Afore Ye Go...- My Travels in Scotland- Part 1.

For years, I, like many, have heard that Scotland is a dreadful place. Wet, grey and cold, it seemed to have struck fear



into the hearts of many, and it was quite sad that I was slowly starting to believe these myths without actually visiting our Northern neighbours- so I was honoured when I finally got the chance to visit.

Departing from my cosy-warm bedroom at roughly 4.50 in the morning, I felt a tingle of excitement and a tinge of nerves- we [we being my girlfriend and I] would be flying to Scotland, and the fact that I hadn’t flown in quite a few years had rendered me slightly apprehensive, with my girlfriend not being the biggest fan of air travel either. After leaving ten minutes late, worrying that our cab driver had given up waiting and gone home [in reality, he just wasn’t able to get to my house without getting lost], and seeing that the owner of the Subway in Finchley Road would have a bit of a shock when he turned up for work [His shop door was smashed to pieces and the shop itself raided, before being boarded up with giant chunks of wood by the Met Police who left a helpful note to the effect of: “Hey, you’ve been broken into, but we’ve boarded your shop up. Call us!”], we boarded a coach to London Stansted.

Now, I try to not to be annoying- especially on journeys that require sharing several legs with another person. But I couldn’t resist, upon arrival at Stansted, trying to find locations where Matt Lucas and David Walliams filmed parts of their hit show “Come Fly With Me”, whilst doing impressions of ‘Peter and Judith’ and an attempted [and I use that word loosely] impression of ‘Precious Little’ [“Weh gat cah-fee, weh gat scallllldin’ hat wah-tah, but weh gat no coos-too-mas! So, I gaht no ahp-shan, boot to claws da shaap ear-leh! CLAWSED!” seemed to be a phrase that my girlfriend and several other passengers had to put up with for quite a while.]

After wandering around departures, going through security [where the security officer made me take off my hoodie and shoes as well as my jacket, and didn’t even give me a courtesy smile when I remarked: “Blimey, I’m gonna be freezing!”], and waiting at our gate, the time came. All the travellers stood, elbows sharpened, adrenaline levels rising. You could hear the pulses race as people rose from their seats. The appearance of a staff member at the doors of the departure gate was pretty much a metaphor for a race-starter, firing the pistol to start the 20m airport hurdles. Yes, you guessed it. We were flying with easyJet. I said earlier that I haven’t flown in years. But when I did fly frequently it was with this very airline, and the memories were suddenly flowing back to me. Aaah, yes- the “Jesus Christ, were you Tango’d, or did you just rub up too hard against Dale Winton?” orange-clad flight attendants; the rush to board quickly so you could get fresh air; the distinct smell of cheap-and-cheerful.

But something didn’t feel right. Although my girlfriend and I proved that we weren’t cut out for low-cost flying [we ended up pretty much at the back of the queue, and ended up with seats at the back], easyJet doesn’t seem to be the laughing-stock anymore. Before, you’d be thousands of feet up in the air, looking at other passengers with a look that said “Yup… I’m in the same boat as you”, and flicking through the inflight magazine and catalogue, where it became apparent that you could buy a shortbread biscuit on-board for roughly 300 pounds. Now, although the price of the on-board items is still extortionate, everything seems quite reasonable, and no-one’s laughing at easyJet like they used to. And that’s probably because of a certain Michael O’Leary, and his little ragtag team of aviation chums, also known as Ryanair; whose flights were also taking off from Stansted that morning, and were still painfully abysmal, I judged by the looks on the faces of passengers through the tiny windows on the side of their plane. Poor buggers.

After what was an incredibly fast flight [all in all, it took us around 50 minutes, which seemed to be just enough time to panic, but not enough time to get completely pteromechanophobic], we landed in a cloudy, yet still quite warm, Edinburgh.

Our first leg of the journey from the airport was by bus- the Caledonian Buses Airlink 100, which although very clean and swanky, seemed to have gone for a cheap and cheerful voiceover to announce its calling points, resulting in the words “Mariott Hotel” being chewed up and spat out as “Maria… Toh-tell”. Whilst the audio wasn’t great, the visuals were simply spectacular- both my and my girlfriend’s heads kept swivelling and tilting to look out of every window possible to examine the capital city of Scotland, which seemed to have a perfect blend of modern design and vibrancy, whilst also displaying several monuments of a very eventful history; buildings that had been erected centuries ago, nestled right in with something that could have been finished as soon as last week, with a great buzz and energy created by the people who gathered outside. Edinburgh, I decided at that moment, was a place that I would love to be in for long periods of time. Not only was it incredibly similar to London, but it seemed to be so charming. This slight
obsession [something that made my girlfriend laugh at me several times over the course of this trip] developed more and more, to the point where I now [at time of writing] am looking at transferring my University course to Edinburgh [though this looks unfeasible- it’s pretty damn expensive there]. After slowing to a halt on Waverley Bridge, a place that was overlooked by the magnificent and awe-inspiring Scott Monument, as well as the Jenners Department Store building, we entered Edinburgh Waverley Station, which, I believe, is the second largest train-station in terms of square feet in the United Kingdom [with the first being London Waterloo]. Scotland so far, it seemed, not only had a good eye for inventions [John Logie Baird invented the television], but for incredible and remarkable engineering [something that I’d also discover on the way to Dundee].



My girlfriend and I would have loved to go on one of those sightseeing tours around Edinburgh, where you sit on the top of a bus, plug headphones into your seat and get told almost every detail about a monument that you could ever want to know, but unfortunately we didn’t have time. However- I did manage to grab a free sandwich from Upper Crust [no, I didn’t steal it- but they didn’t give me a receipt with my change, which, as I found out 10 seconds before ordering, allowed me to get a refund on my sandwich], which brightened up my day to no end. Ravi’s stomach-1, Cultural awareness- 0.

After this, we walked for [what seemed like] an eternity in order to find a train that we had booked, to get to Dundee; a place that Eddie Izzard once likened to jail. Would this put me off Scotland? Would I finally find truth in those harsh stereotypes that I had once heard? Only time would tell…

My DeviantArt store, with several pictures from Scotland: http://www.deviantart.com/print/18341079/?

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Libyan Activists Protest in Middlesbrough

Activists hoping to raise awareness of the crisis and massacres in Libya gathered at Teesside University, Middlesbrough today in order to protest outside the Student Union.

Unprecedented protests in the Libya's capital, Tripoli, have been countered by extreme force used by the country's army, with gunfire being heard into the early hours of morning, and with several buildings being set ablaze by both opposers and supporters of Colonel Gaddafi's regime. The use of live amunition and tear gas has been condemned by several human rights organisations, with the death toll already above 233. Protests within the North East, however, have been peaceful- mounted police did attend the protest, but no there has been no report of violence. [EDIT- Reports have come in that there were incidents of bricks being thrown]

The protests in Libya echo the sentiment of those that were held in Egypt, as well as the protests that are ongoing in Bahrain, as part of a wave of action throughout the Middle-East. However, whilst protests in Egypt were covered meticulously by the BBC, and and protests in Bahrain gain publicity by the threat that they pose to next month's Grand Prix in the region, it is felt that the situation in Libya has been left to fester, despite the mortality rate, and the iron-fist strategy that has been used by the army and Colonel Gaddafi, who has been the de facto leader of the country after his military coup on the first of September 1969.

Some, however, ask the question of whether Britain is at all involved in this situation- not as a help, as many would like, but as a hindrance. Many of these questions carry the haunting reminder of former Prime Minister Tony Blair's alleged desert deal with Colonel Gaddafi in 2004, where a gas contract with Shell was [allegedly] signed on the spot, as a prerequisite for Britain giving training and equipment to Libyan troops. Training and equipment, it seems, that may have even been used against peaceful protesters in Green Square yesterday.

Many people who form the audience for these protests at Teesside Unversity do not seem to understand the cause for the protests, with one student stating: "No-one cares", and that "[the protesters] should go to Downing Street or go and tell the Libyan government". From those quotes alone, it is plain to see that the situation really hasn't been given enough air-time by the media in this country. It seems that Downing Street can't really listen- why would they? There might not be as much oil in Libya as there is in, say, Iraq or Afganistan, and this conflict comes at a time where resources are money are already scarce for the military. Any attempts by the Libyans to peacefully coax Gaddafi out of power have just been met with violent and malicious resistance by the Colonel and his followers. And while protests are slowly beginning to put pressure on Gaddafi, it truly speaks volumes about a leader who once said that "the people lead the country".

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Popcorn Post: 127 Hours

In this day and age, "true-to-life" movies have become the domain of the Channel Five afternoon line up. You know, the ones where you've not bothered with going into work, so you've feasted yourself on the several, low-budget, American, "made for TV", oestrogen filled dramas of babies with several mothers, and the like.
127 Hours, however, may just alter the perception, target audience, and connotations of the "based on real life" genre.
Picture it now: you're a thrillseeker. A daredevil. You're independent. Not only have you joined the national rescue service [just to get that extra adrenaline rush], but you mountain bike, hike, and scale mountains just to pass time. But suddenly it goes horribly wrong. One minute, you're reciting song lyrics by Phish, then, out of nowhere, it feels like fate has suddenly plucked your number out of the hat. You're trapped in the middle of a canyon; a dense, gargantuan boulder pinning down your right arm so you've got no choice but to make some giant sacrifices to survive. Welcome to the life of Aron Ralston.
127 Hours [Which, thankfully, is actually only 97 minutes], shows Ralston's [James Franco] dilemma. Montages from his childhood, hopes for his future, and regrets from the past all combine to impact on the dilemma of his situation. The only things he can see are the dense mounds of rock that surround him, the only thing he can hear is the caw of the ravens that circle above his head, and the only thing he can feel are the glossy-bodied, multi-legged insects that crawl and squirm their way around his body.
There's no-one that he can call for help, he doesn't have a mobile phone, and no-one knows where he is. So while his hand is being crushed to the point of being blue by a giant rock, all he can do is record a video diary, and pray that, if he dies, someone will find it, and alert one of his relatives. Franco puts in a sterling performance, capturing every moment and emotion of Ralston perfectly; his acting topped off and complimented amazingly by several montages placed in by the directors, which may seem strange at first, but make perfect sense when examined psychologically.
But how far would you go? Some of you would probably just give up after calling for help. Others would probably just pray for a miracle. Aron Ralston, however, [and remember: this is a true story], went that extra mile.
In the most shocking piece of cinema for quite a while, after several days of being stuck, James Franco re-enacts what Ralston had to do in 2003: self amputate in order to get out alive. I'll state it now: this scene is not for the weak stomached, or those with a bit of a dodgy ticker [though, those of you with an interest in medicine and anatomy may not be so badly affected- my girlfriend seemed to even stop blinking throughout the montage]. The scene, which, I believe, was relentlessly worked on by medical professionals for the purposes of accuracy, isn't your bog-standard amputation scene. Not only is Ralston's arm pinned down, but you hear the sounds of his bone snapping; you feel the piercing pain of cutting through the nerve. But why does he do this?
...You'll have to see to find out!
In summary, this is a fantastic movie. If you don't want to go for the 'real-life' factor, you most certainly go for the emotional tension throughout the movie, and the audience tension within the amputation scene. Brilliant cinematography by Danny Boyle, and an outstanding [almost-]one man show by James Franco.
Rating: 8/10.

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Reality Bites

Okay, readers of my blog, and knowers of my ramblings will know that I'm not the biggest fan of reality TV. Big Brother, I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, and The X Factor  have slowly but surely become thorns in my side. When they were legitimate psychological and psychosocial experiments, they were fine! Brilliant elements of entertainment that would adorn our TV screens at least once a week.

But now, they've just become another fad. Thankfully, it's not just me who thinks that. Many of my friends and family think such shows and other get-rich-quick schemes are just a waste of time, money and space, thinking that shows that actually entertain would be a better way to brighten up our TV screens.

Recently, however, I've had a bit of an epiphany. There are two reality shows that I've seen recently that I'd be proud to watch on a regular basis! I KNOW! SHOCK HORROR!

Both of them are American, and I have to say now- I have a high doubt that either of them would be picked up in the UK, seeing as we're known for our "stiff upper lips", and all of that jammy stuff that sounds like the cat's pyjamas! They are brilliant shows, though- exploring not just the humorous "let's-watch-this-idiot-wash-their-dirty-laundry-in-public" element, but also the "holy-cripes-is-this-actually-happening" element.



The first is called Solitary. The contestants of this show, as the name suggests, are locked away in solitary confinement, before losing their identity, and becoming known simply as the number that is written in their pod. Which, when you think about it, is bad enough in itself. But the host and rulemaker of the show, a robot called Val [who I regard to be the evil twin of POD from "Snog Marry Avoid?"], puts the contestants through gruelling mental, physical, and emotional challenges, with little reward. Although you think Big Brother tasks may be a bit harsh, they're nothing compared to what's doled out in this show- The contestants here push themselves to their utter limits, sometimes in tasks of self-harm, and self-punishment, boggling the mind with how far they're willing to push themselves to win the ultimate prize of Solitary Champion.

The real sad thing about this show, however, is that with the slow decline and eventual cancellation of "Fox Reality" [the network it airs on], it is unclear whether the show will steam ahead for a 5th series.

The second show is called "Baggage", hosted by world-renowned nutcase-tamer and TV-confessional-holder, Jerry Springer. The premise is pretty simple here- how many times have you fallen for someone, or just been on a date with someone, and then found out that they have one, huge, unmissable flaw about them that ends up being a giant turn-off?

Well, there's no chance on this show. A contestant goes onto the show hoping to find the man or woman of their dreams. They're faced by three attractive members of the opposite sex, each who have three pieces of 'baggage' [or three flaws/turn-offs] that they reveal round-by-round. Each round, the contestant eliminates a member based on their baggage until they're left with one person. You may think that that's the end- but ooooooooh no. After Jerry Springer has rattled off a few [I have to say- pretty damn funny] one-liners, the contestant themself reveals a huge piece of baggage. Their chosen member of the opposite sex then has to choose whether they would still date the contestant based on what they have heard.  This, although simple, can throw up some pretty spectacular results.

In the first episode, a woman who was chosen despite the fact that she shaved her whole face, rejected a man who, in a drunken stupor, ended up having sex with a man in college. And the audience, being typically American, and probably being heavily edited by sound effects, contributes to the drama well; adding to the humour: in one episode, after a woman said she wanted to adopt 5 kids,  the gasps from the audience looked as though they could have just started to suck Jerry Springer's hair away from his head; something which I'm sure would be taken as a national tragedy.

As I previously said- these shows definitely won't get picked up in the UK. But while they're still on in the US, and while we're still being bored by the saaaaaame reality shows year on year here in the UK, I highly recommend them.

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Book Review: Dial M For Merde- Stephen Clarke

Having been a keen reader of Stephen Clarke's "Merde" series so far, I felt obligated, yet excited to read the latest installment in the series. Clarke's fast paced, first-person tales of travel and tedium, centred around the character of Paul West entertained, enthralled, and humoured me; from his bureaucratic cock-ups in Paris, to his relationship break-downs in London, and the charms of America. But can the same be said for his new tale?

Unfortunately not, I say. While the book still has the occassional titter about it, it has nothing compared to the "Oh-ho-ho, laugh-till-the-brioche-explodes-from-your-belly" roars of hilarity from the previous novels. Whilst there were certain sexual elements in the other books, the first quarter of the book seems to be as sexxed up as a Labour Party dossier with a foreword by Jordan. And trust me, when an 18 year old boy with "raging hormones" says that a book has too much sex in it, it really DOES have too much sex. All of this intercourse stems from Paul's travels through France with his girlfriend, Gloria Monday, otherwise known as "M", as she scours the French coasts for signs of endangered species of fish, in her role as ecologist and scientist. This rather mundane plot element is made up for by the fact that Paul has to cater for his friend's wedding, as she attempts to marry into an aristocratic family who look down their noses more than the Jolly Green Giant at a playgroup.

But all is not as it seems. The tale goes from sex, sun, and ceremonies to murder and mystery in the blink of an eye. As M heads on an excursion of her own to Marseille to meet some other ecologists, an undercover female police officer in a low cut, backless dress [yes, that's right! More sex!] lets Paul know that M isn't a scientist at all. There is only one big fish she cares for- the President of France. And she wants to see his head on a silver platter.

From then on in, Paul heads off on a wild goose chase, trying to balance being a "trateur" [caterer] for his friend, and a "traitre" [traitor] to his assassin of a girlfriend, whilst also cramming in "ambassador for the British nation" into the mix.

But will M get caught? Will Elodie [Paul's engaged friend] get married in time to reap a financial tradition held by the pompous family? Will England assist France like the allies that they have come to be!?



...In all honesty, you may not ever find out. The book seems pretty dry and dull compared to the previous novels, and you'd be forgiven for losing interest, given the fact that the first half is probably as interesting as Stephen Hawking's talking computer conveying the taste of a Ryvita biscuit.

I'd give the book 5/10, due to the small smatterings of laughter and the callbacks to the previous tales. Though I wouldn't really recommend it. My take on it in two words? Sacre bleurgh.

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But If You Have To Explain It, Is It Still Comedy?

As some of you may know, I do standup comedy in my spare time. Although I'm more of the good-natured, ramble-on, just-keep-talking-and-they'll-laugh type, and I'm far from a Frankie Boyle fan, I feel a need to defend him here.
Sharon Smith, who has a five year old daughter with downs syndrome, was on radio five live this morning, complaining that she saw Frankie Boyle for his "cutting, clever" sense of humour, and then became quickly upset when Boyle started making fun of downs syndrome.
No offence or anything, but IT'S FRANKIE BOYLE. Did you think he was going to make fun of them? (Or should I correctly word that: DO BEARS SHIT IN THE WOODS!?)
I find it completely hilarious: this woman goes to see Frankie Boyle BECAUSE he's a nasty bastard, and because he has that cuttingly devastating sense of humour, and then gets all whiny when something that she is so close to gets made fun of. What about everyone else? what about when an issue close to them is touched on?
At the same time, IT'S A COMEDY GIG. Either heckle (it's your public right, I believe), or do the thing that every comedian hates, and GET UP AND LEAVE.
Yes, I agree, Frankie Boyle is an acquired taste. I, myself, am not a fan, and I don't appreciate his type of comedy. But at the same time, you KNEW his style, but you went and saw him anyway.
I guess you're a few sandwiches short of a picnic...

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Brown Borrows Blair Bounce

As we all know, election day is almost upon us. Listening to the grapevine, you'd be forgiven for thinking that Gordon Brown is almost certainly going to be receiving the political beating-of-all-beatings. Backed by "Chancellor Boring", and his very own "Merry Band of Backstabbers", our current Prime Minister needs all the help he can get in order to claw back every ounce of public support that has mysteriously vanished during his tenure as top-dog. But who thought that Labour would have resorted to the predecessor, the enemy, the partner-in-crime?

I'm sure that, while jetting off round the world; combining duties of middle-east envoy with after-dinner speeches and lectures, even Blair had no idea that he would be called on to steady the slow, sinking ship that's become the Labour party. Although some could say that he's responsible for this slow downturn, it could also be said that he should not have to play the back-up role; appearing to be the 'Bill Clinton' behind Gordon Brown's 'Hilary' on his charge for approval.

For Brown, this must be a kick in the teeth. Although he worked with Blair (albeit sanctimoneously) throughout his three terms, we know that the two most powerful men in government (at the time) were at the heads of roaring factions within the party, with several MPs backing their favourites in this political horserace. For Brown to see the man who held this top job from him, swoop in and save the day once again, must hurt more than all the stabbing in the back that he's received over the past few months. What's even worse, though, is the fact that the return of "SuperBlair" will be used as war-fodder in the commons by David Cameron, whose Conservatives are suddenly beginning to finish the pinch.

We all know that this election may be hard-fought, vicious, and mucky- but we may just see that Tony Blair emerges as a top dog...

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