ON THE LAST OF THE GREATEST

Well, just minutes ago from the time of writing saw the conclusion of Life in Cold Blood, and with it the retirement of perhaps the greatest living Briton: Sir David Attenborough.

There’s little I can say that hasn’t already been said about this truly exceptional man. His hand in shaping the BBC into an international powerhouse of program making cannot be overstated, despite the tarnishing brought about by his latter day contemporaries. Above all, Sir David and the Natural History Unit’s unceasing professionalism has led to the absolute zenith of wildlife filmmaking, with an unparalleled and untouchable track record of sustained excellence.

And for at least three generations of biologists, filmmakers and wildlife enthusiasts, his verve and uncompromising passion for brining the wild into our homes has served as so massively inspiring, that many would cite him as the reason they got into the fields they now find themselves. I know I do.

So here’s to David. We’re heartbroken to see you go, but if anyone deserved their retirement, it’s you.

ON WINS (EPIC)

Things to do with your Sunday:

• Lie in.
• Have a fry up.
• Go to church.
• Take the dog for a walk.
• Get up at the crack of dawn, traverse public transport into the nation’s capital, don a balaclava and have it out with a gargantuan, globe-engulfing confidence scam.

Can you guess what I did?

Yes ladies and gents, I am fairly proud to ally myself with the ranks of the so called “cyber terrorist” organisation known as Anonymous. If you had asked me about them a couple of months ago, I’d have most likely said they were a bunch of childish internet script kiddies and pranksters who don’t get out nearly enough, and possessing a very low threshold regarding what constitutes as humourous. And I’d have been right, for the most part.

Then, all of a sudden, this happened: http://www.dailymotion.com/SA-Anonymous/video/7313668

Protests against Scientology: perhaps one of the more insidious brands of unreason sent to plague the intelligent people of this world with their unique variety of batshit insanity that is actually taken seriously by glamour hounding thickies fresh off their last “mind expanding” hit of window cleaner in the eyeball.

But the opposition amongst the informed internet community began to spread like wildfire, with groups forming initially in isolation of each other before uniting as a whole, anarchic framework. It’s a brilliant example of the memetic phenomenon known as Second Order Simulacra (or to the terminally nerdy as a Stand Alone Complex).

So when a large popular movement that overtly opposed idiocy came to my attention, I was already on the bandwagon and trundling down the road with a banjo in my hand before I had quite woken up. And it felt good.

Now, all of us were in attendance for different reasons, but shared a common distaste for all that Xenu nonsense, and that was good enough for me. The Anonymous mandate stated that they in opposition to the church’s exploitation, not freedom of religion. It’s honourable enough, and worthy of support, but I must admit it’s not where I was coming from. The group stood (and still stands) a real chance at demolishing the church’s credibility, and by extension the organisation as a whole. That suits me fine.

Especially as I see no real difference between scientologist bullshit and any other religious bullshit. Scientology is weak simply due to the fact that is doesn’t have history or tradition on it’s side. Xenu is as real as Yaweh. Bring down scientology and philosophically, there’s no reason that the rest can’t be brought down too, given the thought processes that prime these actions logically lead to deconstruction of religion as a whole.

So more power to us. I’ll be out there bashing Hubbard again on his birthday, and once he’s down, it’s time to kick God in the goolies, shove Allah up his arse, and inform Jesus of what a jerk he is before jamming his Johnson into a jar of jalepenos.

And everyone loves jalepenos.

I MADE THIS:

ON BARBERISM

I fucking hate musicals. Loathe them with a passion that borders on genocidal zealotry. Ask me to go to see a musical with you – go on, I dare you. Just make sure you take out a comprehensive medical insurance policy first (especially you Yanks and your ludicrous excuse for a health system), because the merest suggestion might induce me to lash out in flailing convulsions of total revulsion: at the show for being a plotless, brain-wrecking waste of the precious seconds to my ever waning life, and at you for even suggesting that I might just be the kind of mentally vacuous miscreant that would voluntarily subject himself to such torture. I’d rather ram a corkscrew up my dickhole.

The preceding paragraph sums up my opinion of musical theatre prior to my discovery on one Steven Sondheim. Whereas pretty much every musical running on the West End/ Broadway/ some town hall rented out by a university Gilbert and Sullivan society are still quite able to drive me to eradicative levels or rage, the inclusion of The Sondheim Factor acts as a catalysing agent that results in an almost alchemical conversion of the constituent parts of staged shit into a joyous experience for all.

How is the possible? Possibly because Sondheim doesn’t treat his audience like idiots, pitching his witty wordplay and complex compositions far above the proles who normally turn up to these things looking for glitter and a catchy ditty to bop along to. He also chooses some brilliant subject matter – piss off Joseph and your chorus-line of God-squad crooners, I’m going to see the one about US presidential assassins, thank-you-very-much.

Which brings me to Sweeny Todd, considered to be a pinnacle of the form. I have not seen it on stage, but I must admit the film will have me snapping up tickets should it ever come my way. I’m not a Tim Burton fan. His films always promise a dark edge, yet never capitalise upon it. Not so this time around: the darkness is reaped in full, from an opening send-up of the shitehole that is London (cast in an almost completely desaturated tone) through to the inevitable murders and body disposal thereafter.

Ahh, the murders. Half of the cinema didn’t realise the flick was sporting an shiny new 18 certificate, and boy does the film exploit it. Arterial spray gushes in a most theatrical fashion barely seen outside of a Fulci splatterthon. Many hands were raised to eyes. There’s nastier stuff still, but I shan’t spoil it for you.

The cast are brilliantly engaging, with quite a few unexpectedly good singers among them (Johnny Depp? Alan Rickman? Timothy Spall?!) and all carry off Sondheim’s brilliant writing wonderfully.

So, drag me to the musicals if you must, but let me assure you – the blood had better be on the stage, or the aisles will be swimming with it.

Something That Made Me Laugh™

ON THE NEED TO SEND JUST £2 A MONTH

Due to the coinciding needs of a professional dive qualification and a place to do it on the cheap, I’m currently ensconced in my parent’s house for the next month or so. My parents happen to live about seven miles from anywhere of note, up in the bucolic climes of Aberdeenshire.

Ladies and gentlemen, I cannot stress the need for your donations to help ease the plight of the people of rural Scotland. People here have to contend with day-to-day struggles on a scale that borders on the incomprehensible. Men and women are forced by circumstances to live in tiny dwellings, sometimes referred to as “crofts”, with only a small fireplace or stove within to provide what sliver of warmth is available. The must toil each day, sometimes travelling for miles to find wood, food and supplies, usually only enough to last for a single week. Some even must cook on antiquated equipment, sometimes up to and over fifty years old.

The men are often required to train dogs rudimentary skills in order to hunt large mammals by chasing and trapping them in jury-rigged enclosures. Their outdoor life exposes them to the harshest of conditions: rain, snow, wind and slightly heavier varieties of rain are frequently encountered. Worst of all, the countryside is filled with mud. Gallons of the stuff. I’ve seen these conditions reduce grown men to tears.

The struggle to survive here has recently led to the formation of armed gangs, roaming from field to field and mercilessly slaughtering their rivals, known only as the “pheasants”. Attempts to curtail their activities are rendered hopeless by the slim-to-none police presence.

But there is hope. For a donation of just £2 a month, you can help teach them the skills to build their own Tesco Metro store, which can sustain an entire rural community. Just 30p can end up buying them a Guardian subscription, which will increase literacy and awareness of offers on timeshare gîtes on the Côte d’Azure.

People in Aberdeenshire don’t need to live on handouts. But a helping hand today could bring a brighter, tourist-friendly tomorrow. Act today. Please.

Something That Made Me Laugh™

ON THE INABILITY TO FIND A DATE

I want somebody to explain calendars to me. Not the general purpose of them, obviously. I’m not some sort or hermetically sealed reprobate mindlessly poking at the world with clammy fingers in some vain attempt to gain the merest frisson of understanding of the world about him, contrary to what some people may think. No, I “get” calendars. The problem is that I don’t get calendars. In the sense of acquisition. Of finding them. Of picking the bloody things up, cradling them like the downy feathers of the rarest tropical bird and conveying them into my house and finding an appropriate vertical surface upon which they may be affixed.

I keep finding that calendars must be bought well in advance of the year in which they are to be used. You are expected to go and obtain your date-monitoring device before the new year rolls around, because after that, all unpurchased calendars will be rounded up and sent to calendar concentration camps, never to be seen or heard from again, save for the few that manage to make it into January undetected and into to 50% off bargain box. These calendars are invariably the popular survivors of their world: month upon month of Dr. Who and Little Britain, cats in compromising positions and still life effigies of tastefully arranged flowers in frosted glass vases. All will soon wing their way onto walls and just as quickly be subsumed into the general bland mire.

Society expects all of us wishing to escape the unintentional hilarity of the Cliff Richard calendar to rush out and ensure that the next year is all planned for by the preceding September. Sadly, I seem to have missed the public notice of this decree. I wander dazed into shops looking for something nice to replace the H.R. Giger calendar that adorned my fridge for the past twelve months, only to discover that the best on offer those that cater to some highly specific and downright bizarre public whims: Waterskiing West Highland Terriers anyone?

I guess I’ll just have to battle on this year not knowing one day from another and let all my days just blur into one stream of continuity. Ought to be a new spin on things.

ON REINTRODUCTIONS

Well here we are: another year to chalk up on out life tally, and a leap year since the last time I bothered to write even to much as the merest footnote upon these pages. The reason? Boredom and laziness for the most part, leading neatly into a general forgetfulness of this blog’s existence. Still, there’s always time to turn over a new leaf.

So, what’s happened over this gulf of unreported time? Here’s a potted summary:

• I graduated university with a 2.1 degree in Marine Biology
• I made friends with a whole bunch of people
• I formed a country/folk/blues band and released an album
• I had something of a falling out with God
• I made a bunch of zero budget films
• I discovered you can win small art competitions with nothing but a copy of photoshop and a few hours on your hands
• I became part of a very successful improv comedy group
  
• I realised that what I want to do in life is make films about animals and shit.

At this moment in time I’m away from the cultured climes of St Andrews that treated me so well, and am now transplanted to the oh-so-woeful northeast.

“But why would you do such a thing?” you may ask (or probably may not, hence my asking that question for you. You never ask me about anything any more. Why do you even bother coming back here?). Well, I’ve hit something of a wall – further progress along my chosen career path requires extended training in SCUBA diving, and operating from up here is by far my cheapest option*.

* see: “Mooching off of my parents”.

So that’s the situation. As of the time of writing, I’ve already completed one half of a requisite first aid course, and am now perfectly prepared to pump anyone’s chest one hundred times a minute, pending prior consent (consent may be implied by, but not limited to: asking, nodding, sideways glances, facing away, use of a pogo stick, listening to hip-hop, rapidly drumming a spoon against your filtrum, choking, observation of choking hazards and direct denial of consent).

So there’s the skinny. Next week: Fun With Defibrilators!

7 weeks is a hell of a long time.

I'm finding myself a phenominally busy person, with life occupying a great majority of my time, with the rest of it being spent in relative isolation behind my (perennially unlocked) door.

FilmSoc takes up the most noticable chunk of my life, with set-ups taking an hour or so with the Ents Crew. I always come away fatigued from that, as I am prone to get overly stressed over small,-yet at the time, vital- things. It becomes disheartening when the members of the society quite candidly could not give a toss how much effort you put into what you do for them. On the 31st I spent at least 6 hours on the job (Ents double that) organisint a big sound system in the Union's big auditorium. We had capacity for 250, and 50 turned up - this desptire a blanket poster campaign and emailing. At times I'd like nothing better than to utter one final "fuck you" and be done with it, but I'm not prone to such extreme action.It will get the better of me some day.

Andrew came down for a detox weekend. He brought with him a healthy dose of reality to a very unreal place. No-one else I know can make me laugh as much as he can, even with the smallest, most silly things. He seems to be getting better with the wholse fucking mess that is his living situation, and I doubt very much much of my advice has gone into practice... But it's his life, and it's not my place to dictate. It's all distant, and hazy from my standpoint, like every other damn thing in the wider world.

But then again, I enjoy it that way. I revel in being hard to reach, remote- even within the town, hell, even in my own flat. It's a very selfish life, but still one I find myself wallowing in.

Flat life is fantastic. The people I'm with ar perfect. Everyone does thier bit, and no-one falls out or takes things too seriously (except me, perhaps)..It truly is a free life.

Except the work. The workrate is high and constant. But again, I like it like that. Biology is so engaging, so fufilling. It's everything I worked my arse off in school to have. The students and fine, the lectureres and staffare on the whole polite and enthusiastic, and some even make the effort to learn your name, which means the world to me, especially when it come to doctors and professors I suspect may become "mentors" of a sort. It stimulates me so much, pervades everything I do and think.

This was evidenced in a short horror story I based around scuba diving and submitted to a Halloween competition rune by the english department. I won. The first competition I have ever won.It was a landmark for me (but perhaps alienated some of my friends in the department).

I'm up north now for reading week, with two 2000 word essays to finish before Monday, so naturally I'm procrastinating. Time to pull the thumb out tomorrow. I must finish the first drafts. I must...

Late night again. Time to wrap this up.

For God's sake, it's October.

Raining like a sonofabitch down here, but as it's not windy, it happens to be quite pretty.
Recap then: for those that don't know, I'm back down in the educated climes of St Andrews, in the brand new and rather spiffy David Russell Apartments. Take a ganders here: http://www.st-andrews.ac.uk/~drafp/dra_apartments/pictures_of_dra.shtml (note, the flatmates are not my own).

Fresher's week came and went, without soo much incident. Matriculation was much less of a slog this year, and I got a suprise visit from Tom G, which was pleasent. I took him on as much of a pub crawl as I've ever been on, and found out that the Byre Theatre bar here mixed the best long vodkas and white russians in the known universe. Again, that it rather pleasing.

On the Sunday I ran the freshers fair stall for FilmSoc along with a new compatriot, and made over £400, which is a LOT considering: A. The amount of members that usually pay, and B. The sheer volume of societies we have in St Andrews. I was quite proud. The society is easting up a lot of my time, however, and I do have doubts now and again over wether or not I can afford to continue to devote so much time to it without it having a detrimental effect on my study.

Speaking of which, I'm in the "noticed" books of one of my botany lecturers for my enthusiam and nomenclature during a botanical garden feild trip. First time I've felt a personal toutch to my studies since I left the academy. Onwards and upwards.

Which is more than can be said for a great many of my friends at the moment. Quite a few seem to bet getting the shitty end of the stick at that moment, and it's just not fucking fair. It's really hard to converse about personal happiness when you know that those closest to you could well be falling apart. There's a terrible, sickening feeling when you know that if you were close by that you might be able to help a situation just a little, but 150 miles from home, there's just so little you can do for those you love.

Just seems to be symptomatic of back home. The day before I left a was verbally started on by some little druggie thug puke in the ship (and it may well have gotten physical had it not been for the landlord), who when ejeceted, proceeded to kick in the windows. The saddest part of it all is that such behavior is considered part and parcel of buisiness back home. The lack of outrage is what outrages me.

So here I am in DisneyLife, half the reality of actual life, half the pain.

I am a phenomenally lucky person.