A Man and His Even Manlier Motor

One of life's many proverbial stepping stones is the first car. That lump of metal and four rubber tyres opens up a whole new world of wonder and mischief and sets you on your way towards adulthood and independence...

...sorry did I just say that? What I meant to say is it's a really cool thing to show off to your mates.

Now I've had a lot of stick about my car. Like my surname, the car in question happens to rhyme with 'gay', providing my mentally challenged friends with hours of amusement.

My first car was a brand new car. I didn't plan for it to happen, nor did I throw a Super Sweet 16-style tantrum to ensure my first set of wheels was straight off the forecourt. My parents had been speaking for a long time about a second car, and as I was set to pass my test in a few weeks (the cockiness of it all), it just seemed like common sense.

The 'L' on that piece of paper stands for 'legendary'...

Me and Dad did the usual Father-Son bonding exercise of visiting secondhand car dealers, but seeing as we both know a lot about cars, he couldn't just fob me off with some Japanese washing machine and expect me not to notice when it didn't go above 43mph.

So I was blessed with a brand new Ford Ka. A Ford Ka Zetec Climate TwoTone to be precise, meaning the bumpers were a cool silver colour and it sat on a lovely set of 15' Minilite alloys. And it had a spoiler. It was about as Essex as a Ka could be, bar putting an exhaust the size of Jupiter on the back. I thought it was awesome; it had an iPod connector in the stereo which was my absolute favourite bit about it.

Alas, a Ka has a reputation somewhat of being a woman's car. Whereas people who drive Minis take great pride in being able to say 'hi' to other Mini drivers while pottering along, the only other people who seemed to drive Ka's are frumpy old women who've recently just been divorced. Needless to say I felt like I didn't want to associate with these people.

There's something fantastic about a little car though. That smug feeling when you're gunning it down the motorway in the outside lane; the little whine as the valves jump onto the bonnet and play you a tune when you rev it to the red line; the ability to park anywhere. It all adds up to a experience that means whenever you're driving along, the Cheshire Cat grin never leaves your face.

But like everything good in this world, it has to come to an end. Despite being three years old and having only 15,000 miles on the clock, the Ka is the longest we've ever had a car by some considerable distance. Such is my Dad's Rafa Benitez-like chop and change policy, they're normally swapped every nine months (it's a complicated system that I can't be bothered to divulge in an otherwise simple blog). And so this weekend, we're driving the little Ka up to Chelmsford to trade it in for a Fiesta; a bigger car but that does not necessarily mean a bigger smile.

I've had some cracking times in that little car, some I won't go into too much detail as the police might have an enjoyable time jotting all of it down and use it all to form a driving conviction George Michael would balk at.

It was always an idea of mine as a small child who invested too much time in Gran Turismo to take my first car, no matter whether it was an ice cream truck, a horse and cart or a disgustingly chav-tacular Citroen Saxo, I was going to take it round the Nubürgring. Alas, unless I can convince my rents to let me have the car for a 24hour jaunt to Germany and back, my dream is going to end in tears. Well, not quite, but you get the idea.

I don't know how I'm going to feel come Saturday; I don't know that I want to give up my first car. Will it be like what half of Africa feels like whenever Madonna comes over for a child-themed shopping trip? It's better that the Ka goes out this way than in a smouldering fireball after a race down a country lane with a Porsche...who am I kidding that's exactly how I would've wanted to get rid of it.

I'm going to stop rambling before this turns into some form of written car porn. I hope this pays a fitting tribute to the Ka, because like every other first in your life, it's the thing you remember the most. So long Ka, I've enjoyed you making me look like a menstrual middle-aged lady.

Oscar Predictions 2011

Tonight is the big one. The award season comes to a close this evening with the one that everyone wants to win. Yes ladies and gentlemen, come 4am in fabulous British time, we will know the winners and losers of the Razzie Awards 2011...

Early April Fools!

It's the Oscars, and now that everyones favourite eight-legged psychic has gone to calamari heaven, the entire film industry has turned to yours-truly before they head down to BetFred for a pre-ceremony flutter.

This year is perhaps the most fascinating in recent years, most notably in the Best Film category. Despite every studio in Hollywood making one dimensional movies in three dimensions, there have been some outstanding films over the last year. Last year the Academy's decision to make the Best Film category a 10 horse race yielded a weak category, but this year, there are a few real contenders.

Alas, I will try my best to decipher the cock from the bull and bring you my predictions for the winners at the 83rd Academy Awards.

Best Film- The King's Speech

Best Director- David Fincher (The Social Network)

Best Actor- Colin Firth (The King's Speech)

Best Actress- Natalie Portman (Black Swan)

Best Supporting Actor- Christian Bale (The Fighter)

Best Supporting Actress- Hailee Steinfeld (True Grit)

Best Original Screenplay- David Seidler (The King's Speech)

Best Adapted Screenplay- Aaron Sorkin (The Social Network)

Best Animated Feature- Toy Story 3

And just on a quick note, I really hope Trent Reznor wins the Oscar for the Original Score from The Social Network. It was an incredible score and I would love the Nine Inch Nails frontman to win a golden statue.

Agree? Disagree? Comment your own predictions!

Janiel

I have inhabited Planet Earth for 20 years and 3 months. I've been here longer than terrorism, Justin Bieber, Facebook and the ASBO.

But while my Dad can recall these names without blinking (it was a surreal conversation about Bieber), he still struggles to put a name to his first child's face.

I don't know whether it's a sign of him getting old, losing his marbles or just being confused at my presence in general. What I do know is, sometimes, he calls me 'Janiel', a horrible hybrid of my name, and my brother's name James.

I'd expect him to perhaps lose track of days or god forbid, not remember my birthday. But my name? He bloody chose the thing, therefore you'd have thought the fairly simple, bio-syllabic utterance would be on the tip of the tongue. Not a chance. Perhaps he's forgotten who I am since I've gone to uni. Silly old man.

My worrying lack of identity is one of the pleasures of returning home to Essex on the odd occasion. Like an infantryman returning home from the slums of Iraq to civilisation back home in England, every so often I pop across the Dartford Crossing away from the squalors of Medway into the somehow-more-attractive county of Essex.

We've had it rough recently. The cigar-chomping fat blokes who run ITV decided it would be a laugh to get some cameras and follow round the rejects from the Jeremy Kyle show then call it 'The Only Way Is Essex'. Instead of getting someone grand to narrate it like Morgan Freeman they got Denise Van 'bleedin' Outen to do it, and instead of it being an advert for Essex, it ended being an advert for abortions, or culling humans in general. Naturally, this turned the good people of this fine county into a laughing stock, conjuring up unwanted stereotypes and undoing all the good work fine ambassadors like Jodie Marsh and Helen Mirren had done. And it was so very orange; such colour on someone's face could only be achieved by puking on it or Photoshopping it.

Look at her, she's a saint.

One of the reasons I come home is to have the ol' barnet trimmed. Judging by some of the hair styles that exist around Chatham it's fairly likely the only tools available for such a job is a chainsaw, weedhacker or a blow torch. Needless to say, Essex is the home of hairdressing. It's a profession so valued by teenagers that only the prospect of running a tanning salon exceeds the giddy career ambitions of potential hairdressers.

Unfortunately, potential hairdressers probably spend the entire school day daydreaming, thinking of a 'short back and sides' or a 'full colouring', leaving them with very little time to do any learning. This makes them...(trying to avoid a libellous word)...kooky (I think I got away with it). I had to explain to my substitute hairdresser all about the currency exchange system and how $1.6 to £1 is 'reasonable but not as good as it could have been'. It was like something out of a Lady GaGa video, but I was felt happy that my hairdresser could approach a Bureau de Change without breaking down in tears then disintegrating into dust. Plus the Fred had been tidied up, so it was all good.

Fred you ask? Fred Astaire? Hair?? I forget I'm not in Essex anymore and Cockney Rhyming Slang is seen as a disability.

Apart from not having a clue what name he gave to me, my Dad is also 'pretty Essex'. We spent half of the journey back to Kent discussing his last few weeks' driving escapades. The grin on his face when he was describing how he raced a Honda CR-V down the M4, managed to pull in front of him, braking sharply at the same time, was priceless. It's the sort of thing someone from Yorkshire would simply shake their head and tut at, but my Dad simply lapped up the scenario of sharing driving mishaps with his son. And he expects me to drive like a Nun, hypocrite.

I often go home of weekend but never feel compelled enough to write about them. They're not particularly interesting, nor does much happen. I basically eat food I couldn't even afford to look at on a student budget and get my washing done. Yet the abomination of 'Janiel' forced my hand. My Dad is a blogger's goldmine. Observing him in the everyday world is like watching a gorilla interact with trees in the wild. A few years ago he even had a banana binge, whereby he'd clear the planet's rainforests of their bananas within a week. Now he's back to his trusty orange and apple combination, which is a shame. He made an excellent Silverback gorilla.

Dream On

A lot of my friends chose psychology at sixth form. I admit the study of the mind does sound interesting, but I wasn't interested in the slightest. Unless you're Professor X, the mind should be left alone. It's a chaotic and hopeless mess, something that couldn't possibly be understood with a few lessons at sixth form where you're wrestling hangovers, hormones and horrendous theories from a set of out-of-date crackpots.

But this post isn't about why psychology is good or bad; such a discussion should be reserved for only the boldest of internet nerds. After two weeks of solid dreaming, I found myself Googling everything related to the grey matter upstairs.

Let's put this into perspective first. I am a cynical old man, and there's no two ways about it. Karma, luck, horoscopes, mediums, as far as I'm concerned, all just one big pile of smouldering manure. I've watched Derren Brown's programs thinking I'd take this more seriously if it was staged in Middle Earth with Pokémon and Vanessa Feltz doing a hand-jive. Trying to understand the mind is like trying to fathom why Jennifer Anniston gets better looking with every passing year, why Carly from The Inbetweeners can't act, and why my Dad still manages to confuse me with my brother.

I've been back at Uni for 3 weeks. For the last 2 of those, I've had a vivid dream every night. Not ridiculous dreams where I can fly or where I actually grow up. But dreams with realistic situations, with family and friends popping up, with either a main part or a cameo appearances.

It's getting quite odd especially as I don't really dream that much. I can still remember some of my worst dreams as a child, like the one where an innocent little owl from a Disney film came and snatched me from my bed Maddie-style. That was the last time I watched that particular Disney cartoon with the blue owl, and even to this day I haven't watched it.

Unfortunately, one of my dreams wasn't of being Morpheus

This morning I woke up after an incredibly vivid dream wondering what the fuck was going on. I was half expecting Tyler Durden to walk into my room with breakfast in bed, such was my mental instability (those of you who haven't seen Fight Club and might have inferred I am gay, then shame on you). Cue about an hour of Googling various things from 'vivid dreams' to 'what causes dreaming'. Needless to say, I'd swallowed the red pill and fallen right down the rabbit hole on this whole mind thing.

Apparently. continuous vivid dreaming is caused by stress, emotional detachment and the longing of something. The fact this sounded so ridiculously gay led me to dismiss it immediately. But every website and every question had the same response. My face was looking like the smiley made up of a colon and a forward slash, with the word 'hmmm' after it.

Such crackpot old nonsense had no place to tell me who I am and what I'm feeling. But then I felt in denial, was I really longing for something more? I certainly didn't feel stressed and I didn't feel alone. So what in the name of all that's holy was going on?

After all of that, I put it down to dreams being dreams. Christopher Nolan tried to make dreams more complicated than they need to be in Inception last year. People's 'dreams' come true on Britain's Got Talent and XFactor, and people dream of a White Christmas - well, they used to until it actually happened. They are what they are. I'm not looking for a psychiatrist, I don't want a Professor Trelawney-type character to tell me my future from the leftovers of a beverage.

I might start looking for a new mattress though, or failing that, a new pillow at least.

Sun, Sex and One Very Annoying Parent

In a move that has surprised even myself, I have found myself glued to BBC3 every Monday night. Well, not quite. Such is the unique way that a student house operates our TV signal is about as good as what you'd expect to find in the middle of the Sahara desert using a cardboard box and a coat hanger. Praise the Lord then for BBC's iPlayer, a service with such swagger even it's name suggests it's made by the self-proclaimed rulers of the free world at Apple.

So every Tuesday, I sit down at my computer with a hot chocolate and a pack of digestives like a woman who's been recently dumped and sit back and watch British teens making complete tits of themselves as they galavant and vomit all over European holiday destinations. Well I say 'holiday destinations', they're more like parallel universes where society is just a crazy idea and they're run by people like Lady GaGa and The Mad Hatter. Yes gentlemen and ladies, this is Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents.

The program plays out like an Essex-version of The Truman Show. British teens set out on their first holiday away from the parents, hoping for a week of exactly what the title suggests. However, mum and dad (or for some of the more broken families, mum and a 'family friend') get to watch the whole thing, either from a TV monitor or through a set of binoculars. Cue scenes of parents tutting, teens revealing they 'haven't seen Dad as much as they'd have liked' and then everyone learning more about each other and it all ends happily ever after. Nonsense, I'm waiting for the episode where the teen comes back with so many STIs that they have to quarantine him on the Isle of Man.

One of many drinking games, this one entitled 'are you fucking starting?'

If you've been on a holiday with your friends it's brilliant. As I sat there watching Mr. and Mrs. Daddy's Little Princess watch their little angel investigating what every guy in Malia's throat tastes like, it did make me think what my parents would have said when I decided some toilets in Zante could have done with a new lick of paint. Well not paint, more like sick. Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen would have gushed at my efforts.

The episode I watched yesterday though had me shouting at the telly like a mental person playing along to You Say, We Pay. An 18 girl from Nottingham was the unfortunate offspring of a man named Chris.

Chris is a huge twat.

"I'm not strict," says Chris, as he trawls through a list of rules ranging from 'no boys' to 'no drinking'. That was it, first blood vessel had gone. The man is insane.

Such was the medieval view of life that this brain-dead Midlander had that he spent most of the time watching his daughter complaining about what she was wearing. "She's in for a bollocking!" he spluttered as he saw his daughter at a foam party in a bikini. Second blood vessel exploded. Thanks Chris, now I need an ambulance.

I get the idea of strict parents; I hardly have Pete Doherty for a Dad, but at least he lives in the real world. 'Chris' (whether that is his real name or if it's just code for 'Stalin') had his head so far up his own arse he could taste his own stomach acid. The poor girl wasn't even allowed to bring home a guy or have a boyfriend. Chris' big realisation at the end was that "she'll have to get a boyfriend at some point." Well done sir, unless you've raised your child to be a nun or a raving homosexual.

The man had Daily Mail written all over him, the sort of man that chortles rather than laughs, smirks rather than smiles, and writes a letter of complaint rather than manning the fuck up. I've got no qualms about a decent upbringing and a few rules, otherwise literally every corner of Britain would look like the Ayia Napa strip. A funny sounding idea yes, but you'd get tired of some Liverpudlian flogging you cocktails for 40p before you've even agreed to going into whatever piss-poorly named landfill-site of a bar. But, there's a limit. Chris, who I might name Britain's Worst Parent after Karen Matthews and Elton John, has taken this parenting thing a bit too far, like he's in command of a tank regiment, not an 18 year-old girl.

I'd like to think I could find the right balance between strict and liberal as a parent. I'm not about to turn this into a 'how to' guide, but I'd like to think watching Chris I could avoid turning myself into Colonel Twat and make a good hash of raising a child properly. But that's not for another few years yet, I should probably make sure I can look after myself before I think about a little sprog.

Bite Me

In my quest for world domination, it is imperative that I am at one with the most popular things in life. Whether it be One Direction-like boots (apologies to those XFactor haters out there); saying the word 'procrastination' or knowing all the words to Mr. Brightside, if I am indeed to lead to human race, I have to be at one with these things. It was these thoughts that not only led me to download the current Twilight films, but also set aside an entire afternoon to watch them. With my vagina nicely placed on my lap, I hit the play button and let the mental torture begin.

Unless you've been living in a cave with Bin Laden n' co., you'll know that the books are about a teenage girl named Bella Swan falling in love with vampire Edward Cullen. From then on, creator Stephenie Meyer managed to stretch this excruciatingly-taxing romance across four books and so far, three films. I've never understood the fascination with these books. If you want teenage love, then there are plenty of other places you can go. If you want vampires battling werewolves, again there are so many better sources to satisfy your animalistic fetish (I'd start with the film 'Underworld'. Vampires against werewolves, but Kate Beckinsale as a vampire with semi-automatic pistols. Makes this Twilight nonsense look like Twishite).

So I sat there, concentrating as hard as possible, determined to know the ins and outs so I could partake in conversations about said topic. I admit, it's not often I find myself in a Team Edward vs. Team Jacob deathmatch, but it's nice to be prepared. Unfortunately, these films are absolutely rife with boredom. Honestly, the last time I sat through something this uneventful was when I watched Manchester City play away from home. The highlight of the first film was a baseball game. A baseball game, set to 'Supermassive Black Hole', which was totally out of place from the rest of the film. For about an hour you're subjected to more frowns than a bombing in Baghdad and music so poignant and gothic you'd be forgiven for locking yourself in a bathroom with a My Chemical Romance CD and a flick-knife. And then all of a sudden, BASEBALL AND HAPPY-GO-LUCKY MUSE SONGS! Talk about a shift in tone. No matter, things are back to bleak within a matter of minutes. Then nothing happens, apart from they burn a bad vampire. Oh the humanity...

I was on the verge of tears when the universally slated New Moon failed to play properly. The sound was up the shit and if I couldn't hear the dialogue then all I was left with was pale people frowning; something I experience every morning when I wake up and look in the mirror. So after hearing that the series continues in the same vein with the second film in the sense that absolutely nothing happens, I skipped onto the third film, Eclipse. According to critics and fans of this extravagant nonsense, this is meant to be the best of the series, so I approached it with an air of optimism, hoping there'd be some serious developments in Bella and Edward's relationship and maybe, just maybe, something worth watching. My optimism was completely shattered within the first few scenes. First of all, a totally random human is attacked by über-baddie Victoria and turned into a vampire. There's no explanation as to why this particular human is chosen, but in a recruitment diversity-policy that would put Abercrombie & Fitch to shame, this human is vaguely good looking, and so, some form of story is moulded around him. Then we see incessant love-birds Bella and Edward rolling around in a field of pretty flowers in what is meant to be the bleakest and most depressing town in America. The first film showcases the effects sunlight has on vampires like Edward. Do these effects appear in the third film? Are you nuts? There's a sickening romance to concentrate on! There's no time for such minor details. Anyway, the entire film is a combination of flashbacks explaining the backstory of this shitstorm of a series (which should have been in the first film to give us a chance to know what the fuck is going on) and 'romantic' scenes between Bells and Ed that are so devoid of any emotion it's like watching two mimes try and get it on.

After building up to an 'incredible' fight scene which is over in around two minutes after a combination of vampire and the biggest fecking dogs I've ever seen rip the living shit out of a rebel clan of vampires, I was beginning to see the pattern of these films. The fact the film ended with Bella and Edward rolling around in another field of pretty flowers just confirmed it. Absolutely nothing happens in these films. There's absolutely zero development in the way of characters and everyone is as lifeless as a vampire, regardless of whether they actually are mini-Draculas or not.

Phwoar Jacob...am I saying that right?

All Jacob does is wonder around with his top of lamenting about how he loves Bella so much. Seriously, you're a werewolf, just go and howl and eat something. I can see how the filmmakers of this series have tried to inject his character with a bit of life and humour, but Taylor Lautner struggles to portray even the most basic of human emotions, and such complicated tasks as smiling are way beyond his acting talents. And when he does smile, his teeth are so white they make Edward's skin look tanned (boom, a seriously in-depth joke right there).

All Bella does is look glumly into the camera, as though the crew behind the camera are holding a cute puppy at gunpoint. It's fortunate that her two love interests are very difficult to kill because her indecision is enough to drive anyone else to the point of putting a wooden stake through their own heart. It's a shame because Kristen Stewart is a genuinely talented actress but the only requirements she has in these films is sulk, sulk, and then sulk some more. Oh and both her Mum and Dad are played by villains from the TV show 24, and as a result, cannot be trusted to raise a child.

During the first film, I found myself shouting at the telly for Bella and Edward to fucking get on with it. It's like putting Romeo & Juliet together then throwing obstacles at their relationship; unless you're completely mentally retarded, you know they're still gonna be together at the end of it. Every scene in Eclipse highlights a different reason why she shouldn't marry Edward, yet still ends up rolling around in the daffodils with the blood-sucking moron come the credits, rendering the entire film a totally pointless exercise. Never have I ever seen such a more loved film that is so terrible. Not only is it bad, it's incredibly frustrating. For a film series that's meant to portray the angst of being different and finding love, it alienates itself from the crowd with it's lack of heart and general lack of anything.

Drunken rant over.

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Pop legend Madonna once sang 'we are living in a material world and I am a material girl'. Whilst I wouldn't consider myself to be a girl, the fact the Christmas sales are one of my favourite parts of the Christmas holidays is perhaps indication of my secret 'material girl' persona.

However, after my two-day binge at two different shopping centres, I'm starting to think otherwise. All I've managed to do in the last couple of days is buy stuff not in the sales, have arguments with a series of ethnic minorities, get up earlier than most postmen and knacker myself to the point of tears. Now that I've finally sat down for the first time in about 48 hours, I think it's time to reflect on the wonderful British tradition that is the Christmas sales.

Here in the May household, we take this sales business pretty seriously. Bluewater opened at 11am on Boxing Day, so naturally, we left home at quarter to Ten. Once establishing a parking space those turning up in the afternoon could only dream of, we headed to Hollister to take advantage of their world-famous sale...(yeah it doesn't actually exist). Despite being there half hour before opening, a queue had formed outside already, leaving the pretty-faced employees of the Californian boutique completely dumbfounded as to how to deal with such crowds so early. It's absolutely crazy that a shop can be so cool and fashionable yet so bloody popular. I overheard the employees saying that some had been queuing since 10am. The only thing that would explain such bonkers queuing would be for Hollister to be selling a new Harry Potter book.

We went into several other shops but I wasn't really in the mood for anything else. Bluewater was packed tighter than an IKEA wardrobe. I honestly think disabled people and pushchairs should be banned from shopping centres on days like Boxing Day. In some shops which have aisles thinner than a submarine corridor, a pushchair can often be as obstructive as a jackknifed lorry. And then some of the kids are literally like the little shits you see on Supernanny. The amount of times I had to restrain myself from shouting 'control your children or control your vagina!' was in double figures. Even in the hustle and bustle of sales shopping, that might have just got a few dodgy stares.

For the May family, one entire day of sifting through cut-priced nonsense isn't enough so my parents woke me up at 7.30 this morning to do it all over again. Because Marks & Spencer have no regard for the mental health of their staff, they opened at 7am. By the time we'd arrived at Lakeside at 8.30, the place looked like a warzone. Ironically, the whole place was populated by Arabs/Indians/Middle-Easterners, a set of people that had been surprisingly absent from yesterday's excursion to Bluewater. Now in the past when I've been shopping, I've bought quite a lot of stuff, but the amounts I have previously purchased were put in the shade by the biblical amounts Dick, Tom and Sanjeev were buying. I don't get what the fascination is with people in burkhas buying entire shops, but it was almost as though they weren't going shopping for another year. I saw one till that had clocked up £1,200. And as for Next, it looked like the Next that had been hit by the IRA bomb in Manchester in 1996. It had opened at an absolutely ridiculous 5am and judging by the state of it when I went in there later in the morning, it looked like it had been open that long. Imagine the scene in The Mummy where the scarab beetles engulf the poor Arab guide and all that's left once the little beetles scurry off is the juicy flesh. Now swap the scarab beetles for the Arab shoppers and the dead Arab for the shelves in Next and you have an idea of what the place looked like.

Shoppers of an Eastern heritage closing in on the last sales item

But going shopping in shops with sales on is fairly amateur. Instead, me and my brother ended up in shops like Cult and All Saints; shops that are more likely to take off and relocate amongst the clouds than have a sale. I have to say that All Saints is one of the gloomiest and most depressing shops on Earth; it was like going shopping with a Dementor. The remainder of my money went on items that weren't in a sale (surprise surprise) and probably wouldn't ever be in a sale. My Mum picked up a few bits and pieces that outside of Christmas sales shopping would be described as 'cheap tat'. But come December 26th and 27th, my parents let their hair down more than a newly single Katie Price. And so for the second time in just over a week, my Dad was left to play a combination of Tetris and Jenga to get all our newly acquired swag in the back of the car.

So what have I learnt from my two day struggle to save a few quid? Firstly, it's unlikely I'm going to save any money seeing as I'm quite partial to stuff that could only be cheaper if I'd stolen it. Secondly, I hate whiney little Asian children, especially at Nine in the morning. Thirdly, I hate whiney little Asian women who couldn't control their bowels, let alone their own children. Then there's my new-found opinion that All Saints is actually Azkaban. And let's not forget my final lesson that we do indeed live in a 'material world', and to save myself the hell that is sales shopping, I should probably just stay at home and do it all online. But then, you don't get to see Abu Hamza and family walk out of shops with a country's worth of clothes. And where's the fun in missing that?