Teenage Dirtbag Baby

This was the second thing that came up when I typed 'teenagers' into Google Images. I don't think I've ever seen 5 teenagers jumping on a beach like that other than on Neighbours.

Today is my last 24 hours (23 now I've finished writing) of being a teenager. And that is a really, really scary thought.

When I think of where and who I was when I hit the terrible age of 13...yeah you're right, I've barely changed.

I spent my entire childhood waiting to grow up; wanting to hit 16 so I could buy a lottery ticket, hit 17 so I could drive and hit 18 so I could get a pint in a pub. I've never bought a lottery ticket, I've passed my test and crashed my car and got drunk too many times to remember. It's weird, and now I'm on the brink of losing my status as a teenager, I just want to go back and do it all over again.

Now I'm just getting all nostalgic and it's not healthy. But seeing as it's my last day before I might have to think about growing up, I think I'm allowed to have a little self-wallow in my own past.

Would I do things differently? Of course I would. Knowing all the wonderful stuff I know now, it'd be cool to start again with the cheat codes. On the other hand, if I didn't do all the stuff I did first time round, I'd be sitting here without a clue. Swings and roundabouts I suppose.

Anyway, this lamenting is all fairly pointless because the likelihood is I'll still act like the immature little shit I am until I'm getting served stale cabbage at an old people's home. The fact I can still get away with child bus fare pretty much says it all.

I don't know, I always thought hitting 20 was the start of 'adult-life', the point where you got sensible and traded in your Playstation for loft insulation. The time I was having these thoughts was around the same time I was convinced my day job would consist of performing car chases for Hollywood action films, so looking back I can see I was mildly disillusioned on both fronts.

But that's the weird thing. I had all these preconceptions about hitting 20 and now I'm here, it's sort of disappointing in a way. I'm halfway to my midlife crisis and yet I still look like I should be in a nativity play.

I probably didn't have the standard teenage life to be honest. I never sat in a park and drunk Strongbow till I needed my mum to come and pick my sorry drunken state up; was never in a band (particularly gutted about that one) and didn't spend my entire teenage years chasing after girls...

Take note of this. It's about as personal as I'm ever gonna get on here.

Quite frankly this is fairly silly. I doubt I'm going to start wearing suit and tie everyday after my birthday, I'm not going to go to bed at 9:13 every night and I sure as hell am not going to have an ounce of responsibility. When people ask my age, I might just lie through my teeth and say 16 just to see if they've got the bottle to question it. Or just say Twenteen and skip off into the sunset.

Either way, I'm going to stop this nonsense, put on 'Teenage Dirtbag' and have one more day of being hated by everyone who reads the Daily Mail. Then maybe find a park...

But Miss, I have an excuse this time!

Sky Sports News building. I will venture in there one day when Georgie Thompson is on air.

'No excuses'. That's the same tried'n'tested bullshit all teachers pull out if your late to lesson, not done your homework, or tried to explain why you threw a pencil in their direction. But this time Miss Blog Maintenance, Daniel has a reason as to why this blog will particularly sparse over the next few weeks.

It's because I'm taking my keyboard tapping fingers somewhere else. To Wordpress. To document my four-week work placement at Sky.

If you're thinking, 'oh my word, no more Daniel for a month', then click that link and you'll be treated to me every day!

I'm trying to be a bit more professional with this blog. It won't be quite as irreverent and pointless as this blog, and dare I say it, I will actually be writing some quite serious shit.

So yeah, check it out. I'm shacked up in some B&B in Hounslow so I don't have much to do of evening, which means I should be able to update it pretty much every evening (providing I have a nice fruitful day).

Losing My Revision, by R.E.M

A scene in the film Jarhead if you will digress. Anthony Swofford played by Jake Gyllenhaal forces Fergus (played by...someone) to construct and deconstruct his rifle at gunpoint. To the point where Swofford cocks his rifle, points it at Fergus' head, resulting Fergus breaking down into tears at the fact meaningless repetition of this simple military task is going to get him killed.

I am, at this very moment in time, 'doing a Fergus'. Simple, meaningless, repetitive task.

Look at lecture notes.

Take pen.

Note down lecture notes.

Add colour to add emotional depth.

Attempt to learn.

Next set of lecture notes.

If Jake Gyllenhaal is indeed reading this and is free at the moment, please, feel free to stop by with your M16 rifle and point it at my head. That way, at least I'll be slightly motivated. Learn about the Crimean War, or a nice little bullet knocking on my cranium. Decisions...

In my ongoing and (at the moment successful) quest to categorically fail theses exams, I have embarked on a number of other ventures that are not very 'revision-based'. First off, my room has been tidied to the point of obsessive compulsive. Staring at my desk blankly made me realise how many stray biro marks had vandalised the natural wood finish (as natural and as wood as you can get from MFI). As a result, Lord Hawhaw and his Germanic propaganda was momentarily suspended in the name of cloth, water and a good scrubbin'.

Elsewhere, the entire Sky Movies schedule for the past two days has been covered. Gran Torino was a particular highlight, with Clint Eastwood's feelings towards 'gooks' and 'chinks' in the film mirroring that of my feelings towards generally working. 'Fucking gooks'.

Me and my brother have used pretty much every team in the 2010 Fifa World Cup game for the Xbox. Using the Japanese team against Brazil was a particular highlight, discovering that it is only for England that the team from the East decide to use kamikaze tactics and put the ball into their own net. Honestly, it didn't work in World War 2, and it won't work in the World Cup. Someone needs to remove Emperor Hirohito from his post as Japanese National Coach and turn him to something more useful, like attacking an American port.

As you can tell by the historic ramblings present in this nonchalant post, my brain has been fried more effectively than a death row prisoner on the electric chair. The only thing that has been absorbed by the pink mush upstairs is the lyrics of songs that have been going while trying to revise. So if I see the question 'Describe the censorship of the press in WW2' and I answer with 'Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me', I won't be at all surprised.

A depressed, Amaretto-fuelled blog post. Bought to you by Dan.

23:59:59

It was the moment I'd been dreading since the year 2001. I was 11 years old and it was about 8.58pm when a programme on BBC2 had finished. All of a sudden, the screen crackled and hissed and a single number appeared:

24

'The following takes place between 12am and 1am. Events occur in real-time'. My 11 year old brain was thinking, 'how the fuck is this going to work?'

It is (I've got to start saying 'was', I'm living in denial that it's still going) a simple set up. Each episode is an hour long. 24 episodes in a season (or day). Voíla. TV. To be honest you could fill it with anything. A bunch of whiney, moaning American brats going on a 24 hour spending spree? A hospital drama showcasing a 24 hour brain transplant? All very good ideas, but no. The incredible team of writers came up with an action/thriller/drama/shockathon hybrid that gives (dammit 'GAVE') you a similar problem to one of Derren Brown's illusions i.e. being surgically stuck in your sofa.

When the final credits rolled on episode 192, the final episode in the last series, there was (I admit) a tear in my eye. Not because it was a sad ending (it was a great ending, I wasn't sitting there thinking I'd got lost in a Nuclear Fission lecture like many Lost viewers), it was just because it was the end of an era. I grew up with Jack Bauer like he was my TV dad (oh I wish). It's like the man who got me through dull days just so I could see him in the evening has passed on (yes I am aware this does sound a little rapey). 9 years of my life are over. My life, in the same way as Christ himself, has been segmented as B.B and A.J (Before Bauer & After Jack).

It was hard enough having to wait nearly 2 years when the Writers Strike postponed series 7 by 2 years. I now have an awful conundrum of not knowing what to watch. I tried Prison Break, which as massively addictive and amazing as it's 4 seasons were, it ran out of steam a bit after they'd broken out of prison, which unfortunately was season 1. I've been recommended other programmes like Dexter and House, but the problem is I don't feel like I can move on.

Think of it as a 9 year relationship. After 192 dates, she's finally moved on, leaving me alone in a room with damp eyes (which was exactly how it was, which is slightly sad). I've been told by friends to move on to others and let it go. The thing is I know that deep down this was 'the one' and nothing again will ever be as good. I'll always be comparing anything else to 24.

The fact I've managed to quite convincingly compare a TV programme to a serious relationship shows how dangerously addicted to this show I have been. Taking it away from me is like Josef Fritzl moving to a high-rise block of flats. I'll pretty much never be the same again.

If you haven't watched it, I'm not going to even try to convince you to watch it. I'm so bias it's not even funny. I literally stumbled across this show and I think it's the best way to watch something like this, rather than be force fed it like a sufragette. All I can say is, if you do start watching it, take your diary/calendar and rip it to pieces. Because for the months after you begin to watch 24, you won't want/physically be able to do anything else.

Shovel, Spade and a Hand Grenade

Friday Nights on BBC1. 7.30pm was Top of the Pops. 8pm was Eastenders. And from 8.30 was Ground Force. 90 minutes of TV brilliance, topped off by Alan Titchmarsh sneaking into someones garden and letting Charlie Dimmock and Hagrid's older brother loose on the weeds. I'm sure it was meant to appeal to older people just settling into bed with a digestive and a brew, but I was hooked. God knows why. I think I was waiting for an episode where they built a rollercoaster in a pensioners garden. It never happened.

Today Daniel had to endure his own little episode of Ground Force, except this was no surprise. No old lady coming back to find her neglected pile of mud behind her house had been transformed into the gardens at Windsor Castle. Just me, Dad and a crack team of gardeners. Well, when I say crack, it was more like crackpot. There was no Tommy Walsh or that ginger lesbian. It was a 62 year old guy from Ireland and a lexically challenged teenage oaf.

Now I'm not one for manual labour. It's what slaves and criminals on community service do. I consider myself to be neither, therefore I refuse to pick up any kind of DIY item. However, this time was different. There was my Dad's sanity at stake. Mum guilt tripped me into helping Dad before 'he got tired, miserable, grumpy and probably topped himself'. At that point I was thinking how to spend the inevitable inheritance and decided my efforts would be better spent doing fuck all. But then a bottle of Disaronno was bought to the negotiating table, and that just made the deal, quite literally, a little bit sweeter.

So, donned in a pair of wellies and some old clothes that were clearly bought in my 'unfashionable phase', I rocked up onto the set of Ground Force to find the rest of my garden crew were stuttering to the point of collapse. They had after all been working since 8am and it was now 2 in the afternoon. The teenage oaf was callously shovelling dirt into a wheelbarrow (probably the most mentally taxing task he'd undertaken since trying to remove a lid from a can of spray paint). The Irish man was talking in totally inaudible mumbles. I thought for a moment he'd got a bit too into the Avatar spirit and had learnt Na'vi. Then I realised he just wanted a cup of tea and was speaking Irish. Some people... My poor old Dad was there as well, looking well and truly shattered. No matter, Daniel stepped in to help his poor old man...

...for about 3 and a half minutes, before I remembered I am in fact me, and cannot stand gardening or physical movement at weekends. I honestly don't know what the appeal is with a garden. My parents say 'ooooh you'll appreciate a nice garden with a few plants when you're older and greyer'. Fair enough, but this doesn't sound very much like me. There's not even a water feature in my garden, and you could tell it was going to be a good episode of Ground Force when the designers threw in a waterfall or fish pond for good measure. Unfortunately, the Irish man nor the teenage oaf had come to install water features, instead, they'd come to dig up the grass and relay some better grass.

At that point I gave up caring. The amount of mess everywhere (quite how Titchmarsh et ál manage to clear up in the 7 days too, which makes me seriously doubt the integrity of this pledge that they actually manage to finish in 7 days) for a simple replacement of grass. Honestly, I could have cleared the garden a damn sight quicker with a bottle of Smirnoff and a box of matches. Oh and what's the bane of any Ground Force episode? Rain. And boy did it rain today. It did the lovely topsoil no good whatsoever.

From today then, I've learnt several important lessons. The first is never ever attempt gardening. Just send a tape with a sob story to Alan Titchmarsh and pray. I know Ground Force isn't on anymore but I don't think Dimmock and Walsh are turning down work at the moment. The second rule is don't accept deals on the backing of free alcohol. No amount of Italian liqueur is going to make up for a day of chronic back ache and ruined hands.

And the final rule, never think you can emulate a TV programme. It's all witchcraft. Now, let's have a go at making my car a bit chavvier...

Talk To My Agent

Me and Mark Thomspon

As far as mad weeks go, this has been up there quite high. If I was in a relationship with Jordan it would have been less eventful and hectic. Writing speeches, cancelling speeches, new shirt, new tie, press releases left right and centre...I don't like being the centre of this almighty spotlight.

Last night was the Bob Friend Memorial Lecture, where I was formally presented with the Scholarship that I won a few weeks back. It was an incredibly glitzy and overwhelming event, not least because the guest lecturer was Mark Thompson, Director General of the BBC, who gave his first public speech since the decision was made to cut both 6Music and the Asian Network as the BBC attempts to cut it's 'bloated' service.

Firstly, Thompson. I think he provided a really interesting lecture, constantly defending the Fourth Estate theory to the hills and how the journalist should always serve the people. He seemed much more chilled and relaxed than anytime before this week, presumably because he didn't have Jeremy Paxman snarling in front of him. It was also nice for him to congratulate me several times, so hopefully if I want a job at the BBC I can just prompt his memory by saying 'the baby-faced guy who won that award that you gave me'. And as far as slip ups go, Thompson saying, AND I QUOTE '...the BBC has links with al-Qaed- I mean al-Jazeera' was pretty damn special.

But enough about Mr. MT. This is my blog so I'm going to talk about yours truly. I can see know why celebrities are all so bitter and lonely. I'm not for a moment suggesting I'm up there with Brad & Ange or Tom Cruise and the like, but being dragged around by a press officer and being told who to talk to and pose for certain photos was certainly an eye-opening experience. Obviously it was 'my night' (not being a twat for a second here) so it was nice to be the centre of attention. But it's difficult. You just want to go and celebrate with your friends, and posing for photos does get a bit annoying, especially when you're not used to smiling that much...

Of course I had a fantastic evening. I'm not going to lie, but having my picture plastered everywhere gives you this warm little feeling inside (no I did not piss myself or anything else...) To be that recognised is pretty amazing and the fact you can 'Google' yourself feels awesome. But this fame-lark, I'm gonna have a Susan Boyle-style breakdown if I'm not careful.

Therapist Required

Paparazzi. 3. Fight For This Love. Fireflies. She Wolf. If We Ever Meet Again.

No this is not a code. The more bright-eyed readers may have gathered that these are song titles. But they're a bit too 'pop' to appear on MY blog surely?

That's exactly what I thought. For a self-proclaimed 'rock dude', I was mortified to find myself, out of choice, hunting down these songs on Spotify and playing them instead of my usual audible treats. I'm starting to think I might have hit my head over the last week. There's no other explanation for this sudden turn towards homosexuality.

I hate pop music. It feels like a toy that was made in China. Cheap. Manufactured. Lots of different variations that all sound the same. Take this years BRIT Awards. Best male went to Dizzee Rascal, a man who can only make a hit when he performs with someone else. But to be honest, when he was up against has-beens like Robbie Williams and chipmunks like MIKA, it's no surprise the BRIT judges chose the lesser of all evils. And why was the audience of GMTV allowed to make the decision on the best BRIT performance of the last 30 years? These are the people who are offered prizes like holidays in exchange for identifying David Beckham's first name. It would have been more sensible to let the KKK host the MOBO Awards...

So yeah, if you're a therapist and you're reading this, can you please prescribe something to stop me listening to this nonsense before, god forbid, this stuff makes it's way onto my iTunes. It'd be a dark day in my music history if I were to have my music on Shuffle only to hear the whinings of Lady Gaga after a Metallica song. Lord have mercy.

Oh and a quick note on the BAFTAs tonight. I'm fully expecting 'An Education' to do rather well. We don't like to admit it, but we are generally quite biased towards our own films at these things.

If this Blog wanted to sue me....

....for gross negligence then it would have a right to. Especially seeing how it's been criminally underfed for about a month. But no matter! Because Daddy's home and I'm going to striaghten things out.

It's been a pretty busy month I'll be honest. Back in my little shoebox at Uni, the workload has been steady but not brutal, we found ourselves a house for next year (albeit above a kebab shop), and I won a scholarship. Yes, young Daniel went and won himself 4 weeks paid work experience at Sky News in the summer. Plus first year tuition fees paid for. Plus travel and hotel expenses. As far as prizes go, it's obviously not as good as the Daewoo estate you can win on Wheel of Fortune, but I'm not exactly moaning about winning it. I was in a state of trance for about 10 minutes after they'd told me I'd won, and then after an afternoon of drinking it still hadn't settled in that I'd won. It was a mad day. And now I get my own little award ceremony where Mark Thompson, the Director General of the BBC will be in attendance. I'm making sure I stay well clear of the alcohol beverages that evening before I tell him 'I fookin laave youuu'...

So yeah I think I'm going to leave it at that to be honest. This post is going to act as a little stopgap just to assure you all I am actually alive, but after a weekend vegetating, my mind is a big green mush and it's unlikely anything decent is going to come from it. That's all folks!

Heartshaped Blog

Last few weeks I've been pretty shit. I never realised how therapeutic music could be, and as well as listening to Radiohead to make myself feel even worse (bad choice), I was listening out for any lyrics that related to moi and my shituation (an epic combination of shit and situation, I'll think I'll trademark that thank you very much).

I found this awesome little song by a band called Eagles of Death Metal. No they have absolutely nothing to do with the genre of death metal, in fact the song in question, Wannabe in LA, is a very melodic rock song. The chorus however struck a chord.

I came to LA to be rock and roll

Along the way I had to sell my soul

I made some good friends that made me say

I really wannabe in LA

Now I imagine you're reading that wondering what the HELL is the point of reading on. To me, this is personal, and I don't normally do sentimental and personal posts, but you know, New Year, new ideas.

To me, the lyrics of the chorus represent what has happened to me over the last few weeks. Wanting something so badly ('wannabe in LA') that it changed completely who and what I was ('had to sell my soul'). I did indeed make 'some really good friends', well not really 'make', more like enhance already good friendships. And yet despite everything, I still really 'wannabe in LA'.

There we go, a musically themed blog about nothing really. Just a rambling insight into the mind of Daniel.

Oh and if you're a Nirvana fan, I would at least expect a chuckle from the title of this blog post. It works on so many levels.

When You Were Young.

I found a remarkable news story on the BBC's website today that has a significant importance to me. Despite coming to the end of my teens, I still look like I should be half way through them. Which is fine now that I have my ID, and at the end of day, millions of people spend billions of Pounds on looking young, so who am I to complain when I get Garnier's best face cream for absolutely sod all.

The story goes that some Danish scientist has come up with the theory that people who look young for their age live longer.

Now I'm not being ignorant here, but doesn't that kind of go without saying?

Professor Kaare Christensen's (not exactly the most stereotypical Scandinavian surname) research consisted of taking twins and seeing which one died first (nice...). The results showed that it was generally the older-looking twin that died first. Obviously the subjects were all in their twilight years (70's/80's, and no they weren't vampires/werewolves with allergic reactions to shirts).

Crude as it may sound, apparently there's some science behind this. Each human is blessed with DNA strands called telomeres, and generally, people who have younger looking faces have longer telomeres. Shorter telomeres are linked to rapid ageing and lots of diseases. Interesting stuff, indeed I for one was simply jumping around at this news. To have been born with Indiana Jones' Holy Grail (not Dan Brown's one which is just some triangles) and potentially have a longer life is nothing short of b-e-a-utiful.

Then you remember the Americans are killing the ice-caps and I probably won't reach my 50th birthday because my house will be underwater as part of some kind of 'New Atlantis'. And having a face as fresh as Joe McElderry's ain't gonna save you from Mother Nature.

Cooking With Dan

Well, I've realised after a rather dull evening that I could replace Ainsley Harriott on Ready Steady Cook if this whole journalism thing goes a bit tits up. Don't believe me? Watch this:

A Man and His Mop

No I have not suddenly become emotionally attached to any cleaning equipment or anything else with handles (i.e. THAT broom I once danced with at a party whilst under the influence).

It's been about 3 months since I last had my haircut. I can see most of you going 'big deal, I haven't had mine cut in years'. I'm really happy for you, but I've never had my hair long. Ever. It's always been rather short. Not bald short, but kind of like a garden lawn thats cut every week by someone who probably cares more about their lawn than they do their own appearance. And now the person who cuts his lawn has died. The garden is out of control. There are weeds everywhere and even the odd mole burrowing all over the lawn.

If that natural analogy hasn't worked, then basically, my hair's got long. The sides are all fuzzy, the back is about as organised as Wigan's defence and it's becoming annoying all round. I look at it in the morning with some 'VO5 Texturising Gum' and look stumped. 'How the hell am I meant to make this look presentable?'

Nevertheless, I am going to soldier on. The likelihood is it's not going to get cut for another month (unless it turns into Devil's Snare and starts attacking me) so I have no option but to keep it. It's kind of like a puppy in some ways. It shits on everything and makes things look a mess, but at the end of the day, it's yours, and for that, you can't help but love it.