Wednesday, 9 March 2011


I must apologies before I proceed. You may be asking yourself "is he really going to write a post about banter?". The champion cliche. Well yes, it does intrigue me. People perform it everyday and often overuse the term, but nobody ever wonders why abusing the people you love brings such pleasure? It's almost addictive. If a wonderful opportunity for an offensive remark presents itself in front of you, it would be easier for Pete Doherty to become an active member of the salvation army than to suppress the urge to make a comment.

Tuesday, 1 March 2011

Ah, This is awkward.

Yes, it's hit me. The wall. The hurdle. Writers block has found it's way into my brain. I realized that i had swallowed a medium sized tea spoon full of the stuff as i was rushing the first draft of my english coursework. Following the tradition of doing a peace of work hours before the deadline despite having weeks of free time to do it, I managed to cobble together 400 words of pure mediocrity. I needed to write a minimum of 500 words and I failed to do this. That night my head was overflowing with ideas for new blog entries, ideas better that anything that has actually made its way into the blog, but now they escape me. All of them. And the monologue magic i needed so badly eluded me.

So now, I'm sitting here, trying to think of a good idea for a blog and a beautiful little monologue idea comes floating into my head. This has got to be some A grade stuff. What lovely things people would say about me if they could read this. I'm ready to start converting this gold into a 500 word monologue... the day after my coursework deadline. Lovely.

So now the blog entry. I almost forgot about that. Oh wait, here it is. A whole blog entry about not knowing what to write. How awkward.

Friday, 25 February 2011

The Times. Are they A-changin'?

Bob Dylan has created many a masterpiece during his time as a recording artist. While his resent music is not as captivating as his incredible back catalogue, the man remains a musical genius. He wrote "The Times They Are a-Changin'" in 1963. The feelings that he had in is head, are beautifully captured in the form of tree minuets and thirteen seconds of music.

But the words that Dylan sung have caused me to ask myself if the times are really changing? If i take a look back on my life, I can't deny that things have changed. But have the times changed? It seems as if the ongoing nine to five monday to friday cycle of work is very much still alive, and shows no signs of "a-changin'". Government after government have made the same decisions and the same mistakes for as long as parliament has existed. I'm still struggling to spot a change Mr Dylan.

"The never ending tour" commenced on the seventh of June, 1988. Dylan has played 2300 shows on this tour and plans to continue to play around 100 shows a year and there are no signs of this changing. He has also released a staggering 34 studio albums and 58 singles. As he continues through his old age to operate as a recording and touring artist I only wonder what has changed? If you could give me a clue Bob, it'd be much appreciated. But hats off to you. You're more that I'll ever be.

The Pretentious vs The Clichéd

In my opinion, there are two types of sentences. These sentences are neither simple, complex, or a compound. They aren't declarative, interrogative, exclamatory or an imperative. I strongly feel that every sentence ever written is ether clichéd or pertinacious. It is simply impossible to write a non clichéd  sentence that is not pretentious or a non pretentious one that also isn't a cliché.

So what about the fine literary works that have come out of the pens, quills or typewriters of the many geniuses who made a name for themselves through writing? What about Shakespeare? Dickens? Bronte? Am I really suggesting that what they wrote is fit only for pretentious readers? Well no, I can't say that's true. But there influence on the world of literature has been astounding. The modern day authors who pen the previously mentioned clichéd sentences and pretentious phrases are a world away from the likes of the canon, who would be turning in there graves if they could see what has become of there former profession. Some people just shouldn't be allowed to write. And I include myself in this. I have very minimal talent in terms of writing. I don't believe i have written a sentence that is free from grammatical errors or spelling mistakes. If it where not for technology, I would not be writing this and so many others would never have written a word in there life.

The downfall of English literature then, is the fault of the typewriter, which paved the way for the computer. The computer's easy access to the internet has allowed masses of people to abuse writing and post it for all to see. I am glad that the members of the canon are peacefully sleeping in the earth, where they can lay blissfully unaware of what I am writing. The people who I greatly admired will never know what has become of writing. Thank heavens for that.

Wednesday, 23 February 2011

The House of Lords

The shining fortress that sits in the center of the square attracts me so strongly. Every inch of the building is crawling with rats and infestation and could be seen as a vile prison that only the very brave would dear to enter, and yet it is the only place I truly wish I could call home. It is vastly different from its London brother, who's spotlessly clean walls sparkle with power and authority. I speak of course of "The House of Lords". The country's well being hangs in the palms of the self elected members who try to manipulate the democratic decisions made by the British parliament. Despite the fact that the coalition that rules everyone of us works only in the interests of the upper class, It was formed in a democratic manor. So "The House of Lords" is in fact a modern day attempt at a dictatorship.
   That is something that must not be confused with the previously mentioned unhygienic living quarters of my lord. My life long lord (or pal) has lived in the same house for a long while. Everything about it draws me in. A strong relationship between myself and the character of the house has been established over the course of my life. I have paid it a visit for almost every weekend since 2004, when I spent my first 24 inside its walls. Excitement was the overpowering emotion that i experienced when I first laid my head down on a pillow that was luck enough to live in the place I wished I lived to. Still I get enraged with jealousy when that (or indeed any other object) comes into my vision because of the simple place that it it kept. I envy the four human beings who can truthfully claim to live in this house with all of my being.
   Now despite the fact that this loved exists, I couldn't hope for it to be in anyway likened to the love that my friend and the house share. He loves the house and it's owners with such an incredible depth that I couldn't imagine getting with in twenty twenty mils of achieving myself. I would shake his hand in an instant. He may have defeated me, but I do not feel jealousy, only pride that he has been able to create such a strong bond of love between himself and an average sized Victorian building.
   I wonder if I've gone off topic. The place that my friend lives is a beautiful family democracy. Although there is a clear leader every member has a say in how the house is run. That is why I believe my friends house to be the real House of Lords.

The release of Paul

My life has consisted of numerous pathetic qualities that make up me, Paul. I have been branded many names in my seventeen years of life, Paul being the most resent and perhaps one I favor, although I can't say I have reached such a conclusion. "The Ball" I would once respond to. This derogatory term that I was once associated with was concocted by my brother, who has to this day, many cold feelings for me. "The Ball" then mutated into Paul and it is now somewhat of a loving term used to address me.
     Now having read the above paragraph, you may wonder why I have constructed a topic sentence that may spawn a number of questions and then pretend that it had never been written. I have a lot of qualities that may repulse some. Until very recently, I was unable to consume a handful of dry breakfast cereal with out spilling the majority down my person and I still find the task of keeping myself free from a food covered body a challenge. And I must confess to the extreme amount of concentration needed for me to be able perform the said task successfully.
    So there we go, two paragraphs later, the topic sentence has been addressed. The crop has been harvested. But still I feel that I have not been able to inform you of my poor qualities in a way that will not leave you confused. Am I the only person who can understand my writing? I have enough understanding of that as I do of my sick habits.