The Books That Changed My Life with Winnie the Pooh

So, having been challenged to the recently viral "Ten Books. That Changed My Life", I figured it was about time I got the ol' blog up and running again. Choosing a mere ten books, however, proved delightfully thought-provoking. And so, in no particular order, save for chronology, here in the final list (as of September 2014)

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (Lewis Carroll, 1865)

Despite its endless adaptations (including Tim Burton's hideous butchering), Carroll's original work remains to this day one of the finest pieces of fantasy writing of all time. The delightful innocence of Alice as she meets a cavalcade of bizarre characters in her journey through Wonderland is as enchanting today as it was one hundred and sixty years ago.

When We Were Very Young (A.A. Milne, 1924)

Although more famous for his tales of Pooh Bear and Christopher Robin, Milne also produced some beautiful poetry, much of which contained within this collection, and its sequel Now We Are Six, remain with me almost thirty years since first being read to me at bedtime.

The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger, 1951)

I'm glad I read Catcher at sixteen, the same age as its protagonist Holden Caulfield, as reading it ten years on, Caulfield turned from the relatable troubled teen into a petulant miscreant, rather diminishing the overall effect of the book that said, the fondness I had as a teen means that Catcher will always hold a special place on this list.

My Family and Other Animals (Gerald Durrell, 1956)

I have always had a passion for wildlife, so when I was introduced at an early age to the exploits of your Gerry as he set about collecting the weird and wonderful fauna of Corfu, I was entranced. Having since read the majority of Durrell's oeuvre, Durrell remains in my eyes one of Britain's most underrated wordsmiths.

To Kill a Mockingbird (Harper Lee, 1960)

Usually the books that we are forced to read at school are the ones we end up hating for the rest of our lives (case in point, Mr. Mark Twain...). By joyful happenstance, however, I was as entranced at thirteen by Harper Lee's tale of injustice and misunderstanding as I am today. An history lesson through the eyes of a young child, Mockingbird is immediately accessible to all ages.

The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13 3/4 (Sue Townsend, 1982)

Sadly, Sue Townsend passed away earlier this year, leaving us with the legacy of Britain's greatest diarist. Adrian's life has been a source of comfort throughout the years, from his awkward teens, through the turbulent twenties, right up to his final farewell at the end of The Prostrate Years. Mole is an unwitting comic genius, but also, perhaps even moreso unwittingly, a hero for gawky, hopeless writers across the nation.

IT (Stephen King, 1986)

Trying to choose only one King novel to feature on this list was tough, but when it comes to sheer terror, coupled with King's unrivalled ability to create memorable characters (that are more often than not killed in even more memorable fashions mere moments later), then IT trumps most. The tale of a demon, disguised as a circus clown, who terrorises the children of the small Maine town of Derry every thirty years is iconic for most due to Tim Curry's delectable performance as the book's namesake, but the novel itself is some chilling that even glancing at it upon the bookshelf if enough to send shivers up the spine.

High Fidelity (Nick Hornby, 1995)

High Fidelity is like the bible to the music-loving single man. A story of love, loss and love again set in a failing record store to an almost audible soundtrack of hits from the the four decades, it is a real modern classic. It does, however, leave you with an obsession for making Top Five lists which I have been unable to shake to this day.

Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly (Anthony Bourdain, 2000)

If High Fidelity was was bible for singledom, then Kitchen Confidential played the same role during my many years as a chef. Admittedly, I hated being a chef, but Bourdain somehow made it seem a little less painful. His relish in telling stories that are all-too-familiar to anyone who has worked back-of-house at a restaurant used to get me through many a late afternoon lunch-break.

Battle Royale (Koushun Takami, 2003)

Before the Hunger Games made teen survival all angsty and romantic, Battle Royale rocked the world with its distopian tale of government gone mad, pitting schoolmate against schoolmate in a last-man-standing battle. The book is amazing, the film is fantastic, and the manga is phenomenal. Put all three together and good lord! Prepare to be haunted for life! 

But, for better or worse, that is what every tome on this list has managed to do. Because nothing stays with you more than a great story.

Death Would be an Awfully Great Adventure with Robin Williams

Usually when a celebrity passes on from this world, we feel a momentary sadness, a little shock that someone who is a familiar face will no longer be sharing this Earth with us. After the initial impact, however, most of the time we are able to move on and get on with our day.

This morning, however, brought the news of the loss of one of the greatest comedians, and indeed finest actors of our time. Robin Williams, star of countless families films along with some of the most moving dramas in cinematic history, has succumb to a lifetime battle with depression and left us in a manner so in opposition to the smiling, lovable personality to which we are accustomed.

Having grown up watching Williams for as long as I can remember, I received the news this morning via text and will openly admit to shedding a few tears before breakfast.

Williams brought so much humour to my childhood, through Jumanji, through Hook and a plethora of other films, and to this very day I still find comfort at the end of a long shift in sticking on some classic episodes of Mork and Mindy.

Throughout my teens, his performance in The Cider House Rules was a regular delight, and since becoming a teacher, I have looked up in awe to his award-winning turn in The Dead Poets Society.

The world has lost a truly inspirational actor, who will continue to bring delight to generations to come.

So many quotes come to mind... "Oh captain, my captain", "Genie, you're free", but most importantly, Mork, you've finally gone home.

Dinosaur Hunting with Hannah Spearritt's Pants

The general cacophony of modern life has been wearing me down of late. The inability to escape from the hubbub of city life, coupled with the never-ending noise that comes with working in a multi-lingual environment is usually partnered with the respite of being able to go home and switch off both ears and brains after a long day at the office.

Unfortunately, when you live in the gay quarter of town, and your nights are punctuated by hourly renditions of Rocky Horror's "Sweet Transvestite", the sound of the city can eventually lead you into a state of murderous rage.

The problem is, I'm a country boy at heart. Although I love the culture and the internationality of urban living, at heart I still crave nature. The tranquility of sitting on a beach, or in the middle of a forrest, undisturbed by anything or anyone is base need for my Shintoist soul. Indeed, if there is one singular thing that I miss about life in Japan, it's the ability to find peace in even the most built-up of areas, the Islands of serenity set aside mid-city for those much needed moments of spiritual calm.

So, after another exhausting week amidst the humdrum, and enduring the outlandish behaviour that came hand in hand with Bournemouth Pride this weekend, I decided to head to the New Forrest for a peaceful cure to the deafening drone of modernity.

The New Forrest, home not only to wild horse and dinosaurs (being the main location of filming for Primeval, one of the most underrated sci-fi series of the last decade, made famous by its awesome cgi dinosaurs, and gratuitous shots of Hannah Spearritt's knickers), is a real retreat into the natural world. After jumping on the train to Brockenhurst (a wonderful little village with a plethora of charming pubs), we made our way past the ponies into the heart of the woods.

Laying atop a fallen tree for a half hour or so, I finally achieved the meditative few moments I have been craving for the last few months. Zen is hard to come by in any built-up metropolis, but for what may be the first time since leaving Japan, I finally found a half-ounce of inner peace. Breathing in the fresh, woody air, listening to nothing more than the occasional tweeting of birds, nothing in the world could have made me happier.

Except perhaps a dinosaur.

Or Hannah Spearritt's infamous pants...

A Well-Earned Weekender with Shakira

Finding the time to treat yourself can at times be a real hassle in our hectic modern lives. We sleep, we work, we eat, and thereafter exhaustion sets in. Wash, rinse, repeat. A moment to oneself is a treasured thing, and a moment to oneself when we can actually do something enjoyable is often nigh on impossible.

After the longest week imaginable (despite loving the juggling of my dual personality, it's becoming more and more difficult burning the candle at both ends!), I was treated yesterday to the greatest school trip I have ever been on. Almost twenty years after it opened, I finally got the chance to go to Legoland Windsor, a day out that allowed my inner child to escape and run free for a full six hours of ages 5-13 fun.

As anyone who knows me is inherently aware, I have something of an obsession with Lego, and would happily while away my monthly salary on set after set were it not for more mundane things like rent and electricity bills. 

And so it was with childish glee that I spent the day gallivanting about the little people (both toddlers and plastic minifigures), caring not particularly for the rides, but instead marvelling at the microscopic architecture, dreaming of the day that I will eventually be able to rule over my own Lego Kingdom.

I returned home sated and pooped out, revelling in even more good fortune as I found a discarded Metropolis framed poster on my amble home.

To top off my self-indulgent weekend, Manami and I have just gorged ourselves on Columbian treats; meaty, fruity, spicy goodness that added up to the best meal I have had in months. Not even yogurt from Shakira's belly button would have surpassed this South American smorgasbord. 

My inner child delighted, my inner geek feeling lucky, and my corpulent stomach filled with finery, this week's trials and tribulations have most certainly paid off!

The Best of Both Worlds with Hannah Montana

I love being a teacher. Having slaves my way through kitchens, hotels and the bevy of crappy jobs that come with being an over-educated, under-experienced child of the eighties, the promises that come with schooling are somewhat quashed by the crushing reality that was the credit crunch. 

So when I finally, accidentally, stumbled into a career in education, I was delighted to discover a job that fed me both mentally and passionately.

Teaching allows a born entertainer to revel in the knowledge garnered through world travel with a love of performing to an ever-eager crowd.

Of course, as the education industry attracts such a rag-tag collection of wannabe actors and unrequited musicians, there are many of us left wanting that little bit more.

As such, I'm glad to have found myself nesting in the musical hubbub of Bournemouth. As I sit this evening waiting to go on as I headline one of the local acoustic nights for the second time in as many months, I  reflect upon the amazing opportunities that have been thrust towards me. 

Having only really embraced music about four years ago when Manami pushed me into taking a post as house musician at a local gaijin bar, it's amazing to think how very far my £5 guitar has taken me. From disgruntled line cook to the dual life of teacher by day to acoustic rocker by night, I feel privalages to be able to keep the candle burning at both ends.

Sure, my caffeine consumption has risen exponentially, but spiritually, I'm fulfilled. Right now, I'm definately enjoying the best if both worlds!

Hiding in Bed with Anna Friel

It's been a hell of a week. Emotions have been running high and stress levels through the roof. But then, that's the trouble with being a teacher.

Last week was the end of term. Our school, being an international college, runs on a twelve week rotation, meaning we change classes every three months. Usually, this is great; a new crop of students, fresh faces and whatnot. Unfortunately, however, I had been spoiled over the last few months with not only the most amazing collection of students I've ever had the pleasure of teaching, but also the greatest co-teacher I could have asked for. 

As such, when it came to saying goodbye last Friday, my usual proudness at a group graduating to the next level was coupled with utmost sadness at losing such a great class. Indeed, I was finally reduced to a blubbering heap by one of the Turkish boys, a man whose enormous size is matched only by his enormous heart.

And so, I arrived on Monday with a feeling of trepidation; much like the first day of school all over again, I wondered what my class would be like, what the teacher would be like, and whether the other kids would like me. And I'll admit, it's been a rough week; the students spent most of the first few days looking at me as if I was some kind of insane kid's TV presenter, or a car salesman not to be trusted. My co-teacher, meanwhile, has gone from a wonderful old lady with a mouth like a docker, to, well... Pretty much the opposite. We all need to get used to things.

But that's the problem with change; yes, it's good. It keeps us on our toes, forces us to encounter new people and new experiences, but it's also big and scary. We all like what we know, and although eventually everything new becomes something well-worn and hopefully well-loved, it takes time and effort, especially when it comes to new people. 

Winning over a class is usually one of my fortés, but this one seems to be taking a lot more work. Coupling that with running around organising birthdays and having nowhere to escape from the cacophony of everyday life, I was delighted to wake up this morning to silence. No shouting, no cars on the street below, no dog barking bitchily outside my door, no hubbub of indiscernible language, just the Sunday morning twitter of the birds in the park.

Having finally got a good night's sleep and waking up, of my own accord, to blissful peace, has revigourated my soul. Finally, after such a crappy week, I feel I can take on the world again... And now the cars have started honking by... Excuse me while I make a caccoon and watch Pushing Daisies for the rest of the day...

Taco Tuesdays with Marshall Eriksen

Mexican food is magical. I've already gushed about my love of all foods Mexicana, and indeed, it seems like this week is going to be very grub-heavy on this blog. I think I'm just tired of rice and pasta...

This weekend has seen the arrival of the Bournemouth Food Festival, a chance for local suppliers and restauranteers to show off their wares to the ever-hungry public. From local cheeses and oils to meats of every animal legal on British shores, the delicatessens have proved that you don't need to go far to find some truly delicious ingredients. Dorsey's chefs, meanwhile, have displayed an international rainbow of flavour, from the well-known to the down-right bizarre.

Parked rather strikingly in the centre of the square, like some colossal harbinger of awesomeness has been The Mexican Taco Bus. Perhaps seeing such a flagrant display of peacocking from what should be one the world's most humble and family-based cuisines should have been a sign that my excitement would be far from fulfilled, but, like a lost ship seeking a lighthouse, I headed straight for that bus at full speed.

Now, aside from its extortionate overpricing, my steak taco was far from awful. It did, in fact, sate my taco pangs somewhat. No, I have simply been spoilt as far as tacos go. After my amazing night out at Mestizo's earlier this year (see my previous post on Cinco de Mayo) no taco outside of Mexico itself will ever be up to scratch.

But that's always the way. You have an amazing meal, and spend the rest of your life trying to match it.

I will never forget the burger I once had at some stall in Newcastle's MetroCentre over a decade ago. Best burger I've ever had. Was it really? Probably I've had better since, but nostalgia has nonetheless created a burger of unparalleled and unbeatable awesomeness that may never be beaten. Hollywood. Pizza in Aberystwyth serves the greatest calzones, and the finest steak I've ever indulged in was at a restaurant in some tiny town in mid-Wales that may not even exist anymore.

Every meal, however, is accompanied by a backstory. If the mood is right and the food at least mediocre, any glee found in a meal can be elevated beyond its means. There is no way that some of the dinners shared with close friends in cheap bars were actually better than those that I've had with lesser aquaintances at establishments twice the price, but the fondness with which we look back at those occasions makes the meal seem all the more delicious. Hollywood's calzones remain so magical as they often signified the end of a night of debauchery. My MetroCentre burger was on a Ferris Bueller day off school, whilst my Mesizo's, whilst undeniably damn good tacos, was a night spent with some of the most amazing people to have whirled so briefly into my life,

But there will be better. Of course there will. Well, perhaps not better tacos, but certainly there will be better pizzas, better burgers, better steaks. But, much like the hazy fondness of youth, nothing can surpass the glory of meals long since passed. Much like Marshall in his hunt for the Best Burger in New York, no taco will ever truly satisfy again. Not until I find that elusive red door.

The Hunt for Red Hot Pizza with Michelangelo

As a child I never really understood the appeal of pizza. Odd really, considering the enormous fan of Teenage Mutant Hero Turles that I was (and yes, in England, they were "heroes" rather than "ninjas" as ninjas were deemed by the BBC to be far too violent for youngsters in the early nineties), but pizza just seemed to be one of those bizarre "grown up" foods that were simply of no interest to me.

It's slightly odd, therefore, that two decades later, pizza has become my lifeblood. If asked by anyone what one food would I choose if I could only live off one foodstuff, pizza is inevitably the answer. Combining every food-group; dairy, vegetable, meat, carb.. Pizza is the perfect meal to illicit survival.

During my time in Japan, I struggled on a day to day basis to find any food that vaguely resembled the western pizza, sating my cravings only on my too few and too brief visits to Korea, a land where Pizza Hut is far more prevalent, 

Since my return to the UK, my pizza intake (and subsequently my girth) has increased exponentially; it's so easy to simply bung a pizza in the oven, to dial for a take out, or seek out that ellusive "great pizza" you once had on a night out.

Unfortunately, however, since moving to Bournemouth, I have struggled to find that perfect blend of much needed late night stodginess. True, I haven't exactly been living the Michael Alig lifestyle, and as such, my after-hours munchies have been few and far between, but so far, South Coast takeouts have failed to impress. 

It's not much I'm asking for;; a decent crust, a sauce that isn't bought in, and the right toppings-to-cheese ratio. If I can do it day in, day out for a year, then I'm pretty sure experienced shop owners should be able to manage. So after a night of debauchery, off to pick up my mandatory pepperoni on the ya home, I have once again been disappointed. So if anyone knows of where I can get a decent slice in Bournemouth, please let me know pronto!

Did You See That Ludicrous Display Last Night? with Maurice Moss

I've never quite understood the appeal of football. When the rest of the boys in my class at junior school were out on the football field, I could be found up in the classroom with the girls doing needlework (a delightful piece of sexual segregation that certainly wouldn't be allowed nowadays), and during my time in Japan I must have repeated over a thousand time that not ALL Englishmen are avid followers of Manchester United.

Indeed, whilst sat watching the opening game of this year's World Cup I must admit to turning to my Brazilian flatmate and asking to be reminded exactly how long a football match actually lasts for.

Amidst my general apathy towards the sport, however, I must admit to getting caught up somewhat in this year's festivities. With Manami collecting the Panini sticker album, and a big money sweepstake going on at work, it's difficult for my obsessive collecting, gambling adicted self not to get swept away in the wave of international celebration.

Working at a foreign language school has also made for a fun first week of the cup; the jovial rivalry between students is simply delightful to behold, with one of my Spanish girls in a semi-suicidal frenzy this morning in the wake of Spain's elimination, and the crowd of Colombian kids pouncing on me in unbridled joy at their team's success as I walked through Bournemouth this evening was just lovely.

Because really, that's what the World Cup is all about; for one month every four years, the whole world puts aside political rivalries and economic worries and instead celebrates in unity the wonderous array of cultures and society that our too often bleak planet has to offer. Watching peoples of every age, race and religion coming together and forgetting their differences is a truly heart-warming sight. The fact that there's football going on at the same time simply gives reason to unity.

So although I really couldn't care less whether or not England get anywhere this year (though I must admit to being somewhat in awe of Mr. Sturridge), I shall be following this year's cup avidly through my melting-pot of students. 

And, for the sake of the sweepstake, keeping my fingers crossed for Brazil taking home the prize.

A Little Poetry with Class B2.1

Trying to find new and interesting ways to practice writing skills with my international students can sometimes be something of a challenge. There are, after all, only so many essays that can written on growing up and the things you love about your home country. 

So today, in order to spice things up a bit, I decided today we would try our hand at a little bit of poetry. After a rather embarrassing moment with Edward Lear's Owl and the Pussycat, the class managed to put together a wonderfully eclectic mix of the moving and the downright bizarre, from Korean Sungjin's hilarious ode to cappuccinos, to Turkish Caglar's heartfelt dedication to his girlfriend back home. 

Getting the students to encorporate metaphor and simile whilst at the same time playing with rhyme and metre in order to express their feelings proved to be an adventurous and enjoyable exercise for all, and introduced the class to a new form of expression.

Whilst they were at work, I meanwhile jotted down this little piece, in fond dedication of a wonderful group of young individuals. Enjoy.

A class of young faces,

All eager to learn

Of grammar, and speaking,

And listening in turn.

Each one from a country,

So far, far way,

With dreams of the future

That will come some day.

"How are you this morning?

Any news that is cool?"

"Umm..", "Nothing special"

"As usual; school!"

Today is a test,

On how you can spell.

I'll ask the Koreans,

'Cause I can't very well!

KitKat for the winner,

The "entrepreneur".

Oh, darn it, it's Yoonhee,

"Please, Sungjin, beat her!"

So take from the class

The lessons I preach,

And find some new friends,

To share and to teach.

Three "no"s means "yes" with Sean Connery

James Bond is seen across the globe as the epitome of British suaveness. His daring antics, ingenious gadgets and penchant for unbelievably attractive women has kept audiences raptly awaiting his next adventure for the last fifty years.

I've been a huge fan of Bond since a very early age, indeed 007's adventures are one of the few things I can remember having regular in depth discussions with my day about - just yesterday in fact, having rewatched On Her Majesty's Secret Service, the inevitable debate as to why Lazenby just didn't work ensued.

But of course poor old George had some big shoes to fill, and his overly smooth, uncharacteristically romantic, hairless chested Bond was simply not what sixties fans wanted. And so, having recently been given the complete Bond DVD collection by my father, today we're taking a look at why sixties Bond is just so very iconic.

Setting the Standard

Connery may not be everyone's favourite, but he will always hold the the title of being the first (major) Bond. From his debut in 1962, Connery's unique delivery of the agent's introductory line will forever be THE way to say "Bond. James Bond".

The One-Liners

Connery has an unrivalled ability to deliver the cheesiest of bad puns in the most hilarious of ways. Shoot a man with a harpoon? I think he got the point! Electrocute a chap in a bathtub? Shocking! Connery's comic ability shone through without the cheesy whiff that accompanied later incarnations.

The Gadgets

Okay, so we haven't got to submarine cars (or invisible ones come to that), but the ejector seat in the Aston Martin, the super spy briefcase, even the collapsible helicopter all stand out as some of Jimmy's coolest toys. And Blofeld has some pretty nifty gear too; the table with the chairs that burn traitors, the piranha pool, a ruddy great volcano lair! And who can forget Oddjob's hat??

Good Ol' Fashioned Racism

Bond has never been the most politically correct of franchises; in a series that centres around a misogynistic international super-spy, it's difficult to not offend someone occasionally. But as we all know, racism was yet to be invented in the sixties, so Connery's plethora of racial slurs almost add to the kitch-ness of the time. Disguising yourself as a Japanese man, complete with eyelid implants? Oh Sean...

Sexy Sexism and General Rapey-ness

Much like racism, sexism had yet to be invented in the nineteen sixties. We all think of Bond as a smooth ladies' man, but watching back through Connery's adventures, we can now see what a massive chauvinist he was, and, worst still, a serial rapist. Yup, really. Watch them properly. Ninety percent of the women Connery "seduces" are coerced against their will. But dear god is he cool when he does it. Lovey dovey Lazenby never stood a snowman's chance in a volcano lair.

And so, as I shortly move on the Roger Moore's decade with the gun, I salute you Mr Connery. Sexist, racist and dangerously rapey, Connery remains one of the greatest secret agents of all time!

Gotta Catch a Cold with Ash Ketchum

I hate being ill. It's not the sickness itself that bugs me, it's the absolute futility in which one finds oneself. Actually being ill doesn't bother me; indeed, with the amount of allergies I fight against on my daily basis, I'm more than used to crippling sneezing fits and random phlegmy coughs. No,the thing that gets me down is being physically unable to go about my daily business.

In the last six years, I have taken a grand total of three days off work. The first was after being sent home from school in Kisarazu when I nigh on passed out in the middle of a class due to one of the plethora of bugs that fly around child-laden classrooms. When you spend your day to day life in a stuffy classroom surrounded by snotty, wheezy children,mits inevitable that eventually you'll succumb to one of their ailments.

The second was last year when, suffering from a crippling migraine, I foolishly accepted an unlabelled painkiller from my manager and thereafter spent the next twenty four hours recovering from anaphylactic shock.

And then came this morning.

After spending the last week fighting off the flu that has been flying around the college - indeed, what with moving house and dealing with Manami's likewise sickness, I've been far too busy and important to be bothered with such luxuries as influenza - I awoke feeling quite literally like death warmed up. Inability to move, my voice a tiny husk, and my chest feeling like a baby elephant had been asleep on it, I realised that after battling my way through classes the last three days, I was actually in no fit state to teach

Filled with the helpless self loathing that comes with the bad kind of duvet day, I have spent the last twelve hours slipping in and out of consciousness to an eclectic mix of John Hughes movies and the first season of Pokemon. So in need of comfort as I am, I even went as far as to break my own "no anime in English" rule and forwent my usual Japanese refresher course that comes with regaling in the adventures of Satoshi, Takeshi and Mitsuki (or Ash, Brock and Misty as they are more often known round these parts!).

That's the thing about teaching you see; one of the forgotten disadvantages is that you spend your entire working day sitting in a hot bed of sneezes and diseases, and yet you can't let yourself fall foul to any of them. Any drainage of energy will effect your performance (in both senses of the word), and it's a rare class indeed that will forgive you for a useless lesson (and on that note, a big thank you goes out to my afternoon class yesterday for laughing off my uncharacteristic exhaustion!)

Hopefully by tomorrow morning, I'll be back in working order, otherwise it's going to be another day of eighties cheese and poorly dubbed animation. 

Coughs and sneezes - gotta catch 'em all!

High Expectations with Jennifer Lawrence

I have been a huge X-men fan for as long as I can remember. From those heady days of the nineties cartoon series, to now when an embarrassingly large proportion of my monthly salary goes to the coffers of my local comic shop, the fantastical adventures of the world's most comprehensive team of mutant misfits has brought comfort and excitement to my day to day life. Whether it be the occasional daydream of setting fire balls ablazing, or tossing an energy-charged deuce, the idea of having some kind of extraordinary power has always been tantalising.

As such, every time a new X-universe film comes hurtling towards our screens, I can't help but find myself overwhelmed with excitiement. Since the crushing disappointment that was The Last Stand, and indeed its follow-up, Origins, however, I have done my utmost to avoid getting myself worked up into a childlike frenzy, and dodge all hype as best as I can. Indeed, I think that going into last year's The Wolverine with little to no expectations was what made it for me the best X-men film since the comic book masterpiece that was X-men 2.

With this year's Days of Future Past receiving so very much media attention, however, it has been hard not to find myself swept up in the hurricane of excitement. 

An all-star cast, featuring not only First Class' wonderful little team of reprobates, but also the original trilogy's ensemble quickly caught my attention, and promises of a handful of my favourite unto unseen muties in the shapes of Quicksilver, Bishop and Warpath, I was both tittilated and concerned... With Byran Singer at the helm, surely this could not be a repeat of the "too many mutants, too much story and not enough of either" that was The Last Stand?

And no, for the most part, it isn't. Singer manages to weave a complex and enthralling storyline peppered with enough cameos to keep any fan delighted. Each mutant receives enough screen time to satisfy, whilst at the same time adding their own seasoning to the overall dish. Unlike The Last Stand, no-one feels superfluous, and yet in reality, it's only Logan, Mystique, Charles, Erik and Beast that are vital to the overarching narrative. 

The main cast shine out as always; McAvoy is enchanting as the embittered but encumbered Xavier, whilst Fassbender delivers an utterly determined and menacing Magneto. Jackman, as ever, is quite simply The Wolverine and Jennifer Lawrence oozes sexuality as the overly alluring Mystique. The true star of the film, however, is Evan Peters as Magneto's long-lost love child Quicksilver. Peters quite simply steals very scene he is in, and is the one character who really did need some more screen-time. I look forward to his return in 2016's Apocalypse with great anticipation.

The future team is full of some familiar faces; Ellen Page seems rather more comfortable in her role as Kitty Pryde, whilst Shawn Ashmore has becoming astonishingly rugged in the years since The Last Stand. Characteristically, Dan Cudmore is stoic as ever as Collosus, and thankfully Halle Berry and Anna Paquin's roles are mercifully fleeting. New recruits Bishop (Omar Sy), Warpath (Booboo Stewart) and Sunspot (Adan Canto) each show off their powers with aplomb, whilst Bingbing Fan as blink steals the futuristic show with a fantastic blend of awesome special effects and all-round adorableness.

Jumping between the dystopian future and the bustlin' seventies rarely feels forced, as I feared it might (though perhaps a teeny bit more of the future setting might have been welcome...) and the final payoff (leading to some of the most smile-inducing cameos possible in a non-Muppets movie!) is a fitting end to what may of may not be Wolverine's final outing with the ensemble cast.

All in all, Days of Future Past stands strong in the X-men oeuvre, and I'm sure with further viewings, I shall come to enjoy it ever moreso. But still, I want more. Expectations are always high, and I think deep down I know that I'll never have the absolutely perfect X-men movie, but I can still hope. For now, however, I'll be happy enough as long as J-Law keeps covering herself in blue paint... Oh yes...

Bloody British Weather with Brick Tamland

We Brits are famous for our continuous conversing about the weather. In most countries and cultures, this would be considered quite dull; weather is pretty constant anywhere else in the world, so why are we so obsessed? 

It's quite simple really; despite the international image that England is always rainy, our climate is actually annoyingly changeable and unpredictable. I need only call to the stand the iPhone weather app over the course of this weekend. Despite informing us that we were in for a miserable few days off, save for an hour-long shower on Saturday evening, we have had blazing sun all weekend. Things are so utterly unpredictable that even Siri can't second guess.

That said, we are not exactly blessed with good weather; we spend the majority of the year bemoaning the rain, the sleet, the April snow showers, and then when the sun finally does pop its ellusive self from amongst the clouds, we complain at its tardiness.

And then comes the delightful sight of the British man in the sun... 

Now, if we Brits, as a nation, were svelt, muscular mahogany-skinned Adoni, then I would hold nothing against the bevy of men who strip to their short shorts at the first sign of sun, but the sad truth is that the pasty, overweight, hideously tattooed army of middle-aged men that seem to crawl out of the woodwork during British summertime is such a sickening sight, that more often than not, I would rather stay indoors than brave burning my eyes on the sunshine reflecting off their palid shoulders.

The uncertainty of our weather means that trying to make any definite plans is entirely impossible. "What are you doing this weekend?" Inevitably illicits the response "well, if it isn't raining...". Planning a picnic? Better have a back-up. Going to the cinema? Probably a safe bet all round.

All this week, Bournemouth has been preparing for the Wheels Festival, essentially a big car show, but one that the council has spent one heck of a lot of money on. The news has been telling us all week that we were in for one of the stormiest weekends of the year so far, and as such the local government has been squirming in their boots at the prospect of having wasted an awful lot of taxpayers' loot. Luckily for all involved, however, it has been a scorcher, and the beaches have been rammed with tourists and locals alike swooning over Subarus and scooters.

Is it always raining in Britain? As I so often tell my students, no, it isn't. You simply can't determine when it won't be. If you want stability, go study in Australia, that way you can always complain about the heat. But if you want the full on English experience, then you need to put up we us complaining about the weather almost as much as the weather itself.

Weird Dreams with Gwyneth Paltrow

For millennia, dreams have confounded mankind. Their lucid yet detached imagery has forever been the subject of debate as to meaning, foresight, or simple craziness of the human psyche.

For the most part, dreams are simply a mish-mash of whatever has been on your mind as of late, whether it be stress, worries, or bizarre thoughts that you've had during the day, all culminating in a wonderland of colour and nonsense. The narrative of dreams is often a TARDIS ride like journey, jumping through time in a way that somehow makes sense within the dream, but when we wake up, we wonder how on earth our mind could have accepted jumping from place to place so rapidly. Indeed, it's much like trying to recall an evening spent drinking absinthe; you know you were in certain places at certain times, but god knows how you got there!

I've been having some pretty crazy dreams recently. I don't know whether it's down to stress (not likely, as I'm pretty happy at the mo), the cold I'm valiantly fighting against, or the vast amounts of cheese I'm eating before bedtime. Whichever it is, my dreaming this week has run the full range from delightfully intriguing to wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat terrifying.

This is why I begin to wonder exactly where my dreams are coming from;

Thursday's dream involved me going for a drink with a member of my family (who shall remain anonymous for legal reasons) in a dank, underground pub, talking about everyday things and whatnot, when suddenly another family member appeared from the shadows, clad in a leather trench coat before surreptitiously beating the first relative into a bloody, dead pulp. I awoke from this nightmare in an uncharacteristic cold sweat. 

So this is where I begin to wonder about how much reality reflects the dreams we have; true, the family members involved are not on the best of terms, but they are folk that I have had little (in one case) to no (in the other) contact with in a fairly long time, and the situation is far from anything I've ever come across. All round weirdness.

And indeed the direct contrast to last night's dream in which I found myself dating Gwyneth Paltrow after meeting her on the set of Glee. Now, I've nothing against Miss Paltrow... She wouldn't necessarily make my top ten list by any means, and I've already professed my adoration for Glee, and as enjoyable as a night at the theatre was, I once again found myself waking up terrified when her male PA decided to fill in for her at the end of the evening...

So where are these bizarre dreams coming from? Is it related to my aforementioned coffee addiction? Or am I simply just a mess of insanity? Probably a bit of both. But you know what? A few more celebrity dates certainly wouldn't go amiss!

Cafe Nervosa with Lindsay Lohan

Im a man of a lot of vices. Most of them I could quit given any inkling of motivation; I can go for weeks without a drink, and smoking is really little more than a social exercise nowadays. Indeed, If it weren't for the weekly "staff meeting" at the Goat and Tricycle, I could probably pass on both of these habits quite easily.

That said, the one thing that I can never see myself cutting down on is the warming, life-affirming beverage that is pure, liquid lava. Coffee. Not your fancy frappuccinos or metrosexual mochas, I'm talking straight-up caffeine-dosed Colombian goodness.

I started drinking coffee at far too young an age to really be acceptable; during lunch breaks at school I would wander into town and pick up a double-shot americano from the local Costas (long before Durham was inevitably invaded by its evil American cousin Mr. Starbuck). Wandering back to class with a lidded paper cup in hand gave me a delightful sense of grown-up-ness and made me feel far more cultured than my classmates. Dear god I was a pretentious child. Not that that has changed all that much...

Of course, starting on caffeine at such an early age probably goes a long way to explain my ridiculously rapid heart rate... Hindsight's wonderful ain't it?

The reason I find myself concerned one, however is not the careening pulse, nor the fact that I cannot begin the day without at least two mugs of joe, but that my students have now come to see my mug as a permanent part of my anatomy. Whenever I'm in class and without a cuppa, at least one student will undoubtedly question the whereabouts of my coffee. If it's not with me, a wave of worried looks will wash across the room, followed by inquiries as to my well being.

I mean, it's nice to have students notice your quirks, and believe me, I have an abundance of them, but I'm beginning to wonder whether my dependence on the stuff is starting to be too big a part of who I am. Even now, as I write this entry at 10pm, I have a steaming mug next to me. It no longer affects my sleep, nor my moods, it's just a security blanket of which I'm afraid to let go.

Maybe my nervous disposition and general sleepiness can be traced back to all the caffeine, but you know what? I genuinely don't care. It's delicious, it's reassuring, and at the end of the day, there are worse things to be addicted to. I mean, at least it's not crack.

'Cause that always ends well, doesn't it Lindsay...

Cultural Insensitivity without Matthew Broderick

I'll begin by saying that I am a huge fan of the Japanese Godzilla movies. Their delightful kitch-ness encapsulate so beautiful the often mocked sub-genre that is the Japanese Giant Monster Movie. Without these films, we would never have had the likes of Power Rangers, and seven decades of movie-goers would have missed out on the delightfully camp misadventures of everyone's favourite city-crushing radioactive dinosaur.

As such, when the first trailers for the new Hollywood version (let's forget for a moment 1998's travesty, after all, as Xander Harris so finely put it, "Matthew Broderick did not kill Godzilla. He killed a big, dumb lizard that was NOT the real Godzilla"), and indeed the trailers looked ruddy awesome, I was understandably excited. 

Fast forward to this evening, when with pick and mix in hand, I sat on the edge of my seat looking forward to two hours of deligful monstery fun. 

Now, admittedly, at least one hour of monstery madness was delivered, though had I walked out of the cinema when I was so very close to doing so, I would have missed out on the actual fun that is to be had in this picture. The first half of Gareth Edwards' canonical entry to the Godzilla mythology is so utterly insensitive that it manages to not only recreate an earthquake at a nuclear power plant in North West Japan, but also has giant beasties feeding from the destroyed core, before same beasties cause tsunamis along the Hawaiian coastline, all a mere three years after the Fukushima tragedy. Without dwelling too much upon my own experiences of the earthquake of March 2011, I'll simply say that I have never been so upset and offended by a film; the flippant-ness with which such a sensitive and devastating event is parodied is quite frankly disgusting and I am amazed that Ken Watanabe, star of the film and previously a big donor in the aftermath clear-up operation, did not think to point out the way in which history has been lampooned.

Indeed so close to the bone is the imagery that Manami, sat next to me, burst into tears halfway through the film; a great Japanese tragedy has been made a mockery using, sadly, a great Japanese cinematic icon. 

That said, the film is saved somewhat by some fantastic special effects, and the characterisation of the eponymous antihero is a spot-on homage to the original films. The main actors add very little; Watanabe makes a few occasional grunts, Elizabeth Olsen looks scared and cries a lot, and Bryan Cranston gives one of the hammiest performances of his career.

I'm very intrigued to see how Japanese critics react when Godzilla is released over there in two weeks' time; there has already been outrage at the original poster campaign, and I fear that a further backlash is to come. But at least Matthew Broderick isn't in it this time round... 

Pest Control with Henry Pym

Ants.

If there was ever a more annoying thing to find in your house, then colour me surprised. 

Having discovered one delightful little bugger on my coffee table the other morning, I was filled with a feeling of dread that suddenly, like in the classic B-movie "Them!", I was to be invaded by an unending stream of carnivorous beasts.

So when I awoke this morning to find not one but three scurrying across the countertop, I made it my mission to knock this little alien intrusion on its head before it could go any further.

Finding the source of the trouble was far from difficult; our front door is annoyingly old and as such has a gap larger than Springsteen's underbite through which any beastie may enter unhindered into our crummy little condominium. Not two metres away, an army of tiny soldiers was erupting from a hole in the Tarmac.

Armed with no more than a boiling kettle and a can of Raid powder, yet feeling like John Goodman in "Arachnophobia", I set about the task of destroying their meticulously build home in one foul swoop of scalding hot rage. Ant powder copiously scattered around the door frame and hopefully that's the last we'll be seeing of the blighters.

Admittedly, of all the household pests, ants are probably the most harmless, and yet they are somehow the creepiest. Crawly little things giving you the willies? No one needs that.

So unless you're Antman and can tell them to bugger off, or Rick Morranis' shrunken children, knock that invasion on its head before summer sets in, 'cause they're about as welcome as, well, ants at a picnic!

A Giant Amongst Men with Jack Black

Being tall has its advantages. You stand out in a crowd, so rarely get lost in a nightclub. You can reach stuff on high shelves, and as such get that lovely sense of helpfulness when an old lady needs a poorly placed jar of jam in the supermarket. People look up to you (literally), and generally society seems to hold you in a slightly higher regard than those more vertically challenged.

Unfortunately, it also has some enormous downsides. 

Over the last few days, I have been experiencing some of the most crippling lumbar pains of my life. I find it hard to get up once sitting, and using the whiteboard at work has become utterly excruciating. Indeed, I feel rit now like the only thing that could relieve my pain would be for an army of Thai masseuseses to repeatedly stampede along the length of my spine.

Why such pain? I hear you ask... The answer is simple; I spend my entire gargantuan existence crouching down in order to hear people. Whether it's in the classroom or walking down the street, so as to engage in conversation with people more easily, I need to bend down slightly, else wise conversation gets lost in the lofty breeze that blusters around my snowy summit.

But this isn't the only problem with being so darn tall. I remember during my time in Japan, my commute on the metro would be hindered by having to crouch through un-ergonomic doorways, and even over here, I find myself banging my head on things that most people wouldn't even see above their heads.

As a fan of longcoats, I find my fashion choices limited by most garments falling far too short, giving somewhat of a Mr Bean air, and finding a jacket long enough in the arm is a rare thing indeed. Air travel is also a nightmare; if you've ever grumbled about leg-room on a flight, try fitting a gangly frame into economy class. It simply does not work, and you'll find toilet breaks a welcome reprieve on any long-haul flight.

That said, despite the lumbago and general annoyances that come with the altitude, being tall does allow you to occasionally feel superior. Someone makes a stupid point in an argument? Or is just being andouche in general? Just extend yourself to full height (probably cracking a few vertebra back into place in the process) and give yourself that rare moment of superiority that comes with being a giant amongst men... 

On a side note, whilst finding a picture for this post, I found myself remembering just how bloody awful Jack Black's Gulliver was... The scene with the transformer? 'Nuff said...

Being a Grown Up with Peter Griffin

I talked in the past many times about how being a grown up is rubbish. Along with the stream of social expectations and responsibilities you have to adhere to on a day to day basis, you also have to deal with greying hair, having to watch your diet, and aches and pains in parts of your body that you never even knew existed.

The most annoying thing about being a responsible adult, however, is having to cope with the daft little nigglings that come with living in your own home. Sure, having your own place brings freedom and a sense of finally taking a step towards getting somewhere in life, but it also leaves you having to deal with all those daft little tasks that you never realised needed doing...

The Plumbing

Nothing is more terrifying than the first time your boiler goes on the blink. The instruction manual (if anywhere to be found) is inevitably in some techno-babble completely nonsensical to anyone who hasn't studied particle physics. Thereafter, you finally garner some essence of understanding why your mum was always so stressed out whenever you needed to call in the boiler man. And let's face it, he's never going to have "that part" that's broken. Four weeks later, you're still using an electric heater and wondering why you didn't just find somewhere with a coal fire. At least then you wouldn't have to make tea and small talk with some hairy workman every other day for a fortnight.

Bills and Accounts

Not so much the having to pay. If you didn't realise you'd be spending the larger percentage of your paycheck on completely boring but annoyingly necessary things, then you were off to a bad start anyway. No, the infuriating part is setting the damn things up in the first place... Finding the best deal, waiting for your modem to show up, spending hours on the phone to customer services... It's all just an enormous headache.

Getting Locked Out

You've only got one key now. Or two if you live with someone else. But even if you do, you've got to wait for them to get home. Getting locked out when you don't have parents and siblings to let you in is just a gigantic pain in the bum.

Replacement Stuff

Bin bags. Light bulbs. Fuses. Batteries. Things that you don't think to get in your weekly shop that when they run out, you're stuffed. You never find yourself thinking "ooh, we really need some light bulbs" and then one goes and you're left sitting in the dark until Tesco's opens the next morning. And what the hell does a fuse do anyways??

Sorting out the Laundry

Doing the laundry I have no issues with. Indeed, my weekly trip to the laundrette is weirdly one of the highlights of my Saturday routine. The inanely dull part is the hour long folding, balling and ironing that follows. Maybe my brother has it right; piles of clothing dumped randomly on the floor would certainly save on matching up socks.

Of course there are some good things about bipeing a grown up... Stuffing your face on the sofa in front of a Family Guy marathon kind of makes the list. But honestly, isn't there enough to worry about in life without wondering how many bloody bin bags are left??

Fighting Prejudice with Johnny Depp

Modern Britain has become a melting pot for international peoples to come together as one, intermingling with each other in a delightful rainbow of creeds and cultures moreso than any other country in the world. After centuries of colonial rule and global trade, a walk down the street of twenty first century England now reflects the world in which we live; connected not only by the glories of technology, but also by people coming together to form a multi-nationalised society.

As a teacher of English as a Foreign Language, I have the pleasure of meeting people from all walks of life on a daily basis; take just one of my classes and you'll be introduced to Korean animator a, Turkish teachers, Saudi Arabian dentists, Libyan IT consultants and Italian nurses within a one hour period. For me, this is one of the greatest perks of the job; not only do I get to meet a wide array of fascinating folk, but I also get to learn about cultures as to which I had no prior knowledge, and get to hear about the interesting ways that other societies live their lives.

Today, however, I heard some rather disheartening news. At a school in Carlisle, a Romani girl has joined a kindergarten class, much to the distaste of the other parents. Apparently they are so agitated by this five year old girl being accepted into the class that they are telling their children to stay away from her and not to talk to her during play time.

Now, I'm no expert on Romani folk, but I do know they have a rich tradition, and in my eyes to exclusion of this child, especially, may I point out, of a five year old child, who has no real idea that she is any different from the rest of her peers, is no different from a group of parents telling their kids to stay away from a child of any creed or religion. Tell a child to stay away from a Romani, apparently that's fine, but tell them to stay away from an Islamic boy and the papers would have a field day.

If and when I have children, I want more than anything for them to mingle with other cultures; they themselves are going to be a unique mix of English, Indian, Irish and Japanese, so why on earth shouldn't they revel in the opportunity to learn about how other children live? This young girl is probably more socially advanced than many of her peers; whilst they are playing with Barbie or Action Man (actually, let's face it, they've probably all got iPads already), chances are she is already an integral part of the family group, helping with chores and learning useful skills that most kids don't even touch upon until their preteens.

And, most importantly, they're kids for crying out loud! They should play together. They should learn about how other children live their lives, and at the end of the day, make their own choices. In excluding a child simply because of the way their family live, you are encouraging classism, racism, and all sorts of other "ism"s that should no longer exist in the world today.

So let the children play, and take your prejudices elsewhere. If you don't like it, leave the country, because who today can say they are 100% British anyway? And if you still have any prejudice towards Romani people, go and watch Chocolat, 'cos Johnny Depp'll melt your bloomin' heart!

¡Feliz Cinco de Mayo! with Ron Stoppable

From an early age, I've had something of an affinity for Mexico. I remember my friend Tom and I when we were about seven planning to sail across the Atlantic in order to reach Mexico City. My year four geography project was also on Mexico, back in the days when a thousand word project seemed like an unsurmountable climb, rather than the mere introduction of an all-nighter in the college computer lab.

My love of Mexican cuisine flourished during my tenure at a tex-mex restaurant in Durham, where my teenage self not only cut his teeth in the culinary world, but also developed an addiction to quesadillas and burritos. And also chipotle, much to the begrudgement of my poor bottom...

During my time at Leicester Square School of English, I had the utmost privalage to meet one of the loveliest families in the world. I don't often name names in this blog, but César Fernánadez, his sister Dani, step-mum Yadira and family friend Zara are probably the warmest and most welcoming family I have ever had the honour of meeting. They took me, not only to one of the most amazing bars I've ever been to, but also into their fold; I now have an open invitation to Mexico at the drop of a sombrero. The bar, a grungy underground dive named Mestizos (the term given to a half-Spanish, half-Mexican child) was packed to the rafters with Latino party-goers, dancing like their lives depended on it to Mexican tunes as they filled their faces with mouth-watering tacos and knocking back shot after shot of warming tequila. It was, quite honestly, the most life-affirming evening I have ever had.

So today we celebrate Cinco de Mayo, the day on which, in 1862, the Mexican armies overcame French rule at the Battle of Puebla. Since then, the day has represented the passion and heritage of the Mexican people, giving us a reason to celebrate the rich cultures and cuisines of these truly hard-working and caring folk.

So go out, listen to some mariachi music, cook yourself some fajitas (or a naco if you're feeling adventurous!) and revel in the awesomeness that is Mexico!

May The Fourth Be With You with Princess Leia Organa

Amidst all the terrible puns that arise on this day every year, it's easy to forget the importance of the original Star Wars films in our popular culture. Over the course of the last forty years the most iconic sci-fi fantasy of all time has unfortunately been diluted by terrible prequels, even more terrible animated tie-ins and a constant stream of parodies and references that have somewhat diminished the impact for modern generations viewing it for the first time.

The sad thing is, amidst all this gradual dilution, and the somewhat obsessive fan base, it's sometimes easy to forget just what inspired all of this galactic madness in the first place. It was, of course, 1977's Star Wars.

Before it was "A New Hope", before it was Episode 4, Star Wars was nothing more (and indeed nothing less than a fantastic fantasy epic, taking the Hero's Journey across the universe to a galaxy far, far away to create a by-the-book narrative featuring every element that a great film should. Action, adventure, comedy and romance (albeit, as it turns out, somewhat incestuous) are accompanied by iconic villains and swashbuckling heroes. All this encapsulated by a rich mythology that has been studied and worshiped in the decades since, Star Wars truly was a game changer.

So it's not a surprise really that the world of popular culture has never been the same since. It is, however, something of a shame, that in this world of CGI and Michael Bay, children will never again feel that same spectacle when they are introduced to the series. Perhaps that's why Lucas felt that the total green-screen approach was the way forward with Episode 3. Or perhaps he's just a douche. I tend towards the latter.

I'll never forget the first time I found myself in the Satr Wars universe. I was about six and, on a rainy bank holiday Monday, sat in front of the television with my parents when The Emprie Strikes Back came onscreen. From its snow-capped opening sequence to the final reveal (one that no-one can now escape the knowledge of... thank you Family Guy...), I was utterly hooked. I realised at this young age the importance of what I had just seen, and probably, subconsciously, the thrall it would hold over me for the rest of my life.

Over the years that followed, I viewed and reviewed the trilogy, collected the Tazos in Walkers crisps, eagerly anticipated Episode 1, grew ever more apathetic at the films that followed (despite rather falling in love with Princess Amidala... In many ways a more delightful royal than her predecessor/daughter) and ultimately sighed in disappointment at Episode 3's climax. 

Throughout the ups and downs, however, one thing remains; the original three films make up one of cinema's finest trilogies. Luke Skywalker remains a hero for the ages, Vader a true tyrant, the Emperor a villain to end all villains, Han Solo the greatest swashbuckling pilot in the universe, and Princess Leia this millennia's Helen of Troy.

May the force be with you, always.

Friendship is Magic with Apple Jack

I've always believed that once you reach a certain age, your circle of friends elevate in importance to take on a much more familiar role. As we move away from home and begin to become the adults that will eventually replace our childish selves, we start to create close comradal units that in many ways replace the roles that had once been held by parents and t siblings.

The turning point for most is university, when you suddenly find yourself thrust into unfamiliar territory with unkown people, each of whom is in exactly the same boat. And so you latch on to the first few people that show a vague interest in your interests. You party with them, you study with them, and chances are by second year, you'll be sharing a house with them. If you're lucky, they won't turn out to be complete weirdos the moment you move in, and you'll spend the next few years happily cohabilitating with people who will eventually be stood next to you at graduation, hold positions of importance at your wedding, and probably stick around for decades to come.

As the fairytale that is university comes to an end, you'll find yourself moving away, possibly to a different end of the earth, and many of those who made up your cadre of everyday drinking buddies will become little more than a fond memory, mentioned at dinner parties. A select few, however, will remain a huge part of your life, and should be held on to; these are the people who would ride side by side into battle with you, and should be considered sacred.

As you move from town to town and job to job, you will soon accumulate a disjointed collection of confidants, many of whom may well disappear once you inevitably move on, but some, like a tattoo on your soul, will stay with you for life, no matter the distance, no matter the time.

This morning, due to the miracle of Skype, I was able to speak to two of my best friends in the world (literally). Both of them live over ten thousand miles away; one of them I have not spoken to since Christmas Day, and not seen since I left Japan a year and a half ago, and the other I have not seen since three years ago when he provided shelter after the Fukushima tragedy. But is it odd to talk after such periods of time? Of course not! You simply pick up from the last conversation and find yourself kicking yourself for not finding the time to speak more often!

My best friends from school (indeed I feel blessed that ten years on I am still very much in contact with friends I've known since before puberty) I see very rarely these days, but whenever we're in the same town, we make sure to meet up for a drink, and for a brief while we're teleported back to sixth form.

But that's the magic of friendship; friends not only provide you with an endless amount of support, they also remind you of the best times in your lives, the crazy stuff you did, and occasionally, just how good it feels to revel in your communal awesomeness.

So to my friends in Durham, in London, in Leeds, Stilton, the midlands and in Blackpool. To those in Cardiff, in Hamburg, in the Tokyo area and that town near Kobe that I can't recall. The the weird one in California and the even weirder one in Istanbul. To all of you, I extend my thanks and admiration. The journeys we've had and those to come. You're all freakin' awesome.

And friendship is ruddy magic!

A Bit on the Side with Brian Blessed

Being creative in the twenty first century is something of a curse. Despite what Glee would have us believe, no matter how big fish we were at school, when it comes to the real world we are not going to fall immediately into our dream jobs in the arts. In fact, there is no falling involved whatsoever. It is a long, painful climb punctuated by broken bones and landslides. And how many of us actually fulfil our creative potential? Very bloody few, Glee, that's how ruddy many!

So we need to make a living. It's interesting to note that many other creative types I know have, like myself, turned to teaching as a career. Education seems to attract performers for many reasons, but one of the largest perks is that you always have a captive audience. No matter what I going on in your life outside of the classroom, the moment you step in front of a group of students, you ready your jazz-hands, put on a smile and deliver a cracking lesson.

The thing is, there still remains that little fire in the back of our souls that longs for a little more. No matter how much we love the job (indeed it's difficult to find a job that is more regularly rewarding than seeing students progress under your nurturing), we still find ourselves longing for a little extra creative release.

Luckily, I have been fortunate enough to find the time to keep those passions alive through a steady stream of hobbies and side projects. Obviously this blob provides me with a daily dose of literary output, whilst the sketch pad that lives in the magazine rack is home to not only my general sketches and manga ideas, but also my more recent recurring cartoon, Teaching Training. Musically I've found comfort in local bars at regular open mic nights, and I have also just this week been invited to join the writing team for a popular lifestyle magazine.

So there are always avenues to take for those willing to search. I'm under no illusion that I could someday make a career from my arts; if it were to happen that would be a fantastic bonus. I shall keep singing, keep writing, and keep doodling down ideas for children's books, but for the most part it serves only as a release. I love my job more than anything, and despite difficult students and ridiculous amounts of paperwork, it certainly beats the years I spent in kitchens. If someday some agent is daft enough to throw money at me for whatever reason, then great, but until that day I'm more than happy to be a renaissance man. Like a skinnier, less beardy Brian Blessed. 

At least that's what I'd like to think...

Breaking Out The Other "L" Word with Ellen Wong

If you'd asked me five years ago what my favourite film was, I would've said, without any hesitation, Spielberg's classic Jurassic Park. A delicious blend of nostalgia and believable science fiction, with a spattering of the greatest and most realistic special effects that have ever hit the silver screen. For almost twenty years of my life, Jurassic Park held its place as my rainy day film, the film that would cheer me up whenever needed.

And then along came Mr. Scott Pilgrim. Over the last four years since it's release, I must have watched Scott Pilgrim Vs The World almost thirty times, and as I sit here this evening watching it after a long day in the classroom, I still find myself noticing new things, giggling at jokes that had previously eluded me, and falling once again in love with the wonderful Ellen Wong as the tragic Knives Chau.

An eclectic mix of musical, action adventure, comedy and romance, Scott Pilgrim manages to present itself as the chimeric love child of film, video game and comic book, lovingly crafted with all the directorial finese that a British geek named Edgar Wright could muster.

The story, for those uninitiated, revolves around the eponymous Canadian as he fights against an evil league of exes in order to win the heart of kooky delivery girl Ramona Flowers. The plot itself is pretty daft, but it is delivered with such ridiculous aplomb that one cannot help but find oneself at the edge of the sofa waiting for each battle to unfold. 

Michael Cera as the lead is a beautiful mix of hopeless hero and even more hopeless romantic, delivering the most delightfully dead-pan performance since Lorenzo Music first voiced everyone's favourite lasagne-scoffing feline. The supporting cast meanwhile each add their own spice to proceedings, from Keiren Culkin as Scott's world hating roommate to Mary Elizabeth Winstead as eccentric love interest Ramona. Each evil ex is hilariously cast, and each of Scott's hopeless band mates perfectly seasoned. It all adds up to a cordon-bleu dish of a cast, expertly finished by the delectable topping that is Ellen Wong as the ever-lovable Knives who, depending on which ending you watch, will either break your heart, or fill you with utterly life-affirming joy.

Every scene thrives with vibrancy, crafted with such loving care that like each of Wright's other films, it can be endlessly rewatched without ever losing its freshness.

Scott Pilgrim was a flop in the cimema, and remains to this day an underground sensation, but frankly, if you don't like it, you're missing a heart, tin-man. Warm, hilarious, and ultimately reassuring, it's going to take one hell of a movie to knock this one off my top spot.

And then of course, there's Knives...

The Not-So-Fantastic Four with Jessica Alba

When it comes to superhero teams, I've always been an Marvel man. Although DC presents us with kick-ass heroes who can take on the world, they are usually of alien or supernatural origin, thus placing them outside of the sphere of normal human beings. The epitome of this, obviously, being Superman, who is so far beyond normality that his alter-ego is in fact the bespectacled Clark Kent. Most heroes put on a suit in order to become their powerful personas; Kent meanwhile does the opposite. Relatable? Not to the angsty teen that resides within my soul.

As such I've always turned more towards Spider-Man and the X-Men; everyday teenagers who for whatever reason, be it genetic mutation or radioactive spider bite suddenly have their world turned upside-down as great power endows them with great responsibility. Struggling with the forces of evil whilst at the same time dealing with the mundanity of everyday life is something that we all dream of once in a while.

Whether it's the real life issues of Spider-Man (maintaining a job, struggling with relationships or looking after ailing relatives), the political agendas of the X-Men (racism, prejudice and, more recently, homosexuality in the form of Northstar and his newly-wed husband), or even presenting wartime America with a much needed "captain", Marvel has always done its utmost to provide comfort to its readers in the form of the fantastic.

Which is why I've never understood the appeal of the Fantastic Four. As I sit watching what is in fact the third FF movie, Rise of the Silver Surfer, I find myself questioning Marvel's continuous adamance in getting us to like this rather bizarre group. The first film, a delightful Roger Corman produced b-movie was watchable merely for its godawful special effects. The reboot was undoubtably terrible, made only slightly redeemable by the terrible miscasting of Jessica Alba (who I could happily just watch eating a sandwich for ninety minutes), and its sequel is made only marginally better by the addition of everyone's favourite galactic surfer dude. So why, oh why, Marvel, are we now expected to sit through next year's reboot starring Billy Elliot as the gravelly Ben Grimm??

So why doesn't the Fantastic Four work? Let's first have a look at the characters for a start;

Reed Richards (Mr. Fantastic)

The leader of our team is know to be the smartest man on earth. A super-genius with the utterly lame ability to stretch himself into any shape imaginable. His secondary power is to be strangely attractive to really hot women. And he has salt-and-pepper sideburns. All in all, how many kids want to be a physicist with all the power of a rubber band? I know I certainly didn't.

Sue Richards (The Invisible Woman)

Sure, Sue is one of the sexiest women in the Marvel Universe, and made all the sexier when played by Miss Alba, but she had a power that everyone knows should only be given to horny boys in their teens; invisibility. The ability to disappear from sight has only two uses in this world; sneaking into the girls' locker room, and bank robbery. So why on earth give it to a girl? And one that works for the good guys at that?

Johnny Storm (The Human Torch)

Now, the Human Torch is pretty cool. Ability to control fire has always been on my wish list, and one of the best superhero catchphrases of all time make him the one actually appealing hero in the troupe. That said, making him a super cool stunt racer and ladies man with an attitude problem make him little more than a slightly less cool Tony Stark. I half wish they'd made him gay just so "flame on!" Had a hilarious double meaning.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

The Thing really drew the short straw in the comic book world. Not only does he have one of the lamest names in comic history, his power is that he's so hideously gravelly that he's only attractive to blind people. I'm sorry, Ben, but sucks to be you.

Not only are their powers and characters weak, the Fantastic Four are also "out" in the superhero world. Sure, during the Utopia story arc the X-Men walked freely around the streets of San Francisco in a state of mutant acceptance, but that soon fell apart and now they're treated once again as terrorists against humanity. The Fantastic Four meanwhile have been open to the public about their powers for decades and never run into any problems. Life is simply too cushy for us to really ever see any danger for them.

And then there's the kids. Kids in sci-fi suck. Fact. The one exception is Runaways' Molly Hayes. Franklin and Valeria Richards not only have rubbish names, they also fall into the inevitable pantsness of fictional children. Spider-man doesn't have kids. Just sayin'.

The one redeeming feature of Fantastic Four books is their villains. Victor Von Doom is an awesome antagonist, harking back to gothic villains of Victorian horror, whilst Galactus literally eats planets for breakfast. For good measure, we'll ignore Mole Man and Puppet Master.

All in all, I simply feel that of all the heroes in the Marvel Universe, the Fantastic Four make for the dullest team. Individually, they aren't that great, and as a quartet, the fall far from Fantastic. So why, Marvel, don't you stop trying to ram them down our throats. Why not concentrate on making that Runaways movie you've been promising for the last decade? Or a delightfully dark Dr. Strange? Christ, I'd even settle for a decent Howard the Duck reboot!

Happy World Tapir Day! with Drowzee

I love tapirs. A delightful forest ungulate from the darkest regions of South America (as well as Malaysia), they boast not only one of the strangest appearances of any mammal, but also the cutest babies in the animal kingdom. I mean seriously, check them out...

All four living species of tapir are classed as endangered, and as such, to raise awareness for this wonderfully unique creature, April 27th has been designated World Tapir Day. Given their large size, the tapir has few natural predators, save for jaguars and crocodiles. They are shy and peaceful creatures, happily living a semi-aquatic lifestyle away from the ever-expanding human population of South America. But of course, as is so often the case, the destruction of their natural habitat in order to make way for the needs of humanity has led to numbers declining dramatically over the last few decades. Indeed, it is estimated that there are now more tapirs in captivity across the globe than in their natural Amazonian homeland.

After a fabulous day today with my Brazilian friends, sampling some truly delightful Brazilian foods (the likes of which I have never tried before, and as such am rather impressed!), I figured it was only apt to muster up a little awareness of this delightful Brazilian beast that so rarely gets any press. 

Tapirs are magical; they're like some bizarre missing link between pigs and elephants and always make for one of my favourite exhibits at London Zoo (not solely due to their astonishingly enormous testicles! Seriously, they look like a pair of beachballs in a bin-liner!). They also exist in Japanese folklore as the dream-eating Baku (inspiring, no doubt, probably the most famous fictional tapir, Pokemon's Drowzee),  and are seen as peaceful spirits of the American forests.

So look out for these lovely beasts, and if you don't know what they are, read up on Wikipedia in order to discover your new favourite animal!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tapir

Happy World Tapir Day everyone!