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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Entente Cordiale- My Travels In France- Final Part

I assume that most of you know that I’m 17, and that I try to be as mature as I possibly can [bar the fart jokes, toilet jokes, and sex jokes]. With that in mind, would you think less of me if I said that I thought Disneyland Paris was MINDBLOWING?

I’ll admit now that I’m not much of a rollercoaster kind of guy: I’m the type of person who would rather get in a bumper car, and adhere to as many road traffic laws as I can, whilst displaying an air of decorum as every other person smashes into me and distracts me from my dream. Disneyland, however, may have just changed me. Waking up at eleven, we headed to the theme park on the train. Even from the outset, the place looks beautiful- upon entry to the park, you’re faced with primp and polished, cottage-like buildings, all clean and aligned to millimetre perfection, and sparkling; even in the dark of the clouds. Even I, a seventeen year old boy with testosterone raging through my veins, hardly managed to stop myself from jumping in a camp manner and screaming “OH EM GEE, I SSSSOOOO WANNA LIVE HERE!”

One of my friends, who was visibly ecstatic at the thought of being in Disneyland for her [wait for it, this pause is needed for the effect] SEVENTH time, led the charge for us to head to Space Mountain, Mission II. According to her, it’s “so much better than Mission I,” the coaster that is in the Florida Disney theme park. Me, in my pre-coaster state, was, and I’ll admit this, slightly afraid. Even though even the name “Space Mountain” sounds even more wussy than Graham Norton [or Richard Simmons for US readers] on a pink space hopper in a ballerina outfit, I was afraid that it’d go round a bend a little too fast, and would end up flinging me off to some far-fetched and little-known part of the Disneyland park, resulting in me waking up three days later with a weird Mickey-Mouse-shaped lump on the top of my noggin. As we got closer and closer, the feeling of being scared slowly adapted to the feeling of nervousness. Not a bad nervousness, like when you’re waiting outside a doctor’s office, and you know he’s going to tell you that the golf-ball you accidentally ingested was limiting you to six days of life, but a good nervousness.

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”
That quote was my own. During the whole ride, with my hair being tossed about more than a L’Oreal advert on acid, I cheered and whooped in amazement! It was AWESOME. Not content with riding just once, we ran round to the start of the queue once again, and re-rode the ride. Take two, however, was not so smooth. While boarding the ride, I accidentally pushed down the seat lock in front of me, causing my friend, who was getting into the seat, to trip slightly. After the ride was over, and everyone else’s seat lock came up, mine stayed on and kept me hostage. Touché, Disneyland, Touché.

We then made a run for the Finding Nemo ride. I’d give you the proper name for it, but unfortunately I’ve forgotten it. Although you may think it’s a pretty lame ride, it’s really not that bad! It’s not the most enthralling amusement available, but it’s certainly a bit of a surprise! I recommend sitting in the front seat- the first downhill left-hander’ll hit you off kilter, and that makes the ride so much more awesome!

Ride of the day, however, has to go to the Aerosmith ride. In the queue, you get to see tonnes of memorabilia from various artists [and surprisingly, even though it’s Disney, there were no Jonas Brothers collectibles. Oh, wait, I said ‘artists,’ didn’t I? My mistake!] , and you even get to see a video of the band explaining why and how they designed the rollercoaster. The ride itself, though, is phenomenal. There’s a countdown from 5 at the start of the ride, and then it truly does [with a bit of a jolt at the start], as the legendary rock quote states, go to 11. We repeated this ride three times before we headed to the star attraction, the well renowned, the infamous:
TOWER OF TERROR.
I’ll say right now that I didn’t find it to be “all that” [as all the ‘hip’ people say nowadays]. The ride itself is little more than a lift going up and down more than a yoyo at superspeed. The staff at that particular ride, though, are incredibly talented actors, who portray hotel workers, each with a little quirk [One of them gave me an extremely dirty look, and told me to “get off the carpet”, and another told my friend that they may meet their demise]. In fact, this caused one of my friends to be slightly infatuated with one of the ‘workers’, and to be honest, I thought the feeling was mutual- he was really hamming it up for my companions.

Although this was the end of our Disneyland trip, we headed back to the hotel, and then onto the Champs Elysée. We decided to dine at an Italian restaurant. Our waiter, a portly, goateed man, however, seemed to dislike our choice, and proved that there were chips on his shoulder, as well as in the kitchen. He also seemed to dislike my sudden comic turn over the “floating island” that was on the desert menu, deciding to shake the dish in my face before presenting it on the table; the giant, spherical marshmallow causing the yucky, viscous custard to splash out of the bowl.

After this, we decided to head to a club up the road, named “Queen.” The waiter at the restaurant laughed when he heard my friend’s plans to take me into the club, his outburst of laughter caused by the fact that the apparent target audience of the club was homosexual. Waiting outside, and viewing a shaggy-haired Asian man fall flat on his face from the sheer quantity of alcohol he had consumed, we decided to take a rain check on the club.

This was our last night in Paris, and it was an extremely cool trip. Although Paris may not live up to the hype that is cast on it, it is still an extremely cool city, with extremely cool photo opportunities, too. I recommend it, and if you plan on going at any point: Bonne voyage!

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