'The Residents'

So I haven't posted in a while because I've developed this terrible habit of sitting around all day and watching movies and TV boxsets and eating and doing absolutely nothing else. As much as I love this hobby, I could probably be a little more productive so I've decided to post this:

As part of my English coursework we had to write a scene for a play and this is what I came up with. Annoyingly we only had a maximum of 550 words to play with but I sort of like what I managed to do. It's sort of inspired by some of the people I've met at the nursing home I volunteer at - some of the residents are such big characters and hilarious to talk to, not at all like I initially (and I imagine the majority of people) expected. It's a completely fictional exchange and the perspectives are exaggerated a little but mostly I just hope that Gwen comes across right to everybody - she's just an amazing and surly woman, and whilst I've given her more words than she actually cares to share with people, I imagine that if we could, a conversation like this would happen between us.
- Enjoy.

The Residents.

Centre-stage in a bland sitting-room in an OAP home, three aged residents [GWEN, BERYL and MAE] sit in large armchairs angled towards each other in a crescent shape, with blankets on their knees and newspapers and magazines on nearby side-tables. Another resident, JACK, crouches in front of an old television downstage-left, pressing buttons and muttering to himself. The crackle of static and blank grey screen shows. As GWEN begins speaking, he gives up and settles in the spare armchair next to her, wincing as he moves. Seated on the end, MAE fidgets uncomfortably throughout the conversation, repeatedly glaring at the others. Upstage-right a group of three other residents [JOHN, SUE and HARRY] sit around a table, playing gin rummy. They play silently, acting in the background.

BERYL: What was his name?

JACK: Smith.

BERYL: Really?

GWEN: Might as well have been.

Pause.

BERYL: And a heart attack, they say?

JACK: Mmh.

BERYL: Don’t get many of those these days, do we? Mrs Pullan was a stroke, and so was that other woman she sat with. What was she called, the one with the drooping eye?

GWEN: Ah yes, frightful woman. Hated her.

BERYL: You never spoke to her!

GWEN: Didn’t have to.

JACK: Mmh, she was rather awful. Took her meals ‘fore the rest of us, ‘cause of her “weak stomach”. Pah! Old trout...

GWEN: I’d say good riddance if it wasn’t so un-Christian.

JACK: Yer blasted daughter’s nowhere around, do what you like.

GWEN: Well there’s a relative statement if ever I heard one. You’re an inmate as well as I. There’s not much we can do.

JACK: Quite. ‘Cept tally off the luckier buggers that escape, eh!

MAE: Oh, do be quiet. Have a little respect for the lost, will you? It’ll be us next.

GWEN [TO MAE]: From your mouth to God’s ears.

JACK [TO GWEN]: Or someone’s, anyway.

BERYL: [admonishing] Jack!

NURSE enters, pushing a tea-trolley.

NURSE: [nervously] Afternoon ladies. And gent.

BERYL [TO MAE]: They’re only joshing you, Mae. We’re all happy we’re here.

MAE begins to read newspaper.

GWEN: Speak for yourself. Last time I was happy was 1972, day before my lass started talking. Blight of my nerves, that girl.

JACK: Ruddy children. Never did quite live up to all the puff, did they?

JACK and GWEN guffaw.  NURSE pours tea. JACK winks at NURSE; she blushes and exits quickly. BERYL tuts.

GWEN: Still, like Mae says. It’ll be our turn soon.

JACK: Quite, quite. And out with a bang, I should hope, eh Beryl?

BERYL: Wouldn’t expect anything less from you.

GWEN: Heart attack’s been done though, mind. Old news, as it were. Myself, I’m more of a fader, I should think. Little nap, turning to eternal sleep.

BERYL: It’s morbid, but I agree. I don’t want any drama.

GWEN: I’d expect a fair bit of weeping from you three, mind. Even if it does interrupt the activities schedule.

JACK: [mock-outraged] What? Miss out on group-bloody-Sudoku to cry over you instead? Never.

MAE: [acidly] Well maybe us three’ll have to do. The rate you’re going at, Gwen, who else’ll be weeping? Not a friend in this house, I’d bet, outside us daft ones.

JACK laughs.

GWEN [TO MAE]: Now who’s being rude?!

Background group erupt in cheers (HARRY: Gin!), clapping HARRY on the back and dealing the cards again. MAE turns to them, glaring.

JACK: Well, she’s right. Truth is, excepting our fine selves, the rest ‘ere are merely room-fillers and obituary listings to us. And us to them. What does it matter? Circle of life.

MAE drops newspaper, exasperated.

MAE: Circle of life? You’re barking. There’s much more to life than waiting to die. If you don’t like it, suit yourself. Just don’t bring me down with you.

JACK: So you reckon you’re still on top? You’ll ’ave the screamin’ girls and cryin’ doves at your funeral, then? All the guests wailin’ ’bout your past glories?

MAE: A bit less dramatic, but something reverential, yes.

JACK: Oh, you just don’t geddit.

MAE: Get what?

JACK: Why we’re ‘ere. What we’re doin’.

MAE: Well, I’ve a good healthcare plan.

BERYL: Easy, Jack...

JACK: Rubbish. We’re ‘ere ‘cause it’s easier both ways.

MAE: Both ways for what?

JACK: To become what they no longer need.

Pause. JACK and GWEN look sagely at each other, then at MAE.

GWEN: [solemnly] We’re Smiths.

Lights darken. Exeunt.

Spotlight: Into the Wild

In short, this is a damned beautiful film.

In detailed ramblings, the same conclusion is still reached. Because what it comes down to is that this is just a beautiful, beautiful film. Stumbling across review sites, I had found that all of the critics were confident, and yet I often find that the films I am truly mesmerised by receive quieter praise so I was a little wary. But this film really was beautiful. The idea is just so attractive to me - of dropping everything and just escaping into rough existence. Just living experience-by-experience and allowing yourself to feel everything; it's enthralling. One of my favourite scenes is probably one of the simplest - protagonist Chris sits and has a conversation with/about an apple. It is so simple but really resounded with me, making me laugh and just think 'mmmm' to myself. I found that as I watched the film, my skin was itching to get outside and hike or camp or scream or something, despite the pesky dribbling English rain and the fact that it was nearing 11pm. That's how inspiring the film is - how stirring.

Emile Hirsch is faultless as Chris/Alex, the only thing distracting me being his strange resemblance to Leonardo DiCaprio. But that's irrelevant. Hirsch is compelling, depicting the kind of character you just want to be with, simply basking in their 'themness'. Each other character is also perfectly devised (esp. Vaughn's Wayne and Holbrook's surly Ron), showing an array of character types that Chris waltzes through, the otherwise distant influence spheres being thrown together in a beautiful display  of compassion and camaraderie. 

The ending, of course, is a sad one. But I think the overall beauty of the film helps to offset the sheer tragedy of it to leave some idea of peace. The part that hits hardest is of course the dedication at the end, when the truth of the story is confirmed. It's hard to imagine such a thing to happen to someone you know, no matter how beautiful and inspiring the bulk of the story is. It's harsh, but so mesmerising. 

In the end, it's just one of those films that leaves you thinking pleasant things for days afterwards. Some sad things, yes, but all quiet and simple calm too. Job well done for Penn and Krakauer.

'D of E Feet' should not be a legitimate condition.

If you ask me, the Duke of Edinburgh Award is a damn strange way to show your worth to universities and employers. It all makes very little sense to me, and if I (as a participant) can't understand it, then who exactly can???

I returned this week from my silver level expedition. What this equates to in layman's terms is three days and two nights of gahbdajbshsjba in return for part of a certificate. Obviously this sounds like a fair and sensible exchange. And in each of these three days, seven hours is to be spent hiking and completing an additional productive 'aim', all before retiring to a tent to not sleep or eat substantially in the cold and wet for the rest of the evening. And what exactly is this supposed to teach us? Survival skills? I still have none other than how to use a supermarket and to stay alive whilst spending the night in a synthetic bag. Team work? In many ways, we were mainly bonded together just by a fear of each other letting the general public know just how ugly we can look if left to the mercy of Mother Nature, and that's not going to help me get a degree.

But perhaps you can tell - I'm not so outdoorsy.

Well okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a little bit. I had fun. I mean, stick four friends together in miserable rain (3 thunderstorms in 2 hours, to be exact) and it's not going to be all bad. If anything, you get some good 'bantz' out of it. Or more specifically, one of you is bound to do something ridiculously stupid like falling in a river, and the rest will be able to enjoy laughing at you for the rest of the time and telling anybody who'll listen that yeah, you really did just fall in a river. In between all that you just eat and gossip, and that's not bad either. In this way, it was a great time.

But of course the sheer pain caused by freakin' heavy backpacks and too-small walking boots, getting wetter than you ever thought possible (I'm talking osmosis kind of effects here, where water was passing in and out of all clothing in equal measure) and the biting cold of sharing one sleeping bag between two people because both your stuff is all soaked also equates to a horribly miserable time.

The thing is, you don't really remember the pain so well, only the amusing stories to pass on. And this is really bad, because as much as I remember screaming at the rain clouds and threatening to commit some godless sin if it didn't stop spitting at us, my brain seems to have blocked out the physical memory of how cold and generally crap it all felt - and that is exactly how people end up repeating such debacles, focussing only on the laughs, and not on the pain. Naturally, this only leads to further self-loathing as only you can be held accountable for committing yourself to Hell 2.0. It's such a vicious, vicious circle.

For now, however, I think I am relatively safe. Two days later and I'm still trying to recover my feet enough to walk normally (or at the very least, so as not to give the impression that my bladder is constantly full) and so I am quite firmly sticking to the resolution that, seeing as we passed, I never have to hike or camp ever again. The guys in my team, as short-sighted and, well, 'guy-ish' as they are, have it in their brains that they'll manage gold level next year (FYI that means another day and night of pain, people) but I pride myself on my guts in refusing to go along with such a scheme. Instead, my friend and I are considering the finer side of camping. 'Glamping', if you will. This is the clever/preposterous idea that camping can be made comfortable and enjoyable by having tents with appliances and three square meals a day. In truth, sitting in my miserable scrap of polyester this past week whilst watching other campers with their bacon sandwiches and television sets in dry, heated vans has led me to believe that camping could be alright if only it were.. well, better. And so the likelihood of our investigating 'glamping' (that's 'glamour camping', for you uneducated ones) has increased to about 63%, a notable increase from me of the previous year, to whom camping was simply unnecessary if it meant pitching a tent any further outside than your back garden. Of course, I also have camping at Reading Festival to deal with in a couple of weeks, but really, I'm pretty sure the deal is that you sleep in a nice patch of mud anyways, so no problems there.

Basically, the conclusion here is that nature is not quite as scary I had thought; but it is damn miserable at times. Credit here goes to Prince Philip in some measure (that's the Duke, halfwits) and The Other Phil, our assessor and the man fated with the ability to either pass or fail us. But let's be real honest here: if we'd failed, you would not have been able to get me back out there.

Just call me nature girl.

Actually, don't.

There Is No Reason For This Post Whatsoever

Been feeling a lack of productivity lately. Seems like the minute I'm ready to get on with the myriad of things I ought to do, a bunch of far better alternatives present themselves. Why then, I ask, do they not exist on days when there is nothing pressing to do and thus nothing is done at all??

It's a little bit twisted, really.

But then I realised that in some ways, it's alright. Such as, I like making lists, and I'm disappointingly good at it. Plus, I can spend approximately half a day doing so, creating the illusion of being an productive member of the human race whilst actually doing nothing of the sort. Brilliant, isn't it? No, actually.

Contemplating the ever-increasing work list for this summer, I also realised that in many ways I'm over-dramatic and silly. I automatically add stuff to the list that doesn't need to be done; they're just things that rotate in the recesses of my brain, as potential tasks that aren't essential, but could be done if I were so inclined. Truth is, I never am inclined, but those recesses need to be doing something, I suppose. Also, I found myself transposing the same list in various different forms across various pieces of paper, so that my desk is now strewn with six different nagging possibilities. Not so encouraging, really.

But then I thought about the list. About 67% of it (approximate, unsurprisingly) is made up of books which I need to read before college begins again in September (8 in total). I've spent the last two weeks whining to anyone who has been stupid enough to listen about this 'ridiculous' and 'unreasonable' amount of work that I 'don't want to do'. Which is insanity, really, considering I had already created a list of 12 books I had been planning on reading this summer, just for fun. So what makes the difference between 8 eughhghhhhhsss and 12 yeeeeeeeeahs? Probably the fact that the latter were decided by me and the former rather thrust upon me by the academic Powers that Be. It seems I don't enjoy doing something that I enjoy if I'm told to do it; but getting there on my own is completely fine. Yeah, it's screwy. It's screwy and I don't appreciate my hypocrisy. Yet still, here I am complaining about it instead of just sitting down and reading the damn dictated things. Why the injustice, brain?

Basically, I don't know. This kind of pointless hypocrisy seems to be a recurring character trait that I ought to see to. The whole mindset of 'old dogs, new tricks' things has always bugged me, of course. But chances of motivation are still slim. So what to do there?

It's a Saturday here, and since I woke up annoyingly early this morning, I have had approximately 50 minutes of productivity, and then spent the following 8 hours of time in shifting my sitting-position to incorporate the new snack acquired and comfiest positioning of my laptop. It's senseless, but the grip is just so stroooooooooooooooonnggggggg. And if it hasn't occurred to you until now - yes, I am quite useless. A Hopeless Case, if you will.

And frankly, this post is losing steam.

Basically, in an attempt to become enlivened with passion and zeal for life or whatever, I was hoppin' all over the internet reading things and reading about people and shizz. I came across a load of crap that just fuelled my vegetation, but then I also came across these two photographers who do some amazing things and they're young too, which I like. It's kind of like, well if they've done all this and achieved stuff by 22 years, then what the hell am I doing? Answer = I'm doing nothing. Or rather, I've started some things, but that's it. So I managed to read another page of my book, but then I spent another hour looking at all their photos. Yeah. THANKS, GUYS. Anyways, the fact that I managed to write all these words and things makes me feel a little better. It's superficial, but whatever. And I guess I've got better hopes for tomorrow. Or delusions, go for synonyms..

Conclusions? If Saturdays were made for productivity, I wouldn't be invited. Score.

Biffy, Biffy, Biffy, Choke, Biffy, Biffy, Biffy...

I woke up this morning with a grey dent in my right foot, black ink dissipating deep into my left-hand skin and very little voice. For many teenagers across the country, perhaps this is not so unusual after a Friday night out, but for one whose nights out largely consist of nights spent no further than my living room, I found it a little shocking. And very, very funny.

You see, last night I saw Biffy Clyro play their festival warm-up show in Swindon, and to describe it with justice I can really only apply teenage non-words. It was mental. Freakin' insane. Utter madness. And I loved it. I guess you could say I had a few apprehensions; a year and a half ago I saw them play Wembley, and so you might see why next seeing them at a sports centre could feel like a step back. Of all the places in the UK they could have chosen, I simply cannot understand why Swindon was selected. That being said, I'm stupidly glad that they did.

Some people in the crowd seemed to be of a similar mindset, as they contemplated the size of venue and acoustics etc. as we waited for the support band; but frankly, as soon as Biffy came out it just did not matter. They're the kind of band that could play in your bathroom and they'd still be perfect. And so they were.

Their set was longish (21 songs, none of this 15-and-out rubbish) and included some new material which, obviously, was brilliant. They played four new ones (Modern Magic Formula, Sounds Like Balloons, The Joke's On Us and Victory Over The Sun) and the regular favourites (The Captain, Who's Got A Match?, Folding Stars...), whilst still covering material from all four albums, something most bands don't bother with any more. The only significant omission was 57, which the crowd chanted for throughout, but after a set like that you can't really complain.  Frankly, there's very little to say against them, except maybe ask why they used the forest image as a backdrop? But really, it looked so cool that no one actually cares.

Pure Love playing support were similarly amazing. Frank Carter's new project is something he's obviously really crazy for, as he explained to us before wading into the crowd to sing two songs in thick circles. They didn't really need to 'warm us up' though; it was impossible not to be psyched that evening.

And that's kind of it. Sadly I won't be seeing Biffy play any festivals this summer, having tickets for Reading and not RockNess, Download or Isle of Wight. Thing is, they leave you on such a high that I think I'll be able to cope for a few weeks yet anyway, before lapsing into despair and wishing I had had tickets for all three. But we'll burn that bridge when we get there.

Proof of the Importance of Proofing.

Again I lapse into a shoddy regime of largely ignoring the blogosphere, and for that I am sorry. I simply haven't written much lately, and this is largely due to my inherent laziness, for which a million apologies would scarcely cover (or alter my nature). Nonetheless I feel I have a little more solid reason. That of a self-inflicted embarrassment.

You may have read my post from January entitled 'A Free Scotland', one of my first attempts at a political piece, and one that I was not entirely unhappy with. It may demonstrate much of my ignorance, but is also a clear attempt at relieving some of the ignorance, an effort that should only be encouraged. In truth I wrote the piece in conjunction with my Journalism class at college, and was satisfied enough to offer it to an internet-based student-supplied magazine entitled 'Loud!'. They accept work from students across the UK, and I was more than a little bit pleased to hear that my article would run in the March edition.

Imagine my embarrassment, then, upon finding my piece in the published March issue only to find that I had made a myriad typing errors - little punctuations discrepancies, mostly - the very sort that I hate to read in other magazines, and lead me to rant against the incapabilities of the proofing team. Yet most annoyingly, I had made the largest error in misspelling the name of the principle subject, Alexander Salmond. It was terrible, and so I showed it to no one, despite happily telling friends previously that a piece of my work would be published (first time writers pride, as you do). Initially I planned to keep quiet about it. Whether I had believed my work would be proof-read by the editor of Loud! before printing is irrelevant, because really it all came down to me, and I realised this quite plainly. So after a while of wallowing in self-pity and believing my publishing career to be over, reduced to nothing but a one-time example of incompetency, I decided to get over it. I re-edited the piece, allowed it to be put forward as an assignment for my Journalism course, and republished it here on my blog. It is now more accurate, but still causes me a little embarrassment when I look over it from time to time. But really all this contributes to a greater message, one I had better get my lazy self to listen to more frequently; that of the importance of proofreading.

It's a simple concept, and I've done it for all other pieces of work in my 12 years of education thus far, which is why it was so surprising to me that I had made so many errors on that piece of writing. But at least it served to remind me that you cannot rely on others to ensure your writing is solidly put together, and talks sense - only you should be accountable, so I shall just own up to this.

Thus I re-emerge into blogging, hopefully with less shameful results. As the exam season finally declines, I hope to adhere to a more frequent writing regime over the summer. This may not happen, but I should at least promise that any pieces published will not refer to Scotland's First Minister Alexander 'Salmon'. I'm over that, capisce?

An Abstract Substance Addiction.

I think that perhaps I have an addiction. On Monday and Tuesday of last week (30th and 31st Jan) I went to the concerts of All Time Low and Panic! At The Disco and now, seven days later, I'm experiencing that lousy come-down realisation that life is pretty much rubbish away from the rush of all that.

It was the fourth time I'd seen All Time Low, but this hardly dampened the euphoria. They create a stupidly addictive sense of enjoyment that is quite beyond most bands' capabilities, and you can feel it in the energy of every single audience member (not a sappy comment - the truth). The O2 Academy in Bristol is not giant, but that didn't matter to the masses of people crushing together in a half-jump-half-squeeze dancing combination. The only thing they were focussed on was the band up on the stage, systematically switching between songs, innuendos and calls for more dancing. It's an electric feeling that means I don't care how many times I see them. It'll probably go on for ever.

That being said, Panic! At The Disco prompt a different kind of psychosis. It was my second time seeing them play live and you could tell from the offset that the crowd were much more serious about these guys. That's not to say that ATL's crowd weren't as serious in their admiration, or to say that Panic! request a serious audience. It was just a different level of respect, more akin to worship than the new-best-bud atmosphere ATL tend to evoke. The setlist was much longer than the standard, at 20 songs including two covers, but the evening went by in a flash. And by this I'm not even referring to the stripping of lead singer Brendon Urie doing the encore. You could say it's because the crowd asked, but I'm pretty sure it has become Urie's signature goodbye-gift to his fans, and I won't pretend it isn't crazily appreciated. The banter between songs is personal but entertaining, from (basically serious) jokes about the songs and stories of Urie's mother, Panic! present everything with insane addictive energy. It was because of this that after I first saw them in concert back in May 2011, I was subject to three whole months of unending obsession where I couldn't go 30 minutes without listening to one of their songs or checking their twitter feed/website homepage etc. etc. This time, I forced myself (for health reasons) to be cautious, so the subsequent fever has been mild enough to cope with. That being said, I can't really fully express how much I like their music and the atmosphere they so easily create, and how affecting it is to me and thousands of other fans. I guess it's just something you have to experience for yourself.

One question to ponder over, however, is whether Dallon Weekes and Ian Crawford, the guitar and bass players who have been touring with Panic! since the start of last year's tour, will become permanent members of the band? They certainly fit in with Brendon and Spencer as if it was always these four guys, and not Ryan Ross and Jon Walker in the original outfit. Either way, it looks like it's set like this for a while, and I'm certainly cool with it.

A 'Free' Scotland?

Sitting down to Burns Night dinner this week marked a sort of turning point for me; it seemed as if all the things swirling around at the moment about Scottish independence came to a head, as if the relevance finally hit. You could blame this on my languid attitude towards keeping current affairs current – I frequently bring up ‘breaking news’ in conversations with my friends three days after it actually ‘broke’ – or you could see it as a realistic representation of the way a lot of people my age view the importance of current affairs. As a general rule, unless it is forced in our faces, there’s a good chance a lot of us will have no clue whatsoever (but don’t condemn all young people – plenty do keep up to date, I’m just generalising a large portion of us). So it should make sense that it would come as such a surprise to me that the topic of Scottish independence would surface three times in one day, and at least twice more over the succeeding week. This is topical; relevant. And a lot of people seem to have opinions about it. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of confusion over what it’s all really about.

Putting it simply, the Scottish National Party (SNP) are aiming for a referendum to vote for independence in late 2014. They want Scotland to be a separate sovereign state, splitting from the United Kingdom. The SNP first rose to prominence in the late 1960s when the decolonisation of the British Empire gave cause to growing assent that imperialism, one of the key attributes to a ‘united kingdom’, was being undermined. Now the issue is at hand again, and since 2007 the SNP have made several attempts to submit a referendum but with resistance from many other parties. Now there are two sides looking at what to do – and I think it’s important that we devise some opinions pretty quickly.

In support of independence, SNP leader Alexander Salmond calls it the most important decision for Scotland in 300 years. He says, “Our nation is blessed with national resources, bright people and a strong society... I believe that if we connect the wealth of our land to the wellbeing of our people, we can create a better country... We shouldn’t have a constitution that restrains us, but one which frees us to build a better society.” Many people are supporting this idea, the basic ideology for the SNP, believing it will help the country to grow, benefiting all citizens.

On the other hand, there’s also a lot of opposition to the independence movement. Some people are writing it off as a brief flair of nationalism; but with the referendum now as a concrete idea, it is clearly no longer a trivial desire for a lot of people. The Calman Commission, established back in 2007 between the Labour, Conservative and Liberal Democrat parties to ‘review the devolution’ is an example of previous political opposition. Presently however, opposition from the public seems to come predominantly in the form of worries about the effect independence would have on the economy and the amount of debt assumed in the split. Not to mention the referendum also costing £10 million. With the recent recessions causing the economy to be at the forefront of everyone’s minds, regardless of their level of knowledge for economics, people are worried about what the economy would be like after a split – for both Scotland and the rest of the UK.

There are also a lot of issues yet to resolve. For example, what would the decision about the EU be? Would the Euro be adopted? Would a separate military be established? There is a lot to decide. It probably doesn’t help that a lot of rumours and ill-informed guesses are also cropping up and causing much confusion. Just last week I heard someone earnestly declare that if Scotland did gain independence then I would, in fact, be deported and have to immigrate in order to continue studying here. Hmm. Thankfully, this was a sentiment based on nothing but ignorance and there are no plans for a closed border.

Either way, recent polls show that 70-75% of people are calling for a referendum, whether in support of independence or the union. Whilst this may cause worry on both sides about the outcome, at least we can agree that people are getting involved – something that modern politics has been calling for. With Salmon suggesting that 16 and 17 year olds should be allowed to vote on Scottish independence, it certainly seems like this is a topic that young people should be getting engrossed in. I am a firm believer in getting the younger generations interested – after all, we are the future – so I wholeheartedly believe that this is something worth getting fired up for. But I am still just one vote amongst many; we all ought to have an opinion, whether for change or for constancy. Whichever outcome we reach, we will all feel the impact. So why not get involved?

'Whack? Man, That's Lame...'

As an English Language student, I know more about the complexities of crafting words than I actually care to know. I know when a word is a post-modifying adjective or a complement, or an adverb is posing as an adverbial just for kicks, or when all of the above actually want to be defined as an adjectival phrase so as to make life that little bit harder. I spent a week studying the different types of pronoun (singular, possessive, 3^rd person, yadda yadda yadda) and the moods of different sentence types and really, there’s only one sensible conclusion to draw: it’s all irrelevant.

As a ‘young person’, I seem to use more made-up words than I do Standard English anyway, and that makes more sense to me. It’s not a new idea so don’t credit me, but English is evolving - and at a pace that confounds all of us. It always has done; it’s the natural progression. If it didn’t then we wouldn’t have any language at all – how do you think it all ever started? Words simply don’t always mean the same thing anymore. To my age group, ‘whore’ or ‘ho’ is an acceptable term for a friend, male or female (although many older people see it as a kick in the teeth for feminism) and ‘gay’ hardly ever refers to homosexuality. Nine times out of ten the person saying it has no issue with homosexuality, although older generations think we’re being inexcusably offensive. We just don’t see these words in that way. A standard conversation with any one of my friends nowadays will inevitably involve the words ‘filth’, ‘beef’ and ‘gwanin’’, and none of these words will be used in its usual capacity. ‘Filth’ is a greeting, or a murmur of agreement. ‘Beef’ is a bad situation (often used in verb form, ‘to beef’, when you are getting angry with someone or starting some trouble) and ‘gwanin’’... Well, that’s a made-up term that I’m not even sure makes sense to us. The effect of this new language is surely pretty standard-textbook to anthropologists, psychologists and the like; it separates us from the ‘adults’ and the others in our peer group that we have no desire to communicate with. It creates a group identity, improving social cohesion (as they say). And it’s more than a little bit fun. It’s a bit like 40-year-olds looking back at the time they claimed everything was ‘to the max’ or the best put-down they could muster was ‘face!’, or even as I look back to when I was seven and tacked the word ‘not’ onto the end of every sentence to be cool. Not. It’s not a surprise to anyone, yet there are always people moaning - “Speak properly! Pronounce your T’s!” I just think it’s nice.

Slang, or colloquialism to be precise, is a natural convention of human interaction and also, in my opinion, quite a good indicator of societal progression. After all, not everything that I say to my friends is trivial, amassing to a general waste of oxygen. Young people talk about topical events, too. The conversations just sound a little different, key politicians being referred to as ‘this-or-that douchebag’ and the general state of the world being reduced to ‘just a bit shite, really’.  The level of slang that pertains to my group seems to increase when there are more issues present in our lives than when we are relatively stress-free. Exam season was an explosion of synonyms for ‘bad’ (filthy, grosty, grubby, rancidity) whilst the long summer was ‘tasty’ or ‘sick’ (resurgence thanks to The Hangover films) and spent with my ‘homies and sistas’. We’re hardly ‘street’ so I guess we use this language ironically, but it’s still amusing when relating stories to outsiders and having to clarify on the sentence, ‘he was beefin’ up deep, give me some correlation sista’.  For the inexperienced in cult-youth language, there’s always Urban Dictionary, a site that I often have to run to in order to suss out teenage rants (and I still don’t know what ‘ratting’ means these days) and that really is a blessing. It also shows how determined we are to maintain this part of our culture. There isn’t a name for our generation yet – there’s no more Teddy Boys or Mods – but maybe in twenty years or so anthropologists will be able to suss out a term to describe our incredibly diverse group. Even if it’s ‘that anomaly in our educated society’. That’ll be one for the Dictionary.

Spotlight: Great Expectations

The new BBC version of Great Expectations deserves to be blogged about, namely because I find it strangely mesmerising. Released over the Christmas period (Dec 2011), the three-part retelling is written by Sarah Phelps and stars Douglas Booth, Ray Winstone, Gillian Anderson and Vanessa Kirby.

My reading of the book two years ago was hardly the prophetic enlightenment it perhaps should have been. I had the best intentions – I thoroughly wanted to enjoy it and find in Dickens’ words the deep meaning that so many have over the past century-and-a-bit, although I must admit that my disjointed reading habits led to a rather mismatched understanding of the novel. As a result, I would never have expected for this version to appeal to me so much. The sumptuous styling of the locations (the BBC themselves aptly stating it as lavish) greatly align with the costumes, making it a picture-perfect period drama, and yet these do not detract from the performances of the actors themselves. Booth seems to have been created purely for the part of Pip and I find his performance captivating. He’s gotten a lot of stick for being ‘too pretty’ or ‘too pouty’ to play the rough orphan Pip, but I hardly see how this is relevant to his acting abilities. He doesn’t ride on his looks; it’s part and parcel. Vanessa Kirby as Stella, whilst not much like how I envisaged her, is frightfully cruel and stony, much as she should be. The only casting peeves I have are those of Miss Havisham and Joe Gargery (played by Gillian Anderson and Shaun Dooley). The Havisham of my imagination is far older and bitterer than Anderson’s, who, at 43 years old is the youngest Havisham yet, and portrays her with a strange other-worldly presence. It’s not bad, but it doesn’t quite click for me. Dooley as Joe is no real issue, except for the blankness he uses as the void for education; I’d always pictured Joe as inquisitive, and if not intelligent, then at least quick-minded, witty through Dickens’ sharp words. Ray Winstone’s Magwitch is an interesting interpretation to say the least, but I do feel a slight reserve. Winstone is known for his brute image, but I didn’t really feel that from him. But maybe that’s just a personal issue with big angry bald guys.

But then I think that’s the danger with any literature adaptation, particularly with a beacon testament such as Great Expectations – everyone has a different picture in their mind that they feel is the right one. In my opinion, Phelps has done a good job, fixing a variety of ideas into a smooth adaptation that I want to watch again. But that is solely my opinion, and everyone else will feel differently. For example, in a review for the Guardian, Howard Jacobson said that the BBC had “eviscerated Dickens” and that it would have “made Dickens snort”. You or I may find this too severe, or you may take the same view; it’s just a further example of how something as sacred as this will always induce win-lose situations. Even so, 6.6 million viewers is not bad going. Interestingly, whilst Great Expectations is my father’s favourite novel in existence, this interpretation reportedly did nothing for him. He favours one of the older versions, one that I found difficult to remain interested in. This is odd, as usually our tastes are very much in synchronisation. Nevertheless, the oddity hasn’t dispelled my own appreciation for it and so I look forward to the DVD release with much eager anticipation.

Favourite line: "Do not think, Pip. It never leads to anywhere edifying."  - Mr Jaggers, to Pip.

Twi-Hards. Well, actually...

I’m having a crisis of faith.

I first watched Twilight when it came out in cinemas in December 2008 and experienced much of the now stereotypical teenage craze with the series, instantly buying and devouring the books. Since then, I’ve watched the subsequent films that make up the Twilight Saga (New Moon, Eclipse and Breaking Dawn: Part 1) and I am now just pages away from finishing my rereading of the series. I spent so much of the last two weeks reading these books that I’ve reached that curious stage where I feel like I know these characters so well - am so attuned to them, even - that it surprises me to realise they are just a work of fiction. I sit through conversations thinking ‘Bella said something like that’, before catching myself and cringing at my own stupidity. They are not real.

It is a result of this that I stuck in the Twilight Saga: Eclipse DVD hoping for a re-immersion into my Other Reality. You can therefore imagine my disappointment when I realise that my whole fascination wasn’t with an amazing, innovative, influential film-series after all. Because the movies aren’t great. If I focus on the films, I can be successfully sucked in enough to the drama and sappy stuff to appreciate it for simply being a teen-romance film. But having it on in the background, my sparse attention picking up disjointed moments only, I realise the disjointedness of the movie itself. It is just so awkward. It has a nice lyrical score and incorporates many contemporary artists that the audience already like. It uses picturesque locations and lots of pathetic fallacy. The actors are attractive. And it uses some of the lines from the books. But that’s kind of it for my positive feelings. After that, you’re just left with conversations that lack fluency and questionable facial expressions. The writing isn’t bad; the lines are dramatic enough to evoke some gasps, and the embedded acknowledgement of the whole Team Edward-Team Jacob fiasco (“Let’s face it, I am hotter than you.” Subtle...) is even sort of amusing. But the fact that every piece of dialogue is presented in the same register, with not a single voice deferring from a seemingly predetermined limited selection of notes (think B flat to C sharp on a piano) gets me cringing into my seat. I’m almost glad when Bella starts to scream, because it makes for a different sound.

The thing that makes it all so mind-boggling is that they aren’t bad actors. I’ve seen Robert Pattinson, Kristin Stewart and Taylor Lautner in other films separately, and it’s never been as bad as this. I get that the book – and films – have an underlying theme of sexual tension, one that is arguably the founding structure of the teen-romance genre, but this just takes the biscuit. You’re angry? Yell. Scream, even. Just quit the monotone.

Despite the battle for sense that those two hours left me in, I do remember why I bothered. I love the books. And I really do like these characters. I like the way their minds think and the ways that they speak.  I like how they’re just a little bit better than ‘regular people’ and the frequent references made to other texts that I’m partial to (Wuthering Heights and Romeo and Juliet, for example). So I think I might just persevere. I find it interesting to see how my perspective has changed. The first time I read the books, I loathed New Moon for Bella's constant whining and Edward's poor decision-making. Yet rereading them now, I'm much more drawn to it. I like how Stephanie Meyer has presented Bella, aches and all, and I feel more sympathy for her, if not empathy. Perhaps a sign of new emotional maturity, perhaps not. Either way, it's a complete 180'.

So I’ll reread the books –again and again and again – and ignore the instinct to close my eyes during the films because I do support the series. It has become a worldwide phenomenon for a reason, so it would be quite insensible to ignore it. Arrogant, even. Because I can tell you, I did walk out of the cinema after seeing Breaking Dawn and feel satisfied. It was fine, no real pain inflicted. Just a low-lying mushy feeling, which I suppose is the film’s aim after all. This feeling might not last, and might not ever resurface if I watch the film again with the absence of the giant cinema screen and dark, silent room, but you never know - I might just pull a 180' with this, too. Time will tell, and all the rest.

BOOKS: 5/5 – mind-blowing.
FILMS: 3/5 – mind feels slightly melted.