tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20297833917663596352024-03-14T02:30:10.444-07:00The Inner MonoblogAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-67299449044428104402015-06-14T05:45:00.001-07:002015-06-14T05:48:26.279-07:00Holy Crap, I'm a Writer with April o'NeilI've been writing for as long as I can remember; my first "book" entitled "The Boy Who Wanted to be an Under the Sea Animal" was a crayon-written tale illustrated with photographs I had taken with my Fisher Price camera when I was about five years old, and earned me five stars on the classroom star-chart. Indeed, one might say it's my only award-winning piece to date.<div><br></div><div>Since then, prior to actually studying the art of storytelling at university, my tweenage self dabbled in crafting crudely-told Goosebumps rip-offs on my mum's old typewriter, and doodling an anthology comic book called "Monsters and Mysteries", which is probably yellowing somewhere in my mother's lift.</div><div><br></div><div>After leaving uni, I had my hopes of becoming a television writer somewhat dashed by the BBC when my supernatural comedy drama "Hole", about a vampire, a ghost and a werewolf living in a flat in South Wales, was rejected by the Writers' Room, only for a hauntingly similar series by the name of "Being Human" coming to our screens approximately a year later. Coincidence? Plagiarism more like dear Beeb!</div><div><br></div><div>Over the last few years, I've spent much of my time juggling various different blogs; Silver Screen Lining was essentially my online journal of my time in Japan, littered with the occasional review, whilst The Forest of Nostalgia was a brief foray into childhood memories.</div><div><br></div><div>And then came this tirade.</div><div><br></div><div>The Inner Monoblog began as something of a Facebook joke. I went through a stage of randomly quoting different characters or actors in my statuses, and then continuing to use their voice as that day's inner monologue. After a while, the statuses became longer, maintaining by the topic of the particular voice, and eventually I decided to launch the blog. Three years on, and although I don't get round to a daily blog anymore, it's still going strong. So thanks for continual readership and whatnot!</div><div><br></div><div>About a week ago, however, something amazing finally happened in my perpetual pursuit of becoming a professional writer - I got a professional writing gig!</div><div><br></div><div>Years of mindless waffling have finally paid off, and now I am officially on the writing team for Vulture Hound Magazine (www.vulturehound.co.uk)! Sure, the pay is... Well... Let's say "minimal" for sake of argument, but it's a much-welcomed step in the right direction.</div><div><br></div><div>So, to let you know, dear reader, The Inner Monoblog will, of course, be continuing, but don't expect quite so many updates from this end, as my evenings are now spent watching a plethora of both wonderful and terrible films (rarely any in between!) and then scribbling my thoughts down for my editor Mr Dickinson.</div><div><br></div><div>Wish me luck, and go check out Vulture Hound!!</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9nONTEL7MEz9p8_JXU3ZwRl0vjLRXth8uRwdYugjffZOrlHGvqdPepsjy7vgReipElTusPYSxwB3AlcFqAU4NJL6i8T67D_zesRWhTVZzGq_p1yoYtDpXtCW5dbY2Ps3AIkctjXBjras/s640/blogger-image-1445226439.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9nONTEL7MEz9p8_JXU3ZwRl0vjLRXth8uRwdYugjffZOrlHGvqdPepsjy7vgReipElTusPYSxwB3AlcFqAU4NJL6i8T67D_zesRWhTVZzGq_p1yoYtDpXtCW5dbY2Ps3AIkctjXBjras/s640/blogger-image-1445226439.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-57473897035346575052015-06-07T03:17:00.001-07:002015-06-07T04:06:14.703-07:00A Load of Poop with Bree Olson<div>Cinema is a strange and wonderful thing. An artistic medium allowing directors from all walks of life to share their stories with the world, to induce feelings of love, of happiness, or to provoke outrage or even disgust.</div><div><br></div><div>Unfortunately this is an outrage and disgust post.</div><div><br></div><div>Though, not necessarily on my behalf. </div><div><br></div><div>Now, I<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> don't know quite what it says about me, and I'm sure there will be many out there judging me for this, but i have something of a warped interest in the rather cult genre of horror films known as "gorno". This usually surprises people (indeed, when I think about it, it rather surprises me actually...), especially considering my much more open adoration for the works of a Mr Walt Disney, along with pretty much anything Nickleodeon has to offer, but I think somehow it roots back to my childhood obsession with cheesy horror flicks. This in turn, being a Noughties teen, turned into meta-slasher, before finally evolving into a morbid interest in just how far the boundaries of shock can be pushed.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">This has led me to watch a plethora of delights over the last few years, from Asian extreme flicks such as the censors' favourites <i>Grotesque </i>and the <i>Guinea Pig </i>series (not as cute as it sounds) to the oh so very happy-go-lucky <i>A Serbian Film.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i><br></i></span></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">As such, I had been rather curiously looking forward to Tom Six's third and final instalment in his <i>Human Centipede </i>trilogy, which has crawled sneakily onto the Internet at some point in the last week or so. Having sat through and, shall we say "appreciated" the first two films, I was intrigued to see how Mr Six could possibly trump the schlock and shock of the genuinely unsettling second film.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">Turns out, he simply couldn't. </font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">There's some genuinely smart stuff on display here, most notably the film-within-a-film-within-a-film concept, which is sadly undermined by having characters from the "within" films playing completely different characters in the film itself (that said, if you were going for a meta mind-f*ck Mr Six, that's possibly the most confusing sentence I've ever tried writing). Indeed, as Dieter Laser, who so wonderfully played the doctor in the first film, prances around in his role as the prison warden, screaming every line in his over-annunciated German accent, you have to wonder if Six recast him simply for the meta value. In fact, his performance is so utterly grating, it will have any audience member wanting to sew his annoying mouth into the centipede themselves by the halfway point of the film.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">There's a certain level of disbelief in this final instalment (not helped at all by Laser's campy performance) in that to a certain degree, the first two films seemed rooted in realism; we could somehow believe that somewhere in the woods an insane man could be cooking up this plan, or that a social outcast might try and copy what he had seen in a horror film, but to suggest that a group of medical professionals would go along with the idea of a prison accountant simply because he had watched a couple of DVDs is utterly absurd. Plus by this point, we all know that the "100% medically accurate" line is utter grubbiness, so why try and fob this one off as the most realistic when in fact it is the most utterly far-fetched.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">Then we have the "gore", and it's at this point I genuinely start to worry that I have become desensitised to on-screen violence. The film was, quite simply, dull as dishwater. There was nothing that we had not seen before, and the "500 man centipede" that Six has been so boastful about, is no more than the very same CGI image seen in the trailer. The prison setting means that we do not empathise as much with the "segments" of the centipede; indeed, in Six's rather misguided attempt at political satire, he does make us momentarily think that this might indeed be the solution to the prison system, though the punishment for those on death row is certainly rather squeam-inducing.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">Overall, I'm not quite sure what Six was aiming for here; it's not scary enough to be a horror movie, it's not schlocky enough to satisfy the gore-hounds, and it's not quite political enough to be he allegory he seems to be going for. In the end, we're left with a pretty mediocre B-movie featuring an over the top German and a retired porn star.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">Well, actually, Miss Olson kind of made it all worthwhile...</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjik47Yep06LGYMGKsbYlOWIJr_bmPIbgjHV-Ok6yDY1gGmK09bTHC76RCEd-_9luen6fRu6WkyQQQqhYw3-L6Ce-z6Vz-Jais7p7QSiVkWWJ9He7kQgpYvhHG9sBKjiD4-8iJxbdfuWbQ/s640/blogger-image-184116417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjik47Yep06LGYMGKsbYlOWIJr_bmPIbgjHV-Ok6yDY1gGmK09bTHC76RCEd-_9luen6fRu6WkyQQQqhYw3-L6Ce-z6Vz-Jais7p7QSiVkWWJ9He7kQgpYvhHG9sBKjiD4-8iJxbdfuWbQ/s640/blogger-image-184116417.jpg"></a></div><br></div></div><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i><br></i></span></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-48104600229497166002015-06-01T14:37:00.001-07:002015-06-01T14:44:58.783-07:00Secret Gaming with Lara CroftI've always loved video games. Some of my earliest memories are of going round friends' houses to play on Cool Spot (a wonderful interactive ad for 7up for those who don't remember) before getting the long awaited Megadrive for my sixth birthday, allowing me to take part in the ever-heated debate over who was better; Sonic or Mario. <div><br></div><div>Sonic, obviously.<div><br></div><div>My Megadrive saw me through my childhood (along with the first gen GameBoy in all its gargantuan glory which was my stalwart companion on many a long car journey), before finally giving up the ghost during a Mortal Kombat II marathon sometime before my eleventh birthday. It was with a heavy heart that the classic black controllers were retired to the loft, where I believe they still reside, and quite surreptitiously replaced with the console which would go on to shape my gaming life for the next two decades.</div><div><br></div><div>The Sony Playstation was, upon its release, a breakthrough in gaming technology. Looking back, it seems basic, almost primitive, and when we consider the triangular graphics of the first Tomb Raider game, it's amazing to think how far we've come in the last twenty years, now producing games that are often so realistic that vertigo can be induced simply by swinging the camera view over a cliff top.</div><div><br></div><div>Indeed, it's Miss Croft's buxom adventures that have played the main role in my gaming career. Having played through each and every game in the franchise from beginning to end, with the recent "reboot" in all its beautifully rendered glory very much helping to keep my mind away from the harshness of reality during my first few months back from Japan, the Tomb Raider series has probably clocked up far too many hours of my adolescence that should perhaps have been spent on more worthwhile pursuits such as going out and having real adventures rather than playing God to a digital avatar.</div><div><br></div><div>Its epic mix of puzzle and adventure (and of course a certain perky protagonist) has led the Tomb Raider series to earn a very special place in my heart, and although some games have not held up as strongly against others (Chronicles and Underworld are no match for the likes of TR3 and the reboot... And I still maintain the Angel of Darkness is, despite the general hatred, one of the most enjoyable entries in the franchise), every one has added something new and memorable to the mythology. And cost me many, many hours of my life.</div><div><br></div><div>I'd like to say that such wastefulness of time is the reason I've yet to buy a PS4, but the sad truth is (aside from my decrepit bank balance) that I'm waiting until the next Croftian adventure comes out until I part ways with however many hundreds of pounds the darn console costs. Any other games I happen to buy will be nothing more than a bonus, and on the positive side, the PS4 will probably be a heck of a lot cheaper in a year of so's time. The other problem is that my better half (ironically hailing from the land of Sony and NamCo), hates home gaming, and gets in enough of a twist about my iPad gaming time without bringing a console into the mix. That said, I've already informed her quite firmly that when Rise of the Tomb Raider hits the shelves, she will be playing second fiddle and ensuring I have a constant supply of Cheetos for a good couple of weeks.</div><div><br></div><div>Until then, however, I guess that Relic Run, Lara's blatant Temple Run ripoff will have to keep me occupied. Either that or I go and buy the Angelina Jolie box set...</div></div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_LfLbjXoe87FxkuoNCEDg4DUgycu6adGp9n4j9URgTSEEovYPmRKMFijNr34gmpTaBnCykWIW_AIiYCajCT8uUDliQCaiiPznWrIrESm-HIQYvUZ7QX4mGYE7cABwFtMgFyrtiSD7vBA/s640/blogger-image--1116043696.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_LfLbjXoe87FxkuoNCEDg4DUgycu6adGp9n4j9URgTSEEovYPmRKMFijNr34gmpTaBnCykWIW_AIiYCajCT8uUDliQCaiiPznWrIrESm-HIQYvUZ7QX4mGYE7cABwFtMgFyrtiSD7vBA/s640/blogger-image--1116043696.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-75650750685982224902015-05-31T05:32:00.001-07:002015-05-31T05:34:34.955-07:00A Giant Bath with Tony MontanaI've been rather offline of late; indeed the last few weeks I have found myself in something of a late-twenties crisis (possibly mid-life... At this point, who knows?). As the turning point of thirty looms ever-closer, I feel the need to sort my life out a'proper. <div><br></div><div>If I had asked my teenage self where I thought I would be as I approach the end of my third decade on this earth, I would have, without doubt, seen myself in a comfortable job (with a pretty high level of employment security), owning a small but cosy house somewhere in the 'burbs, with a dog and a nice little run-around car. Once upon a generation, these things were not beyond the reach of a young professional.</div><div><br></div><div>Instead, however, I find myself in a job, which although I love dearly, offers as much security as a chocolate fireman in the ever-tempestuous market of the EFL industry. I am living at the bottom of my overdraft in a job which, if my P60 is anything to believe, offers a net salary somewhere below the national minimum wage, supplemented by all-weather busking and private lessons with all-too-often sporadic students.</div><div><br></div><div>As such, I have had my head down of late, battling against the rising tide of depression with a trident of determination set on sorting my ruddy life out once and for all.</div><div><br></div><div>The dreamer in me has finally summoned the courage to do what I have been promising myself for years, and has auditioned for both The Voice and The X-Factor in the unlikely and yet seemingly possible fast-pass to a smidgeon of success, and although I have no pretence of getting anywhere, I have already made it through a couple of rounds of the former, so perhaps I stand a half chance of at least a few wedding gigs out of it if I can get some TV exposure.</div><div><br></div><div>The realist, meanwhile, is fighting valiantly against the ever-baying wolves of bills at the door, and is beginning to wonder whether it's time to pack in this teaching malarkey. Sure, I love my students, but it's time now to look to the future, and perhaps a job in copywriting would be a little more financially viable. Sure, I wouldn't enjoy it quite as much, but at least perhaps I could take a bit of a breather once in a while when it comes to the battle between monthly bills and the decision to eat.</div><div><br></div><div>So apologies, dear reader, for a somewhat more bleak than usual post, but this is where I have been of late. With continued oomph, perhaps soon I'll get out of this slump, both financial and psychological, and get some more positive posts coming your way. </div><div><br></div><div>The day I can afford a bath I can actually lay down in and take a load off; that'll be the day I can relax.</div><div><br></div><div>On the plus side, only eleven days 'till Jurassic World! Suppose it's not all doom and gloom!</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrdjw3tEinUmU2s2JvugpLgV-0NqAmuqqpCojc1FV47KfgR7GJsnjk8cUEY2Aq2bBbL81Bi1ISFK9N3h8gkLNotyFX4kmxh1qMROqWb-ZhuKQGhMOxy0u33MEEwTrfBrE-3-8N6M8pfnI/s640/blogger-image--1500961789.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrdjw3tEinUmU2s2JvugpLgV-0NqAmuqqpCojc1FV47KfgR7GJsnjk8cUEY2Aq2bBbL81Bi1ISFK9N3h8gkLNotyFX4kmxh1qMROqWb-ZhuKQGhMOxy0u33MEEwTrfBrE-3-8N6M8pfnI/s640/blogger-image--1500961789.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-74061672524657653122015-05-06T16:10:00.001-07:002015-05-06T16:10:32.989-07:00A Trip to the Vet with Nami and RobinOwning a pet is great. Having been a constant animal owner since before I was even born, I can honestly say that an animal in the house is a source of perpetual amusement and companionship. Over the course of my life, I've had two very different dogs, one a bizarre mongrel (who we think may have been the unfortunate partenering of a King Charles Spaniel and a Rottweiler) and one an utterly insane Labrador who generally believes herself to be an oversized housecat. I've also had the pleasure of owning an overly affectionate (if somewhat destructive) house rabbit who although cost us nothing to adopt, did end up losing us £600 in deposit money after eating his way through an leather sofa. <div><br></div><div>My favourite pets, however, have been my guinea pigs, the first pair of which I was bought during my third year at university by my well-meaning friends as a way to combat my crushing bachelorhood. The boys, Oz and Warren (named after characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer of course) were a cantankerous pair who lived to the ripe old guinea pig age of eight, Oz, rather amazingly, playing the role of Odysseus' dog Argos in faithfully waiting until I finally returned from my adventures in the Far East before shuffling off this mortal coil.</div><div><br></div><div>A few months ago, having gone somewhat petless for the last year (the neurotic Labrador still living with my mother in the North East) I decided to look into getting a new pair of guinea pigs to bring a bit of joy to the home (and also to further delay any more conversations about potential tiny feet...). Having looked around the local pet shops without finding the right piglets for us, we when somewhat taken aback to discover a pair of female Peruvian Long-hairs up for adoption.</div><div><br></div><div>Now, if, like most (and myself to be frank; I'd always thought a guinea pig was a guinea pig), you are unversed in the plethora of cavy breeds, the Peruvian can best be described as the love child of Cousin It and Mick Jagger; a quivering ball of fur with a very self-important strut. Not realising yet what a handful they would turn out to be, we took in the pretty pair, naming them Nami and Robin (the two main female characters in Oda Sensei's One Piece) and settled them into their new home.</div><div><br></div><div>Of course, what the pet shops don't tell you is that having pets that look like they could be in a L'oreal advert comes at the rather time-consuming cost of having to groom the little blighted on a daily basis. For Robin, it's not too much of an issue. Nami meanwhile will squeal and scream at the top of her lungs as soon as you go anywhere near her with a comb, let alone a pair of scissors. Unfortunately, this utterly abstinence from the clippers means the girls have to go to the vet once a month for a makeover.</div><div><br></div><div>And this is where the negative side of pet ownership comes into play; vets' bills. For a five minute nail clip and bottom trim, each pig costs the ridiculous sum of £18. That's £36 for the pair. Had I known this prior to their arrival, I would've got a pair of bog-standard piglets and let them get on with their lives. But no; I had to get the ruddy Kardashians of the rodent world.</div><div><br></div><div>So a word of warning to all; pets are great, but be careful what you choose, 'cause a pet is for life, and so are your credit card bills.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI_vmk06MVvrNR3O7wbFYAnfPg_Kb71AfydQR9RKPYiPpdRyjzfYo2xdvO070K2rsk_wlqGUH21m77GYnypSajdo04n0ZaQgs5WNf-asx0UQGdHNWOCShEFbTH6IkkNe93SXeKtSt42CA/s640/blogger-image--171394455.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI_vmk06MVvrNR3O7wbFYAnfPg_Kb71AfydQR9RKPYiPpdRyjzfYo2xdvO070K2rsk_wlqGUH21m77GYnypSajdo04n0ZaQgs5WNf-asx0UQGdHNWOCShEFbTH6IkkNe93SXeKtSt42CA/s640/blogger-image--171394455.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-31019688620717292222015-04-26T04:59:00.001-07:002015-04-26T11:37:47.448-07:00Days Off with BMOWhen you're a teacher trying to make his merry way in this world, a day to yourself when you have absolutely nothing to worry about; no marking, no problematic students, and, heaven forbid, no bureaucratic nonsense, comes about as often as finding a fresh fifty pound note laying in your path in the street.<div><br></div><div>So, on a peaceful Sunday morning (and by morning, I mean afternoon - you know it's a proper day off when you can still be in your pjs at 1pm with no guilt) I find myself thinking of the perfect ways to spend a day off. For your reading pleasure, here's my top five...</div><div><br></div><div><b>Cartoons</b></div><div>As any long-term readers of this blog know, I spend a vast amount of my precious free time indulging my nostalgia by watching the cavalcade of cartoony goodness from my youth. Whether it's a classic Disney series, or a piece of modern gold such as Adventure Time, there's nothing more enjoyable than some good quality kids' TV. In fact, one of the few reasons I have for actually having kids in the near future is to allow myself to continue watching cartoons under the pretence of it being for their enjoyment. "You want to watch Octonauts? Shuttup, Darkwing Duck's on!"</div><div><br></div><div><b>Baking</b></div><div>I don't bake as much as I'd like. Indeed, until about three years ago, I hated baking and was adamant that I was a cook and not a baker. Times change, and having somewhat been forced into the craft at a restaurant I was briefly working at, I have finally come to see the joys of throwing a bunch of stuff in a cake tin and hoping for the best!</div><div><br></div><div><b>Comic Sorting</b></div><div>I've always had a passion for alphabetising, coupled with a lifelong affinity for superheroes. Thus there are few greater joys in my life than hours spent lovingly putting comics into plastic envelopes and sorting them into chronological order. Dear god I lead a sad existence...</div><div><b><br></b></div><div><b>Gardening</b></div><div>I never thought I'd be the gardening type. Indeed, as a kid I absolutely hated the hours spent in the shed with my father on some cockamamie DIY project. It's rather odd then that when we moved to our current flat, I found a strange affinity with our shed. As soon as the sun comes out, I find myself outside, Bon Jovi blaring, potting and repotting the various fruits and veggies that we've currently growing on the veranda. Eventually, I might even get this kiwi tree to grow. The avocado's certainly looking healthy!</div><div><b><br></b></div><div><b>Busking</b></div><div>Street performing has becoming something of a zen-like experience to me now. No matter how bad my day at work, a couple of hours with my guitar, making a few extra pennies, has become the highlight of my week. Music is the universal medicine, and actually being appreciated for it quite frankly is awesome.</div><div><br></div><div>Unfortunately, having spent the day geeking out, I've now for a pile of ironing to work through. At least I've got Finn and Jake to keep me company though. Guess what time it is?</div><div><br></div><div>It's Ironing Time!</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGHx7w-Zgu1Bi784eHnq5jGwSTeOFsxLMFaZp-UzzKkEQWrLo9ARy_F7AWZlDVrzL2wKR97M0kVNU8we2mcYrEB5pE75c1xhT5V0NjPw9QGs7Nm1IzvYUqhxsgEQwwAxZh_F-zpK5XmIU/s640/blogger-image-1554636994.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGHx7w-Zgu1Bi784eHnq5jGwSTeOFsxLMFaZp-UzzKkEQWrLo9ARy_F7AWZlDVrzL2wKR97M0kVNU8we2mcYrEB5pE75c1xhT5V0NjPw9QGs7Nm1IzvYUqhxsgEQwwAxZh_F-zpK5XmIU/s640/blogger-image-1554636994.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><b><br></b></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-61102782088692015392015-04-25T08:22:00.001-07:002015-04-25T08:31:14.439-07:00A New Age with Elizabeth OlsenI must admit, as I get older, I feel that I should perhaps begin to grow up a little; as a man on the verge of turning thirty, I feel that some of my more childish pursuits; evenings spent watching Adventure Time marathons, my lego collecting, and my weekly trip to the comic shop, should perhaps take something of a back-burning.<div><br></div><div>As such, I felt a little ashamed the other night to be partaking in one of the geekiest exploits of my life to date; a midnight viewing of the Marvel Cinematic Universe's latest offering, Age of Ultron.</div><div><br></div><div>After being one of the few people to be utterly underwhelmed by the first Avengers outing, and subsequently being disappointed by the terribleness of Iron Man 3 and Thor 2, I have had reservations for a while now. Upon learning that a grand total of twelve beloved Marvel heroes would be taking to the screen, I had a horrible feeling that I was in for another dip into the "too many heroes, too much action, too much story and not enough of any of the above" territory previously claimed by X-Men The Last Stand. </div><div><br></div><div>Fortunately, within the first five minutes of Age of Ultron, I knew I was to be proven wrong.</div><div><br></div><div>Opening with a fantastic raid sequence on the lair of Hydra honcho Baron Von Strucker, we are reintroduced to our core Avengers, with Thor, Captain America, Iron Man and the Hulk leading the way, and Black Widow and Hawkeye once again in stalwart support. Indeed, I groaned aloud when once again poor, oft seemingly useless Hawkeye was knocked out and laid up once again within the very first fight. Give the guy a break! And, much to my surprise, a break was very much given. Of the original team, Barton very much managed to steal the show this time round, and in a great speech towards the end of the movie, actually proved that perhaps he is more vital to the team than even the screen-hogging Tony Stark.</div><div><br></div><div>The much-moaned about online relationship between Romanov and Banner actually added humanity to this sequel, something very much missing in the first film, and Mark Ruffalo has this time round really got to grips with the many emotions haunting the troubled doctor. </div><div><br></div><div>Humanity is what really solidified this film in the MCU oeuvre; in a world of super powers and CGI, with a cybernetic villain (played with aplomb by James Spader), it's sometimes difficult to keep things grounded, but Joss Whedon really made an effort this time to show us the personal sides of these fantastic characters. In Age of Ultron, we see the friendships these heroes have built over the years, and that humanity is what can finally stand against a technical foe.</div><div><br></div><div>One thing that worried me before entering the Odeon was how our new players were going to be introduced; Marvel legends Quicksilver, Scarlet Witch and the Vision have all been very much teased over the last few months, and I was very impressed with the portrayals of these "enhanced" beings, and am in fact now somewhat besotted with Elizabeth Olsen's Wanda Maximoff. Quicksilver is a totally different side of Pietro Maximoff to his Days of Future Past counterpart, and equally as delightful to watch, and Paul Bettany's promotion from VoiceOver to superhero in the Vision works well within the context of the story. Indeed, as the all new Avengers finally Assembled, a tingle ran down my spine in apt anticipation of what is to come.</div><div><br></div><div>My only grumble is a small one; although eleven of our twelve Avengers got ample screen time (perhaps a little more War Machine would have been nice, but what we got was good), I do begrudge the absence of Falcon from the final battle. Having stolen the show somewhat in The Winter Soldier, I was very excited to finally welcome Sam Wilson to the main roster, and thus was disappointed that in a high flying sky battle (because it wouldn't be a Marvel movie without one!), Falcon didn't swoop in to join the other sky-based heroes. Maybe he got cut from the original four hour version... Ho hum...</div><div><br></div><div>Overall, however, Age of Ultron is a fantastic conclusion to Marvel's second phase, building upon the MCU's great points, and improving very much so on their mistakes of the past. Colour me excited for the next few years to come.</div><div><br></div><div>And more Elizabeth Olsen please. Much more.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlU9bp075Bkbi2_LOtHpU0jPjWTCZeJ-5UJovC_nY_mbj2l5B7ARcRk2Kqs4TfNyF_eqYV2HbniIiV12ogAqTZ6PwLdvP0SmXhyphenhyphenx7KOtL2GELeiqidANlRlkGN0u6ni6sUAD5QG-6ThI/s640/blogger-image-756175428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlU9bp075Bkbi2_LOtHpU0jPjWTCZeJ-5UJovC_nY_mbj2l5B7ARcRk2Kqs4TfNyF_eqYV2HbniIiV12ogAqTZ6PwLdvP0SmXhyphenhyphenx7KOtL2GELeiqidANlRlkGN0u6ni6sUAD5QG-6ThI/s640/blogger-image-756175428.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-46327292759067893892015-04-19T05:20:00.001-07:002015-04-19T07:12:37.647-07:00A Televisual Comic-book Cocktail with Chloe BennetI remember when I was younger, I used to pride myself on my vast knowledge and time spent with a variety of different tv shows. Indeed, my love of television is what initially propelled me to do a masters in scriptwriting, in the youthful hope that one day I could be up in the screen-writers' pantheon with the likes of Joss Whedon and Russell T Davies.<div><br></div><div>During university, my screen-time continued to flourish, with hours spent digesting any semi-acclaimed (and indeed any completely off-the-wall) series that happened to be talked about that week, finally culminating in over 400 hours of "research" for my MA dissertation, "The role of the ensemble sidekick in supernatural tv drama since 1993". Lot of use that turned out to be...</div><div><br></div><div>In recent years, however, I've begun to notice that I make little time anymore for television, with even my stalwart go-to comfort shows such as Masterchef and the Bake Off (shush; I used to be a chef... These shows are like porn to me...) getting cast aside for a decent book, or, quite frankly, a good sleep.</div><div><br></div><div>If you were to ask me what I'm watching at the moment, I would genuinely have to take a moment to think; I tried Game of Thrones (sorry, dull), Breaking Bad never appealed, and I'm still waiting in vain hope for a sitcom to come along to trump How I Met Your Mother.</div><div><br></div><div>So what am I watching? Well, there was, until two weeks ago, Glee, whose passing still makes me sad, and then, to be honest, everything else is comic book adaptations and spin offs, most of which I am weeks behind in due to an aggravating combination of livin in the UK and a crack-down on upload sites online.</div><div><br></div><div>It was a joy yesterday, therefore, to have a day, for the first time in over a month, where I had absolutely nothing to do. True, the weather was beautiful, and a little voice inside me kept saying I should be outside getting some vitamin D, but you know what, little voice? It's my dad, so shut up!</div><div><br></div><div>Six episodes of Agents of Shield later, and I'm almost up to date, relishing in a series that started oh so badly before finally becoming something Mr Whedon should be proud of. Throw in a large side Chicago Town pizza and I'm halfway through the fantastically macabre Daredevil series on Netflix, and then pour a glass of scotch before finishing with a couple of shots of Gotham for good measure.</div><div><br></div><div>Complete our cocktail analogy with a delightful sprinkling of Chloe Bennet's Skye to garnish and I am a happy man.</div><div><br></div><div>None of it could truly be classes as high-brow entertainment, and I'm still a good fortnight behind all of my friends that I'm putting off talking to due to possible spoiler leakage, but hey, these shows make me happy, and at the end of the day, I'd rather be watching a series because I actually want to than because the world tells me I should.</div><div><br></div><div>Now, dear Marvel, about that Howard the Duck tv series I pitched...</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidF5v5PgFK7LAjhu9BepFP47vKLy6eVQTKIoPCbQR3TGjAolyjolXf8cd-tQX0sJNQ8Y6PBIQr1SMk-OcGtEI2nPcEI5tZkTPXcu3nZ4Vi_xM6rYmhCvAFeqXfrVSI6a1GsTqk-oQ7R9k/s640/blogger-image--2110052510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidF5v5PgFK7LAjhu9BepFP47vKLy6eVQTKIoPCbQR3TGjAolyjolXf8cd-tQX0sJNQ8Y6PBIQr1SMk-OcGtEI2nPcEI5tZkTPXcu3nZ4Vi_xM6rYmhCvAFeqXfrVSI6a1GsTqk-oQ7R9k/s640/blogger-image--2110052510.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-75547448650972754762015-04-03T06:21:00.001-07:002015-04-03T06:25:29.626-07:00At the Terminal with Kurt WagnerI hate airports. Cold, faceless gateways to the world, there are in fact very few that instil any sense of excitement about the holiday to come.<div><br></div><div>Having spent a depressingly large proportion of the last decade arriving and departing from various destinations across the globe, I have come to regard airports with the same suspicious loathing with which they regard me.</div><div><br></div><div>Nowhere else in life are you expected to arrive hours early simply to be bundled into a cramped, noisy, smelly room and be grinned at inanely by people with more makeup on than Ronald McDonald. Once ushered through the gates, a minimum of one whole hour before the flight (indeed the one you already checked on to online the evening before), you are greeted by a landscape of unsmiling travellers, perched miserably on their luggage as the inevitable news of flight delays are delivered by faceless flatscreens, charged extortionate amounts for mediocre coffee, and (unless you luckily happen to be in Asia or Amsterdan), denied even the simplest of luxuries in a relaxing cigarette before your twelve hour flight.</div><div><br></div><div>Perhaps if I didn't hate flying quite as much as I do, airports wouldn't be quite as bad, but as I sit here at Southampton terminal waiting for the first of four flights this week (two of which being entirely superfluous - I'm having to fly up to Newcastle in order to catch another flight southbound, straight over my ruddy house in Bournemouth), a cacophony of babies crying and possibly braindead teens ringing in my ears, and a severe case of the sniffles adding to my grumbliness, I can't help but thinking maybe I should have just stayed home.</div><div><br></div><div>But then again, I'm finally going on my first holiday in four years, so perhaps it'll be worth it in the end...</div><div><br></div><div>If only I could teleport...</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfJAEL1ARaCgZxP6Lf15VscEiMSb7exulrI2ArBluvPt0Qh0Nw9NO6jx54hMkzLuG1AxeH21GnnElp_rOr5eW9Akx1QWwcVcfD9AroHXfhriVzlaQbu1bRgo649mX01tb6mHEh_JcIrB0/s640/blogger-image-1404307179.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfJAEL1ARaCgZxP6Lf15VscEiMSb7exulrI2ArBluvPt0Qh0Nw9NO6jx54hMkzLuG1AxeH21GnnElp_rOr5eW9Akx1QWwcVcfD9AroHXfhriVzlaQbu1bRgo649mX01tb6mHEh_JcIrB0/s640/blogger-image-1404307179.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-77382282352241242792015-03-30T15:31:00.001-07:002015-03-30T15:32:50.320-07:00I'm Getting Too Old For This Sh*t with Roger MurtaughSo the weekend of debauchery went ahead much as planned, with a delightfully civilised meal with friends and colleagues on Saturday evening followed by karaoke until the early hours of Sunday morning. This, topped off with an epic game of laser tag (consisting mostly of us ganging up on prepubescents in order to claim the crown), and much fun was had all round.<div><br></div><div>Unfortunately, with the new term kicking off at school this morning, I awoke feeling far from fresh as a daisy. </div><div><br></div><div>A three-day-in-the-making hangover was coupled with the aching joints that follow running around in the dark like a madman, pretending to be District Attorney Dredd (not long before the promotion), lead to a general realisation that I am indeed, getting too old for this shit.</div><div><br></div><div>As experienced by the cast of How I Met Your Mother, Murtaugh's law states that eventually we all reach a point in our lives when we simply cannot handle the frivolous activities we once enjoyed; whether they be busting some ass on the mean streets, or simply busting a move at 2am, eventually we all have to grow up, or at least deal with the consequences of desperately clinging on to our youths.</div><div><br></div><div>Of course, my clinging usually entails playing with Lego and watching copious amounts of Disney movies (my knowledge of which never fails to come in handy in my line if work - a brief verse of "Let it Go" always breaks a smile on even the most morose of children), but nonetheless, a good old fashioned outburst of stupidity, whether it be shooting the heck out of strangers, or a spontaneous slut-drop to Ke$ha, is sometimes very much in order.</div><div><br></div><div>I fear that in the coming future, my body's tolerance to my childish exploits will continue to lessen, but when all's said and done, it's a price I'm willing to pay for being awesome.</div><div><br></div><div>'Cause after all, you're never too old for anything.</div><div><br></div><div>Except possibly dungarees...</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge_AuOpOl_9bxQGOwy7RY8NlcbFqA0CLaobecBKfP_rx232_bZTaEywN275zS29VR6XdjLbUePB7OjhVneTsADanumae-7kKaCJIf1SwzV_GgpJQSs-gV-1cOm26EuxAQM3N52eKlzq3M/s640/blogger-image-1811808472.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge_AuOpOl_9bxQGOwy7RY8NlcbFqA0CLaobecBKfP_rx232_bZTaEywN275zS29VR6XdjLbUePB7OjhVneTsADanumae-7kKaCJIf1SwzV_GgpJQSs-gV-1cOm26EuxAQM3N52eKlzq3M/s640/blogger-image-1811808472.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-323261888017659842015-03-28T05:55:00.001-07:002015-03-28T06:09:58.417-07:00I Gotta Feelin' with Will I AmHaving done absolutely nothing for my birthday last year (we had not long moved down to Bournemouth, and as such were both penniless and rather lacking of a social circle), I decided that this year, in honour of my final twenty-something anniversary, celebrations were in order. Only one more year before the big three-oh, and therefore one last chance to keep a fleeting hold of my ever-disappearing childhood.<div><br></div><div>So, nursing a rotten hangover, brought on by Belgian drinking games and end of term partying, I have spent the morning fumigating the house and guinea pigs, readying for the arrival of friends from afar.</div><div><br></div><div>Stinking of bleach, I'm now sitting on the bus on my way to fill my tum with ramen before this evening's festivities begin.</div><div><br></div><div>So how to celebrate? Why with three of my favourite nostalgic exploits of course! Pizza, karaoke and laser quest!</div><div><br></div><div>Indeed, it's funny how, as a child, your birthday is all about the excitement of presents and being utterly spoiled for a day. As we get older, however, these things become rather trivial - in fact, save for a rather groovy Pokémon t-shirt, there's nothing I actually want present-wise (that's not to say I shan't be delightfully chuffed by whatever gifts do happen to come my way...) and am instead just looking forward to meeting up with friends I haven't seen in far too long and getting up to some ridiculous antics.</div><div><br></div><div>Over the next few days, expect battle reports of the great laser tag revolution, hideous caterwalling karaoke clips, and, most importanly, the continuation of my present state of hungoverness.</div><div><br></div><div>'Cause I've got a feelin' (wooohoooo!)</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjELQDUWsv7PoqcoDvTLb3nXP3evuJKLCM-bJO44vfuUhbg4IKLrgBi6S2cCG_X0VG_PxYH45KjYT3hZkzi1oKylPwEdQUICV_-MB-sA-n9DWs9tqrie8ZMke6lzTm2RTm2SrEt4Kab6Vk/s640/blogger-image--1807358048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjELQDUWsv7PoqcoDvTLb3nXP3evuJKLCM-bJO44vfuUhbg4IKLrgBi6S2cCG_X0VG_PxYH45KjYT3hZkzi1oKylPwEdQUICV_-MB-sA-n9DWs9tqrie8ZMke6lzTm2RTm2SrEt4Kab6Vk/s640/blogger-image--1807358048.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-17752068408051257962015-03-24T13:56:00.001-07:002015-03-24T13:57:12.100-07:00Exploding Snot with Mr. 5Being ill is a pain in the backside. This is common knowledge; the headache, sore throat and general coughs and sneezes that we all have to go through a couple of times a year are just one of those perpetual annoyances that come with being human.<div><br></div><div>Unfortunately, when you're a teacher teaching an array of different nationalities from across the globe, each arriving in the country with a somewhat delicate immune system due to climate shock and countless hours spent in recycled airline air, you find yourself in a veritable Petri dish of coughs and colds pretty much throughout the year. </div><div><br></div><div>Whilst teaching kindergarteners in Japanland, I quickly got used to the eternal nose picking and snot-flinging that comes, literally, hand-in-hand with teaching pre-schoolers, and learned that a man's best friend is a bottle of hand sanitiser kept at all times in his stylist yet affordable manbag.</div><div><br></div><div>When I began teaching adults, I truly believed that my part-time position as matron would make way for essay marking and tutorials.</div><div><br></div><div>Alas, it transpires that adults are even more sickness-ridden than their childhood counterparts, and no amount of barrocca and vitamin supliments can ward off the inevitable.</div><div><br></div><div>Of course, being a teacher, it's actually more hassle to take time off to recover than it is to organise and rely upon cover cover. Not to sound like a martyr, but we teachers, we've just got to push on through.</div><div><br></div><div>So do us a favour; if you're sick, stay at home! Think of your health, think of your classmates, and most importantly, think of your teacher!</div><div><br></div><div>'Cause as my mum always said "I'm far to busy and important to have time for the doctor."</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzLeyL85-PygOx0pOATHdot94D9yFGvC17VbDb4h_mKJTOiWz17VhjBNCBMOiMtdZHeQM8wn_0BBJHPGH5BWU1KjhYu7M5aIivOesf1wfpKzRZIMTizMqCnOLvs9oLZMictgQnC2tc-A/s640/blogger-image--1526661742.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzLeyL85-PygOx0pOATHdot94D9yFGvC17VbDb4h_mKJTOiWz17VhjBNCBMOiMtdZHeQM8wn_0BBJHPGH5BWU1KjhYu7M5aIivOesf1wfpKzRZIMTizMqCnOLvs9oLZMictgQnC2tc-A/s640/blogger-image--1526661742.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-52766483020920348592015-03-22T06:27:00.001-07:002015-03-22T09:42:56.153-07:00Sorry for the Inconvenience with George AgdgdgwngoI hate banks. To be quite honest, I'm tempted to embrace the ideologies of our fore-fathers and start burying my pitiful savings in burlap sacks in conveniently hidden places around my house and garden to be forgotten about until the future tenants luckily stumble upon them decades from now.<div><br></div><div>Of course, by that point, I will have died in abject poverty, and the noble pound sterling will have been replaced by that wonderful representative of utopia gone wrong, the Euro.</div><div><br></div><div>Banks seem to deride a masochistic amount of pleasure charging extortionate fees for the most trivial of mistakes, and yet realistically, all they do is profit from the profit of others.</div><div><br></div><div>This morning (a sleepy Sunday may I add), I was rudely awoken by "James" calling from the Halifax to inform me that I had exceeded my credit card spending limit, and that he was terribly sorry to inconvenience me, but I would be being charged twenty four pounds for the courtesy of his calling.</div><div><br></div><div>Now, normally this would have irked me somewhat, and I would have done the natural British thing and apologised profusely, dealing with the matter at the closest possible time. Unfortunately for "James", however, I had already dealt with the problem with another jolly representative from ten thousand miles away, and then again on Friday with yet another overly-chummy Halifax employee based somewhere in Mumbai.</div><div><br></div><div>Call me cynical, but surely all of these long distance calls, and indeed a calibre of workforce able to actually make a simple note stating that the balance would be settled via my next scheduled payment would negate the need for extortionate bank fees? One phone call from a centre just down the road, with a representative qualified enough to simply unclick the "keep calling this poor sap halfway across the world" box would save our dear British bank a heck of a lot of money.</div><div><br></div><div>Add to this the rage of being awoken from a peaceful slumber by inane mandatory security questions first thing on a Sunday morning, and quite frankly you should be sorry for the bloody inconvenience. And you should be grateful for my twenty years of custom thankyouverymuch "James". So you can stuff your fees up your jacksy, elswise I'll be spending this month's paycheck on burlap sacks and shovels.</div><div><br></div><div>Douchebags.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmm5VbIr40QPcVGgeDyivg66TAWVmcx3ddsg1H_ih6ovP8K6Ujd6n4byGMprEs57u9IwYikZbw0e48ILn-Il9k1xdx5jUDKFWg4l6mFLoM35wSYNO15U95KsRm5-sGrLFTbYbEsIPiso/s640/blogger-image--5564594.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmm5VbIr40QPcVGgeDyivg66TAWVmcx3ddsg1H_ih6ovP8K6Ujd6n4byGMprEs57u9IwYikZbw0e48ILn-Il9k1xdx5jUDKFWg4l6mFLoM35wSYNO15U95KsRm5-sGrLFTbYbEsIPiso/s640/blogger-image--5564594.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-51946880472421539422015-03-21T10:28:00.001-07:002015-03-21T11:35:34.647-07:00The End of an Era with The New DirectionsA friend recently ridiculed me for being a rock singer with a not-so-secret passion for high school musical comedy drama Glee.<div><br></div><div>I responded accordingly, telling him "good day" before storming out of the room in a strop.</div><div><br></div><div>The fact is, Glee has been a bizarre comfort to me over the last six years; yes, I will freely admit that I am a fan of the music (a capella has always been one of my favourite musical genres), but more than that, its perpetual underdog tale has struck many a heart string throughout it's six season run.</div><div><br></div><div>At its best, Glee is emotionally charged and touching, at its worst, it's saccharine and inherently twee. Fortunately, for the most part (save for the inevitable season five slump - find me a long-running TV show from the last few decades that did not take a seasonal nose-dive somewhere along the way), the good has outweighed the bad, and it's one of the few shows that has not only kept me coming back week after week, but also managed to keep me emotionally invested for its entire run.</div><div><br></div><div>The main reason for this lies in its original premise; teacher searching for creative output re-starts school glee club and leads them, against expectations, to victory. It's simple, but in its execution, it works beautifully. Mr. Schuester's struggle to balance his rocky private life, wavering bank balance and passion for his students pretty much rings true to every beat of my own life.</div><div><br></div><div>Why do I love Glee so much? Because I am Will Schuester.</div><div><br></div><div>Whether it's trying to juggle home life with work life, work life with creativity, or, most importantly, education with inspiration, I have connected with Mr. Schue from day one, and although the stories of the students have been touching; Kurt's coming out to his father (a scene which will always have resonance due to my own family circumstance), Puck's realisation that he will never amount to anything more than a Lima Loser, and Coach Bieste finally coming to terms with who she really is; it has always been Will's journey (excuse the pun) that has kept me watching week in, week out.</div><div><br></div><div>As the curtain closed on Glee this week, I was safe in the knowledge that tears would be abundant. And I was right. But not for the same reasons as the tweenage audience. I found myself in the shoes of my hero; watching as the students I had grown to love finally found their places in the world, I felt a strange sense of relief and pride as the lessons Schue had taught finally paid off.</div><div><br></div><div>In my own reality, I find myself believing once again that perhaps some day, I too can have my dream job, inspiring students and at the same time managing to take care of my own life. Eventually, I too will find that perfect balance between education, inspiration and aspiration...</div><div><br></div><div>Don't stop believing...</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUiEcbwQtEhR8FWyvleeSWDa7KN0Upnv8buosw_RlWOy3r_rRD5X6d1ePP46wecskmK9aAvmG64P0NnCWPzrhQn5awpGokGtumzosCkD-Co7IzIzTxll-RedbRgye2Fx5tWaH8Cu5R68U/s640/blogger-image-915475093.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUiEcbwQtEhR8FWyvleeSWDa7KN0Upnv8buosw_RlWOy3r_rRD5X6d1ePP46wecskmK9aAvmG64P0NnCWPzrhQn5awpGokGtumzosCkD-Co7IzIzTxll-RedbRgye2Fx5tWaH8Cu5R68U/s640/blogger-image-915475093.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-86980131900928221712015-03-19T12:17:00.001-07:002015-03-19T14:04:41.268-07:00Trapped in a World I Never Made with Howard the DuckHoward the Duck has always been one of my favourite Marvel heroes. Despite his relative anonymity (save for the godawful George Lucas movie), I have, since the early days of my comic collecting career connected with the anthropomorphic waterfowl much moreso than his humanoid cohorts. Indeed, my copy of the Howard the Duck Holiday Special is one of the prize pieces in my collection. So much is my love for this oft-forgotten character that I actually emitted an ear-piercing squee at Seth Green's brief portrayal of his in Guardians of the Galaxy's post-credit teaser.<div><br></div><div>His sarcastic, cantankerous nature as he wanders lost in a world that neither he understands or will ever understand him has been a personal comfort in my so often confusing and meandering existence.</div><div><br></div><div>And so, this week, it was with great delight that I arrived at my local comic book shop to discover the first issue in his new on-going series awaiting me in my drawer. </div><div><br></div><div>Still, after decades stuck on this earth, Howard is struggling to find his place; a plethora of useless knowledge and experience still leave him without any real direction in life. And yet, he picks himself up; the under-duck if you will, and determines to find his place.</div><div><br></div><div>So, after months away from the blogosphere, without writing, without drawing, and indeed without any real path ahead, I figured, if Howard can pick himself up again, then why the hell can't i?</div><div><br></div><div>So some resolutions;</div><div><br></div><div><b>Take Control</b></div><div>Drop the dead weight and start doing the more productive stuff in life; I've come to realise in the last few weeks exactly what's been getting me down, and now I'm working on the a aspects of my job and my home life that actually keep me motivated. Teaching students that actually want to learn rather than those simply looking to coast through life without really giving a damn.</div><div><br></div><div><b>Regain my creativity</b></div><div>I've been kidding myself over the last few months that I haven't had time to pursue my artistic outlets; the manga I've had in mind for the last year, the half-dozen unfinished songs, even the simplistic ritual of this blog have all gone unattended for far too long, and it's time to get my groove back.</div><div><br></div><div><b>Stop worrying about moolah</b></div><div>Not a day begins of late where I don't immediately check my bank account. Sure, I'm not swimming in a giant money bin, but I'm getting by, and perhaps it's time to let the savings grow naturally rather than keep being so negative about minimal interest.</div><div><br></div><div>All in all, I just need to start grabbing life by the cahones again. After all, if a duck from another dimension can do it, then why the heck can't I?</div><div><br></div><div>Waugh!!</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRLLU3SCdcJMn4tdQX6svuJLTSRdz0druJsnr_a05lRzCambg4dmsKiZ9-iVaBm5cFRH5TGtWFxPoja12oe_WpV1MK__HHiFaji5-Ov59-agl30wGXYYsNzlg3ypkvjJlMhefp7qbyTGA/s640/blogger-image--1977423415.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRLLU3SCdcJMn4tdQX6svuJLTSRdz0druJsnr_a05lRzCambg4dmsKiZ9-iVaBm5cFRH5TGtWFxPoja12oe_WpV1MK__HHiFaji5-Ov59-agl30wGXYYsNzlg3ypkvjJlMhefp7qbyTGA/s640/blogger-image--1977423415.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-8872367947961020122014-09-15T15:54:00.001-07:002014-09-15T16:37:32.199-07:00The Books That Changed My Life with Winnie the PoohSo, 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)<div><br></div><div><b>Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (Lewis Carroll, 1865)</b></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div><b>When We Were Very Young (A.A. Milne, 1924)</b></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div><b>The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger, 1951)</b></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div><b>My Family and Other Animals (Gerald Durrell, 1956)</b></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div><b>To Kill a Mockingbird (Harper Lee, 1960)</b></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div><b>The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13 3/4 (Sue Townsend, 1982)</b></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div><b>IT (Stephen King, 1986)</b></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div><b>High Fidelity (Nick Hornby, 1995)</b></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div><b>Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly (Anthony Bourdain, 2000)</b></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div><b>Battle Royale (Koushun Takami, 2003)</b></div><div>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! </div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-qSoJv7ncjpp5vaynrDk1Ix5T318XjqNi7oF3KHL8V02aQ3PgToXQi6jOj-hBwSkxws9w7hRAiXpnqeSsbcmFxLk2-_61h13cM9g_R72sqYNRFAWv94eLm434Q75YFJU7YSV6An30xs/s640/blogger-image--339649673.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-qSoJv7ncjpp5vaynrDk1Ix5T318XjqNi7oF3KHL8V02aQ3PgToXQi6jOj-hBwSkxws9w7hRAiXpnqeSsbcmFxLk2-_61h13cM9g_R72sqYNRFAWv94eLm434Q75YFJU7YSV6An30xs/s640/blogger-image--339649673.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-35200743874462766682014-08-12T00:37:00.001-07:002014-08-12T00:40:44.821-07:00Death Would be an Awfully Great Adventure with Robin WilliamsUsually 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.<div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>The world has lost a truly inspirational actor, who will continue to bring delight to generations to come.</div><div><br></div><div>So many quotes come to mind... "Oh captain, my captain", "Genie, you're free", but most importantly, Mork, you've finally gone home.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkjtXnI7VVFzgMcjxnAL2HUNfuVM8cc0P9Vda37nzvvHlVSizJBUQJTBQB9fBNnUL-LOolZ9SGPAd9vNUlgvUS6BHv0IiEtH_Ow3mSt29j7147HAqlarIqRBqVvNkyjlrNNJbt4_ulnMo/s640/blogger-image--469994233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkjtXnI7VVFzgMcjxnAL2HUNfuVM8cc0P9Vda37nzvvHlVSizJBUQJTBQB9fBNnUL-LOolZ9SGPAd9vNUlgvUS6BHv0IiEtH_Ow3mSt29j7147HAqlarIqRBqVvNkyjlrNNJbt4_ulnMo/s640/blogger-image--469994233.jpg"></a></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-72882278818456692162014-07-13T09:26:00.001-07:002014-07-13T10:15:58.221-07:00Dinosaur Hunting with Hannah Spearritt's PantsThe 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.<div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>Except perhaps a dinosaur.</div><div><br></div><div>Or Hannah Spearritt's infamous pants...</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2OjDxQ10AQfRqjl2TyQqAVCPUXGSrZKJ7TU4qEVeEhOQuVbvHzqkyfMpUWcvD8vhDiy0ZxPxgm5bZ0TkIRrrQkB_yCsTir0E8295xpMcfR1nQY5_15qkdhsWOsQy3Vvv65YcIzZdlQw4/s640/blogger-image-250052459.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2OjDxQ10AQfRqjl2TyQqAVCPUXGSrZKJ7TU4qEVeEhOQuVbvHzqkyfMpUWcvD8vhDiy0ZxPxgm5bZ0TkIRrrQkB_yCsTir0E8295xpMcfR1nQY5_15qkdhsWOsQy3Vvv65YcIzZdlQw4/s640/blogger-image-250052459.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-69930364489434161292014-07-06T09:19:00.001-07:002014-07-06T09:45:37.781-07:00A Well-Earned Weekender with Shakira<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">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.</span></div></div><div><br></div>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.<div><br></div><div>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. </div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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. </div><div><br></div><div>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!</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlDAc6vixbgv6zllG3iXxol5dEI9O5IcX3E1l5ePWYvi_AKoy1SYlo4GKNwp1T1W3UsmE08BCCzHLpiNYdKndOtjc-PTu3ojkXvwb2mC_E66tvT6K9QhDTQORKqsDf_jHtML2WbnGIjO4/s640/blogger-image-1777989788.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlDAc6vixbgv6zllG3iXxol5dEI9O5IcX3E1l5ePWYvi_AKoy1SYlo4GKNwp1T1W3UsmE08BCCzHLpiNYdKndOtjc-PTu3ojkXvwb2mC_E66tvT6K9QhDTQORKqsDf_jHtML2WbnGIjO4/s640/blogger-image-1777989788.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-89343198167606381502014-07-02T13:33:00.001-07:002014-07-02T16:05:02.685-07:00The Best of Both Worlds with Hannah MontanaI 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. <div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>Teaching allows a born entertainer to revel in the knowledge garnered through world travel with a love of performing to an ever-eager crowd.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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. </div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>Sure, my caffeine consumption has risen exponentially, but spiritually, I'm fulfilled. Right now, I'm definately enjoying the best if both worlds!</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcUx31oNQPu7hjJqV30YGQmPUiLXGChHRUsjz13A9Q3e2PEknf2lxaGnOO6XwQMe8Mjc6YnrkkagopKIweHRRKd6AaLT7gv9zQRF51QwtCbajYExFIdnMp1yahNthHT0TmmMQ-kuLTKZ0/s640/blogger-image--1604809985.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcUx31oNQPu7hjJqV30YGQmPUiLXGChHRUsjz13A9Q3e2PEknf2lxaGnOO6XwQMe8Mjc6YnrkkagopKIweHRRKd6AaLT7gv9zQRF51QwtCbajYExFIdnMp1yahNthHT0TmmMQ-kuLTKZ0/s640/blogger-image--1604809985.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-34326923945097025332014-06-29T02:02:00.001-07:002014-06-29T02:23:37.846-07:00Hiding in Bed with Anna FrielIt'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.<div><br></div><div>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. </div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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. </div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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...</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEjFuw3YLDRkqurLjeZF33eXTonifIEqD5Lgt_Qvdzs5BoFy5bRnbIgTwIw9ErciNWVp38yE9RpbLF1p7J5gOG2RltfdHC2A5i84mQrfgMS6fDFsZTRlSUQ9xt31JRECNkW8tTViyXNmM/s640/blogger-image-1647472761.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEjFuw3YLDRkqurLjeZF33eXTonifIEqD5Lgt_Qvdzs5BoFy5bRnbIgTwIw9ErciNWVp38yE9RpbLF1p7J5gOG2RltfdHC2A5i84mQrfgMS6fDFsZTRlSUQ9xt31JRECNkW8tTViyXNmM/s640/blogger-image-1647472761.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-19402580993085093222014-06-22T16:15:00.001-07:002014-06-22T16:27:43.611-07:00Taco Tuesdays with Marshall EriksenMexican 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...<div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>But that's always the way. You have an amazing meal, and spend the rest of your life trying to match it.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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,</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-tWpfCoa0mt0xYMRB-NnV11ut1yNilYwVc2fivafvxa9L10P_ezdiMoOuYGw-gfk0S2AFIaxInaMX74w__3OBQH37H4RZmO03lPg7jEUEcPvDpujgblC8KQ1ftVyb9mXM0oKUXHXfnGc/s640/blogger-image-2107288443.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-tWpfCoa0mt0xYMRB-NnV11ut1yNilYwVc2fivafvxa9L10P_ezdiMoOuYGw-gfk0S2AFIaxInaMX74w__3OBQH37H4RZmO03lPg7jEUEcPvDpujgblC8KQ1ftVyb9mXM0oKUXHXfnGc/s640/blogger-image-2107288443.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-27125527036223614732014-06-21T18:59:00.001-07:002014-06-21T19:02:08.822-07:00The Hunt for Red Hot Pizza with MichelangeloAs 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.<div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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, </div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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. </div><div><br></div><div>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!</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjIZJker3-jODiLwbN1VjN4Ve3z4SFN7TtmO8ge6tKpX1CzkMUFQS8JHFPlfOvXNJ6MdsL0f9heZs0jIj89Us7Fif_yFIIdF19dc1oxpvFcePPT6ADhqyGIOW1oRE4MT101JbmAVTHm5I/s640/blogger-image-1384832496.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjIZJker3-jODiLwbN1VjN4Ve3z4SFN7TtmO8ge6tKpX1CzkMUFQS8JHFPlfOvXNJ6MdsL0f9heZs0jIj89Us7Fif_yFIIdF19dc1oxpvFcePPT6ADhqyGIOW1oRE4MT101JbmAVTHm5I/s640/blogger-image-1384832496.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-88120895255913419712014-06-19T13:21:00.001-07:002014-06-19T13:26:32.266-07:00Did You See That Ludicrous Display Last Night? with Maurice MossI'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.<div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>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. </div><div><br></div><div>And, for the sake of the sweepstake, keeping my fingers crossed for Brazil taking home the prize.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9gqnK0uQfNdOfGhZ3actwjqeF1d9OSrjD73hFkeTCp7lz6AimW2XL-0iwSywwoLtswQSgZgISk_26QRpwBmC1LAFsWkRIu5rXlXHwZztGTVz0Z7WOz8wJMFIjERR0MG41TXHX57TF9A/s640/blogger-image--947975917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9gqnK0uQfNdOfGhZ3actwjqeF1d9OSrjD73hFkeTCp7lz6AimW2XL-0iwSywwoLtswQSgZgISk_26QRpwBmC1LAFsWkRIu5rXlXHwZztGTVz0Z7WOz8wJMFIjERR0MG41TXHX57TF9A/s640/blogger-image--947975917.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2029783391766359635.post-84881185616843566682014-06-10T10:39:00.001-07:002014-06-10T10:46:16.923-07:00A Little Poetry with Class B2.1Trying 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. <div><br></div><div>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. </div><div><br></div><div>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.</div><div><br></div><div>Whilst they were at work, I meanwhile jotted down this little piece, in fond dedication of a wonderful group of young individuals. Enjoy.</div><div><br></div><div>A class of young faces,</div><div>All eager to learn</div><div>Of grammar, and speaking,</div><div>And listening in turn.</div><div><br></div><div>Each one from a country,</div><div>So far, far way,</div><div>With dreams of the future</div><div>That will come some day.</div><div><br></div><div>"How are you this morning?</div><div>Any news that is cool?"</div><div>"Umm..", "Nothing special"</div><div>"As usual; school!"</div><div><br></div><div>Today is a test,</div><div>On how you can spell.</div><div>I'll ask the Koreans,</div><div>'Cause I can't very well!</div><div><br></div><div>KitKat for the winner,</div><div>The "entrepreneur".</div><div>Oh, darn it, it's Yoonhee,</div><div>"Please, Sungjin, beat her!"</div><div><br></div><div>So take from the class</div><div>The lessons I preach,</div><div>And find some new friends,</div><div>To share and to teach.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnrS8ei8CcOCis_xfvWcXpta_Qx_4whgzJdKx1GN2lngDslp6fxw07i7g7z1YZ4mLzaGgOXSfRJpCcy8_EqZEl4XSRfKRNRXMZD9iPbvkC-arPcZgrDale4C9xEjwDCqaXecVA_QzoQFI/s640/blogger-image-119845796.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnrS8ei8CcOCis_xfvWcXpta_Qx_4whgzJdKx1GN2lngDslp6fxw07i7g7z1YZ4mLzaGgOXSfRJpCcy8_EqZEl4XSRfKRNRXMZD9iPbvkC-arPcZgrDale4C9xEjwDCqaXecVA_QzoQFI/s640/blogger-image-119845796.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03411574914049072006noreply@blogger.com0