Welcome Home

Oil slicks birthed from the Ocean Floor. Suicide bombs rocking markets in Basra Square. Crazed gunmen hunting down the Boys in Blue. Economic double-dipping.
It's been quite a fun six months for all the nihilists out there.
There has been something nagging at the back of my increasingly disassociated skull for a while, and I staggered upon this Blog whilst purging the Blogosphere of its treasure the other day with my Long-Term Ladyfriend. It inspired me to come back, and spill my hate-strewn guts once again to those 3 people that actually read this rambling sojourn into my dilapidated conscience. This little honeypot of hate has attracted some notable attention, however - the lovely Mrs. Chondra Echert-Sanchez and the genius Claudio Sanchez have read this Blog (as far as my web-based skills will allow me to infer, anyway.) This also inspired me to begin my campaign of annoying people with my thoughts again.
So, what is there to talk about, aside from the terrible Pseudo-Nazi Governmental Regime we've elected for ourselves? I'll tell you: love.
It's a dangerous word, one often overused by hormonal teens that, in their arrogance, think they've witnessed everything that needs to be witnessed. It's used by Hollywood as a cop-out for a deep, intrinsically stimulating storyline. It's used in music to go with anything written in a Major Scale to sell millions of songs. It's used by old people to drown out the denial of loneliness and regiments of boredom in their lives. It's a bland word, one that has lost all sense of meaning to us in the West. It has defiled its Latin roots with overuse, undignified association and the way it is thrown around like a Baby that, for Legal reasons, can only be called "P".
Being a teen myself, I have made the horrible mistake of using the word myself, assuming a mixture of feelings that equated to lust, admiration and desperation - all rolled into one disgusting Red Herring of an emotion that was chemically enhanced by nothing more that absent, pathetic self-loathing. "Love" is used as a defense against everything we despise; I am currently reading a book by a heavily acclaimed author that has one of the female characters wishing she was thrown into a Cell with her lover (although the fate of an entire Town rests on her shoulders - it's better than it sounds). Now, I'm no stranger to the feeling of wanting to spend every minute of every day with someone, but I find the idea of all-empowering love a little far-fetched. That's not to say I'm not a romantic - quite the opposite; I have been criticized for "wearing my heart on my sleeve." However, I have also been criticized for "telling girls I love them, just to get sex out of them." An interesting paradox, even if I do deny the latter entry. Vehemently.
The fact remains people use the Myth of Love to make aspects of their own lives that little bit more interesting. To make it seem like there is someone else out there that could slightly admire them for the very core of their anima/animus, although the truth would dictate that you aren't even worth the shit that dribbles from their chin. The irony is that it works in reverse - "Love", in 9 out of 10 cases, is merely a combination of double-sided paranoia, bastardized emotion and unrelenting desperation.
The other 10% is the genuine - not the rosy, candle-lit, watery-eyed Love that movies and the media like to portray, but the sort of Love that remains; that cuts you up like a Whale found in the Thames - making you swoon at the mere mention of a name, making you think of the person in question whilst you frantically masturbate in the dark, on your own, whilst is rains. The sort of Love that makes you spend stupid money on people; taking them out out for shitty meals in some God-Forsaken restaurant, buying them gifts that would make any other person ill, and actually listening to them, for whatever awful reason you think deserves your attention.
There is a third alternative, however. Medical science has disclosed that there may indeed be a chemical that is emitted from people - a certain hormone that induces endorphins in the Brain to be released, giving feelings of pleasure, stress-reduction, contentedness and ecstasy. To the best of my recollection, this hormone-drug-thing is called Dopamine - or something similar. This renders our feelings of "Love" nothing more than going "Cold Turkey". It's not so much as having a Monkey on our backs as having a fucking Gorilla armed with an AK-47 on our backs.
There's a sobering thought for  you.

Control Me, Console Me

It's wet and bitterly cold in this place. The last thing you remember is falling from an aeroplane on your way somewhere. You swim. Swim towards something you see glowing in the Ocean. Some sweet rapture - some safe haven, something homely amongst the sinister depths of the Atlantic. Gasping for air, the cold grips of the deep sea constricting the flesh of your weakening body, you emerge within the strange Structure.

Welcome to Rapture!" the Art Deco sign above your head proclaims...
Welcome home, dear boy.

Does that not sound like the start of one of the best Indie films to you? Does that not sound like something in the prelude of a Stephen King novella? Does it not seem like something you'd perhaps find on FilmFour or BBC2 at about 2am? Does it not seem like the opening to a gritty drama; a play written by one of the IRA-activists-turned-playwrights?

Effectively, does it not seem mature and dignified - the opening to a compelling narrative?

It is, in fact, the opening cutscene from a Videogame called Bioshock, which is one of the most gripping, fascinating and, quite simply, stunning pieces of art I have observed in recent years.

Yes, I said art. Because it is. Bioshock is art, and art in it's best form - experimental, vivid, brave, thought-provoking, valid and beautiful. The characters are deep and complex; Sander Cohen (a pyschopath with an ironic love of all things twisted) is perhaps one of the most complete, disturbing and wholly brilliant characters concieved since Carroll's Mad Hatter. The environment is rich and diverse - Botanical Gardens staged in an underwater greenhouse, Mechinal Engine rooms with domed sub-oceanic vistas, Tower Blocks and Penthouses, all with first-class views over the plaintive Ocean Bed. Granted, with a 2007 release, the Graphics Engine supporting the ideals can't quite achieve what we can today, but regardless, it's the imagery that counts.

All around the News Media, no matter where you  look, there will be someone pointing fingers at the Videogames Industry, blaming them for corrupting an innocent child with thoughts of debauchery, slaughter and killing Communists. Last week, for example, there was a 17 year old boy in Middle England lost three consecutive matches in a FIFA 2010 play-off. This angered him somewhat, so, after descending in a drunken haze, he stumbled down the road with a knife and an axe, threatening passers by. He eventually killed a 65 year old woman, writing an apology on her wall. In lipstick.

Naturally, people jumped on the "Videogames should all be burned and destroyed" bandwagon, without actually taking into account the 17 year old was, in fact, a Paranoid Schitzophrenic.

It angers me to think that everybody assumes that all games are merely "boys-toys" - that they are shallow and 1-Dimensional, focussing purely on death and carnage and massive explosions. We have Hollywood for that. Games go deeper - granted, you can take them for their superficial level; even Bioshock could be seen as a gory shooter. But if you look closer, it's so much more than that. It explores the fantastic argument of Altruism vs. Objectivism, with very clever nods-of-the-head in Ayn Rand's direction. It is an amazing narrative of the rise and fall of societies. It adheres to my favourite kind of genre: Dystopian Fiction.

The point I am trying to convey is that the Games Industry is maturing and taking its direction in a much more diverse and culturally apt gradient. For every gore-fest, explosion-carnival and bullet-fair there is (Gears of War, per se), there's also a thought-provoking, engaging and mature game, too (for all their sillyness, the Final Fantasy series explores some nice issues).

I'm not for a second saying I don't enjoy a good blast on some violent carve-'em-up - I'm playing Left for Dead 2 as I type - all I'm saying is don't label the entire Industry with one broad stroke of some tarred brush.

If you did that for films, with 300 being your example, one of the finest Media Forms on Earth would be labelled one, big, sexist, bloody, brawny zeitgeist of subconcious male insecurity, highlighting the unsecure foundations modern storytelling is based on...

Oh, wait...

Popping the Precious Princess Bubble

It was a cold winter evening, and I - Generic Teenage Woman - was standing alone in the streets of Derby. I was on my way home after picking up a Christmas present for my mother. I had just picked up a coffee from my local Starbucks; a festive one, gingerbread latte. They were my favourite this time of year - helped me get in the Christmas Spirit. A bit like a merry aphrodisiac.

I was just about to make for my bus - a 30 minute journey on the Route 60 to Chellaston - when an attractive young man walked past me. The street was empty aside from he and I. The first few flakes of snow began to drift lazily down from the celestial skies. I noticed one land on the tip of his nose. Without taking his eyes off me, he sheepishly brushed the snowflake from his nose. He noticed me looking, and laughed shyly. His deep, magical eyes never left mine. He didn't even look at the rest of my body. He didn't even drink in the way my hair fell over my shoulders. He didn't even look forward to see where he was walking. He just stared at me.

His walk, quick paced and brisk in the enclosing cold, slowed. He began to turn his entire body towards me. His face was chiselled like an angel's; strong cheek bones high on his face, providing an adequate ridge for his eyes to rest on, strong and light, set into his face like stars upon the night sky. His lips were straight and full, his nose aquiline and stalwart. He removed his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together before him; his long fingers entwinded within themselves, the protective palms clasped in a safe embrace.

His eyes still locked with mine, he began to walk towards me.

My heart fluttered. This was love. He would be charming. He would be nice. He would love me, unconditionally. He would do anything to protect me. He would buy me things, stick by my side through everything.
This man... no... this boy... was everything I had ever wanted...

The above is the world inhabited by too many people.

The above is a construction of Disney, whose virus has entered and spread among the minds of many of the female population. As infants, this is acceptable, and introduces people to a world of love, magic and splendour. As teens... it's an aberration.

Expectations of men are much too high. Very few people are Prince Charming. Very few people are Perfect. No-one is Edward Cullen. Sorry to break it to you, but it's true.

Not to play the sexism card, but a woman comparing the way her boyfriend acts to, say, good ol' R-Patz, is just as shallow as a man comparing how his girlfriend looks to, say, good ol' Kristen Stewart. Superficiality is a double-edged sword; by constantly wishing someone to be something they're not, you may end up frustrating them to the point of absence.

The moral of this gritty fairytale?
Be thankful for what you've got, because, whatever it is you actually have... you're bloody lucky to have it.

...And Nothing Is Worth It Unless You Have A God

For as long as I have had the ability to coherently structure thoughts in my feeble little brain, I have been an atheist. I was proud; I would argue my points in what is, effectively, a definitive view-point, in my opinion. I used to believe that putting all my hopes and dreams in an Invisible Friend in the Sky was a little surreal - a little baffling, if anything. I thought that Religion was an out-dated tool, manifesting to a large audience in the more primitive times of Humanity, where we didn't know what the Big Ball of Burning Heat in the Sky was, or when we thought Angry Rain-Drop Man wouldn't come because we hadn't propped enough stones agaisnt enough cliffs in the last Lunar Month.

I used to believe that religion was also a formulation of a collective conscience - something we all concocted so that we had a Moral Code to adhere to. So that our own innate thoughts were channelled into something that could maintain a relative progression to Huxley's idea of "Man's Final End". I believed it was a feudal method of control, effectively, to organise and collect people into One; a Mass, a Singular - a swelling tumor on the face of an unknown world.

Turns out, I still believe this.

But with new perspective. I am by no means knocking religious people here - I know a fair few Christians and Muslims and Sikhs and Hindus and Buddhists and Jedis; they're all lovely people. It's the Institutions themselves I have a problem with. The Evangelists. The Preachers. The Heralds. The people that stand on the street, hurling abuse at you in the hopes you will break down crying at their feet, asking to be absolved into the lovely warm arms of their God, while he laughs and licks your tears, the sheer taste of your satisfying anguish sustaining him as his plans his next Religious Genocide.

However, of late (and this may be bought on by the contextual rough-patch I may or may not be going through) I have found myself wondering. I have found myself dropping my proverbial Atheist defences, and being softly caressed by the sweet-talk of the Agnostic. I have let their tender hands slowly massage my body, as they sensually whisper their arguments into my weakening ears.

I don't know if it's because I want someone (or something) to blame for recent events. I don't know if it's because I'm running out of things to be bitter at. I don't know if it's because I'm bored and fancy a challenge, and the idea of celibacy and a life of eating only bread and drinking only water (and the odd cup of Christ's Blood) seems like a challenge.

It may be because the idea of having an Unspecified Other to pin all my problems on seems appealing. That this will somehow make all of my little insecurites and problems shrivel up and ping into the Ether. It's a nice prospect, that; life could throw anything at me, and I could merely be a vessel, channeling the sheer tyraid of shit upwards, into Heaven, and have God deal with it. This is the bloke that created Sunset Vistas and Natalie Portman - the little tribulations of my life are a piece of piss to him.

What I think I'm getting at is this; the Religious among us are better off. Whether or not they share as grim a world view as I is unimportant; they have a God. They have someone looking out for them. If something in my life were to pick up, I would call it coincidence - say "it's about fucking time" - but to a Religious person...

Well, it may just be an Act of God.

Living, Breathing Shit-Talking Machines

I'm not a fan of humans. At the core, they're somewhat unappealing. Think about it. If not washed at least once every two days, certain bodily orifices they own may begin to smell a bit unhealthy; a similar scent to what you'd find if you left a chunk of Bree inside a rotting cow for a good few days. If not kept in a positive frame of mind for the 80 or so years they decide to walk the Earth, they may decide to pull a gun out, go into a school, and (in a display of the utmost form of narcissism) massacre everyone in the building to satisfy their own festering hatred.

Humans are effectively living, breathing, walking, shitting, talking, hitting, thinking, stinking, polluting, dying Tamagotchis. That's all we are, in essence. We need to be kept happy, or else something within us trembles and breaks. At first, it's not too bad - we put up with something unpleasant for a while until someone that isn't us comes and takes it away. For a Tamagotchi, it was a poo. For us, it could be anything:

A relationship that went to shit after you realized that the person you thought you loved for the last two years turned out to be a twat. A death in the family. An assault on the street. An abortion. An unwanted Christmas present... anything. We wait, grovelling in our own filth like limbless pig, until someone accepts responsibility and comes and clears all the shit up. Until such a time, we make incessant, self-absolved noise (which is made ever easier by the unholy conception of Social Networking: the amount of times I read "**** ******* is depressed" or "*** ***** thinks everything is shit" on Facebook is beyond compare).

Then things start to take a slightly more macabre turn.

I know for a fact that when I had a Tamagotchi when I was younger, the fact it made so much noise about its condition actually drove me to neglect it more. Sinister? Mayhap, but entertaining nonetheless.

Like people, it would make such a racket that it really began to grate on your every last nerve. It got to the stage where you honestly couldn't give a flying fish whether or not the little pixellated bastard lived or died. It sat there, blathering stupidly on to itself, the pile of shit around getting higher and higher, until, eventually, there was just too much shit and the poor little blighter drowned in it (or maybe not, but that's how I like to imagine they died - more fun that way).
The fact is, people are given means now to portray emotions in such a wide way that it makes it nigh on impossible to not express discontent in some format or another. Just look at the emoticons available for instant use on MSN or Myspace; there are easily more expressions for general disdain or unhappiness than there are for ones of joy or well-being.

A personal belief is that sympathy and undivided attention from friends and loved ones is a lot like a good night in with oneself:

The more you have it, the less you truly appreciate it. If you're starved of whatever your dirty little habits are for a while, then you learn to recieve them with much more gratitude than before.

/Rant.

Regulation Education

I like Balls. I always have; the way you can cup them. The way you can fondle them. The way (I imagine) they rest lazily and longingly on your tongue. Balls are all-round goodness (pun intended). And they can take many forms, too - from sweaty, dangly sacks that hang from the underside of a male thigh to a smooth, leather pigs-bladder kicked around by people who are assured that their skill will make them famous at some juncture.

But my personal favourite interpretation of Balls has another name. Ed. Ed Balls. It is no secret I am a great supporter of the Labour Party (there are some massive issues I have with them, naturally, but they're so much better than the pathetic, whimpering alternative) and I have the utmost respect for their members. Big Ed in particular is a favourite. Firstly, there is his sheer bravery. His surname is "Balls" and he willingly goes to visit schools full of banterous teenage individuals. He deserves a medal.

Secondly is his massive and brilliant sense of irony. His most recent report (to be published tomorrow, I believe) features a variety of reforms centred on things that have mostly been put forward before - albeit under snazzy new names (a personal favourite is the "Teacher M.O.T" - a system whereby a 5-year service is carried out, determining whether or not said Teachers are fit to do their jobs).

The subject of his sense of irony comes in at this next point, however. These plans of his aren't even officially published as of yet (that could be a lie - I'm not fully certain) and already he has caused controversy... The man is a genius, and here's why;

He plans to hand out "Report Cards" on schools.

Now, this makes me smile uncontrollably. He plans to set practice into place that sees entire Educational Institutions whittled down to one grade; I'm presuming A*, A, B, C etc...

There has been uproar about this; people have said that "How can an entire school's merit be judged on a SINGLE GRADE? How can they see the quality of teaching staff, the progression of the students, the teaching methods?".

It is here I would like to point out I am applying to many a University in the Autumn, and they shall judge me and let me in (or not...) on a "SINGLE GRADE" (per subject). How will they know if I'm a relatively hard-worker? If I have an extrovert personality? If I maintain a large and valuable Comic-Book collection? If I'm a mass murderer, hell-bent on eliminating every last albino on the face of the Earth? The base their decisions purely on whether or not my measly 500 word personal statement makes them smile, whether two years of work can be shit down the drain in an unfair Exam*, or whether my Tutor at School decides to take a liking to me in my references.
So I say this; Well Done, Ed Balls. Whether or not your strategies get pushed through the veil like a meaty shit through a tight arse, Well Done. You have shown that Politicians are not all hungry, greedy liars, and that you do, generally, have a good sense of irony and equality.
I also want to marry you, purely to take-on your name.

*Fuck you, OCR.

Sex, Drugs and the Same Old, Same Old

So here we are. Summer is well and truly upon us, bringing with it all of its sweaty, hay-fever inducing heat. People from all around the dank little island of Britain are about to amble forth out of their winter dens, yawning and scratching their stubbly arses. After the initial shock of actually seeing the Sun leaves their weary bones, the heaving masses will descend like Locust to all the open green areas we have left in out God-Forsaken armpit of a country, and set up an over-endorsed, sold-out Music Festival there.

These countless (and increasingly generic) events have only one purpose these days - before, in the hazy, Ecstasy-drenched 1990's, Festivals served two primary functions; either entertain or intoxicate. Both, if you were rich enough. Granted - the 1990's may have been a drought decade for any substantial outlets of decent music (aside from an up-and-coming band named Shabutie who were gathering a large fan base in America at this point). The response to this Creative Dead-Zone was, effectively, a plethora of Raves and Festivals springing to the surface; as long as there was a smorgasbord of pretty colours, augmented with lovely noises, no-one seemed to give a flying fudge-monkey what the content of the music actually was.

This all seems to have changed in the New Millenium, however. Festivals (now such a vague term it could refer to a small Village Well-Dressing or the almighty Reading) are aimed solely at one thing now; making you (the choiceless subscriber) seem that precious little bit cooler than you actually ever will be.

Think about it - for the last three years, footage of every Festival plays out like this;

An "Indie" band play - without fail - a Radio-1 endorsed hit; a song that everyone decides is their summer soundtrack, purely because it has been forced into their ears so many times. It's like auditory rape.

This song remains in the background throughout a heady montage; the camera pans over a crowd of identical people; the boys are clad in skinny, black jeans (inevitably from Topman), a casual-formal shirt (probably chequered with crazy colours) and a pair of hi-topped shoes (relentlessly daft). Their hair is typically semi-long, and fettered delicately with gel and/or hairspray. Every last one of the bastards is also ridiculously God-Damned fucking beautiful.

The girls seem to be invariably wearing a tight pair of some Denim contraption that actually serves to defy any form of feasible explanation. Hot-pants would be the best attempt, but they tend to be slightly longer than Hot-pants. This is complemented by a pair of patterned tights; semi-sensual, semi-Thrush inducing. They wear shirts that seem - impossibly - to be too tight and too baggy at the same time, with some crazy, quirky design printed on the front. Their hair will be oddly straight, but also partially curled at the same time. The girls, also, are all stupidly attractive.

It always transpires that the girl and the boy will be a couple, and you know that if either of them can still produce the correct chemicals necessary to produce children from their drug-laden loins, said children will be better looking than God.

My point? People are now more concerned with aesthetically pleasing themselves (and everyone around them whom they presume care enough to judge) than they are about having a good time. If this carries on, the Universe will realize it no longer has a function, and will just cease to be - collapsing inwardly on itself and becoming one big, beautiful, stunning, gorgeous, retro, stoned heap.

...With a really bad "Indie" Soundtrack.