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...