficult, and when this is the case you get something like last month’s entry. For those of you who bothered to read it (a masterpiece of literary criticism), I beg your forgiveness. For those of you who didn’t bother, I simultaneously applaud your good sense and wish rickets upon your offspring. It does seem unthinkable that, given the variety of controversial news stories plastered on newspapers and television screens throughout the country, I should fail to find just one subject on which to ruminate (especially having ignored the scandalous plaster-caked television screen crisis!). The answer/excuse is simple. I prefer not to deal with current affairs. After all, in a year’s time, will anyone harbour even the tiniest desire to re-read a piece on how I disagree with Sarah Palin’s opinions on the NHS? Will anyone give a flying dog’s bollocks about tedious animosities within the Labour party, the sixty-or-so claims of parentage to Michael Jackson’s poor children or the hilarity of the achievements of South African athletes being overshadowed by the bear-shouldered shadow of their questionable gender? Probably not. So I endeavour to write on subjects which affect us all. Thus my entries on nostalgia, exercise, romance and the roles of reader and writer in creating meaning within a literary text (it pervades your every action, you know). This month I write about getting older and becoming that little bit more grown up...or not...

At nineteen I am still able to remember very clearly the emphasis which was placed on “maturity” during my childhood and early teens. The careers of school teachers seemed, to me at least, to be based primarily upon their ability to nullify that part of a child’s brain that finds flatulence and sex education amusing. In hindsight this is even more terrible a shame that it was then. The number of children within whom animosity for authority is kindled by the prudish preening of teachers on a holy crusade of enforced personal development and accelerated maturation must surely be a tragically lofty figure. That forcing a person to do something for their own good more often than not causes them to act in a deliberately contradictory manner is not only restricted to the classroom, but successive generations seem perpetually unable to retain this knowledge. Thus we are encouraged, from womb to decompositional gas, to find animals sexing one another up distasteful, and conversely, to find deadlines, diligence and decency stimulating and refreshing. It’s disgusting.

A friend of mine recently made comments to the effect of disapproving of student drinking culture. Not in its entirety but certainly in its manic obsession with drinking as much as possible in as little time as possible with as much primal chanting as possible. He made the entirely valid point that many people actually think less of you should you prove unable to meet whatever lunatic challenge has been tossed sloppily your way. I think many of us have been in a situation where, as a result of dangerously out-of-focus eyesight, a perilously full stomach or a spew-addled grip on a menacingly eclectic cocktail of poisons, we have failed to live up to the solid, fleshy, smelly wall of peer pressure looming before us and have been forced to endure the jeers and less than flattering criticisms of our fellow revellers. This is the height of immaturity, of course, as my friend pointed out (having been similarly peer pressured into ingesting a foreboding liquid medley of Budweiser and paracetamol). But is this really all that terrible? Sure, making someone feel uncomfortable at a party is pretty unpleasant, but peer-pressure is part of being young. It’s also part of being slightly older, being middle-aged, being elderly and probably of being downright old. Should you think twice before shot-gunning a beer on the basis that what you are about to do is juvenile and medically-inadvisable? Should you buggery. Should you think twice before doing the same because you just don’t want to, or physicaly can’t? If you like, I won’t judge you. But prepare for other to do just that.

Some ten years in the future my time as a student will be behind me; I will be approaching thirty and will probably have a fairly shitty but fairly secure job teaching delinquents about Arthur Miller in some God-forsaken urban comprehensive. Spent will be my opportunities to pass out in a puddle of my own vomit without eliciting the most vehement disapproval from other adults. Right now it’s quite amusing, if very disgusting. But these things can happen and no permanent stain on my good name will result. Not so in ten years time... Although, teaching in aforementioned comprehensive, I am likely to be promoted to head of department as a result. My point is that immaturity is wrung out of us far too early and we are encouraged to embrace the world as the cold, hate-filled and judgemental place it sometimes is. We are scolded for immaturity in the classroom and feature on page four of the local newspaper for immaturity in adulthood.

I think comedians have a similar problem. They sometimes make jokes that are, if not immature in a childish fashion, immature in that they are not “respectable” jokes. Ricky Gervais, Jimmy Carr, Frankie Boyle and a whole host of contemporary comedians make jokes about rape, the Holocaust, paedophilia and an entire restricted section worth of tasteless subjects. Yet these people don’t actually find these topics inherently funny. Who would? They just have to trust that the audience has the intelligence, the maturity, to appreciate what they are doing. So why then should children, teenagers, students, even adults and pensioners, be reprimanded for tastelessness, provided that it is not malicious? That, essentially, is what immaturity boils down to: taste and the lack thereof. A man of nearly twenty chugging a mixture of Tennants, Sauvignon Blanc, Sailor Jerry’s and Bailey’s Irish Cream is tasteless (figuratively speaking). It is not respectable. You would not do it in front of your mother (unless your name is Andrew Cooper). But it isn’t something to be discouraged. Certainly not. Likewise, a joke about faecal matter is not appropriate for some circumstances, but it should be restricted as such. “Timmy, that sort of joke is inappropriate for the classroom”. NOT “Timmy, that sort of joke is inappropriate”, or God forbid, the lamentably immortal “Timmy, grow up!”

Children, don’t be fooled into thinking that cutting back on dirty jokes constitutes “growing up”. If that is society’s definition then never grow up. Just remember to hide your true self in certain company. After all, growing up should be enjoyable, not stifling.

Jamie

P.S. I am moving back to Edinburgh very soon. Hopefully this will help the flow of ideas for discussion. It has been a slow two or three months, as the last entry will attest. Peace out honkies!

A Message from the Author-God...

2009-07-16T16:52:00.002+01:00

I thought this month might be a good opportunity to try something a little different. Some might call it laziness, others wanton self indulgence; some might even be up in arms at what they see as poorly veiled megalomania. It's a little bit of all these things actually. I thought, despite the innumerable topics waiting patiently to be discussed this month, I would give you a glimpse of what my University course is like. I could have written something new, but this was already gathering dust on my hard drive. It's the second essay I produced for my Literature degree. It also holds the record for the best grade I have achieved thus far on this leg of my education, a reasonable, sensible and inoffensive 75%. The topic: the role of reader and writer. The subject matter: Henry James' malicious novella The Turn of the Screw. So, if you have the stomach for it, here is a fully referenced insight into how my brain functions behind the expression of doleful confusion. With some imagination I'm sure you will see how this could be interpreted as relevant...

In the relationship between author and reader, both parties fulfil roles crucial to the conception of meaning in the text. As the creator of the text itself the author assumes a position with considerable sway over this but the reader, subordinate in terms of influence as he or she may seem, still retains the final word on the subject. The text, upon its release to the reader, finds itself at the mercy of their perceptions. The reading of Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw, for example, inevitably places a considerable degree of responsibility on the observations and deductions of the reader. The very nature of the plot is that of uncertainty and ambiguity. As such it offers an ideal looking glass through which to view and understand the roles of both author and reader. The two can potentially be viewed together or individually as either a symbiotic literary relationship or as two separate entities with distinct roles.

The role of the author is to offer subject matter in a way that allows the reader to perceive it on their own terms. An effective author does not stifle the creativity of the reader or patronise them with explicit statements. Roland Barthes claimed in his essay ‘The Death of the Author’ that ‘the birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author’ (Barthes 1470). He believed that the presence or concept of an author in the reading process impressed upon the text limits and restrictions and encouraged readers to ‘disentangle’ the text rather than to ‘decipher’ it (1469). This is a valid point; intimate knowledge of the author can manipulate the reading of a text. Premeditated awareness of a certain author’s beliefs, faith or biographical detail can potentially highlight instances where the author has leaked into the text, subconsciously or otherwise. James, for instance, was no stranger to the kind of scene portrayed in his frame narrative, being a popular guest in any number of drawing rooms throughout London (James 11). However this detail does not influence the meaning of the story. It is merely that, a detail, a trivial piece of knowledge regarding setting. A reader of The Turn of the Screw will not draw any notion of powerful significance from this. Barthes maintains that the author and the text are separate or, at least, should be considered separately. The role of the author then is one removed from the meaning of the text. If the writer’s intention, ‘the “message” of the Author-God’ (1468) as Barthes phrases it, is removed then the reader’s role becomes purer. For Barthes the role of the author is simply to write, to produce the text. The author writes the text, but his relation to its meaning does not precede or proceed the reading process (1467). The author’s role in creating meaning is negligible as the text he or she creates is a ‘multi-dimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original, blend and clash’ (1468). Although to consider the author as a human existing before, after and during the flow of the text inescapably can lure the reader into certain restricting areas, it actually makes little sense to assume that an utter rejection of the author as an entity yields a purer, fuller interpretation of meaning. In The Turn of the Screw James writes as a character in the story. The recollection the reader is exposed to is the work of the narrator, a copy of the manuscript of the governess. The narrator is a fictional author within the story. To approach the text contained within the frame narrative without due consideration to the part of the fictional author would actually be restricting in itself. In considering the origins of a text we, as readers, can approach meaning from a human viewpoint, rather than from a scientifically analytical one. By doing this we can gain insight not only into aspects of the plot but also of characters, the governess being a prime example of this.

Even if we were to remove the author from the text their role is undeniably crucial. There could be no reading process, no opportunity for analysis or interpretation without the nurturing influence of the author. If a text were to make plain each and every aspect of its literary anatomy then it would be rendered meaningless. It would merely be an encyclopaedic collection of events without room for alternate readings. What the author must decide is which facts should be excluded and which facts will encourage an active role on the part of the reader. If the author carries this out well then it matters not whether they are included in derivation of meaning by the reader. The reality and depth of the text will still be evident without attaching explicit meaning to each and every action and event. Taking, as an example, the last words of Miles in The Turn of the Screw: ‘Peter Quint – you devil!’ (261) we are faced with a number of possible interpretations. James does not resolve the identity of the so called ‘devil’. It could refer to Peter Quint. It could just as easily be an attack on the governess. This omission of fact lends the scene a deeply disturbing air as the reader is, as at various points in the story, forced to consider what they believe to know and how they can really maintain these beliefs with any kind of certainty. Here the role of the author in generation of meaning is to encourage and nurture conflict in the mind of the reader. This conflict leads the reading of the text to encompass more possibilities so that each reader does not necessarily ascertain their own definitive version of events but appreciates the range of potential truths discovered. So the author provides the fuel for the reader to determine meaning in the text, a role including a certain level of interpretation for the author himself.

The reader’s role in the reading of any text, and especially The Turn of the Screw, is to act as a canvas upon which the words can imprint meaning. As such, every reader of a given text will invariably be imprinted differently, however subtle these differences may be. What makes possible and defines these dissimilarities in the meaning of texts between readers is the distance existing between text and reader. Wolfgang Iser wrote in Prospecting: From Reader Response to Literary Anthropology that ‘The imbalance between text and reader . . . is undefined, and it is this very indeterminacy that increases the variety of communications possible’ (33). Iser’s idea of the distance between reader and text is exemplified in an arguably hyperbolic manner in The Turn of the Screw. James deliberately creates a considerable detachment between the reader and the text, a distance littered with barriers to understanding and deduction. The events of the novella are communicated to us through an unconventional narrative. The story is, at its basest definition, the experiences of the governess. Even using this as a marker, according to Iser, the reader is faced with a substantial breadth of separation. It is a fundamental part of ‘dyadic interaction’ that experience is a personal attribute and that ‘Contact therefore depends upon our continually filling in a central gap in our experience’ (32). In the case of the governess it is the role of the reader to actively attempt to bridge the gap created by the fact that these events were in the life of another human being. To complicate matters the governess’ account of her experience is filtered through other narrators. Her recollection of the events is recorded in a manuscript which is read by Douglas, as indicated in the frame narrative. Douglas is not the narrator however, and Douglas’ reading of the manuscript is relayed to us via a member of his audience. The reader must be responsible for bridging the gap not only between the text and his or her self but also the fictional distance between the characters, some of whom know each other purely through contact with a physical script. In this way a reader of The Turn of the Screw is as much a part of the story as the characters, at least in terms of approaching the ambiguous facts from a similar starting line. This factor in the reading process is implied when Douglas says ‘You’ll easily judge . . . you will’ (James 147). That the name, gender and indeed almost all detail of the narrator are exempt from the text invites the reader to fulfil this role. Douglas provokes an active role in the reading of the text, one where the reader must make decisions which influence the story to the core.

The sanity of the governess is a factor over which the decisions of the reader have great influence. The only evidence of the presence of the ghosts is the governess’ manuscript over which she has full control. There are instances when the reader must carefully assess the evidence provided thus far. One particular example finds Mrs Grose confronted with the governess’ claims of seeing the spectre of Miss Jessel. Unable to see the apparition herself she remarks: ‘What a dreadful turn, to be sure, Miss! Where on earth do you see anything?’ (239). Here is a formidable affront to what we, as readers, believe we know. It explicitly forces us to consider our own perceptions of the governess’ experience and to evaluate the means by which our observations have been shaped and in doing so heightens the sense of tension and sinister uncertainty which is the basis for the text. This may seem fairly concrete proof of the governess’ madness but dealing with aspects of the supernatural can offer the opportunity for readers to eschew the conventions of realism and rational possibility. Therefore even an event of such clarity catalyses the formation of myriad interpretations. The reader has been granted information, whether reliable or otherwise, and must now reach, to some extent, a conclusion. Iser supports this when he writes ‘In literary works . . . the message is transmitted in two ways, in that the reader “receives” it by composing it” (Iser 31).

The role of the reader then is to give human meaning to a text. In The Turn of the Screw, without reader interpretation, the story is a vague chronology of uncertain facts, truths and half truths all undistinguishable from each other. The act of the reader involving themselves with these uncertainties is what defines it. Iser summarised this process when he developed his approach towards the ‘text as a skeleton of “schematized aspects” that must be actualized or concretized by the reader’ (Herman 193). The new ‘concretized’ form of the text in the mind of the reader, replete with meaning, is a personal concept. It draws its life force not only from the text, from the recorded events themselves, but also from the active mind of the reader. The individual reader’s understanding and generation of meaning will inherit features and outlooks derived from personal experience and character. The reader will naturally and unavoidably incorporate these into their reading experience (Iser 32).

To conclude, without the contribution of both author and reader texts could have no meaning. Without the influence of the author there could not even be potential for meaning. Without the reader’s active contribution the possibilities for meaning would go unexplored. The author must actively seek to encourage the imagination of the reader with conflict and unresolved uncertainty. In this way the reader’s interpretation of meaning is richer and multi-layered, increasing the realism of the story and providing more opportunity for the reader to relate to the text. Clyde de L. Ryals captured this argument in his book A World of Possibilities when he wrote that the roles of the author and reader comprised of ‘the writer supplying what “true historical research would yield” and the reader bringing “a kindred openness, a kindred spirit of endeavour”’ (Ryals 22). Ryals goes on to say that “meaning is generated by both the author and the reader, who share in the moral responsibility of interpreting the fluid text” (22).

Barthes, Roland. ‘The Death of the Author’. Trans. Stephen Heath. The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. Ed. Vincent B. Leitch. London. W. W. Norton & Company, 2001. 1466 – 1470.

Herman, Luc. ‘Concepts of Realism’. Melton, Suffolk. Boydell & Brewer, 1996.

Iser, Wolfgang. ‘Prospecting: From Reader Response to Literary Anthropology’. Baltimore. John Hopkins University Press, 1989.

James, Henry. ‘The Turn of the Screw’. The Turn of the Screw and The Aspern Papers. Ed. Anthony Curtis. London. Penguin Books, 1986. 143 – 262.

Ryals, Clyde de L. ‘A World of Possibilities’. Ohio. Ohio State University Press, 1990.

The Drug Worries of Jamie Lamb, aged 18 and five sixths...

2009-06-26T15:39:00.007+01:00

It's June here on Earth and that means that, for anyone living in the Northern Hemisphere, it's summer! Hurrah, etc. It also means that those of us who ventured off to the big cities have returned! But, let not tears of joy from your eyes escape, for now we must all find jobs. Of course, I am the last to find one... A working interview at THE HYDRO (cue Bach's "Toccata and Fugue in D Minor") is scheduled for Tuesday and I can only pray that the Gods of gainful employment take pity on me. Anyroad, with Summer (normally) comes parties, music festivals, drinking and drugs. Experiences of these things have taught me many things (never allow yourself to be attached to a camp chair with an entire roll of duct tape is but one of the nuggets of wisdom I amassed!) and I hope that, despite financial strictures, I will be able to partake of some of these in the next few weeks. It is, in fact, the last item on the above list that I intend to talk about. Drugs, of all varieties, create a miasma of controversy wherever they crop up and so I intend to throw myself headlong into the thickening haze. So let's locate a vein of thought and pierce it with the keen needle of reasoned argument!

Last year I wrote at length against the Scottish Parliament’s plans to raise the minimum age at which we can buy alcohol from supermarkets and off-licences and, in doing so, I single-handedly prevented the measure being approved. Some months later Parliament tried to encourage individual sellers to discriminate against those younger than twenty-one but, thanks to shameless capitalist greed (suck it, Communism!), this secondary barrage of governmental intervention amounted to nothing. The subject quite rightly elicited an enormous level of public interest and continues to do so. For the time being, however, the sound reasoning of the public and its determined, yet eloquent protesting has won the day over what was, at its root, a poorly conceived overnight attempt to lessen Scotland’s impressive list of social problems. But this is only the frothy head of the richly delicious pint; it is but the cork on the vintage bottle of palatable wine and the residual fermentation gas of the nutritious home-brew. There is still a considerable volume of topics patiently waiting to be knocked back!

The problem with alcohol is the effect it has on the brain. This is also the point of alcohol and the resultant moral and medical quandaries are a rather painful bite on the arse for society. But alcohol is not the only substance which suffers from these difficulties. Illegal drugs present the same problems and attract similar criticisms. The difference, of course, is that alcohol is legal, heroin is not. On some levels though, and with certain drugs, this difference could be interpreted as being simply an inane technicality. To provide an example, a drug which attracts a similar, if not greater, level of discussion to alcohol is cannabis. Known and widely prescribed for its medicinal purposes, and popularised by many musicians, artists, popular sub-cultures and certain Hollywood comedies, cannabis is almost certainly the most widely used illegal drug in the western world. It is not surprising then that many thousands desire its legalisation. The arguments presented but rejected time and time again are (perhaps surprisingly) very sensible and well researched. On the basis of their arguments it would certainly be wrong to generalise the pro-cannabis lobby as perpetually baked hippies. In Britain, for instance, a surprising portion of political right-wingers approve the legalisation of cannabis and the subsequent creation of national standards for the infant industry. However, smoking cannabis is still seen as one of the most anti-social things one can do. What seemed to me the rather frivolous, cannabis related political “scandal” of some years ago serves as a reminder of our society’s priggish intolerance of not only “guilty pleasures” (see last month’s entry for some more thoughts on this subject) but also of mistakes made easily in our youth, poor lifestyle choices and (the most laughable intolerance imaginable) harmless fun. Even more than drunkenness, the use of cannabis as a recreational drug earns one a reputation as a dreg of backwash in the discarded beer bottle of society. To me this makes little sense...

It is commonly known that the majority of violent crimes in Britain involve alcohol. Most murders are committed under the influence of alcohol and a staggering one hundred percent of drink-driving crimes are alcohol related. How many people turn homicidal while high? I may not be a seasoned cannabis smoker, and someone who is might well disagree, but it seems to me that after a few joints most people become extremely friendly, good-humoured and comically relaxed. I am told that the long-term effects of cannabis use include intense paranoia, so it isn’t all peace and love and happiness and rainbows, but compared to alcohol the negatives are thin on the ground. Paranoia seems rather trivial compared with violence, anger and the potential failure of the liver and other organs. It is all a matter of how much you, as an individual, can handle. Know your limits. So goes the mantra taught by the authorities. It is quite true.

The archetypal drug addict is filthy, smelly and can be frequently found in deep slumber on a park bench or in a gutter. They often resort to stealing from loved ones to fund their habit and their lives inevitably tumble in on them as relationships, careers and reputations unravel faster than their drug-addled minds can comprehend. Perhaps this stereotype holds some truth for certain junkies, but it can be just as easily applied to any addict. Gambling addicts run the risk of suffering identical fates and, with some thought and perhaps a degree of recollection I am sure you will surmise that my initial description of the typical junkie is a much better fit for the drunkard. Gambling and alcohol are legal, yet the consequences of over indulgence are just as severe and wide reaching as for a drug addict. The personal and collateral damage is still dependant on the individual in question, still directly connected to that individual’s mental and physical resistance to powerful impulses, regardless of legality. Many addicts function not only adequately, but exceptionally, in the world. Journalists are infamous for alcohol and substance abuse. Politicians have long been recorded as borderline alcoholics (Churchill and Roosevelt are but the best known) and I needn’t delve into the history of actors, models, photographers, musicians and assorted hangers on who have emerged from a kaleidoscope of addictions unscathed. But then Amy Winehouse, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and more have succumbed prematurely to varying extents, cutting short what could have been, but for their presumably pathologically vulnerable personalities, a fulfilling life of substance abuse. Allen Ginsberg lamented this when he famously wrote Howl: “I saw the greatest minds of my generation destroyed by madness”. Obviously an able mind is not weapon enough to ward off the brutal effects of any riotous indulgences.

And so I cannot help but think that if the government is willing to allow thousands of people to wallow in the cheap malt of their own alcoholism, particularly poor, working-class men who suffer most as a result, then why not allow the legalisation of cannabis. It certainly isn’t any worse. Legalised, its production can be regulated, quality-controlled and economically beneficial. Past research projects have produced results which reveal cannabis to be relatively safe, non-addictive and, of course, less harmful to the lungs than cigarettes due to the absence of tar. The legalisation of other drugs, though more controversial and medically complicated (the increased risk of heart attacks which afflicts cocaine users and the potential for overdoses prevalent in most illegal drugs), would help to decrease the existing underworld of drug trafficking and assorted un-pleasantries. However, the medical risks of cocaine and heroin in particular, not to mention the barbarism funded by the cocaine industry in South America, strike me as solid arguments for maintaining their illegality. Then again, these difficulties exist regardless of legality.

Unfortunately, my reservations arouse suspicions of my own hypocrisy and self-contradiction. Surely certain drugs are too dangerous to be considered for legalisation? But it all depends, as I said, on the individual, does it not? Countries in the western world have long funded terrorism and brutal regimes, what difference will a little cocaine make to national conscience; surely it will happen whether cocaine is legal or not? Cannabis surely can’t be classed in the same manner as heroin? Is Ginsberg's first name “Allen”?

I am afraid this may be turning into, as they say, a “bad trip”. Perhaps it is simply too complicated a topic to be tackled on an eighteen-year-old’s Blog. As I begin to wrap up this entry, I find myself thinking that I support the legalisation of cannabis, but fear the possible backlash of disgruntled LSD users, not to mention the entirely plausible and catastrophic slump in national efficiency. But what of the benefit to the economy, the jobs the industry will create? Then what of the ambiguous logistics of altering national drug legislation?

Damn and blast! I have failed to reach a conclusion! It must have been all the acid I dropped before writing this... Oh well, at least the hippopotamus tap-dancing contest was cool.

Jamie

Guilty Pleasures and Respectability...

2009-05-14T09:15:00.011+01:00

Today I'd like to talk to you about the joys of pleasure and the inestimable crock of shit that we refer to as respectability . The two are more closely linked than you might think. There's a lot to cover so I'll dive straight in...

Pleasure. The word itself sounds dirty, sordid and sinful. From a young age we are encouraged to believe that pleasure is a bad thing. This is particularly true of pleasures of the flesh. These are the most abominable and unforgivable pleasures and to experience them is to sink backwards through the unmeasured depths of filth from which mankind has laboured ceaselessly to escape. Sexuality is still an extremely sensitive subject and any deviancy from the conventions dictated by nature will set you apart from the rest of the world, brand you as an outsider, despite sex being entirely natural and an inherent part of life. Drugs and alcohol are things frowned upon by respectable people who view them as poisons acting not only against the body of the individual, but the entire anatomy of society. These are all shameful things, aspects of one's life which one must conceal from wider society. Desires for these things are desires to be smothered, suffocated with the ample buttocks of morality and decency.

Why?

I would have thought that society, that civilization, had evolved enough of an immune system by now to rid its massive bloodstream of such petty misgivings against the human condition and such blatant misinterpretations of nature. But it clearly has not... We live in an era where the collected small-mindedness of a startling number of people pervades everything from politics to education like a putrid, toxic fart.

I'll explain...

As a politician, image is approximately 99.9% of your career. Like it or not, your political views, your revolutionary plans for positive world change, are secondary to how the public perceive you. The average person cares more about whether or not you'd be an enjoyable companion in the pub, or your status as a family man, than they do about your ability as a politician. If the News of the World happens to print, 'pon its sacred pages, a story which implies that you frequent web sites where men and women have carnal relations while wearing a variety of leather and zips and tassels, then you are fucked. Because this is viewed as immoral. No person who enjoys spectacles of this nature is fit to serve Queen and country on the political battlefield. But why? Why should this hypothetical politician's career end because of what he likes to do in the privacy of his own home. He doesn't choose to be attracted to such unusual sexual practices, and if he did, what business is that of mine? Or any body's?

As a heterosexual man I sometimes find my line of vision has, unnoticed by me, found its way to the bum of the woman standing in front of me in the queue in Tesco. What is it about said bum that I find worth looking at? It's not like I don't have my own. What is so great about someone else's bum? Likewise, why might I find one girl on the street extremely pretty and another utterly unexceptional? I honestly could not provide you with a solid reason. "Well she's just better looking..." doesn't cut it.

What is different about my conundrum? I sometimes look at something which I find attractive for mysterious reasons, for what I consider natural reasons, and our fictional politician is looking at something which he finds attractive for mysterious reasons, for what he must consider natural reasons (and I'm not certain I could argue with him...) ?

Why should anyone have to apologise for finding something attractive? Why is your sexuality something to be defended? It certainly shouldn't be. It's a testament to the prevailing ignorance and stubborn intolerance still present all over the world.

Onto education now...

Until very, very recently there has been little talk of teaching children about the whole spectrum of sexuality. The idea of teaching children about homosexuality has always seemed appalling. They might be encouraged to become raging queens and dungaree-wearing lesbians! Jee Willikers, wouldn't that be terrible!?!?! Instead they grow up believing that love and sex are things to be shared exclusively by a man and a woman, in that exact combination. When they discover that sometimes men have relationships with other men and women with other women they naturally see this as strange. If, as is often the case today, children are aware of these strange exceptions already, then when they do receive sex education it cements their belief that something just ain't right with them there queers.

I realize that the emphasis thus far has been on sexuality, and it's true that sexuality is a big part of this topic, but there are others.

Swearing. Swearing is bad. We all know it. We're taught this in school. It's dirty; it's vulgar; it's unnecessary. Wait, no it's not. Fuck. A four letter word, one syllable, one vowel, three consonants. That's all it is. The same as duck, last, sock, arch and hundreds of thousands more. The only reason that fuck is so terrible compared to these others is that we have given it its dirtiness, its vulgarity. We have deemed it unnecessary.

SHAKESPEARE IS UNNECESSARY!!! MOZART IS UNNECESSARY!!! CUSTARD CREAMS ARE UNNECESSARY!!!

Does anyone suggest that these are immoral? Every fucking thing under the sun is unnecessary. Unnecessary things like those above turn life from a bitter fight for survival against the elements into an experience to be enjoyed. Unnecessary things lend life its pleasure. Ah, but pleasure is bad. Pleasure is the devil's work. Pleasure leads us astray, into the wilderness of impurity.

This is all about perception. Society perceives certain sexual practices as immoral. It deems swearing immoral. It has decided that getting drunk, getting high, that crying, laughing, farting, belching, shitting, ejaculating, scratching one's arse, not shaving in the morning, rejecting God, embracing the devil, having an extra ginger nut biscuit with your tea, being fat, being thin, being stupid, being clever, being outspoken, being reserved, wearing clashing colours, wearing clothes normally associated with the opposite sex and generally being human, as immoral, as not being respectable.

Respectability. What is respect anyway? Respect is the approval of another. Approval? Do I need the approval of anyone? I like having the approval of friends, of family, of the people who are important to me. Do I need the approval of some tightly-wound Stepford wife without an anus? I do not. In fact, I dread the coming of the day when I have that approval.

Of course it is all too easy for this viewpoint to become one of anarchy, an opinion that law is only the imposition of respectability on natural desires and practices. But it shouldn't. Just because sexuality and the desire to experience the unnecessary for pleasure are natural and beautiful things, I can't go around doing just anything at the expense of others. Because certain things are immoral for good reason. Causing pain and suffering in others against their will, this will never be an acceptable practice, for instance.

Essentially, life is a pretty miserable thing if one does not partake of whatever gives one pleasure. If the reason for this is that to do so would hamper one's respectability then... well I'm not going to stop you. But I think you're making a mistake. If you're not hurting anyone with what you want to do then all I can say is that on your deathbed, the approval of a few sterile, faceless, but respectable individuals will be of little comfort. Respectability offers little solace when the flesh and mind decay having never experienced true enjoyment...

And I guarantee you will never regret just being human.

Jamie

P.S. Excuse my woolly liberalism. Such is the curse of being a shamelessly bohemian literature student with too much time on his filthy hands.

Hindsight is 20:20...

2009-04-22T19:35:00.013+01:00

It was with a feeling of utter horror that I realized April has almost slipped through my greasy clutches without my even batting an eyelid. More than the frighteningly close and real prospect of exams (beginning on the 28th...) I was worried by the fact that I was yet to post an April entry. As I endeavour to update at least once a month this was a very serious personal issue for me. So, to commemorate the fact that I very nearly had to add one more regret to my "List of Regrets" (a purely conceptual text invented entirely for the purpose of imagery and with no physical manifestation in the literary world) I present, for your reading pleasure, to satisfy your Blog lust, to sate your endless thirst for insightful mono-discussions, an "In Lamb We Trust" special on REGRET...

We all have regrets. Many harbour regrets of such intense bitterness that they would RIP THE SKIN FROM THE VERY BONES OF THE REST OF US! I for one am thankful that my regrets are, by and large, ones which can be brought up in a humorous manner in a comfortable environment: self-deprecating tales of opportunities gone by, whimsical what-ifs that do little to taint the state of relative satisfaction and contentment in which I currently exist and which refrain from the bloody removal of any part of others' bodies. Sometimes I regret having never shown an interest in sport. As a result I am entirely unable to participate in eight out of ten all-male conversations. This regret does not last long though. The drivel people come out with talking about sport is ridiculous, and the unforgivably widespread habit of including one's self in the victories of talented athletes can actually induce cringes in the most obscure and deeply nestled of my internal organs: "It was close, but we eventually won on penalties". "We were down until the last quarter but then we pulled it together and trounced them".

No. You. Didn't.

YOU watched all this on a television hundreds if not thousands of miles away, drinking lager and eating crisps. Yet somehow the efforts of a group of men with whom you share no personal relationship give you a feeling of achievement and satisfaction. If your football team, or should I say, the football team you support or follow, is playing you have about as much part in the outcome as in a coin toss or a roulette table.

But in fairness to these people, I just can't get that worked up over sport. Certainly it can be thrilling, but for me this is just because I like seeing people who are good at what they do, exceptional at what they do really. It's rather like a tense scene in a film; I have nothing riding on the outcome but my heart still beats that little bit faster.

Anyroad. I was trying to tackle the subject of regret! I must learn to crack the whip with greater authority to encourage my brain to stay on topic, instead of rambling away as nonsensically as a late night review show guest.

My personal opinion on regret is fairly simple. I believe that when confronted with the question "Do you have any regrets?", "Have you any regrets?" or even "Would you do anything differently if you had the chance?" you should do the following:

Consider whether or not you are happy with your life at that moment. A seemingly soullessly logical and mathematical but effective method of doing this is to use a small scale Q.L.I. or Quality of Life Index. Basically there are five categories which you should consider individually:

1. Friendships
2. Family
3. Relationships (with people you find pretty groovy)
4. Career/Job/School etc.
5. Personal Health

Normal people will find it sufficient to merely label these categories as "good" or "bad" and look at the good:bad ratio but if the idea of graphs, pie-charts, means, ranges and informed application of statistics makes you tingle below deck then you can maybe give each a rating from 1 to 10(or 1 to 100 or 0.00 to 1.00) and then calculate your average. Bare in mind that answering questions about regrets with figures is a sure sign that your scores in at least 3 of the above categories are below par. Unless the person asking you is the human resources manager of a large German manufacturing plant (Germans do not reproduce conventionally...), in which case figures are all they will understand, as the subtleties of human emotion dance outwith the not inconsiderable range of their intellectual talons.

In my opinion, if you are pleased with your result then you should have no serious regrets. After all, our existences are defined not only by our successes and our timely wisdom. We are moulded as much by the fumbling hands of blind folly and icy woe as by the delicate craftsmanship of fair fortune and sound judgement. Wherever you are now, whatever state of affairs you are embroiled in, it is as it is because of everything that has happened to you. I hold my hands up in surrender to the fact that I have made some inconceivably poor choices myself. Not only this but I have insisted on following them through with implacable stubbornness. Of course, following through has messy consequences, and I repeatedly and consistently ignored any opportunity to clean up, struggling on through the discomfort of my (emotionally) soiled underwear despite offers of (emotionally) clean pairs from friends and loved ones.

Do I regret this?

Would I, given the opportunity, fix the mistakes I made?

Would I hell! The older, wiser wretch writing this has dedicated many a troubled hour to contemplation and pontification on the subject and I can safely say that I would not be the perfectly rounded individual I am now without this valuable life experience! Yes, I regret the short term results. Yes, it may well be that I would be even happier now had I made better decisions. But this is all speculation, and you can't define yourself by speculation.

There are aspects of my life which could be better. Who among us is honestly unable to say that. There are no aspects of my life which NEED to be better though.

This is important.

So for the sake of argument (if it can be defined as argument...which I'm not sure it can...) let's look at my Q.L.I. (non anal version)...

1. Friendships: Frankly, anyone complaining in my position...well, let's just say I would applaud in the wake of their grisly death.

2. Family: Much the same as above. My brother owes me some money but...I'm just saying.

3. Relationships: If I have learned anything it is not to place a great deal of importance on this if it is not going well. In my case, we shall make our swift exit to...

4. Career/Job/School etc. : I may be terrible at Swedish, but I'm a dab hand at the old English Literature lark. Summer employment beckons but two years of supermarket work have made me adept at combating the steady decay of my soul and self-worth.

5. Personal Health: I'm in better physical shape than I give myself credit for (although this can still be accurately defined as abysmal...) and the huge quantities of alcohol I ingest keep any foreign bacteria well at bay. The alcoholism is a problem for another day...

So, as you can see, there is nothing there which hampers my enjoyment of life. There is plenty to enhance it, and improvements are entirely welcome, but not necessary. Had I no friends, a horrible family, were I five times divorced and alone and angry at forty-three, unemployed with the work qualities of an anthropomorphic bogey or slowly succumbing to depression or radiation poisoning then I would have regrets. SERIOUS regrets. Regrets the cause of which would have ripped the foundations from beneath my potentially solid and pleasing life.

This is not the case. Fortunately.

I live with many regrets. Yet simultaneously and resultantly I have many things at which I can poke fun, and also an increasingly promising reservoir of possibility for the future. I never learned to play the piano for example, engrossing myself instead in the world of drums, harmonicas and acoustic guitars, but I suppose it's never too late. I admit I would quite like to understand football, rugby and cricket, but there is equal time for these.

One day I want to be able to look back on my life, sitting beside the fire, pipe in hand, comfortable Irish thorn-proof and baggy corduroys, Glenn Miller playing in the background (*cough* at the age of twenty *cough*) and realise that I have had a pretty good life. I want to live and then to die fully basked in the warm realisation that I refused to be dogged by regrets, that I stoically moved forwards, with due respect and new lessons for and from past mistakes but using them for the benefit and enhancement of my present and future rather than for the torturous detrement of my past.

After all, they say hindsight is 20:20...but it will seriously damage your "Personal Health" rating if you walk onto a busy road while indulging in it.

Yours without regret for the hour I spent writing this,
Jamie

P.S. My thanks to Nicky, from whom I shamelessly stole my Q.L.I. which, more or less, was the backbone of this month's entry. High fives all round Nicky!

One is (conventionally speaking) the loneliest number...

2009-03-13T16:55:00.006Z

As today has been a rather good day I thought I might churn out a new Blog entry. I seem to be on a roll! So, before I go on my walk I thought I might write about a subject I know very, very well. You will also know it very well. Therefore it may (or may not) surprise you to learn of the dreadful level of stigma coating this subject like bathroom grime. Today's subject for the grilling is 'Being Single'. There are a lot of brackets. So prepare yourself...

Anyone who has ever walked down a High Street, went into a supermarket, a pub or a club, anyone who enjoys frequenting music festivals, the opera or dogging sites will have been confronted at some time or other by the bowel-looseningly grotesque sight of a couple. These pairings will no doubt inspire in you the intense desire to defecate in your pants just to replace the content and dreamy look in their eyes with one of shock and horror, to remind them with the greatest effort to offend that they are not outwith the gritty and smelly, sweaty and repugnant boundaries of human life. Because, of course, how dare they flaunt such obvious happiness in the faces of those without? How dare they pretend not to be simply a pair of insignificant molecules in the vast body of mankind?

Well, they dare to do these things with quite good reason. Quite the best reason I can possibly think of. Realistically at any rate. Were I to occupy a plane of complete irrationality (and who is to say I don't?) I suppose I could defy this reason and pin the collective unhappiness of the romantically marooned on the sheer, unbridled and self-defined superiority of the loved-up. I could claim that their merciless presence in society is as a drain into which the hopes and aspirations of the meek, the ugly and the diseased have been sucked with such thoroughness as to render the world grey and barren.

But that would be silly. No, that would be ignorant.

I may be silly, but I am certainly not (all that) ignorant! It is from opinions such as these, opinions from the mammoth egos of the bitterly single which create such a bad reputation for those bachelors and bachelorettes amongst us who live without such green poisonous bile forming in the back of their untouched mouths.

The single man is thought to be an emotionally stunted, socially handicapped outcast. Locked up in his studio flat he pours over volumes and volumes of military history books, role-playing manuals and fetish pornography. He works a nine hour day for a taller, more handsome man who drives to work in his BMW rather than take the bus. He resents everyone around him who is happy and content. Inside him burns the notion that he is infinitely better and more intelligent than anyone holding the hand of some willowy blonde in coloured stockings (which seem quite fashionable...I approve immensely!).

The single woman is much the same, minus (perhaps) the pornography. She abhors the willowy, coloured-stockinged blonde because she is prettier, slimmer, has perkier breasts and smells nicer than she does.

Or so we fool ourselves into thinking! The popular media portrays these downcasts far more today than they did before. The average man after all does not want to see Brad Pitt or that young fellow from that film about vampires who seems to be bringing back the 'pale look' (which I welcome wholeheartedly), they want to see David Mitchell, Jack Black, Simon Pegg or one of that lot. But in casting these men as the singles striving for romantic success with much more attractive young women the media rather misrepresents the single male demographic. There are many handsome young men out there who are single, likewise there are many attractive young women yet to be courted...if people still do that.

There is a fine line between patronising the single faction of society with tales of woefully unfortunate individuals scaling Olympian heights of romantic success and simply making them feel God-awful by representing them with a strapping six-footer with bronzed chest and (artificially) stuffed boxer shorts (for either gender!). I prefer the former, being the sensitive fool who rather likes to see the underdog win. I'm sure Brad Pitt is a perfectly lovely gentleman. I have no evidence to suggest otherwise and what reason does he have to be otherwise.

But even if we can reach a conclusion as to which is the best way to cinematically portray single people (and why would we? It is a pretty inane topic...) there remains the fact that the very template on which these films are based is fundamentally flawed.

The algorithm, if you like, is well known:

1. Boy/Girl lives alone and is miserable.
2. There occurs a CHANCE MEETING and Boy/Girl falls in love with better looking Girl/Boy.
3. Boy/Girl commences RELATIONSHIP with Girl/Boy. His/Her life is SIGNIFICANTLY BETTER as a result.
4. Boy/Girl causes everything to scramble into a terrible MESS.
5. Everything is resolved and everybody is HAPPY for EVER and EVER.

The fact is that being single is not necessarily such an awful thing. I rather enjoy it. I haven't known anything different but to be frank I'm in no rush to ruin a perfectly nice set-up. If I wasn't an eligible bachelor then I couldn't be such an absurd drunkard. Without this defining feature, I would soon lose my immunity to most strains of social embarrassment and I would heap yet more worry onto my already overflowing plate. I would suddenly become aware that, since I often forget to shave in the morning, I go through my day with irritating patches of dark hair sprouting from my chin, upper lip and whatever you call the place where sideburns live. I'd feel compelled not to play computer games, to watch my weight for fear that my better half would find someone trimmer despite the fact that, obviously, there would be less of them to cuddle.

A girl I know was heard to remark that she was "offended" by the inclusion of the word "cunt" in a Restoration poem in an English lecture earlier this week. If I can't randomly throw out words like "cunt", "fuck", "cock", "bollocks" and "buggery-shit-wank" then is my life truly worth living?

That may be a generalization about women, but my goodness, what if I can't be myself? Oscar Wilde said "Be yourself; everybody else is already taken". Wise words we should all take to heart. And certainly in a proper relationship, one which works, I could follow Wilde's advice and use aforementioned expletives until I no longer knew where or who I was.

So I'm not entirely keen on taking the risk of losing the relative bliss of bachelorhood for some linguistically prudish ice-queen. Therein lies the problem. There is nothing inherently wrong with being single. It isn't nearly as lonely and miserable as many would have you believe. It can be lonely, but it is a companionable sort of loneliness. However, if one ever does want to venture out from the cosy realms of comfort, the harsh wilderness of romance can cause some to adopt views one could consider bitter or cynical.

So, is one the loneliest number? I think it depends on what you are looking to get out of life in any given time-frame. Right now, for instance, I'm simply not bothered. I enjoy the relaxing knowledge that nobody is that dependant on what is essentially my limited ability to express feelings and emotions. If someone could muster attraction for such an awkward, self-conscious and obsessively polite young man as me then I'm sure I would change my mind if, of course, I returned her (probably poorly allocated) affections. Not being nearly as articulate when speaking as I am when writing I think that, at the moment at least, I would naturally find the whole thing as confusing as I find daylight saving time.

I hope I've illuminated the dark corridors of loneliness for you even just a little bit. After all, a dark corridor is only frightening because it plays host to unknown variables. By shedding light upon such a monstrously intimidating place it becomes much less of a threat...unless said corridors are full of rapists in Nazi uniform. But that hilarious anecdote is for another day...

Jamie

Ode to iPod II

2009-03-05T00:06:00.021Z

I find it hard to believe that it's already March. It seems not that long ago that I boarded the train on that bright, clear December morning and made my weary way home to Crieff for the Christmas holidays. Now I find myself once again only a few spare weeks away from both the Spring holidays and the semester two exams. I've dedicated a number of lines of this 'ere Blog to the subject of exams and revision and all that jazz so I'm not going to bore you with that. If you're reading this then you probably also have exams looming, those paper bullies who flex their prodigious muscles from across the playground, and probably don't want to be reminded of them. Well luckily I don't want to write about them. I've got too much stressful nonsense already sliding off the edges of my perilously small plate. I chose the small plate of course because I wanted a minimal amount of washing up... but that was wishful thinking of the most dream-like variety. Now I have a plate which is useless and a floor covered in an inch-thick layer of amalgamated foodstuffs. Fun times it is not.

But I shall talk about something a bit more cheerful if you'll allow me. Recently, because of my shortage of pennies, I haven't been able to buy anywhere even remotely, vaguely close to the number of CDs I used to. Back in the Summer of 2008 I would purchase anything from a couple a month upwards. My iPod (probably the most treasured presence in my life) was never short of new music. Its shuffle function constantly surprised me by offering gems from the mists of the endless obscurity of my library. Now though...

The last CD I bought (a stupendously brilliant piece of technical wizardry whereby recordings of some of Ray Charles' greatest seventies vocal performances were combined with new recordings by the Count Basie Orchestra) was actually for a friend. Before that it was a five CD compilation of the highlights of a number of Wagner's best known operas (five CDs would probably struggle to accommodate even one Wagner opera in its entirety). Apart from that, in the past seven months I have bought a Tom Petty album and a two-disk collection of "The Essential Charlie Parker". A fairly good mix I think.

But what I am trying to get at is that there is definitely less new music being added to my iPod. Sure, my Frostwire file sharing program (I favour Frostwire over Limewire for no good reason) helps a great deal with this, but I have always preferred to actually have a hard copy of my music. I like to read the liner notes. I enjoy knowing who played drums on what Jerry Lee Lewis record. I scan pages and pages purely to discover who produced what songs on a compilation album (which helped me understand at a young age why Rod Stewart's career has been so bi-polar). I was actually quite excited to see that a new design had been implemented for CD cases; it's much better than the old design in my opinion. There's also the fact that I can buy a CD of a band I've never heard of and journey home in mounting anticipation of whether my twelve pounds was well spent. There's none of that with file-sharing. I'm not condemning it or anything. I don't have a solid opinion of the whole messy business. If I ever do you can be sure I will be warming up the ol' fingers for a good Blogging session before you can say "Basshunter gives me aural hemorrhoids" (I will stand by this accusation until research is undertaken! You hear me?).

But what I am trying to get at (and I'm just tripping up constantly on my way) is that I have been forced to live with essentially the same iTunes library for some months now. I have realized quite suddenly how eclectic and unpredictable the collection is. I have everything from Buddy Holly to Andrew W.K., Muddy Waters to Lostprophets, Schubert to Duke Ellington. Admittedly I have little time for the rubbish on mainstream radio...If you want to hear some decent music on the radio you have to either listen very late at night or listen to Radio 2 on a Saturday afternoon and cross your fingers. It's a shame because there are enough new bands with good songs to flood the radio waves with quality. Instead we hear "Sex on Fire" every twenty minutes, punctuated by a new Snow Patrol song (we get it...you're miserable...). If the DJs would only look to the likes of The Hold Steady, Jeff Tweedy, Jakob Dylan and The Wallflowers, Bon Iver, Fleet Foxes and Howlin' Rain to name but a few. If only they could delve that little deeper, scrape off the layer of grimy mediocrity and discover people making good music! People who don't coast by on the fact that they are Bruce Springsteen or The Rolling Stones and whose work is all the better for it. It's infuriating the state of our eminent radio stations... Beyond my distaste for mainstream British radio I have no affection for the bone chilling screams of black-clad metal "singers", threadbare patience for the corporate rhymes of rap artists and a hatred of dance music the intensity of which strikes fear and shock into the heart of God himself. The only reason that reggae does not feature as heavily as it should is that I haven't reached the reggae section of my CD collection. I can't wait though!

But what I am trying to get at is how, on an ordinary hour's walk (see my last entry), I can experience such a vast array of feelings and emotions, thoughts and ideas and even walking speeds. As a little experiment I am going to shuffle through my library for a little while and include a list of the songs that come up, along with a litte description of its possible effects. This is science! For science!

1. Through the Lonely Nights The Rolling Stones - A nice, mid-tempo ballad, surprisingly uplifting for its melancholy title, likely to inspire a general feeling of well-being.

2. Variation XX: Un poco più vivo Sergei Rachmaninov (from Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini)- Short and dramatic, a builder of tension with small flutters of morale raising splendour.

3. I Put a Spell on You Buddy Guy & Carlos Santana - An improvement on the original, a driving rock number instilling in the listener a certain swagger and confidence, and obviously awe at the potent cocktail mixed up by probably the world's two greatest living guitarists - Recommended (with a capital R).

4. Madison Blues George Thorogood & The Destroyers - A shuffling blues rhythm which will force a bounce to enter the walk of anyone without such mercilessly concentrated self-consciousness as me...

5. Will the Circle be Unbroken? (Live) Gregg Allman - Frankly, if this song doesn't make you feel like you've just beat cancer then I shan't waste my precious words on you.

6. Fortunate Son (Live) John Fogerty - For me, a shot of oak-matured malt nostalgia, warm but ass-kicking.

7. Last Nite The Strokes - Just a really good song, Summery... to me at least.

8. Handbags and Gladrags Rod Stewart - A relic from Rod Stewart's golden years. Makes me feel a bit sad really but I can't help but be cheered up by that magnificent bridge!

9. Here Comes a Regular The Replacements - Typical Replacements ballad, filled with regret, tempts out contemplative thoughts... Good for when I'm looking out from Carlton Hill (again, see last entry).

10. Caring is Creepy The Shins - Reminds me of Garden State obviously. Brings back memories of early 2008... which is wholly welcomed.

11. Accused of Love Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers - My second favourite rock 'n' roll band. Normally causes both sides of my head to cave in as it's one of those files which is inexplicably four times louder than the rest. Nonetheless, pleasant little acoustic guitar heavy number. Refreshing.

12. Chips Ahoy The Hold Steady - What a chorus! Another song I love perhaps more for its absorbed memories of Summer 2008 than for its melodic or lyrical merit (which it still has by the bucketload).

13. Loving Cup The Rolling Stones - A fantastic Exile-era Stones love song. Simultaneously self-deprecating and spirited. The bridge encourages all manner of pleasant day-dreaming -"...see your mouth kissing me again, what a beautiful buzz, what a beautiful buzz..." Pretty much sums up the song.

14. Pink Aerosmith - Reminds me of Andrew. 'nuff said Andrew. Wink, wink.

15. Violin Concerto - 3rd Movement Ludwig Van Beethoven - Not really known for his violin concerto (singular). Uplifting. In the scale and magnificence of the heights to which it soars it casts off the rusted and rattling chains of doubt and uncertainty with typical Beethoven-esque gusto.

There we go. I pretty much have every base covered there as far as walking is concerned. There are songs within the now chipped and dirty casing of my iPod which cater for every occasion. I like Ray Charles' jazz instrumentals when I'm cooking. The elegant melodic doodlings of Chopin are my first port of call for University work. The Scrubs soundtrack sends me to sleep at night with its comforting familiarity. Elvis Costello pumps me up for a party; the passionate country records of Gram Parsons ease me into my morning routine and the swinging brass riffs of Benny Goodman are the energetic fanfares following good news and successes.

My iPod may not have changed a great deal in the past seven months and whether or not I have is a matter for those closest to me to decide, yet the humble little device nestled in my pocket as I write is nevertheless a constant companion and a comfort. For through the miracle of its technological makeup it allows me to carry with me not only the music of anyone from Vivaldi to The Verve, but also the memories these artists and these songs have become associated with. Some of them are less happy memories than others I freely admit (see various previous entries!), but they are, at the end of the day, the beginning of the day and in the middle of the night, the rough sketch lines which interact and merge, consolidating somewhere on the blank page to form the ragged composite which is Jamie Lamb.

Whoever that may be.

('',)

Jamie

(Not so...) Lazy Lamb...

2009-02-25T19:25:00.014Z

To make amends for posting an old draft (*vomit!*) of an entry a little while ago I am not only writing something entirely new but also posting it early. My recent hard work in the field of University essays has allowed me a brief window of relaxation which I am using to write this. My subject: exercise.

I'm not well known as an athlete. Despite repeated suggestions from friends to join the school rugby team and secretly wishing in my heart of hearts that I possessed the bodily coordination necessary to wield a tennis racket or cricket bat I never really subscribed to the concept of sport. P.E. was, for me, just a few hours in the week during which I could wantonly display my gross ineptitude. Awkward shuffling on the basketball court, meek attempts to convince the teacher I was actually trying, these were my specialties. Admittedly I was actually quite good at table-tennis. The Forrest Gump inside me forced its way to the surface on a number of occasions. But table-tennis is not (and probably never has been AND probably never will be) really seen as a sport. It's an activity. It's like golf. Chess. Pottery.

When I was younger I was quite small. I should emphasize that I mean when I was much younger. Before being ravaged by the monstrous hormonal rapist that is puberty I was a small, scrawny and generally pitiful child. Once nature started to mould me unceremoniously in her gnarled hands (probably on crack at the time judging by how I turned out) I started to grow. I was, at the age of thirteen or fourteen, exactly the same...but stretched obscenely. At this time I could eat what I wanted, do what I wanted and never an ounce would loiter 'pon the biological street-corner of my skeletal form. This was fine by me, naturally.

Now, five or six years down the line I have essentially stopped growing, three or four inches taller than the average man I believe. Statistics may have changed since my height was last measured by a doctor. I wish I could break the six feet barrier, but I'm stuck in the limbo of 5' 11". Nothing wrong with that. My fellow members of the "frustratingly close to six feet but not quite" club include Dylan Moran, Alan Davies, zombie-faced Boris Karloff, Gene Clark, David Hyde Pierce, Eric Idle and Ian McKellen. Not a bad bunch of people to be the same height as. Although Boris Karloff has probably decayed to a much more modest size by now...

So I have no real qualms about my height. Just as well given that it is not a parameter which I can alter. It is simply that as I have stopped growing it is inevitable that my unsavoury lifestyle will catch up on me and alter my other dimensions. How do I go about resolving this impending disaster? I am unable to exercise in the context of a team due to my phenomenal lack of skill. The sight of me running would be like the gentle caress of red-hot tongs to the unwitting eyes of observers. I don't want anyone to see the appalling vision of my disproportionate limbs flapping about all over the place as I gambol my way through the streets and parks of Edinburgh. There is already enough suffering in this world of ours without such vile misfortune being heaped upon innocent Edinburgers.

What to do? What in God's name should one such as myself do to ward off the looming figure of future-Jamie leering at me from the bathroom mirror, all bulging stomach and wide buttocks, all quivering bingo-wings and dancing jowels.

Well, dudes and ladies, the exercise I have taken up is...

...walking!!!

I know what you're thinking. "Walking doesn't deserve three exclamation marks!" "Such gratuitous abuse of the conventions of punctuation!" "I have half a mind to gouge exclamation marks into your chest while you sleep!"

Those of you with a firmer grip on reality will probably be wondering why anyone would go walking. Alone. Especially someone who lives in inner-city Edinburgh. Well prepare for your doubts to be blown away in the cleansing wind of my Blog entry!!! (I have essentially spent the last seven or eight paragraphs building up to this. Don't ever say that when I make things up to you, I don't make them up to you GOOD AND PROPER.)

A brisk walk is, as any decent doctor will tell you, one of the most beneficial forms of personal exercise possible. For me though, it transcends the realms of mere physical exertion and assumes a seat somewhere in the billowing clouds of mental and spiritual well-being.

Walking is surprisingly versatile. You can set your own level, from power-walking (not my personal favourite as even the most beautiful, graceful person looks an arse...Emily Blunt couldn't even pull it off...) all the way through the spectrum to a gentle stroll. Walking is generally, I think, aerobic. It involves mild physical exertion over an extended period of time, unlike weight lifting or the like (anaerobic) which are generally done in short bursts (and short shorts). Walking is brilliant for toning the muscles. You can feel it. An hour's walk will leave your stomach notably firmer. This will fade after a while but regular walks will increase the lasting time of your beautiful, trim stomach until it attains permanence. Then you can "hit the clubs" and "go on the pull", satisfied with the knowledge that your elegant abdomen and pert waist will more than account for your bland, featureless excuse for a face.

So it's not too much for my lump of a body to handle and I don't look like any more of a tool than usual. It requires no special equipment and you are not even required to change your clothes. But walking in a city? Walking alone? Walking without the vaguest hint of a destination?

"We all knew you were a bit of a sad bastard Jamie, but surely this is the cherry on the cake baked specially to commemorate your receiving the award for 'Saddest Bastard of the 21st Century', surely."

Well, walking is actually thoroughly enjoyable... but not without its perils.

Edinburgh boasts, like many other major cities in the U.K., magnificent open spaces within and above the hustle and bustle of city life. A particular favourite spot of mine is the top of Carlton Hill. Here one is presented with a stunning panorama of Edinburgh with views of sea, mountain, pasture and a living collage of urban prosperity and decay powered by the broiling individual passions and woes of its oblivious inhabitants. Open green spaces curve down into the eclectic architectural mix that heaves and stretches like the back of some magnificent whale. One can also admire the unfinished replica of the Parthenon, planned as a timeless symbol of Edinburgh's academic and philosophical eminence within the British Empire. The metaphor I used to describe the mental and spiritual effect of walking is brought vividly to life in all its realism at this, the highest "urban" point of the nation's capital. One bursts through the haze of city life into a still world of reflection. The Greek Revival buildings visible all around are not only monuments to the past greatness of a city, of an age of writers, artists and philosophers never to be repeated; they are a lasting testament to the reviving qualities of the place itself. They stand as solemn guardians of the simple fact that it is always possible to instigate a revival: national, international or personal. Let these structures be the icons of your own inner Renaissance.

Of course, you may be thinking that all this nonsense has little to do with walking. You may be seething with irritation at my insistence on insisting that these wonderful structures are imbued with such astounding properties solely by your having walked to see them. That is your problem. I guarantee that driving up to the car park and getting out to stretch your legs will leave you unsatisfied. You will doubtlessly feel that, like a prostitute, you have sold yourself out to the bloated executives of the Ford corporation or BMW and that, in doing so, you have robbed yourself of the pleasure of a simple, instinctual human experience.

The way I see it is that walking gives you the opportunity to, without even noticing, alter your perceptons not only of your own life but of those individuals around you. Suddenly you will wonder what story lies behind the solitary elderly gentleman gazing out silently and soberly towards Portobello. Your interest will be awakened to the presence of the young couple strolling across the plateau, their joined hands swinging contentedly between them.

Of course if you find yourself unable to set your bearings for an area of tranquil beauty then the High Street is just as good. Although there is always the risk of being stuck behind some meandering woman with a backside the breadth of East Anglia. This woman will insist on countering any effort made by you to nip round her ample form by subtly shifting in the direction of whatever city-bypass you are using to do so. But I have a solution!

Today I found myself behind a... "working class rogue" we shall call him. This gentleman barreled his way through crowds like some track-suited steam locomotive. I simply made sure to remain as directly in his wake as possible and was spared the awkwardness of squeezing my delicate form through masses of disgruntled pedestrians.

I think I have addressed all the problems I raised about walking and in a more thoughtful and considered way than is the norm for this Blog. Oh! No, I haven't. But it's simple. If you think walking on your own is boring...bring a friend. Or do as I do and just make sure to charge your iPod before embarking on any sort of bipedal adventure.

Wagner or Kelly Jones make for more interesting company anyway.

Jamie.

Cultural Presumptions and their Embarrassing Implications...

2009-02-20T20:09:00.005Z

Hello. I'm afraid that, what with this being essay and presentation season, I'm not really able to provide a new Blog entry. Instead, for your reading pleasure, I present you with one I drafted a few weeks ago during my nocturnal period. I hope you enjoy it and I assure you I shall have something properly new next month. Here you go...

You must forgive me. As these words flow from the immense, hollow cavern of my mind, through the tattered length of my nerves, out of my long and clumsy fingers and onto the screen before you (or below you or above you or within you) I have not slept. Anyone with a life substanceless enough to regularly check this Blog or my exploits on Twitter (which are still in their infancy) will know that my sleeping patterns are not quite right of late. Right now it's 7:06am on Friday 6th February. I've only been awake since 7:15pm on Thursday 5th February. Unable to pry open the firm grip of consciousness from my brain I have yielded to the demonic ferocity of its will. Two steaming mugs of finest Nescafe, three pieces of wholemeal toast, a cheese sandwich and a pint of milk later I am writing this. Only five hours until my first lecture and I reckon I can churn out a half-decent Blog entry in that time. So, to business...

We Britons often give Americans a hard time. Partly because of their actions in various wars. Partly because of what is widely considered their deficit of national common sense and intelligence, the inherent corruption in their political infrastructure and their wild, animalistic desire to censor everything in the mass media with the feces of their own moral objections. The topic of this morning's ponderings is loosely connected with that last one. Allow me to explain.

Despite its grandiose and, if I'm not horribly mistaken, self-imposed title of "The Land of the Free" the United States have long been the subject of much criticism regarding civil liberties. Many states have the most absurd laws likely to ever reach your ears. Because I'm so fond of you, gentle reader (and frightened of losing even a tiny fraction of my tiny readership,) and because such nonsense passing your delicate and judicious eardrums would cause irreparable hemorrhaging, I shall provide a few examples to be absorbed with the eyes. Please do not utter these mockeries of laws out loud. I shall not be responsible for the physical, emotional and financial damage which such recklessness would surely incur.

1. United States Federal Law states that one can be fined up to $1,000,000 for the crime of genocide.

2. In California it is illegal to wash more than one baby at a time in the same bath tub.

3. In Zion (Illinois) it is illegal to give any domesticated animal a lit cigar.

4. In Topeka (Kansas) it is illegal to serve wine in teacups.

5. In Ottumwa (Iowa) it is illegal for a man to wink at any woman with whom he is "unacquainted" within the city limits.

6. In Baltimore it is illegal (and God damn the unscrupulous cad who breaks this one) to take a lion to the cinema.

Some of these may not be true...If you want any further information you need only Google "funny state laws". The site where I found these gems offers citations for many of its offerings. I was quite impressed.

But, strangely, what I am trying to get at here is that America may be a silly place, but Britons hardly have a right to mock it in many areas. We might like to view ourselves as a liberal country with free speech and freedom of press and all that...but are we?

I have a black friend. I should probably keep his identity secret. For the purpose of completeness we shall call him Yannick (because that is his name). He has been quite shocked by the prejudice shown by the people of Edinburgh. I, in turn, have been shocked by the very same thing. He's a lovely man, with the athletic ability of an anthropomorphic panther or, my favourite, a speeding black (anthropomorphic) bullet. Deadly. Swift. Black. He's not at all against innocent jokes like that but he was rather miffed when, only yesterday, he was asked to leave his rucksack with the security guard at the door of a supermarket while the other customers roamed around, free to wear theirs with fierce pride(or probably not...). In an art gallery this would have been nothing out of the ordinary. Even in Lidl I seem to remember customers being asked to carry their rucksacks...but that is almost certainly my sleep-deprived brain exacting its subtle vengeance for my gross neglect.

On the bus on the way there he was treated in a most disrespectful manner by the driver. A trivial misunderstanding regarding the fee for the return ticket ended in the man rolling down the dividing perspex and addressing poor Yannick quite rudely and with not a little curtness in his gruff Lothian accent.

This is not the end of it. He assures me that every time he so much as enters a shop the staff and/or security prowl after him like ravenous hounds. In his own words "Nobody trusts me in this country!"

I know that, this far north, it is fairly uncommon to see a black person on the street, in the supermarket or anywhere. In Crieff this was to be expected and in Edinburgh I am not surprised too much in all honesty, but such blatant distrust bordering on verbal hostility seems entirely uncalled for.

I'm sure this is the case in many areas of the States as well, but we are the ones looking down our noses across the expanse of the Atlantic, an expanse which we claim separates racist animals filled to bursting with hydrogenated fat from cultured and globally aware, cosmopolitan Europeans.

Awful stuff. Awful.

Going back to the subject of silly laws ,an area which, more often than others, draws disdain from Brits, you might like to know, as I begin to conclude, that mince pies are a famous, yet illegal, Christmas treat in this country (there were a lot of commas in that sentence). Oliver Cromwell, a man considered by some to be quite the good egg, banned anything to do with gluttony from what he wanted to be an austere religious celebration. Christmas as we know it was banned for several years because jolly festivities and revelry were unsuited to commemorate the birth of Christ. Such shows of religious disrespect were for degenerates and bottom-bashers. No self-respecting Briton would mar the good name of wholesome Christian observance. So said one of our country's most influential and revolutionary figures. Never mind that the Greeks, from whom almost every cultural and artistic achievemnt of the past two thousand years has been filtered, were leaders in the field of debauchery ("A woman for necessity, a boy for pleasure and a goat for ecstacy").

So, there we are. You can probably see that I'm quite fond of America despite having been there only once...to Florida. Britain as it is stands on cultural foundations of an altogether colonial nature. Our cinema, our music, our literature, our advertising , all draw intense influence from the States. Sure we have Shakespeare, Ian Flemming and Bond, every decent Hollywood villain of the last thirty years, but a country can't maintain its merit solely on these things. These things won't keep Britain's head above the modern tide. Nor can these things excuse the intolerance and flat-out pigheadedness which prevails amongst more of us than I like to think.

America may be a daft and illogical place and is certainly far too huge and all-encompassing a nation for me to make any accurate generalisations (for the positive or negative), but nonetheless it seems a little bit daft and illogical to assume a, frankly, undeserved position of superiority and snobbery. Certainly not when you live in a country where a guest is made to feel unwelcome. Because that's hardly the Britain we want to promote is it?

Jamie.

P.S. It's true that you can take a cow to the pub...but it's lemonade shandies all round I'm afraid. Getting drunk with your milk-producing friend will result in you spending an indefinite period of time at her Majesty's pleasure.

Nostalgia: A Discourse...

2009-02-02T21:26:00.010Z

Someone once said that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. It's a phrase that is repeated over and over by historians who, for some reason, feel the need to justify their subject and the study thereof. Personally I don't think you need a practical reason to learn anything. I'm learning Swedish for God's sake. Sweden's days as a nation of any real influence were found not to have survived the end of the 1600s and the limp corpse of their empire was to be found by Peter I, dripping in the gory afterbirth of the eighteenth century. The ascension of Russia to the top of the northern European food-chain was one which left little chance for a Swedish comeback...unless one counts an admirable success rate in the EuroVision Song Contest (and I don't...ABBA are all very well and good, but come on...). I'm learning it because I thought it would be interesting. I may or may not go into deeper detail regarding my views on learning at a later date but, as you can see from the rather austere title above, this is a little discussion on nostalgia.

I suppose it's only natural that I, well known to be an emotional and, dare I say it, sentimental chap, would experience levels of nostalgia bordering on obsessive lunacy after leaving home to live in Edinburgh. Amidst an inescapable maelstrom of change my thoughts naturally drift backwards, sifting through the sands of time, every crossroads, every new discovery, every bare-faced cliche.

I'm quite terrible at keeping nostalgia under control. Maintaining healthy levels of nostalgia, treading the line between an aloof disregard for all things passed and drowning in the violently frothing rapids of reminiscence, is challenging for some. Never the athletic type, I have serious problems with my balance, and I always seem to fall headlong into the latter. In many ways this makes little sense.

I am the first to admit that the majority of my teenage years, as with many adolescent boys, was comprised of regular self-administered inoculations of the most concentrated solution of angst and hormones. This resulted in me becoming a perfectly abhorrent teenage boy. Hooray for puberty!!!

Yet my view of these times leans towards a rose-tinted bias worthy of a holocaust denial! I was a contemptible turd of a boy! A moaning, self-absorbed ball-sack living in a world which I turned against myself as much for the purpose of justifying my own self-pity as for engendering that of others! What kind of a Utopian era is that to remember fondly? But there it is, lording it over the present from its ivory throne in its ivory tower, safe in the knowledge that it can't be changed by any act, choice or gross disregard for the laws of physics.

An objective view, or a view as objective as I can muster, would surely be that my life only really became worthy of nostalgia about a year ago. Before then it was, as mentioned, a pretty pitiful thing, a crumpled and discarded post-it note on the crumb-laden floor of God's office cubicle.

Why then, given everything I have just said, is the past such an alluring notion? Heraclitus said that the past didn't even exist! Something along the lines of the only time being the present and the past and the future being only concepts devised to lend definition to the present itself. Then again he also said that Pythagoras lacked general understanding and that Homer should have been beaten. Hefty views for a man famed for crying all the time. But how appropriate an addition to this staggered jumble-sale of thoughts and musings.

I think I have a theory as to why the past, with its voluptuous curves of memory and experience, its enchanting gaze of wisdom and knowledge, is so much more effective a temptress than the future, that history's warm bosom is so much more inviting a place to rest one's head than the sparse, anorexic and angular chest of the future. I crave security. I don't like sudden changes, and the present and the future are always being ripped apart and reassembled by sudden changes. The past is set in the concrete of time. The future is constantly being obscured and revealed by the shifting sand-dunes of possibility. To live in the past is to walk around an enormous museum built to the specifications of your own desire, housing exhibits procured by your own actions. To live in the future is to have this museum change with every second, its elegant structure writhing and twisting like some new-born creature gasping to fill its lungs. The exhibits are intimidating and ever-changing, everything you learn is rendered obsolete within minutes. It is difficult to adapt to an uncertain future where your constants are changing and your changes are constant. But living in the past has its disadvantages.

Dwelling on the past and viewing it as a simpler, idyllic time when pollution wasn't a problem, when people were honest and united together against the ruskies, banks had money and HMV hadn't mercilessly crushed small music businesses into paste beneath the fleshy mass of their financially bloated feet. This removes appreciation from the present which, in time, will become the past and be added to the vast collection in your private museum, under the benevolent gaze of you, the curator. Sooner or later what you're doing now will be in the past. When it is it becomes a potential subject for nostalgia and reminiscence. But memories are finite. Like radioactive material they lose potency over time. To not utilize them now is to waste their power. You will never truly experience the present as it is meant to be experienced. You will live in a shadow world of dying thoughts, a sprawling mental necropolis housing the mummified remnants of your experience. Suddenly the comfort of your museum will be gone, the elegantly panelled walls, once a warm, varnished brown, will become ghastly and pale.

Besides, the very foundation of modern society is the desire to improve ourselves, to make great leaps in the fields of science and art. We strive each day to make the world a better place. As soon as we become too focused on the past we become impotent, unable to impregnate the future with the seed of our creative and intellectual loins. How that analogy can be made valid for women is unclear right now and I'm not really up to the task of writing a female-friendly version...not in any great detail at least. You shall simply have to ask your parents. Or Google it...

So there we have it chaps and chapettes. My silly thoughts on nostalgia. A pleasant and valuable human emotion but one to be kept in check with the same severity as one one's lust or even one's anger. Surely the main use of nostalgia is to learn from the past to allow an efficient and unhindered journey into the future which can be enjoyed as fully as possible as it happens.

Or else what will you have to consider on your death-bed other than all the moments you missed rushing by, catching only a brief glimpse of their pert buttocks disappearing round the corner.

With that I must leave you. My sleeping patterns have been highly erratic of late and I must take every possible course of action necessary to prevent full-blown nocturnalism. If you've made it this far without becoming lost either in the labyrinthine corridors of my perplexing rhetoric or the decaying halls of your own private museum then I bid you a fond adieu. If you are lost then you have my sincerest condolences. In this day and age, you will probably be raped by a god-damned ruskie.

Jamie.

P.S. Why not give Hector Berlioz a try. Mad as a spoon but underrated nonetheless.

" I've got some 'splainin' to do! "

2009-01-14T15:24:00.007Z

A fair bit of my last Blog entry was dedicated to the process of revision, more specifically, my complete inability to do any. I've been thinking a little about other possible reasons and distractions that could account for this, as it does very little for my self-esteem to believe that I am simply rubbish at it. One of the most efficient distractions ,and also simultaneously brilliant and irritating, is the huge number of Web Comics out there in dot.com land. I discovered these during the Summer and it is true that many hours of my life have been lost forever to the panelled realm of the daily Web Comic.

Comic books are the guilty pleasure of many male adolescents. Given that I was never your run-of-the-mill male adolescent I was exempt from this. My first exposure to the comic was by means of television and film adaptations. Spiderman was a cartoon I watched casually on weekend mornings if there was nothing hosted by Sir David Attenborough showing on Animal Planet. Batman was, to me, a series of rather excellent films, brilliant ways of passing a couple of hours with friends and family, filled to bursting with action, explosions and all those things which inspire semi-erections in men of all ages (Men in full-body lycra ...yeah ...awesome ...). I was, and probably still am, almost entirely ignorant to the vast wealth of comic books out there which, if book to film productions are anything to go by, are much more in-depth than their popular, multi-million dollar cinematic counterparts.

Popular culture has moulded the comic-book fan into a rather pitiful stereotype. Socially awkward, preyed upon by those higher in the schoolyard hierarchy and cringe-worthy in their romantic exploits. In Britain this was never the case as superhero comics were never as popular as the likes of "The Beano" and "The Dandy". These seemed to be entirely more wholesome entertainment. They dealt with rowdy young boys and their constant hijinks. They encouraged childish behaviour and carefree trouble making. Their popularity has dwindled over the years of course, as a result of crack-downs on anti-social behaviour, vandalism and such unsavoury activities.

But the world of comics, I have discovered, is not merely the playground of the social rejects among younger generations, or up-and-coming thugs and hoodies. It needn't be surrounded by fifty feet high walls of tortured prepubescent imagination, stained with the piss and poor-grammar laden vandalism of yobs, cutting off any communication with reality.

Dearest readers of "In Lamb We Trust", I give you Web Comics!

The first of these I stumbled across was the "Cyanide and Happiness" series. It's quite well known and is often inspired in its twisted brand of hilarity.

"Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal", is another in a similar vein.

There are many others, all of which I recommend wholeheartedly.

xkcd.com - by a physics postgraduate I think.
Dinosaur Comics - cleverly uses the same strip every day, but with different dialogue. Concerns a wacky T-Rex.
8-Bit Theatre - an actual narrative. A sort of role playing computer game parody using bits and bobs from old Final Fantasy games.
Wondermark - quite brilliant. Enough said.

If any of you actually read these you may well understand why I perpetually fail to revise, to turn up for lectures, to get dressed in the morning, to go outside and to meet girls.

Enjoy,

Jamie

2008: A Christmas Odyssey...

2009-01-10T17:54:00.005Z

Given that the Christmas which has just passed is the first since the onset of the economic recession, you’d be forgiven for thinking that it was one of desolate dining tables , uncomfortable new boxers (courtesy of the Woolworths closing down sale) and presents salvaged from the attic (first received in 1998 but long since forgotten). You’d be forgiven equally for thinking that, in light of this, my January entry is about to disappear into a dark tunnel of snide political commentary or a vast labyrinth of complicated, opinionated and wholly implausible economic solutions. However, my Christmas holidays were actually very enjoyable. Admittedly I got very, very drunk the night before Christmas Eve and woke up surprised and alarmed in a strange room, but once I identified the person giving me my cup of tea I felt much better and the holidays resumed their aforementioned state of very-enjoyableness. A night out in Glasgow flew by in a blur of unfounded personal attacks on a man I don't know. Amusing though it would probably be to record the events of that night, I can’t remember anything. I was probably an embarrassment to those around me and doubtlessly engaged a lot of perfectly decent people in grossly inappropriate conversations but such is the risk one takes when inviting me to anything. No social gathering is safe from the malign influence of my inebriation.

Anywho, I awoke on Christmas morning to an impressive enough pile of presents. In this pile were the usual supply of amusing books, DVDs, sweets, CDs and miscellaneous bits and bobs. Of particular interest was a ticket to see Samuel Beckett’s ‘Waiting for Godot’ in April at the King’s Theatre, Edinburgh, starring none other than Patrick Stewart and Sir Ian McKellen! Seat C7 as well, which is nothing to be sniffed at, unless in a respectful and admiring manner, a sniffing such as one might bestow upon a particularly delicious and aromatic meal or...perhaps...a particularly well-positioned seat in a theatre. I’m sure it will be brilliant and a welcome break from the soul-sapping, will-to-live-devouring, hope-crushing, blood-pressure-raising process of University revision. I’m awful at revision. You see, in Standard Grade I was able to do fairly well without it. Unfortunately this innocent arrogance evolved, leaving the murky Precambrian waters of endearing schoolboy nonchalance and crawling on its belly into the Devonian landscape of flat-out future-endangering laziness. So in Higher, knowing I could at least pass without revising, I decided this was good enough and that I should mess about instead.

Mistake.

And a half.

I didn’t do as well as I could have and now that exams are important, I lack the mental tools and the motivation to begin revision more than twenty-four hours prior to the exam itself. Imagine you actually ingested information like food. In this world, rather than gradually working my way through a semester’s worth without notable fluctuations in my weight, absorbing the valuable nutritious facts like complex carbohydrates over a long period, I would force feed myself it all in one marathon binge-eating sesh. As a result I stumble into the exam hall, clothes ripped beyond recognition, struggling to excavate precious facts from the folds of fat flowing out of my chafing rags like lava down the side of a volcano. I think that metaphor is quite good at conveying just how horrible it is to “cram” all your revision into the day, or even the night, before the exam. Let the emotional scar of this mental image serve as a warning to you all!

But I have wandered far from the main subject of this entry. Christmas!
I now have ‘The World According to Clarkson’ to read while on the loo. It’s brilliant for this purpose as you can simply read a couple of articles in one sitting without becoming engrossed in the plot and character present in a novel. Hilarious though it is I have to cover it with a towel or something after I’m finished my business. The front cover shows a rather perplexed looking Jeremy Clarkson looking out at me, and the rear cover a barn owl with its head at a forty-five degree angle of unconcealed curiosity. I’d rather have neither of them staring at me while I sweep the chimney of the South wing.

It’s late as I write this in my newly decorated room. I have been displaced from the living room as it is impossible to concentrate on composing exaggeratedly verbose musings while deafened by the roar of X-Box 360 rally games. Dad seems to enjoy his new steering wheel controller though.

So I wish you all a good night (or a good whenever-you’re-reading-this) and wish everyone I didn’t see on the night a Happy New Year!

Yours,

Jamie.

Screaming into a void...

2008-11-29T20:07:00.004Z

Sometimes I wonder if my Blog really is as popular as I like to imagine it is. On most of these occasions I slouch into my chair and bury my tear-stained face in my cup of tea and wait for iTunes shuffle to cheer me up. This is by no means a long term solution to such a conundrum.

Are my paltry few readers really worth the quite staggering length of time I spend not writing essays or studying for my degree? My last inspection revealed that my profile had been viewed 304 times.

Most of these were probably me.

I sometimes look at the Internet as an enormous apartment building, a gargantuan architectural phenomenon imbued with the combined eccentricity of billions. No two rooms are the same and the entire community is in a state of anarchy. Socialists and capitalists live next door to one another. Feminists and misogynists share laundry facilities. Angst-ridden pubescent teens chronicle their heartaches while people like myself stagger past in drunken stupors, yelling about Greggs or the economy.

It is a beautiful concept, a rich tapestry of poetry and society, knowledge and smut.

But whereas , say, eBay is enormous, spanning infinite floors of this building and constantly filled to bursting with visitors, I, in my shabby little study, spend my time typing, flanked by piles of dirty mugs. My humble webular abode is as appealing as an art class with Hitler.

My Revised Testament, the crack-baby offspring of my Standard Grade study leave, was extremely popular. It became a bohemian online hangout for my nearest and dearest. It was a place where the walls of the Guestbook reverberated to the intense beat of the discussions held there. If I failed to update regularly I was fiercely reprimanded by my readers!

Those were truly the glory days of my Internet antics, when I was a presence to be reckoned with! The church even posted advertisements on my pages, although I seriously doubt they would have approved of the content. Looking back, it was not well written at all. Its humour was vulgar and relied on shock value. Once the novelty of a mock-Bible wore off it was a fairly empty concept, devoid of flair. Although, on closer inspection...even as recently as 14th November entries have been entered into the Guestbook by DARKTHRUST! As clouds of sweet tasting nostalgia begin to envelop me in their trance-inducing haze, I sigh a little.

Will this ever be as popular as the Revised Testament?

Have I, as an Internet writer, wasted my one chance at greatness on a substanceless turd, the main purpose of which was, let's all wake up and smell the shit on our sheets, an excuse to make Douglas the incestuous villain?

Alas...Perhaps that is the curse of the artist! His most well known work is always his most commercial arse-gravy. When he actually sits down and produces something with taste, with depth, with PASSION, it goes unnoticed.

As I leave you to stew in your own mental juices, your every neuron reeling from the impact of my textual tripe, I have only this to justify my appalling back catalogue of Internet publication:

"The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it immensely."

Jamie

P.S. Note how I capitalised "PASSION". That's technique right there.

"Now is the winter of our discontent..."

2008-11-24T23:17:00.003Z

Given my usual predilection for light-hearted commentaries on subjects of dizzying insignificance, many readers may be surprised by the next few paragraphs. For the first time since the creation of "In Lamb We Trust" I, the Lamb in whom you trust, am going to deposit some crumbs of emotional contemplation upon the neatly ironed tablecloth of your collective consciousness. I know, I know. It's tacky and unbecoming and cliche, but I think that what will be said must be said.

I urge you to brace yourselves, dear readers. The sheer concentration of feeling in these words would surely be enough to take out the most robust emotional rhinoceros.

So.

What is the deal with Gregg's?

Many are the occasions on which I have ventured into their brightly lit bakeries, seeking refuge from not only the bitter cold of the Edinburgh winter but also from my own hunger. My insides practically scream for the embrace of a warm steak bake or a sausage roll. When they receive, instead of said embrace, the lukewarm grope of a three-hour-old pastry they are understandably upset. My stammered attempts at compromise go oft' unheeded!

"Give me ten minutes and I'll go back to the flat and bung it in the microwave for a while! It'll be fine!"

I can feel them forming their blasted gastric alliance in opposition to what they perceive as my culinary tyranny. My heretical schemes fall on deaf ears and I have no choice but to let my ninety pence meal slide like a gravy-coated leech down my throat. To resist would be to invite an internal mutiny!

When will Gregg's realise the pain and suffering they inflict upon our world, blighted by disease, poverty and corruption as it already is. Why not expend the meagre sum necessary to keep their food warm? Why further intensify our feelings of helplessness? Why deny us one simple pleasure amidst the furious tempest of domestic misery?

I fall 'pon my bloodied knees and beseech you, oh mighty Gods!

Once more my words are denied a sympathetic audience... Yet I maintain my hope. I have a dream, a dream that one day I will order a ham and cheese pasty and it will seer the skin from the roof of my mouth with its purifying heat! I fear though, that this dream's fulfillment will be a long and arduous struggle against economic forces outwith the simple confines of my understanding...

Keep fighting the good fight readers!

Jamie

An Upcoming Confrontation With My Nemesis...

2008-11-19T22:49:00.003Z

Having only been at University for somewhere in the region of two months I am currently in a state of suspended terror. The impending December exams taunt me fiendishly from the dark, unexplored caverns of the near future and the multitude of very thick books with very thin pages arrayed on my desk seem to be boring into my skull with their dead stares, ravenous for the soft, grey, fleshy (and probably delicious) knowledge within.

What defences do mere mortals such as myself possess to defend themselves against such fell creatures of the academic nether realms?

Well... right now the second movement of Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor is doing a pretty good job of taking my mind off it all. Apart from that my only option is to put all my chips on hard work and natural intellectual flair. Yet as I rummage in the back of my mind to find said intellectual flair, what do I find?

...

Ah... That's right... Just a small, dusty pile of dead brain cells. All forensic evidence points towards "death by gross neglect". It seems an essay every few weeks is not enough to maintain the health (or even life...) of your brain. The lesson here? Simple really: Preserve your brains by pickling them in alcohol.

If you'll excuse me, I have some academic ass to kick.

Jamie

Tank Me Up Scottie!!!

2008-09-27T14:10:00.002+01:00

A terrible crisis looms on the horizon. A grin spreads across its slavering maw as it contemplates the tiny band of youths poised to defend their God-given rights. What are these rights you ask? Why, the right to pass out on the floor of a stranger, stained by your own vomit! The right to say extremely rude things to extremely unpleasant people without fear of reprisal! The right to cavort in a most indecent manner with people who would normally make you wretch! All these things and more have come under the scrutiny of this aforementioned monster. It casts its baleful gaze across the vast expanse of teenage enjoyment and says: "Enough!"

The identity of this monster: none other than our own government. None other than the Scottish nationalists who so nobly abolished tuition fees so that Scotland's young scholars could learn without the dark cloud of yet more debt threatening them with its cascading torrents. God forbid this was an attempt to soften our resistance! God forbid in equal measure if they expect us to thank them for their new plan! Now, sit back and allow my finely distilled, single malt argument to wash over you...

SNP. Scottish Nationalist Party. The party dedicated to the well-being of our country and preserving its cultural identity. The very same party who desired an utterly independent Scotland, free from the greasy clutches of Westminster. This concept was, of course, miscarried soon after conception, but Mr. Salmond clearly failed to notice the death throes of his political love child, writhing inside him. Scottish independence, despite the support of villain-thwarting, cocktail-recipe-specifying, dragon-voicing Sir Sean Connery, was a tremendous flop, which was an immense relief to anyone sensible enough to oppose it.

Let us hope this pattern of political dunderheadedness continues.

Plans have been drafted and research meticulously carried out with regard to improving Scotland's appalling binge-drinking problem. The idea is that anyone under the age of twenty-one will be forbidden by law from purchasing alcohol in off-licences, supermarkets and the like. They will still be able to purchase a pint in a pub (accidental alliteration...there I go again...) but, of course, this shall be at the discretion of the publican. There are numerous angles from which to observe and criticise this. On the one hand, these plans should do a fair job of digging out the troublesome problem of twelve-year-olds having their older friends buy their half bottle of vodka for them. This is a good thing really. Inebriated twelve-year-olds are unsightly and can really spoil a pleasant evening stroll through a park. Yet, what of the eighteen-year-olds who can currently buy alcohol for themselves. Twelve-year-olds drink in parks because they cannot possibly drink in their own homes. Social services would swoop down upon their unsuspecting parents, eyes blazing with bureaucratic fury behind comically large spectacles if they did. Eighteen-year-olds can, in many cases, drink in their own homes. They are unlikely there to selfishly unravel the fabric of society. In the comfort of their own homes, eighteen-year-olds can have a relaxing drink with friends, learning respect for alcohol and obtaining valuable experience and knowledge of their own tolerances. By the time they are twenty-one they will know their limits and will by-and-large stick to them. Of course, on certain special occasions one might be permitted to venture into the no-man's land beyond the boundary set by one's liver. This need not be a problem...in one's home! In a pub! A pub presents all manner of unpredictable variables. A sensible eighteen year old girl can have a glass of wine and retain almost all of her common sense. The same cannot be said for the greedy opportunist waiting for her to leave her drink unattended. There are rarely potential rapists in one's home. Unless of course one is a potential rapist. Similarly, a young man may have a pint with his friends and on his way to the bathroom, upset a grizzled drunk with a trivial bump to the shoulder. Despite profuse apologising there is no assurance that this drunk will not create a bit of a scene. Grizzled drunks are also a rarity in most homes. Are Scotland's young people really safer in a pub than in their own front rooms?

Yet this new proposal of the Scottish Parliament appears more about protecting our livers. Groups of eighteen and nineteen-year-olds cannot really afford to get drunk in a pub regularly. That would be financial sodomy! It follows suit then that they will get drunk less often if they are denied access to Somerfield's shelves of cheap booze and buy-one-get-one-frees. Fair point.

But not everyone who buys two crates of beer intends to become paralytic by dawn. Two crates of twenty beers between ten friends equals (I shall insult you intelligence by telling you) four beers each. Not exactly going to provide for a hedonistic orgy of boozing and unprotected sex is it? It will provide for a relaxed atmosphere and, depending on the friends, an evening of sterling banter! Are our leaders intending to deny us this small trifle? Do they really seek to rob us of this simple pleasure? To do the same in a pub would cost anywhere in the region of a tenner a head! It's simply barbaric.

Let's also, please, not forget the social and cultural side of this topic. Getting drunk is fun. There. I said it. I have said, and it is here for the entire Internet surfing world to read should they find it, what nobody would dare say in opposition to these new proposals. Drinking is the cornerstone of student life. How else to escape the suffocating pressure of exams and homework assignments and Olympian workloads than a relaxing drink in a friend's living room.

A point put forward in a column of a student newspaper a short while ago drew attention to the fact that Winston Churchill, Theodore Roosevelt and even Oscar Wilde all enjoyed a drink. It is as integral a part of human culture as literature, music or any art form. It is one of life's completely unnecessary pleasures. The human race could have survived without Mozart, but it would have been fairly dull. We could survive as a society without alcohol...but would it be all that great?

I have a theory. Any and all comments are welcome on this theory and here it is. Government would have you believe Scotland's youth is plagued by three ills: obesity, sex and alcohol. This seems reasonable.

Now, for years we have tried, as a country, to promote healthy eating. School canteens have gone through vast changes to accommodate Government legislation but the only real result was the emotional upheaval of thousands of spoiled and portly children who were given salad instead of chips.

Campaigns to encourage the use of contraception appear to have been thwarted rather ironically by their own impotence, unable to fully enter the collective consciousness of ravenously horny Scottish youth and ejaculate their important message.

Unlike these two mighty social leviathans, alcohol failed to evade the binding chains of Parliamentary power. To pass laws on eating would make a mockery of human rights. Despite laws forbidding sex before the age of sixteen, there is no way of preventing it, again, without defecating on the notion of human rights. Alcohol, however, was caught unawares and imprisoned in a labyrinthine prison complex of law and order. Despite being a "major cause" of both of the above (I shall denounce this fact shortly) it was the only one which the government could control...and it prepares to do so with a new ruthlessness. The government cannot control the other two and so, as much for the sake of its global image as anything else, is cracking down on one of them in a blatant display of discrimination!!!

Alcohol, were it human, would no doubt be portrayed as a combination of the horrible rapist mentioned above and the grizzled drunk, similarly mentioned. I believe this is wholly unfair. Alcohol does not change you. There is a reason why there are things you would say drunk that would soil you mouth were you sober. Alcohol does not, cannot, change you. It enhances you. It intensifies you. It creates pure you. Pure you without the dilution of social etiquette. Every drunk thing you do is entirely in character. Every single word, every action, every nuance of behaviour is flat-out, no-holds-barred YOU.

How?

Why?

Well, we are all extremely complex. We are all dice with infinite faces. It is just that we choose to stifle certain parts. I, for instance, try desperately to hide the pompous, grumpy bugger hiding just below the surface of the painstakingly polite and considerate gentleman you see on an everyday basis. Many very macho men, amongst whom I cannot count myself, hide quite extreme sensitivity beneath their shaved heads and barrel-like chests. The "I Love Mum" tattoos? The fingers covered in rings? All are outward signs of inner sensitivity. If you don't believe me then please do not try to prove me wrong. You may well manage to, but you will be horribly disfigured in the attempt.

My point, from which I seem to have strayed considerably, is that alcohol is not to blame for society's problems. Alcohol is a liquid microscope which reveals hidden problems too tiny and hidden to perceive with the naked eye.

Scotland is not a hot-bed of knife-crime because of alcohol. It is a hot-bed of knife-crime because there are many angry people living here, and because there are twisted people willing to exploit this for profit. British crime is actually at its lowest in decades. Only knife crime stands alone in its own category, so vast a problem is it. But the government should spend more time fixing deep-rooted social problems and freeing people from restrictions rather than imposing new and more rigid barriers. They should target the parents of twelve-year-olds who knowingly allow their children to put themselves in danger, and the parents of the teenagers who hide knives in their rooms. These problems are not so insidiously subtle as we are often told. They are obvious on the streets, they must be obvious in the home.

I have very much tired my brain with this Blog entry and the typing has reduced my fingers to bloody stumps... I hope I have not been an incoherent mess throughout all this and I hope equally that you understand my argument. It is pointless restricting the majority to cure the minority.

Well, it is a Saturday afternoon and I may have a nap before I go out...then I shall revel in the beauty of one of the few universal cultural pleasures in this world. Or, in the words of a good friend of mine: "Famous an' Coke please!"

'Til next time.

It's Life Jim...But Not As We Know It.

2008-08-19T22:36:00.001+01:00

I am well known in the world, or at least in my own little section of it, as a rather mild-mannered chap with not-so-mild-mannered tendencies. It is a fact. That is who I am. I cannot, despite a multitude of unsuccessful attempts, break away from this reputation. I epitomise the sort of young man who is adored by peoples' mothers. It is a curse I admit...a terrible curse. Yet over the past eight months I have settled into a comfortable niche in the universe, satisfied with this shirt-and-jumper, corduroy-jacket-wearing, floppy-haired, tea-drinking, Bach-and-Books image. This quintessentially British chap is soon to move to a residence in Edinburgh.

Good times.

But this involves re-settling. A necessary task at which I am not particularly skilled. Waiting for me in "our nation's capital" is a five person flat. Four new people...Four new people who have never been exposed to the raw force of tweed-clad nature that is Jamie Lamb. And so I am riddled with doubts, plagued by anticipation of a potential social disaster.

In a situation such as this one has the opportunity to reinvent one's self. Should one? Is it right to knowingly lacerate every square inch of personal and emotional development you have ever undergone for the sake of carving out a shiny new reputation? It is a delicate conundrum to be certain.

Personally I intend to rely on my own flawless social conduct to settle in. Surely that will work.

Is it possibly a bad omen then that I live surrounded by towers of stacked books and CDs...with a cup of tea, an iPod and a Blog?

The End Of A Very Pleasant Somerfield Era...

2008-07-03T10:13:00.001+01:00

Yesterday I discovered that Inna, one of my colleagues at the 'Field, has left. I cannot explain in words the veritable truck of despair which smashed into me and left me as roadkill upon the cracked tarmac of reality upon seeing her name on the Holiday Calendar rubbed out. She hadn't been at work in rather a long time but I, in my infinite ignorance, assumed she was merely on holiday. Not so.

As the tears stream down my face and threaten to cause irreparable damage to my keyboard, I cannot help but reminisce about how wonderful she was.

For those of you who are blind and stupid and also deaf, I can inform you now that I work in the Delicatessen of Somerfield, Crieff. The vilest place in the world by far, it has slowly been sucking my soul out for nearly two years. Each chicken sold is in exchange for a fraction of what it is that makes me me. Each single slice of turkey (the most loathsome of orders) is like a paper cut to the tongue of my youth and optimism, which are in staggeringly short supply anyway. There are few things which can alleviate this enormous spiritual burden, but it can be safely said (provided high visibility jackets and hard-hats are worn during the saying of it) that Inna's assumed aura of mutual boredom and general fed-up-ness was one of them. She was like the older woman in films and what-not who mentors and looks out for the naive young man. The street-wise, jive-talkin' ghetto dweller who takes under her wing the lost and lonely boy fallen on hard times. There was a genuine sense of camaraderie between us. A real feeling of "we're in this hell-hole together". We were both slightly disadvantaged, she because of her nationality and language and me...because I'm quiet, polite but ultimately useless. Her ever-dependable friendship was something I found most welcome in contrast to the bi-polar treatment one receives from management, who are your friends if you can do their extra shifts but who ignore you otherwise. Perhaps this environment served to enhance my image of her as one of the sweetest people in the world.

Quite possibly the most wonderful person I have ever met while working at Somerfield, she could speak only very broken English when she first arrived. It warmed me to my grievously wounded soul to watch her improve with the rapidity of a young child. Whereas before my comments were met with a polite nod of understanding (the case with many people who have spoken English for years), before she left we could have quite pleasant and understandable conversations. She was immensely funny as well, a trait which I have always been worried was lost when donning the mantle of a foreign language. Surely it is impossible to retain your own characteristic sparkle and panache when speaking French. Would a Spaniard in a bar really get a truthful portrayal of you as a personality if you were both speaking Spanish? Apparently it is possible. Very possible.

So I was always delighted to arrive for my shift to find Inna stacking milk. With a cheeky wink or a genuinely happy wave (something of a rarity in these darkly unsociable days) Inna could successfully lay a carpet of elation for me to bounce clumsily upon for at least the first ten minutes of working.

Before I knew her name I would, as Alice Jones will attest if she remembers, refer to Inna as "pretty Polish girl". Of course, a more appropriate term of endearment would have had to be "pretty Polish woman", although I'm sure Inna would not be in the least bit upset that I referred to her as a girl.

So there you have it. What you have just read is a rather awful and inadequate testament to the wonderfulness of my colleague, Inna. If Somerfield construed some form of microcosm (a term I learned in Advanced Higher English) for an ordinary person's life then along with Kevin, the goofy friend, Liam, the almost endearingly Glaswegian, despotic manager, Nan, the grandmother figure and Daniel, the ever-dependable shelf-jockey companion, Inna would have to have been the object of my adolescent romantic desire.

And I can't think of a lovelier woman for the job.

Getting My Blog Thang On.

2008-06-28T16:27:00.001+01:00

Unable to (or more accurately, unwilling to make even the vaguest attempt to) have any sort of inner musings printed in a physical publication, you find me resorting to Blogging. It is very popular, as anyone who has ever Googled anything will be all too aware. It can be tiresome when your carefully refined search returns nothing but doe-eyed parents waxing lyrical about their new baby boy. Yet, as they say, we live in a free country and I am throwing my lot in with the Bloggers. Here is where I shall do my very best to offer a cosy refuge from the storm of opinion, argument, politics, pornography and social networking that is the interweb to any poor and lonely wanderer, intellectually weary of watching teenagers fall off skateboards on YouTube (rib-tickling though this may be...).

So come in, sit down. I've just boiled the kettle.

In Lamb We Trust

In which a biscuit leads to companionship...

In which I am an antiquated misanthrope...

In which there are some swings and some roundabouts... and some buggery...

In which sleep is for the weak...

In which a fond adieu is bidden...

In which you are made to feel uncomfortable on several occasions...

In which we reminisce...

In which I initially misread the number of 'L's...

Abby > Andrew: Happy birthday, hope you have a fabby day!!x

In which Andrew proves his masculinity...

Andrew: *Joe hands me a pint of wine to down*"C'mon Andrew, its all or nothing"*I chin it* "ITS ALL!!!"*Promptly throw up*..."Its nothing..."

In which everyone seemed to enjoy what I said...

Me: There were inexplicable crumbs in my bed this morning... AM I A WERE-BISCUIT ???

* * *

Watch this space...

Actually, watch whatever space I'm standing in... If you sit at home all day staring at that space you will MISS EVERYTHING.

Peace out, honkies!

Jamie

In which sanity is relative...

In which old age is nothing new...

In which I respectfully disagree...

In which mankind breathes its last sentient breath...

In which dreams may prove profitable...

In which opinions are revised...

In which you owe someone an apology...

In which artistic insecurities are cast aside...

In which a man's very mind is laid bare...

In which National Pride takes a dissin'...

What Would Jesus Buy?

A Glimpse of the Future...

More left-wing Church bashing...

"A censor is a man who knows more than he thinks you ought to..."

Hey you kids! Stop crapping in the rhododendrons!

A Message from the Author-God...

The Drug Worries of Jamie Lamb, aged 18 and five sixths...

Guilty Pleasures and Respectability...

Hindsight is 20:20...

One is (conventionally speaking) the loneliest number...

Ode to iPod II

(Not so...) Lazy Lamb...

Cultural Presumptions and their Embarrassing Implications...

Nostalgia: A Discourse...

" I've got some 'splainin' to do! "

2008: A Christmas Odyssey...

Screaming into a void...

"Now is the winter of our discontent..."

An Upcoming Confrontation With My Nemesis...

Tank Me Up Scottie!!!

It's Life Jim...But Not As We Know It.

The End Of A Very Pleasant Somerfield Era...

Getting My Blog Thang On.

Andrew: Joe hands me a pint of wine to down
"C'mon Andrew, its all or nothing"
I chin it
"ITS ALL!!!"
Promptly throw up
..."Its nothing..."