Straight Outta' Brompton

I've not been tortured before. I didn't think it wise to get involved in international espionage and ask megalomaniac villains if I was 'expected to talk' while waiting for a space-age laser to cut me in two. So it's not often I've experienced pain as excruciating as the pain I'm feeling at the moment. Because out of the window of my new house, I can see the road that leads out of Medway.

When I went and visited Alcatraz Prison in San Francisco, a lot of people asked why they put a prison on an island. The obvious reason being that it's virtually impossible to escape (and so it proved despite a few urban legends), but the other reason was that so prisoners could see civilisation just through the bars in their windows, making Alcatraz not only escape proof, but also torture for the inmates.

Pretty much exactly how I feel.

This was meant to be a nice cheery little post about my new house and the first few weeks back at Uni. I've kinda started it in the most mellow and downbeat way possible. Some gratuitous swearing should get this train back on the rails.

So fuck me it's been a while. There's a lovely gap where September should have been. It wasn't even as though I was doing anything special. Just taking a break from writing totally irreverent and nonsensical shit on here to be honest. But now we're back with a brand new rap, in a new set of lodgings!

Whilst a number of people have moved into a fairly sensible house for their second year of university, we decided moving in above a kebab shop would be the best thing for our health for the next year. But I'm loving the new gaffe/crib/abode (delete appropriate depending on your social class). We've been here for 3 weeks and it's almost to the point of perfect student household. Large TV, Xbox with FIFA always in the disc tray, Sky Sports (albeit streamed through the Xbox), a freezer stocked with chicken nuggets and potato waffles and the ironing board still in it's original position. It's a far cry from Liberty Quays last year where I was awake more often during the early hours of the morning than a postman thanks to those wonderful fire alarms.

Whilst the first year of uni is all about moving away from home, being in an environment such as student halls still has you under the wrath of accommodation managers. Hell, I even wrote about the place on here (it was one of my earlier blog posts so it reads a bit like a small child moaning) and got called into the Liberty Quays office. Well, I say called, they actually stopped my key fob from working so I was forced to go down reception and meet Darth Vader himself. My point is that even during the first year at uni you're still subject to ruling by iron fist.

In a house? Not so much. Not so much at all. Answer a few questions for the landlord/landlady and Bob's your uncle. Wandering around the house half naked feels like a breath of fresh air after a year of wondering what security guard at Liberty might stumble into your room to tell you to 'turn the noise down'.

I love the house. It's got it's little faults like the mouse traps scattered all over the place and the tiniest most pathetic sink in the downstairs bathroom or the fact there's a set of stairs to climb everytime we want to come back home. It's like trying to conquer the travelator at the end of Gladiators after a night out. But I don't mind. The lounge was big enough to take my drum kit, and that my friends, is the most important thing.

N.B. While not strictly relevant to anything, I thought I'd share this with you all. It's a comment from my Sky blog and seeing as I've barely looked at it, didn't stumble upon this gem till the other day. A man/boy/invalid named Ryan decided he didn't agree with me and so published this. Enjoy!

'Enjoy making fun of the poor, do you?

I couldn’t help but notice your comment “It made me realise… how doing journalism is such a great excuse to be nosey and find out stories from the scum of the Earth without being beaten to death.”. Journalism needs intelligent, thoughtful people if it is to become a respected profession again, not cocky little gobshites like you.

If your team’s documentary – which was rubbish, by the way – had shown any insight into why Merthyr is so economically deprived and why a culture of hopelessness pervades the town then you might actually have learned something rather than pushing the same, tired “oh, aren’t those poor people rubbish” angle. Your tawdry documentary was one-sided and ignorant of the economic regeneration that is occurring in the town.

It appears that the money you are spending in fees learning journalism are not money well spent. Whether this is a reflection on you or the quality of the institution you are attending remains to be seen.'

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).

'How can I be lost, if I've got nowhere to go?'

The little note I hid for next years resident :)

Warning: Daniel is away, Gay Daniel will be writing this post (hence why it's so emotional and down-right philosophical)

It is, in reality, a long way from Kent to Essex. It's taken me a good 6 hours to move back the contents of my uni shoebox to mi casa in lovely sunny Essex. While it may be my little uni shoebox, I'm gonna miss that little Alcatraz-like room.

It was the 20th September 2009 that I slapped my speakers (a sign I've moved anywhere) on the desk of room 412D in Liberty Quays. There was a chair, a mattress that Indian children in the slums of Delhi would have complained about, some shelves, a nicely finished en-suite and carpet made out of either tumbleweed or pubes. But, after whacking a few of my things in there, it became my little university retreat. A slice of independence away from sheltered life back in Essex.

Miss (I hope it's still 'Miss) Fox and the Metallica guys adorned the walls, Angus Young guarded the bathroom door, and pictures of friends stared back at me every time I sat on my computer. Then there was all the little random things on my pin board that I'd assembled from uni. Stupid little drawings and letters that when I took them down, really hit me that I'd finished my first year of Uni. Hell, once my walls were bare, I just wanted to give the keys back and be done with it, because 412D was no longer my little piece of heaven.

I wouldn't say my emotions were running high after I'd packed up and put the last stray bottle cap in the bin. Even if I was, the man-sized tissues were deep in the boot of my dad's car so there would have been no hope anyway.

I couldn't quite believe the amount of stuff that had come of the room. Watching my parents remove contents of drawers, shelves and stuff hidden under my bed was like watching a child play with a Russian doll. Then my dad proved his prowess at Tetris by somehow slotting it all into two cars. And then working out where it all fit back in my room. I don't believe in magic, but wondering how all the stuff fit in the shoebox and not my room at home had me questioning whether some form of witchcraft was at hand.

So it's Southend for the summer, highlighting why the location of my university lodgings is so shit. Even from my own window, I get to admire the 'shanty town' of Gillingham. And it wouldn't let me leave without giving it's own goodbye. 3am last night, two drunk guys across the road hugging, when all of a sudden one hits the guy round the face. Cue clichéd drunken conversation such as 'I thought you loved me man' and 'mi casa es mi casa' (the cultural ignorance there is nothing short of astounding).

It's only once I think back to all these little things that I realise I am going to miss that room. The little things that have made me laugh, cry, smile. It's been an awesome first year at Uni, and after all the shenanigans that went down, I knew I had a place to rest my head (unlike Jesus).

R.I.P 412D

For Arguments Sake

I have a huge amount of respect for my colleagues at Uni. Especially the foreign ones. Not only have they had to learn the lingo, but also learn it to the point where they're pretty much better at English than me.

It was even one of the 'aliens' who inspired me to start this blog. Sara Malm's blog is a feminists dream and one that makes me laugh quite a bit.

BUT

I can't help but thoroughly disagree with the post on the Harry Potter themepark in Orlando Florida.

I get the argument. The Wizarding World of Harry Potter is a new themed area in Universal's Islands of Adventure, a theme park that opened in 1999 and has since had absolutely nothing done to it. The same rides have sat there for a decade and there has been very little in updates or new rides.

So they went a bit mental, and decided to recreate JK Rowling's imagination into an area tucked away at the back of the park. Well, as tucked away as much as you can when you've got roller coasters, Hogwarts Castle and the village of Hogsmeade to accommodate.

Anyway, the argument is that Harry Potter is British. Quintessentially. In the same way as tea and scones is British. In the same way Churchill is British. And the same way football hooliganism is very British. So, why is this theme park 3,000 miles away from where many Brits think it should be?

The Americans know how to do a themepark. Look how many Brits, every year, escape the mundane nonsense of Britain and head to Disney World, Universal, SeaWorld and Busch Gardens in Florida and Disneyland, Universal and Six Flags in California. The Yanks take care with their parks. The scenery is beautifully done, parking is organised, and there is a real sense of occasion everytime you set foot in an American themepark. Parades, characters in suits, a clean environment. A British themepark has none of these things. Parades? Only the queue to get a refund on horribly overpriced tickets. Characters in suits? I suppose you could class the teenagers who are working for the summer as characters. A clean environment? I've walked round Thorpe Park before and was convinced I was actually in a landfill site.

The second thing the Americans have is imagination. Some of the rides at Universal are pioneers in ride technology. And the reports coming from Orlando about the 'top-secret' Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey ride have only reaffirmed this notion that the Yanks but far more grey matter into coming up with ride ideas. When we make a ride, we take the American idea, and make it slightly worse, simply because we can't be bothered to invest the same amount of money or effort into making these rides (compare the stats of Thorpe Park's 'Stealth' and the original design of Cedar Point's 'Top Thrill Dragster').

Now for a little history lesson for my final point. In the mid '80's, the Walt Disney Company were drawing up plans to bring their themepark to Europe and had a number of sites which could potentially locate 'EuroDisney'. One site was East London, more specifically, Barking and Dagenham. Yes, the old derelict crumbling Ford plant was put forward (more out of wild hope than expectation) as a potential site for Disney's park. Fortunately for the good of mankind, Disney realised that Disneyland Paris had a slightly better ring to it than 'Disneyland Dagenham' and placed their park at the heart of Europe in a picturesque setting of the Parisian outskirts.

And this all means what exactly? Essentially, having a Harry Potter themepark in Britain would be like building the worlds most powerful car and then attaching one wheel to it. We'd ruin it. We'd take it for granted, build a castle, fill it with a few portraits and then accountants would step in and we'd have to leave it at that. Who would come to it anyway? Britain's tourism is dire in comparison to that of American or France. No one would come and then Hogwarts really would look like ruins (small in-joke for die-hard Pottermaniacs). When I was in Orlando last year, they'd nearly finished building Hogwarts castle and it looked fantastic. The American's have taken our baby and treated it with care. The amount of money and research that has gone into it is nothing short of staggering. Both JK Rowling and Stuart Craig (production designer on all the Potter films) have both been heavily consulted every step of the way.

Like everything good on Earth, it's a British idea that's taken forward by the Americans. Lets not forget, the Potter films are all made by American companies. Can you imagine a Potter film made by the BBC? It'd be downright shit and you'd inevitably have Graham Norton as Dumbledore.

And besides, Orlando has sunshine. Who looks out of their window on a rainy day and thinks 'fucking prime themepark weather'?.

Case closed.

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.

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.

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:

Tactical Nuclear Blog

With Christmas and New Year coming up, I'm always left wondering a) what do I want for Christmas? and b) how do I get unbelievably drunk on New Year? Well, some Scottish folks may have just answered both of my conundrums.

You see, a brewery in Fraserburgh in Scotland named BrewDog have come up with a beer that has an alcohol content of 32%. The beer is stored for a year and a half and then chilled at -4 degrees celsius for about 48 hours and voila, a world-record breaking beer. So, what did these Scot's decide to name their sophisticated concoction?

Tactical Nuclear Penguin.

That's more like it. In a world of red tape and health and safety officers who've got a phD in 'being a dick', it's nice to know there's a company out there with a sense of humour. Hell, even the label is brilliant: 'This is an extremely strong beer; it should be enjoyed in small servings and with an air of aristocratic nonchalance'. And to top it off, BrewDog revealed their 'Nuclear' beverage to the world on the same day the Scottish parliament were discussing minimum prices on alcohol. Perfect time.

In other news, I now have Xbox Live set up in my room at Uni. I'm now currently waving my degree goodbye like passengers on the Titanic waving at the people left in Southampton's docks. Ah bliss.

Spleen Eggs and Jam

If you click on this blog half as much as you do on the Facebook link which is most likely to be saved under the 'Bookmark' (or Obsession) tab, you'll realise there is a rather large gap between this blog and my last. When you're faced with the prospect of a mountain of university work, Call of Duty and sleep, blogging just seemed to pass me by...

Which is why I am returning (not with a Vengence like in Die Hard, or Reloaded like in that crazy film franchise about who could wear the longest leather jacket) with a bang -albeit muted one seeing as it's nearly 2am and I have nearly as much alcohol in me as a date-rape victim.

A mixture of things have happened since my last blog. I've turned 19 (although still retained my 12 year-old face), seen the mighty Gillingham F.C play, sh*t my pants for the first time since I was 4 watching Paranormal Activity, annoyed the people who run my uni accommodation, done 2 large assessed pieces of journalism work, seen numerous amounts of old friends and so forth. Like I said, haven't exactly been sitting on my arse these last few weeks.

The point of this blog you may ask? Well, I'm feeling pretty angry at the fact I currently have army-themed face paint on that refuses to come off, to the point of convincing me to purchase a series of tools from B&Q in order to remove the damn things before lectures commence tomorrow. I'm also pretty annoyed at how Facebook has just become a competition to join the most pointless groups possible. I don't really care that everyone has joined 'Jedward hate groups', I already get a sh*t load of weekly updates about their progress every Sunday. But as far as groups go, this one has to be my favourite, for the sheer audacity and originality: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=338479045264&ref=search&sid=1100452792.2420460539..1

Over and out xD

Sh*t It's Nearly Been A Week...

...since last post. Been a bit busy if I'm honest (blame Mr. Luckhurst and his team for throwing work at us left, right and centre) and just found a few spare moments to update you with stuff.

There seems to be a new act of public indecency on the rise, one which I've noticed a lot more at Uni. It courses horrific pain to the victim, and extreme pleasure for the criminal.

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I am of course talking about, the horror that is, the Facebook Rape.

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So far, homosexual activity on my account has risen tenfold. I have had 3 different male relationships in a week (probably how Steven Gaitley's ex is 'grieving'), told many different, newly acquired, female friends that 'I am horny for them' and how 'I jizzed myself' over one of their pictures, and changed my political stance from Conservative to 'Nazi'. Ha ha f*cking ha.

I actually enjoy this activity (not being a Nazi, don't worry), as it has given us 'chief rapers' (sounds like some kind of Red Indian sex offender) a sense of competition. Who can rape who the hardest...? I'll be honest, I've got some pretty sick ideas running around my head, all I need is access to their Facebook account...

In other news, despite having a 2,500 History of Journalism essay to start, I've found a few hours to be bored enough to Google my lecturers. Turns out they're a pretty talented bunch. But that still doesn't make them b*stards for swamping me with all this reading and work. Damn you BAFTA-winning, Scotsman editing, Guardian leader-ing lecturers...Over and out xD

Look what £100 a week gets you...

'Liberty Quays provides students with excellent quality, campus accommodation in a highly secure and comfortable environment.' *COUGH* BULLSH*T *COUGH*

So it's been about 3 weeks living in this so-called 'palace' that the brochure seems to be suggesting my student accommodation is. And in my short time here, I have assembled a small list of faults that I have found with the place. Make yourself comfortable...

-Fire alarms. Now we all like to be ready for a fire, but a fire does not occur EVERY 5 MINUTES! I mean every time the managers have a bit of spare time (and believe me, the way they sit on their arse it's almost as though they're on constant break) they think: 'You know how kids love fire drills.....*slams fire alarm button*' I'm not lucky enough to have had the 4am fire alarm yet, but when I get it, boy am I not going to be moving anywhere...

-Chavs. I refer of course to the 'secure environment', and how LQ (Liberty Quays) think one exists in Gillingham. Every night, Hell's Angels (bandits in trackies and pushbikes) assemble outside Tesco and 'put down' (am I saying that right?) anyone who looks like they remotely have some kind of education. How hard is it for LQ or the fuzz to get a broom out and shoo these rodents back into the sewers/Gillingham?

-Staff. The other week, all the plug sockets in our kitchen were not working. The problem? A simple tripped fuse that could be reset simply by opening the fuse box and flicking a switch. Who had the key to the fusebox? Management. How long would it take them to send someone up the stairs to our room and flick a switch? 2 days. 2 WHOLE DAYS WITHOUT POWER IN OUR KITCHEN. If w

e had burnt down the kitchen, then I could accept that two days is a reasonable amount of time to rebuild the thing. But to flick a switch? I wouldn't have cared if I'd gone down there and got the key myself. But ooooh noooooo, you can't trust a teenager with electrical items; he won't know what he's doing...

This is a reasonable response from LQ staff compared to some of the stuff I've heard from colleagues. Lazy gits.

-Comfortable surroundings. Smashed windows, emergency services/boy racers in Japanese washing machines flying past my window every 5 minutes, a pile of BLOOD outside the door of block 4? If I had lived in East London all my life, then yes I'd agree that this sounds pretty 'cushty'.

Value for money. Don't worry, I'm not going to do a Watchdog-style analysis on this. But for £100 a week, I'd was expecting a few more luxuries. Want decent broadband? Oooh you'll have to pay extra. Want clean and dry washing? Oooh that's gonna cost you. Make a mark on the walls? Oooh thanks for the £200 deposit, that'll pay for the alcohol at the Liberty Quays staff christmas party. Anyone going to come round and tidy up i.e. a bit of housekeeping? Are you insane, we've given you a vacuum cleaner! (I don't rate vacuums that have smiley faces on them). TV license? You're on your own there buddy. As I recall it, a hotel pays for one TV license for all the rooms and TV's. But because we've been given a loan, the greedy bastards think students are rolling in money, so much so that we can all afford to fork out £142. I know this isn't directly to do with LQ, but still, I need SOMEONE to point the finger at.

To be brutally honest, I could go on all night with this. It is the most cynical I've been in a while, but the fact about half of the driers were out of order when I went to do my washing tipped me over the edge. Give me a spade and cement, and I'll build a better student accommodation. In fact, give me a spoon and some manure, and I'll make a better living quaters than LQ. I don't know, maybe I'm not giving the place a chance. Only time will tell. Over and out xD