¡Viva la Revolución!

Originally posted on The Daily Touch

As my third year of Politics at university began I started to feel as if I had not been as involved with the student political scene as I should have. As a 50 year old man who looks back on his life thinking “What do I have to show for my time on this earth?” decides to visit his nearest Porsche dealership, I decided to join a student protest.

The particular one I joined was around late November last year, rallying against further cuts across the country. It had been semi-hijacked by people calling for a stop to violence in the Gaza Strip, but telling them to go find their own angry mob seemed rude.

What first struck me about protesting was the intense anger generated by some. The Socialist Party in particular seemed to have drawn up an intriguing list of demands. Topping which appeared to be a call to “cut off the fucking Tories’ heads”. Whilst I have studied politics I am in no way an expert on the construction of political manifestos, but to me this seems unrealistic, problematic and messy.

Those calling for the removal of body parts were in a minority however. The majority had come to show their objection to increased tuition fees and further austerity cuts.

I was not disappointed once the rally started. Being part of a protest is a fantastic thing. You are one amongst a sea of thousands, with no-one particularly knowing where anyone is heading. It is the best way to understand the term “people power”. You are a people, and you feel powerful. Roads must be shut down to allow you to walk along them; you didn’t even need wheels, let alone a tax disc or number-plate. It took all I had to prevent myself from yelling “Fuck the police, no justice no peace!”

That said, the whole thing must have had the strength of papier-mâché, as once it began to rain people fell apart from the procession in damp clumps. We had already passed the Houses of Parliament and drifted into more suburban areas. Our performance had become something of a more private exhibition as there did not seem to be more than a few passers-by to demonstrate for. Those committed to the cause stayed with the parade through the oncoming storm, and those of a more fickle nature began to desert as we passed the odd café or pub.

We were among the first to go AWOL, diverging from the protest route after maybe the third drop of rain. Our shame must have inclined us to find a place far away from everyone, as by the time we finally entered a café we were sodden. Thankfully we were not the only cowards; within a few minutes around ten other students from the protest joined to share our guilt.

We crowded around one small table over mugs of coffee discussing how everything had been ruined by the weather, it all felt incredibly British. No one had much hope of change being brought about on account of our actions. It was more a rite of passage. To go through student life without complaining about the state of our own country and being a public nuisance while you do it was unacceptable.

I do not foresee ever joining a protest again, simply because I do not yet have a cause to rally under, but I would recommend every student tries it. Standing up against the government somewhere other than the seat at your computer or the family dinner table is an excellent feeling, weather permitting of course.

How Exactly Does One Pope?

Everyone knows what a Pope looks like: that killer smile, those beautiful Daz-white robes and that strange little hat. However, not everyone understands what exactly the point of him is. As the burning bush enlightened Moses, let me try and enlighten you as to what a Pope does.

He re-hydrates baby’s foreheads.

Just in time, this one was drying up.

Everyone knows that babies have notoriously dry foreheads. Their incessant crying results in the need for regular moisturising. Without this each successive tantrum will cause them to increasingly resemble a raisin. Unfortunately parents’ hectic schedules often just do not give them enough time in the day. Thankfully a combination of devout piety and copious amounts of holy-water means the pope is essentially a walking tub of Nivea cream.

He dresses to kill.

As the Pope is the figurehead of religious community numbering approximately 1.2 billion members he must be dressed appropriately. His dress sense typically resembles an advertisement for Persil washing-powder, not a single grass stain is to be seen on that beautiful robe and even his hair is as pure as the driven snow. This is all offset magnificently by an abundance of gold. Catholics do love their gold. In fact word has it both the Pope and Kanye West shop at the same jewellers.

He works crowds.

Pope Francis I held his first gig at St Peter’s square to a crowd of approximately 200,000 people. This guy has so much stage presence he can hold his gigs in Latin. Who the hell speaks Latin these days? People don’t care about understanding what it is he says, all they want is to catch a glimpse of his holiness. Move over Justin Bieber.

The new Papal range by D&G (Davidé and Goliáth).

He is pretty fly.

Not only has he got one sweet ride which allows him to gaze out upon his adoring fans, but he also has a personal workforce to cater to his every need. These include a team of nuns who cook and clean, a valet, two secretaries and a team of speechwriters. That is one lavish lifestyle.

He washes feet.

While he may have a small army to cook and clean for him, the Pope is not one to shy away from humility. Word came to Pope Francis I that some prisoners were suffering from dirty feet. With the speed of a biblical flood Pope Francis I snatched up his holy water and swept to their rescue. And before you all cry in disbelief: “surely tradition dictates that only lay-people may have their feet washed by the Pope, and even this may only take place within specific Basilicas inside Rome?!” Yes it does, but tradition is no excuse for below standard podiatry hygiene with this Pope. Good on him I say.

I Voted for the Other Guy, Unfortunately He Sucks As Well!

Originally published at The Daily Touch

Typically in Britain there is culture of, to put it lightly, mild dislike towards our politicians.  The mere mention of the word “politics” can spark a list of reasons why many of them, again putting it lightly, can shove their head up somewhere irregular. Why is this? Are we a nation of citizens disillusioned with our politicians, and if so, what needs to be done?

Switch on your  television, open up a newspaper or fire up the internet and you will be knee-deep in political sleaze. Stories of money being exchanged for honours, unelected influence, or spent on replacement toilet seats, duck ponds and hotel room pornography. Some of those who did not require state-funded pornography engaged in less than appropriate sexual relations with co-workers.

It does appears that there is no end to the stupidity of some politicians. As I am writing this it has just been announced that former cabinet minister Chris Huhne and his ex-wife, Vicky Pryce, have been jailed for attempting to pervert the course of justice. In a cunning plan devised by the pair Vicky Pryce would take Chris Huhne’s speeding points, thus allowing him to continue his career unabated by the fact that he is a complete idiot; because that is the intelligent thing to do really. It is this kind of ingenuity from British politicians which reinforces the belief that our economy is in safe hands.

It is not just their short-sightedness and immaturity that leaves people grating their teeth over the morning paper. Money talks and the newspapers talk about money. Political scandals are almost always followed up with figures on how much it has cost the taxpayer. Chris Huhne’s prosecution process cost a total of £117,558. To put that in perspective, that would buy you 107,851 packs of Rich Tea biscuits (or 59,074 packets of Duchy Originals if you are Chris Huhne). This is the kind of information that will infuriate the public, who are busy struggling to pay gas, electricity and water bills. No-one wants to hear in the midst of an economic crisis that the money from their wage packets has been spent slapping a politician across the wrist.

So what can anyone do? Surely we, us individuals, are powerless. How about voting? Well we only have three parties to realistically choose from, and one of those, the Liberal Democrats, have now become a synonym for the word “unreliable”. General Election turnout figures seem to suggest that a huge proportion do not regard voting as important. A massive 35% of the country did not bother to vote in 2010. Depressingly this was a better turnout than the 2005 election, where 39% of the country decided that their vote was about as strong as Nick Clegg’s spine.

Maybe though, we can take some comfort in the fact that politicians caught up in scandals are torn apart in a fantastic display of public scorn and media fury. They inevitably lose their job and end up the butt of every joke until the emergence of the next scandal. Yes, it is disgraceful that many of our politicians can’t help but spend tax-money on candy bars, visiting Nazi fancy dress parties and generally make fools out of themselves. I will truly start to worry however, when the public is not outraged by such things. So long as the public demonstrate they can be angry, they are emotionally engaged, and whilst they are emotionally engaged they can make a difference.

What Makes John Steinbeck a Literary Icon

I have come to decide that writing about a personal hero or an influential figure is something quite scary. I do not know how I can convey the messages, emotion and joy I have received from reading this particular author’s work. It seems simpler to urge you to go out and read them yourself. I have however suggested this to various friends and acquaintances and in light of my successive failures I wish to at least try and explain why I love this man named John Steinbeck.

I use the term love, suggesting I have some kind of connection or relationship with him. In a sense I do, but so do millions. When we read an author’s work we are, in many cases, reading an essay about that particular person. Some form of treatise on their soul. A read through Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley creates something that feels close to a personal conversation. His thoughts are described with relatable depth, each one accessible and beautifully philosophical, conveyed as if the travel memoir was written for you and you alone.

What is special about Steinbeck’s work is the use of language to portray people. Personalities seem clear. Unique qualities, both good and bad, are drawn to the surface. Take the psychopathic character Cathy Ames in East of Eden who stokes a hateful fire deep within the pit of your stomach; or Ethan Hawley in The Winter of our Discontent, a portrait of an affable human-being disillusioned by the hypocritical process of financial success. Both these characters are defined by the loathing or empathy you feel towards them. This is how all characters in Steinbeck’s works are developed. A whole medley of personalities are invented, all of them believable. The only sign that they do not exist is that you have not met them yet, however this is not strictly true. One could quite easily find a Cathy Ames within their community, or even a George and Lenny from Of Mice and Men. Steinbeck’s characters seem so human because simply put, they are human.

Not only does he have the ability to paint accurate representations of people, his brush is also cast across nature. The opening chapter of East of Eden is dedicated to a sprawling painting of the Californian Salinas Valley where Steinbeck grew up. In the chapter the valley is made to feel almost tangible. Seasonal descriptions of flowers and foliage give the valley a colour, descriptions of weather a climate, and the mustard fields even give it a taste. He mixes and manipulates his words into paragraphs the same way Van Gogh spread paint on a canvas, creating both bold and truly beautiful scenes.

I admit again that nothing I write here will accurately or even appropriately describe the delight you will find reading Steinbeck’s work. Instead I am going to leave you to find out yourself, in the hope that this may have helped you do so.

Salinas Valley, California

Waist-High Walls and Indiscriminate Shooting: Video Game Violence.

Video games are violent, sometimes disgustingly so. This is an undeniable fact. One brief glance at the new releases and you will see games like Metal Gear Rising: Revengeance; a game based around a system allowing you to slice and dice your enemies as if you were playing Gordon Ramsey and upon discovering your wife in bed with a selection of fruit and veg had gone to fetch your favourite knife. This makes it hardly surprising that video games are the first point of call when it comes to locating the blame for catastrophes such as the Columbine school massacre. Is this really fair though? I, like many others, grew up playing video games almost religiously and have not once felt the urge to casually meander into anyone’s house, proceed to smash all of their pots, steal all their jewellery then pop down to the local shop and use it to buy my groceries for the day. Okay maybe I have imagined it, but surely if video games are that corrupting playgrounds would be full of children bringing their pets to school in order to pit them against each other cat vs. guinea pig in a grim battle to the death so they can win a portion of their opponent’s lunch money. Or have I misunderstood the Pokemon series completely?

One of the most frequently coined arguments is that videogames desensitise children from the harsh consequences of violence. Prince Harry was recently condemned for likening the killing of enemy troops in Afghanistan to playing the popular videogame Call of Duty; simply adding credence to the already persuasive argument from David Icke that the royals are really a psychopathic bunch of lizard-people in disguise, biding their time until the opportune moment so they can destroy us all. Perhaps we would feel more comfortable if Prince Harry curled up in the foetal position and wept himself to sleep each night.

That said many games do feel as if they are simply being violent because they can. Maybe they are worried that if they allow 10 seconds to pass without some kind of death resembling an explosion in a Dolmio factory the player will get bored and go do something productive. Video games such as Gears of War, Call of Duty and their critics alike make the mistake in assuming that the public are all a bunch of drooling wet sponges only able to register enjoyment when presented with various depictions of death served up to us in the most violent possible way. What we perhaps need is some kind of system whereby only those old enough to play games of a violent nature are allowed to purchase them. There could be different levels of rating and everything, and who knows; if it works well enough we could extend this measure to films too!

Makes you wonder where all the praise comes from, a voice in his head maybe?

What is wrong with horse meat?

People have been in uproar about their delicious microwave lasagne meals ever since it was discovered they had been tainted with this evil. It was as if Lindus had promised them a feast of caviar, quail eggs, and honey, only for the poor individual to peel back the thin protective film and reveal a great big steaming turd. Is it really that bad? I mean, it even has its own Wikipedia page (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horse_meat for all those interested). Plenty of countries across the world consume horse. It doesn’t even look all that different and, judging from the shock reactions of the public, it doesn’t taste that different either.

Should we even really be surprised there is horsemeat in food? When you have paid 12p for a burger you can hardly expected the cow to have been lovingly guided through a luxury spa, fed Greek yoghurt and massaged by a harem of young beautiful men until it dies from having enjoying life too much. When I pay such prices for food, I am simply glad it contains meat. I eat the food shouting loudly at myself in order to distract from thoughts of pink playdough shooting along conveyor-belts in a drab grey factory, manhandled by workers wearing plastic rain-macs bashing the substance until it takes the shape of a hockey puck.

The problem is not that we have sat down to Sunday dinner and eaten a nice plate of Sea Biscuit’s thigh with a side of chips. It is that we have been told that Sea Biscuit was in fact Daisy the Cow or Dolly the Sheep. Granted the blame for this could be traced back and back until the baton is being passed around in a circle like some kind of primary school playground game. The problem is that the supermarkets have advertised food as one thing, yet have delivered another. It raises questions about whether you can really trust the packaging. Who knows, maybe those crisps you ate were made from the back end of a dog. Thinking about it, Nesquik balls did look suspiciously like rabbit droppings, and that bunny did seem smug.

Don’t they look fabulous, and tasty?

Why are all Horror Films Shit?

Why are all horror films shit? Yes that is a bit of a broad-stroked question. I do not claim to have watched every horror film made, nor even that I dislike them all. There are in fact plenty of horror films that help me develop whatever muscle it is you tense when you try to prevent your bladder from serving up Bear Gryll’s favourite cocktail. There are the classic low-budgets like The Blair Witch Project, which forced producers to work on torturing the viewer’s imagination rather than slapping him/her across the face from the fourth minute, bellowing: “Look, look how disgusting that was. It even had stitches and body parts missing. Oh man, check out all that blood!”. No horror film today seems able to spare any time for building up tension. Instead they play out as if they were directed by a child desperate to show off their new toy, managing a couple of minutes holding it behind their back, only to throw it in their parent’s crotch and run off giggling.

Recently there was one film which showed promise. October 2012 brought Sinister to our cinemas, a film about Dad of the Year Ellison Oswalt, a true-crime writer desperately searching for his new best seller. Ellison moves his family into what he neglects to inform them is a murder house. Before long he discovers a box of snuff movies in the attic. Upon viewing, a series of paranormal events begin to haunt Ellison. In typical horror movie fashion he decides for the sake of his wife and two children they better stay put and hope the poltergeist becomes housetrained. Maybe it would help out around the place? If it can set-up a creepy old projector it must be able to put it away. The film develops slowly, but effectively. The director Scott Derrickson manages to show restraint and respect, well spacing each horror scene from the previous. It isn’t until the climax that everything is depressingly bungled together, as if the director suddenly felt the need for every unanswered question to be addressed and tied together. This misses the advantage of what can be done in horror films. A few unanswered questions will let the viewer imagine their own personal worst case scenario.

Any discussion about horror would seem flawed without mentioning arguably the most famous horror film in history (and sole reason behind the drop in pea soup sales since 1973), The Exorcist. While this film revolutionised horror, breaking down almost every boundary constricting directors and screenwriters in a cascade of blood, vomit, blasphemic masturbation, and head rotation. It cannot be denied that the film, when separated from those breakthroughs, is abysmal. The film generally relies upon in your face techniques to disgust the viewer, a technique used to the detriment of this genre ever since. What makes a viewer lie awake at night checking the colour of their pyjamas at every creak is something more general: the corruption of what could be an everyday situation. When the audience are faced with watching someone tortured in a circumstance they themselves could be in. That is what wriggles up underneath someone’s skin and refuses to leave.

I don’t think bed-rest worked, probably best move onto Ibuprofen.