New Blog

This blog is dead. Go to the new one...

http://logic-gate.blogspot.com

I know I said I wouldn't post anymore until after the exams, but the temptation really was too great and there have been certain developments since the last post.

The good news is that my body overcame the flu virus and I was in top-notch shape for my English literature and ICT exam. Both went fine (although I wrote twice as much as everyone else for the English paper, which is worrying me slightly...). For all those that commented, thanks for the good advice.

Torquer got us tickets to see Russell Howard and possible Rob Rouse (if he can be bothered to buy them) for £5 each.

I've also got a ten day break before my next exam (geography).

The bad news is that Liverpool lost the champions league final to AC Milan and I'm absolutely gutted. There'll be no parade around Liverpool this time around (which is a shame since the last one started right next to my house).

Hopefully, because Liverpool lost, I'll do well on my GCSEs. Karma works like that right?

Now I'm officially going on hiatus and I won't come back until after my exam are over (in three weeks), and this time I mean it. Honest. When I return there'll be some major changes to this blog.

Just My Luck...

I swear I must be allergic to examinations.

Last year, I was struck down by chicken pox during my french mocks (thank god it wasn't the real thing. I would have been really screwed if it was). I complained about flu-like symptons on the day (which my friends mocked, calling me a pansy and other far worse derogatory terms), and woke up the next day with itchy red scabs all over my body.

My Dad, being the sensitive guy he is, told me to "stop making excuses to get off school" and to "take it like a man". I ended up bed-ridden for two weeks with chamomile lotion encrusted over my skin.

This year, during my mocks, I had spontaneous neumothorax. It's spontaneous because it randomly occurs (just my luck I know...) and it was bloody painful as well, so I was stuck in a dreary hospital for three days until the pain subsided.

And now, during the REAL GCSEs, I have been battling some sort of cold/flu virus that has infected me at the worst time ever. Two important exams tomorrow and I feel sick and my head is splitting.

My body is usually a fortress, so why must my immune system fail whenever I'm about to sit an exam? I can just imagine the conversation between my white blood cells: "Jingo's about to take an exam... T-CELLS, STAND DOWN. I REPEAT: T-CELLS STAND DOWN. LET ALL PATHOGENS THROUGH. I REPEAT: LET ALL PATHOGENS THROUGH... Let's see him take his exam now!" Or something along those lines...

I think God is conspiring against me.

Anyway, I've decided to put this blog on hiatus, mainly because I need to be focused for my exams and this is unfortunately a distraction. Also, the blog has degenerated somewhat since I'm lacking the will to write (something to do with impeding doom of exams).

Once my exams are over, I'll have time to properly improve this blog.

I'll be back in three weeks.

A Revision Update

Forgive me for the lack of detail in my last post about citizenship - Had I the time and concentration, I would have properly ranted about this blended and diluted politics/history/media studies joke of a subject that citizenship is.

However, my time and concentration is somewhat divided at the moment since my GCSEs kick off in a few days time. A lot rides on the fact I do well - a cushy future, not feeling like shit during the holidays and a Nintendo Wii (maybe...) are all up for grabs.

In the next two weeks, I will be sitting my Citizenship, English Literature and ICT exams (in that order). Therefore, you may not hear from me any time soon. Citizenship and ICT are not a problem (I've already mentioned how easy the Cit. exam is, and I'm going into the ICT exam with a B grade - so shouldn't be too difficult), it's the English Lit. exam I'm worried about.

English Lit. is the toughest of the two English subjects (much harder than English language). It requires you to have memorised about 20 different poems, the entire "Of Mice and Men" novel, and is the most analytically challenging of the two. To put it bluntly, I am shitting one.

In a desperate attempt to intellectualise myself, I have decided to listen only to Classic FM (and the occasional Radio 4 comedy). I've also started praying - Not to any God in particular, I do it just to make myself feel better.

Hopefully I'll come out of this victorious. My next update will probably be during the half-term, when I've finished my first three exams.

In other news, I can't believe that weird looking girl won the Eurovision for Serbia. I really wanted that Dr. Evil look-a-like for France to win, or those drum-beating Hungarians (they had attitude!). Ireland, in true Father Ted fashion, came last which was pretty funny. I'm just glad England didn't end up with nil points.

And I watched "Scientology and Me" as well. How can anyone buy into that crap? It's not even a religion! I don't see why celebrities are so attracted to it, it doesn't seem to have any benefits whatsoever. You don't see people paying a hundred grand to read the next chapter of the Bible.

And finally, I'm looking forward to the Champions League Final. I can't wait until Liverpool kick AC Milan's arse, just like before!

That's it. I can't wait until these GCSEs are over.

Citizenship

What does it take to be a good citizen? An A* in GCSE Citizenship that's what.

Last year, I was offered the chance to take this extra subject, which would increase my GCSE tally to 11 and give me a chance to add another shiny A* to my currently small collection (it'll be bolstered in a months time I hope).

Having "studied" (I use the term very loosely) the subject for a year, it's hard to take it seriously. The course mainly deals with human rights, diluted politics and current affairs; topics that can be learnt from simply watching the news. As long as I can still recognise Tony Blair, the exams shouldn't pose a problem.

Here is a sample question from one of the citizenship past papers:

You have found a caterpillar in a sandwich you have bought. Who do you complain to?

A. The government
B. The police
C. The supermarket

Apart from being ridiculously simple, citizenship is only a half course so if I should achieve an A* grade, it would only count for a C grade's worth of UCAS points (these precious points are needed to qualify for further education). So basically, citizenship is micky mouse.

And I've done fuck all in lessons. The teacher has been on leave since having a mental breakdown so I've just been sleeping and playing cards every lesson.

Oh well. It's only citizenship. My exam is a week today.

Le Francais

Remember when I said I'd do a post for every subject I will be sitting this year? To start, I thought I'd do a post about French, a subject I did a year early and miraculously got an A* for.

Next week some of my friends will go for their french orals - They'll experience the same dread, the same fear, the same pain I went through. And I won't be sympathetic - I'll laugh, and make inappropriate jokes, and I'll fill them with horror stories (I'm not fucking with you! They made me translate french passages of Jules Verne into english I swear!). I'll do exactly what they did to me a year ago. Oh how revenge is sweet.

There was a time when I was afraid French. I was afraid it's subtle accents and gendered nouns, afraid to read out passages of TriColore, afraid of the embarrassment generated from calling a friend copine instead of amie (or vice-versa, which one meant girlfriend again?). But what I feared most of all were the French Orals.

You probably find it amusing that a language can have such an effect on me, and you're probably thinking up jokes involving the French and orals as we speak. But laugh all you want, the mere thought of French reminds me of that day. The day of my dreaded GCSE French Speaking.

Instead of doing some frantic last minute preparation, I came into school and just sat in a corner pondering. Why oh why did I have to take French? Sure, the language sounds damn sexy but was it worth three precious years of my life to learn?

I could of learnt Spanish (a lot easier) or Latin (a whole lot more useful) but instead I chose this! A language spoken by a bunch of baguette wielding anglo-hating beret-wearers who wouldn't even give me directions to the Louvre! (I had to learn the hard way - being stranded in a Parisian street filled with hobos). And what made me choose to take this a year early? I'm too young and stupid! I'm not ready yet to face the cruel rigours of examination, I want to frolic in the Sun without a care in the world!

I waited in the corridor for what seemed like an eternity, with those doubts racing through my mind - I entered the room, I did my oral, and I can out a changed man.

Whenever I recall those moments in that room, I sound like a Vietnam veteran: "you weren't there man! The silence, the flickering lights, that disconcerting smile... Oh God! In those split seconds your mind goes blank, and you can feel the pressure build and you're sweating like a pig... Never again! Never again... *incoherent mumbling*..." I would gladly face the might of Xerxe's Persian army rather than go through that ordeal again.

But I got A* so I can't have been that bad.

Getting Better?

I knew I wasn't on blistering form in terms of maths results, but I must have been on crack or somethin' when I took that test. I won't post the results since I don't want you all to think of me as some kind of mathematically-challenged, numerically-braindead cretin, so let's just use the euphemism "could have done better".

I feel bitter - like a former beauty queen who's grown too old. I can't quite come to terms with the fact that I'm no longer number one and I'm ever hopeful of clawing my way back to where I truly belong, and that's at the top.

These are dark days indeed. The Gods of calculus are fickle beings - As soon as you start believing you are Blaise Pascal and can solve every Millennium Prize problem, they taketh away and you are left with nothing more than an empty feeling and a half factorised quadratic equation. I wish the Gods would restore me to my former glory, especially since my actual additional maths exam is in a few weeks time.

But it's not all doom and gloom. Things are getting better.

My English abilities have improved tenfold - I know the blog doesn't quite show this, but my English results beg to differ. I think it's because I now know "Of Mice and Men" off by heart, and my poetry analysing skills have vastly improved. The only thing holding me back now is my essay structures (which can be easily remedied).

I suppose I should be glad, since it's not hard to improve maths (it's all about practise and memorising equations) but how on earth does a person go about improving their English? The only way is to read a lot of books, or have the natural ability. Both can't be done the night before, which makes me feel somewhat better after screwing up the maths exam.

So whilst Maths ability has fallen, English ability has risen. Since English counts for 2 GCSEs, and Maths is some kind of post- GCSE, pre- A-level qualification thingy, perhaps this is for the best. Nevertheless, I will be working night and day to improve those maths results.

As I come nearer and nearer to the GCSE exams, I'll probably do a post on every subject I'll be sitting for. There's two weeks to go before things kick off with my Citizenship exam (just to ease into things).

Stick around. Things are soon to get exciting.

300

I can't believe how poor this film is.

You don't need to have read Sun Tzu's "The Art of War", Machiavelli's "Dell'arte della guerra" or even played on Rome Total War to realise that the warefare in 300 had no tactics whatsoever. This is totally unsatisfactory, considering this is an adaptation of the Battle of Thermopylaie, when vastly out-numbered Spartan hopilites out-manouvred the Persians in one of the most famous last stands in history.

I'm no film connosseur, and I don't watch innovative indie art films. I was prepared to overlook the pathetic dialogue and boring plot as long as it redeemed itself with the "Lord of the Rings"/"Kingdom of Heaven" style epic battles scenes I had expected when I watched the trailer.

Instead it was just close-up filming of Leonidas and (at most) ten other Spartans slashing at ethnic minorities, and making "hwargh" sounds whenever they reach a milestone of kills (that's the level of dialogue you should expect when watching this film).

This gets repetitive after awhile

And I know that a great deal has been made about how the film misrepresents the Persians in history, and how it's propaganda for the war in Iraq. At the time, I thought: "That's a load of bollocks". But having watched the film, I have to admit, they have a point.

I saw nothing wrong with King Leonidas hacking at waves of Iraqi insurgent look-a-likes, but Xerxe's special guard (The Immortals) were taking the piss a bit.

Wait until you see what's underneath those masks

They looked like Taliban wearing mongol masks carrying samurai swords. I mean that's pretty far-fetched to begin with, but when they took off their masks, they looked like extras from Resident Evil (You see them in the trailer, but not their zombie faces). Although they look like your Asian stereotype of super-warriors, underneath it all they are bloodthirsty zombies. I can see how associating Asians with pure evil can be a tad insulting.

Not as exciting as it looks

And let's not forget the monsters, and African animals (it was a joke how little they featured, and how unexciting they were). And Xerxes himself who's a 7-foot freaky homosexual with a very camp voice synthesised so that it's deep.

I can't see how anyone could be so shallow as to like this film (unless you enjoy looking at chiselled abs. In which case, this film must have been incredibly enjoyable).

Add. Maths

My brain felt like it had just endured several bottles of German schnapps. My neck hurt, my back hurt, my wrist hurt, my eyes could no longer focus properly. I felt like collapsing on the cold concrete and wait for the numbness in my mind to subside, or at least until I got my vision back.

As I walked home, I kept asking myself: "What the fuck happened?"

Having been left to squint at a ridiculously hard test paper in a darkened room for over two hours, I can be fairly certain it was maths. I mean, there were numbers and x's and y's and stuff, but it asked me crazy questions about binomial expansion and kinematics and crap I can't even begin to contemplate.

To say I was overwhelmed would be a bit of an understatement - Binomial expansion seems to need about a tree's worth of paper just to fit it all in and kinematics... I didn't even know such a term existed until last week.

What happened to the Jingo of old who beat 120 people in his year in the KS3 Maths SATs and basically owned everyone in the subject? Ah, those were the days when I was sharp as a knife and algebra would solve itself right in front of my eyes...

But now-a-days, I'm so confused I don't even know whether to differentiate or to integrate anymore. People walk past me, watching me slave over an equation, probably thinking to themselves: "That poor bastard, if only he knew you have to differentiate to find the gradient..."

So it's a fall from grace. I put it down to naivety, lack of revision and overconfidence (being a cocky bastard).

I have made a vow to myself that I'll revise 3 hours every night. Honest. This time I'll actually stick to it instead of procrastinating in front of the computer.

Actually, I haven't even got my results back so we'll wait and see.

Let The Music Do The Talking

Since I no longer have to worry about coursework, and have badly over-estimated the amount of time I'll revising, I have freed up quite a bit of time.

So I thought I might as well do this music tag of my top 10 songs. I tend to "acquire" hundreds of albums, and I've got about twenty gigabytes of music, so choosing just ten to list here proved quite tough.

My taste also changes every few weeks, so I can never stick to one band or one song. Since the collection is so massive, I occasionally discover hidden gems in my own collection, or I re-listen to old albums and realise the songs have grown on me. Sometimes I just get albums for the sake of getting albums, and only listen to them months later, Or even not at all.

So anyway, here's the list:

1. Ignoreland - R.E.M
One of my favourite bands. A friend gave me "Automatic For The People" and every song on it is pure class.

2. Cosmic Girl - Jamiroquai
This was the first song I heard by Jamiroquai, and it's clearly his best (although his best album is Dynamite). I then became a massive fan of his, even his earlier acid jazz stuff, which has grown on me lately.

3. Reason is Treason - Kasabian
When I first got the album off Torquer, I hated it. I didn't even listen to it. I gave it a chance months later and found their electronic rock quite psychedelic - it was like listening to music on drugs. Definitely not your conventional boy band.

4. Love In An Elevator - Aerosmith
Another one of those bands I loved when I was younger (I've moved on from them since then). They are one of the few glam rock bands I actually like.

5. You Got The Style - Athlete
Britpop at its finest. Will I ever get tired of Athlete? Although not a big band, these guys are fantastic.

6. Manchester - The Beautiful South
That's right, I like old music as well. I doubt anyone outside the UK will have heard of them, but their witty lyrics and mellow tunes are brilliant.

7. Big Yellow Taxi - Counting Crows
An American indie band (I think). I was bored at a party watching a music channel when this song popped up. Based on that one song, I got their Films About Ghosts (their greatest hits).

8. 19-2000 (Soulchild remix) - Gorillaz
This is the best remix I've ever heard - All remixes should sound like this. I also recommend Gorillaz - Their electronic tunes are perfect for parties.

9. Living For The Weekend - Hard-Fi
I discovered them whilst in London, and I saw a big poster advertising their "Stars of CCTV". Very catchy tunes.

10. Rooftops (A Liberation Broadcast) - Lostprophets
Don't let their emo look fool you, they are an excellent metal band. Rooftops in particular is very inspiration and I can imagine it being played in the stadiums.

This list will probably change in a couple of weeks time. To finish off, I'll list the albums I acquired this month:

Cassadega - Bright Eyes
Dreams: Ultimate Collection - The Corrs (ah the nostalgia...)
Yes, Virginia - The Dresden Dolls
The Remote Part - Idlewild
Get Born - JET

If I carry on at this rate, I'll have no space on my computer anymore.

I tag anyone who can be bothered.

No More Coursework

Oh the relief...

Over the Easter Holidays, I have been fretting for many an hour about the marks of my coursework. If I do well then I've got a head start for my GCSEs, and it'll boost my chances of a high grade. Do poorly and I'll have condemned myself to shit grades before I've even sat the test.

I'm not sure if they have a similar system in other countries, but the UK assesses their students with GCSEs at the end of Key Stage 4 (I'll be sixteen when I sit my exams, so just think the equivalent). Part of the assessment is coursework, which contributes to a percentage of the grade (the percentage depends on the subject. At the moment I'm not even sure the exact percentages for each subject).

Coursework was the governments idea of getting students to think in a different way and experience what "real life" is all about - Normally the coursework involves some kind of large project that then needs to be documented like a kind of extremely diluted thesis or somethin'. It's stupid because marks are determined by the amount of effort the school/teacher is willing to put in, and how willing they are to "bend the rules". It's also incredibly easy to plagiarise since there's a million resources on the Internet.

That's why the government has decided to scrap it. My year will be the last to ever do it.

So anyway, I'm really rubbish at coursework for some strange reason. Something to do with my lack of ability to write reams and reams of waffle. I have spent hours and hours re-writing and correcting coursework, only to have it handed back to me with even more agitated scribbles and red pen. To have finally put coursework behind me is like a weight off my shoulders.

But there's still the actual GCSE exams to think about, so it'll be a stressful two months ahead...

I probably won't be able to blog as much, so don't cry for me if I'm not as active online as the date approaches (apologies in advance if I don't comment on your blogs).

In other news, I had my mock interview today. I'll probably do a post on that later. I also realise I've been tagged twice and haven't gotten round to doing them - I apologise. I've been incredibly busy.

Last thing to add - Go to Torquer's blog. Find out about the guy I constantly slag off.

High Street

After scrutinising the contents of my rather sparse wardrobe, it dawned on me that I was a growing boy and couldn't keep wearing clothes I've owned for over five years. It's not that I don't care about my image, I actually care about it a great deal - It's just I'm such an incredibly lazy and busy person that I can't spare the time to go to town and do a little shopping.

If I were to burn all the clothes I deem to be uncool, and ignored all my cold weather clothing, I would be left with practically nothing to wear. Therefore I made some hasty phone calls to get some of my mates into town to accompany me whilst I get kitted up for the Summer.

I was glad I brought Torquer with me, who despite dragging me into a "Tesco Metro" to buy one tube of toothpaste (to earn club card points and use up club card vouchers) and a "Boots" to buy some Dead Sea facial scrub, seems to possess unrivalled knowledge of every clothing retailer in Liverpool.

I don't normally shop in any of the fashionable outlets (or shop at all) so it was slightly intimidating when we entered shops like "Topman", "Burton" and "GAP" where the doors are flanked by emos clad in black with various bits of metal nailed to their faces. Topman in particular was some kind of grungefest, where a hybrid species of Surfer/Emo had evolved.

I also noticed that stripes seem to be incredibly fashionable right now, especially stripey hoodies (to cater to the chav community no doubt). Burton had nothing but stripes and I left when I couldn't find a single fleece with a zip (not in season apparently).

And GAP - £40 for a pair of jeans? Are you having a laugh? Just because it's multi-tonal and has a couple of fashionable rips doesn't mean I'm gonna fork out an extra £30 for a pair. Torquer told me that Marks & Spencers do jeans that look exactly the same as GAP for half the price which made me feel somewhat better (he's a wealth of information that lad. Don't know what I'd do without him).

You may gather from all this that I don't go shopping often. The most I've spent on one piece of clothing was a pair of trainers for £40. The idea of spending more than £5 for a shirt or £10 for a pair of jeans makes me hyperventilate.

So we rounded off the day with a trip to the MetQuarter - where the most fashionable shops are situated (Gucci Exchange, Prada etc.). We didn't buy anything (far too expensive), but we did see Mikel Arteta and Tim Cahill shopping there.

People who watched the 2006 World Cup or are fans of the Australia national team may be familiar with Tim Cahill, who scored twice against Japan in the World Cup finals and was part of the team that nearly beat the eventual winners Italy - So he's pretty damn famous. I wanted to get my picture taken with him but my friends wouldn't allow it - they claimed that since we were Liverpool fans, it would be like fraternising with the enemy.

A shame really. Later on we watched a crappy Horror film.

I plan to go on another shopping expedition after my GCSEs. Hopefully then I'll actually buy something.

Horror Films and The Truth About Torquer

Have I become really desensitised, or have horror films become really un-scary of late? I went to town last Saturday with a few friends in the hope of buying some new clothes but ended up loitering until six, then being forced to watch "The Messengers" at the shitty Odeon (which cost me £8.30 in total - almost the same price I paid for the two sexy T-shirts I bought that day).

After watching "The Messengers", I have decided: a.) to never go to the rip-off Odeon ever again b.) never watch a rated 15 horror film ever again. I sat through the film bored out of my mind, trying to scare my mates by proving commentary (which didn't go down too well).

Horror films have no creativity these days - they all seem to follow the same rules. For example, the little pale blue ghost boy that looks like it's been rotting in a stagnated lake for months. I remember seeing the same thing in the Grudge (except the one in the Grudge was less CGI'd) so I got a distinct feeling of deja vu (both were about families moving into derelict houses, only to be freaked out by the ghost kid who happens to haunt the place) when watching this. The idea of the creepy little kid has been so over-used it's about as scary as Casper.

The resemblance is uncanny
And the boring shock tactics - I see no point in something jumping at me unless it's really unexpected. They build it up with slow movement and dramatic music but when it comes to the actual shock part it's just so anti-climatic. Perhaps I'm just nit-picking but horror films have become so samey and boring.

So if I ever watch a horror film ever again, it'll be an 18. None of that namby-pamby 15 rated stuff for me.

Afterwards, I was a little concerned about Torquer who had been impassive throughout the film - he hadn't moved a muscle and looked like he had been in a coma.

Only then did it dawn on me - Torquer's house was haunted.

It made so much sense: his exploding television, his mum hurling herself off a flight of stairs in the night, his shelves flying off his wall (I'm not making this up, Torquer told me himself)... Hilarious calamities that are completely unconnected? Or something more sinister?

And I've just remembered - his family bought the house cheap after the previous residents died in "mysterious circumstances". I wouldn't be surprised if his walls dripped with blood in the night and ghouls flied out of his cellar (I assume he has a cellar. It's probably boarded up to hide the hidden Indian burial ground the house was built on).

No wonder Torquer is so weird and charges people for pencils. The paranormal activities in his house must have addled his brain, causing him to persue such unusual past times such as lemon-growing, Formula 1 watching and Ikea assembling.

As soon as he comes back from Nottingham, I'll quiz him on this.

In other news, I met Mikel Arteta and Tim Cahill whilst shopping in the Met Quarter! But I'll save that for another post.

Sefton Park

The phone starts ringing.

Oh God no, not again. I really should have learnt from the last time I left my cordless phone in my room. The room was basked in a golden glow as I groped for the phone.

Robin: Can you make to Sefton Park today?
Jingo: What? At this hour?
Robin: It's half ten, Jingo. It's hardly the early hours of the morning.
Jingo: (checks watch) Oh right... So what's this talk about going to the park? It's 6 weeks before the GCSEs! I'm not jeopardising my future just to have a frivolous game of football.
Robin: So? Stop being a loser.
Jingo: I have a study routine going on here, I can't abandon it! I have a future to work towards!
Robin: Seriously dude... You're beginning to sound like Torquer...
Jingo: What? No!
Robin: Even he's showing up...

As I was on the phone, I drew back the curtains to reveal a perfect spring morning - The radiant shimmering sun-drenched landscape of the outside world a perfect contrast to my depressingly dingy bedroom. I realised it would be criminal not to capitalise on such a fine day.

So I had no choice - I went to Sefton Park. We spent hours there kicking the ball around until the point where we couldn't move because of cramp.

I also learnt a valuable lesson - never wear glasses when playing football. Torquer somehow managed to smack the ball at my face from point-blank range, and my glasses managed to somehow dig into my eyes and fly off my face simultaneously. I stumbled around on the glass groping for them while he laughed in my face, feigning concern.

I was on my hattrick as well, the bastard.

So all thoughts of revision flew out of my mind. I may fail my GCSEs but atleast I got a decent game of football.

Thank God It Is Easter (Part 2)

This goes beyond all common sense, but it seems like I’ll be pulling another all-nighter. What now Jingo, more important coursework that needs to be handed in tomorrow morning or you’ll have fail your course and die of shame? No. This time I’m keeping myself awake because I’m trying to prove a point by spending the entire night completing a chemistry revision guide. A Chemistry Revision Guide 127 pages long that’s stuffed with challenging questions and I intend to complete it, even if it takes the whole night. And I’m doing this, to prove a point - To myself. I think I’m going insane.

(I’ve just spent half an hour sitting in the dark mulling over my thoughts. That can’t be normal.)

And I’m doing this on the start of the Easter holidays, the English equivalent of the infamous Spring Break. Whenever I think “Spring Break”, I picture girls in small bikinis playing volleyball and basking in the sun whilst drinking pina coladas, or house parties where everyone is falling over and laughing and making out with each other (yes, I do realise I watch too many American teen movies) – so basically, people having excessive amounts of fun. Therefore it depresses me to be alone in the dark, trying to figure out the empirical formula of calcium carbonate while people half a world away are living it up without a care in the world. It sickens me how cruel life is.

So why don’t you stop subjecting yourself to this mental torture and get some sleep, you may ask. It’s not even like this remotely matters, or will have any impact on me at all – I won’t magically understand chemistry by doing this.

Since I'll have no study leave, this will be my only chance to revise properly before the exams begin in 6 weeks time. I intend to make the most of it, even if it damages my health.

So basically, my Easter won’t exactly be chocolate eggs and fluffy bunnies. At least that party-animal, wild-child Torquer will come round during the holidays – he’ll probably bring his lemon plant photo collection and rant about the benefits of a Mac, as he sneers at my pathetic Windows powered laptop. He’ll probably bore me into submission so I’ll have no choice but to study and revise.

And why the hell does no one buy me chocolate? It seems the school tradition of buying each other Easter eggs is restricted to just the girls. It’s either that or I’m incredibly unpopular/my friends are stingy bastards/no one is willing to spend money on me.

So anyway, I’m really looking forward to this relaxing break from school. Now if you excuse me, I have chemicals to calculate.

Note: I do realise I've repeated a lot of stuff from my last post. The last one didn't really express how I felt (and was kinda crap) so this one makes up for it.

Thank God Easter's Here

This week has really drained the life out of me - I've been chasing coursework deadlines, depriving myself of sleep and generally fretting over the GCSEs that loom over me like a dark cloud. At this rate, my health will slowly deteriorate and I'll waste away as I walk further down the road to self-destruction. Will there be any respite?

Thank God Easter has come. It really couldn't have come sooner. I think the American equivilent is Spring break, which has always conjured up thoughts of bikinis and beaches and excessive fun (I have been watching too many American teen movies). It's depressing to know that I'll be spending "Spring break" sleeping, procrastinating and doing casual revision - so there'll be not an ounce of fun.

(I'll probably invite that party-animal wild-child Torquer to mine sometime in the holidays. He'll probably bring his potted plant photo collection to ease the boredom or somethin')

The Easter holidays gives me two weeks to recuperate, then there'll be just a month before I start sitting my GCSEs, something I've been working towards in the last few months. These two weeks will be devoted to working towards not screwing up.

In other news, I badly want a Nintendo Wii. Since I can't afford a PS3 and I hate all things Microsoft, I'll probably save up for one of these in the Summer.

4am

The phone is ringing.

I stumble out of bed, groping for the cordless phone I had inadvertantly left in my room. It's dark but I can hear birds twittering.

It takes an eternity for me to answer it, and when I do I hear this: "Oh shit. I forgot to dial 141..." I hear some laughter in the background. They then put down the phone.

Oh fuck. It took me some time to register what was happening. I glance to the clock and it tells me it's 4am. Before I can even dial 1471 to trace the number, they redial.

I put the phone down. They call again. I unplug the phone.

I was up till fucking 12 doing fucking coursework and I was absolutely fucking shattered. I can't deal with this shit. Needless to say, I was not a happy bunny next morning.

I made some enquiries back at school and found the culprit. I then went on MSN and gave him a right bollocking (apparently he was drunk at the time). After giving him a piece of my mind, I doubt he'll ever try that shit ever again.

Anyway, there is more to this gripping tale... which I'll tell you about when I'm not inundated with coursework. I'm also not getting enough sleep.

The Great Coursework Panic

At the time, I made a vow to myself that I'd stay ahead of the game; that I'd keep on top of my coursework; and I won't piss about and wait until the end then panic and stay up till 3am when I'm absolutely shattered and have a twitch in my eye. Fast forward to now - it's 1am on a weekday and I'm typing away in semi-darkness, overwhelmed by the massive stacks of coursework that surround me as I try to meet the hundreds of deadlines.

Yes, I have a sense of deja vu. But this time, instead of a relaxed atmosphere of beer drinking and cherry tomato eating, I'm vaguely listening to Radio 4 comedy whilst half-reading the Budget for 2007 in The Guardian. I like to think of it as intellectual stimulant. Oh and I'm completely wound up, and have this horrible twitch that makes it impossible for me to look at the screen.

And to think I laughed at Torquer when he decided to sacrifice the first episode of the new series of House MD in favour of redrafting his english coursework. I watched it (and thought it was great) but now I pay the price; he's probably snug in his bed dreaming away while I'm in a mad rush to complete chemistry coursework. I blame Channel 5. Why would you put the first episode of House MD and Shark on the same day?

To make matters worse, the school has announced there will be no study leave this year. NO STUDY LEAVE. This means I'll be in school before and after these massively important exams. Not only will I not be able to concentrate, but I'll also feel like shit as well. Great.

And another thing, I'm just not getting enough sleep these days because of workload and this is making me incredibly tired. It's like the sleep version of oxygen debt, but instead of lactic acid my body is producing grouchiness.

And I'll finish off there. This post has probably degenerated into inane ramblings but I'm just too tired to read over, or put in the links to Wikipedia so you know what the hell I'm talking about. I'll probably regret ever writing this in the morning...

Edit: Does anyone know how you can possibly collect carbon dioxide (which is heavier than air) in a test tube to measure it, after producing it from calcium carbonate marble chips when reacted with hydrochloric acid? Now that I think about it, does that even produce carbon dioxide? This is what happens when you work in the early hours of the morning...

Grand Theft Plagarismo

The panic has set in. I've decided to barracade myself in my own room, with nothing more than a Budweiser, some Danone Activia apricot yoghurt and a brioche to keep me through the long night ahead. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I might even have to cancel watching Prison Break tonight.

Yes, I'm willing to make sacrifices. All for the sake of a few extra marks on my coursework. Is it even worth it? Would I do just as well in my GCSEs without a few measly extra percent? Unfortunately, this may have a massive effect on my future and I'm not willing to take any risks.

If only I had Torquer for guidance. He is a coursework-writing genius and seems to be able to achieve 100%s effortlessly, while I on the other hand toil night and day, writing reams and reams of the stuff only to have it sent back to me covered in red pen with little yellow post-it notes that read: "This is pure drivel and has all the literary value of a Harry Potter novel." or something along those lines.

Alas, it seems the only way I'll get 100% in my Business Studies coursework is if I commit an act of Grand Theft Pagarismo and ransack his computer harddrive, making copies of the Business Studies coursework he has worked so hard on.

Or I could just work hard on my own. Maybe I should do that instead of contemplating ways of stealing Torquer's work and getting distracted by this blog.

I've just noticed my Budweiser has been replaced by a bowl of cherry tomatoes. How very strange...

A Buffet is a Buffet is a Buffet

Imagine me striding through the darkness in Liverpool city centre; Uni students stumble out of pubs vomitting or cackling inanely as I stare in awe at the neon lights and gaudy nightclubs. In all my years living in Liverpool, this is the first time I've been to this part of town; perhaps it's because of the unsavoury rabble that seem to loiter around this area, or the high likelihood that i'll get mugged if I walk around, looking dazed, by myself in the dark.

Did I mention I was wearing my school uniform? So there I was, walking through Liverpool in my blazer looking a total ponce, as students of varying levels of drunkeness give me odd looks.

So why was I risking my life amist the bustle of Liverpool nightlife? Well, for some unknown reason, my Dad was taking some business colleagues to some swanky new buffet that had just opened and he suggested I join him. Since there'd be no one at home to cook I had the difficult choice of deciding whether to go home and starve, or navigate through Liverpool's drunk quarter then endure my dad's boring company for an hour.

I managed to make it through the city without being knifed and when I reached the buffet, I was quite impressed. The place was huge and the food smelt good and the waitresses were all very pretty.

But when I went up to get some food, I realised that a buffet is a buffet is a buffet. As swanky as this place was, it was still a buffet and that meant generic anglo-chinese food that you have to get yourself and bring back to your small table that too close to the other tables and so you can hear everyone else's boring conversation. I don't like using stereotypes, but I was surrounded by thieving scousers; whole tables were stuffed with them as they traded stories about thuggery and drunkeness and the number of ASBOs they had "won".

Nevertheless, I ate until I was bursting and look forward to going back there to stuff my face.

It's The Start. Of Something New...

It's weird how the A-level results coincide with my options deadline.

All around me Year 12's were experiencing the joys and pains of results day. Most clutched their results paper with a look of relief or disappointment, wandering around trying to make themselves feel better by comparing results with others in the hope that they didn't do as bad as they thought (whilst pretending they weren't too bothered about their results when actually it was eating away at their insides).

You can always tell the ones who get the multiple 100%s by the way they swagger around and deliberately not boast, even though they emit an aura of smugness, the bastards (who I secretly admire).

And you can't help feeling sorry for those that have failed completely, but are still enquiring about their chances to Oxbridge. Or the ones that are crying in the corner somewhere. I have a terrible feeling every time I see them that it's foreshadowing...

It certainly made me think twice which was why Torquer and I talked about our options a great deal before deadline day:

Torquer: "So what about Geography? Apparently it's the bridge between social sciences and real sciences. Surely that'd be useful?"

Jingo: "Don't get me started on Geography. If the 'Green Revolution' gets mentioned one more time I'll hurl myself into a biogas container with a lighted match... If I wanted to be bored I'd talk to you more often."

Torquer: "Economics then? That's kinda interesting..."

Jingo: "Only for someone as boring as you. It's just general knowledge and watered down maths! I really can't endure another year of analysing cash-flow forecasts..."

Torquer: "ICT?"

Jingo: "What makes you think I'd want to sit in front of a screen being taught visual basic by a boring middle-aged man?"

Torquer: "How about French? We both did that a year early, we both got A*s, surely it'll be a breeze?"

Jingo: "I think you forget the amount of effort we put in to get those A*s Torquer, and as you know I'm a really lazy person. And besides, I've forgotten it all by now. The only french phrase I remember is 'voulez-vous couchez avec-moi, ce soir?' and I learnt that off a Christina Agulera video."

(I then start singing the Moulin Rouge song Christina Agulera did, whatever it's called. You know the one. I only know a few lines.)

Torquer: "Oh I know! English. We're cool blog-writing people, it can't be that hard?"

Jingo: "Firstly, you're about as cool as James Blunt. And secondly, there's too much analysing poetry involved... I'd do it if we didn't have to annotate every Simon Armitage poem ever written. Seriously, if I ever meet Simon Armitage I'll punch him in the face for the misery I've suffered reading his works. If I have to analyse another Simon Armitage poem, I'll impale myself with a rusty pencil..."

Torquer: Damn it Jingo! Why must there be a snide reply to everything I say? I have feelings! And emotional needs!

Jingo: Oh shut your face, Torquer. And don't forget to make me that GCSE timetable you lazy moron.

So there you go, a fascinating insight into a phone call between Torquer and I. It didn't take long for me to make my choices, since there are so many subjects I can't wait to drop.

My final decision was:
Biology
Chemistry
Physics
Mathematics
reserve: Further Mathematics

Could it be any more scientific? It was actually tough deciding which reserve I should pick since Maths is the only subject I'm naturally gifted at, yet three sciences would make me a far better candidate for Medicine. I know it's possible to take 6 A-levels (including General Studies) but then would I have a social life? I think I'll wait until my GCSE results before such drastic decisions.

Hopefully I'll be celebrating some kickass results and not contemplating suicide, come this time next year.

A Blank Canvas

What was jingoistic? It definitely wasn't me; if anything, I'm turning more and more into a liberal. Only last week, I switched newspapers from The Times (read by right-wing old people) to The Independent (read by left-wing, dynamic young people). Although not because of any change in political view, simply because The Times is as dull as dishwater. I don't think I've posted anything vaguely right-wing or nationalist so the name really doesn't make any sense.

So in an effort to be taken more seriously (and not to be labelled as a BNP member), I've decided to completely redesign the blog.

I think the most difficult part of the switch was the naming process. I wanted something that was witty, hilarious and deep. This proved quite a challenge. I skimmed through various different books (including my GCSE poetry anthology) and spent many days thinking up the perfect blog name, but my mind was blank.

My house is littered with canvasses; some hanging off the walls and the rest stuffed under my bed. It seemed fitting to call the blog "A Blank Canvas", since my future is so malleable at this moment in time. Who knows what will become of me in couple of years? Like a blank canvas, this is a fresh start. Hopefully It'll turn out to be a masterpiece and not some idle doodle.

(And whilst searching Wikipedia, they described a canvas as "artistic material". Well that's me alright.)

Like Smirnoff ice, this blog has been filtered for a richer, smoother taste. I hope you enjoy.

A Beautiful Day To Pick Litter...

It's March? That could only mean another session of my favourite activity, picking litter at Prince's Park! Hurrah, it means I get another chance to spend my precious time trudging through mud, navigating through parklands that seem to have been bombed by litter when I could be sleeping in and recuperating. And did I mention I get to spend time with this charming fellow? Oh joy.

The things I will do to bolster my CV...

I've already told you enough anecdotes involving Torquer and I so I shan't bother this time. The truth is nothing embarrassing or amusing happened on our third litter-picking session.

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the dogs were yapping... Instead of just picking litter, I decided to piss around taking photos while Torquer and Rob struggled with their big binbags (100% un-photoshopped!) :

This tree was probably struck by lightning.


I found this amusing. You might not.


Amongst the disgusting debris, there was beauty... I'm surprised swans can live in such squalor


Back at Rob's, I head straight over to his pond when he informed me of the frog orgy that takes place around this time of month. With these pics, I could become a frog pornographer...

So there's a selection of photos I took whilst litter-picking. There were lots more but unfortunately Torquer featured in them, the disgusting git.

Physics Showdown

Physics Challenge... Over the past few days I have come to despise it.

I hate the way the school has decided to enter the "physics elite" (59 students out of 120...) to face a such a fiendishly insanely difficult test. I hate how the grades are Bronze, Silver and Gold; and if I get a "Participation", I needn't have bothered. I hate how the grade boundary is 70% for a Gold, yet most of us won't even achieve 30% (a Bronze). I hate how the test is not a qualification, yet means more than any qualification I have done to date.

But most of all, I hate how important it is to me. Succeed and I can silence my critics and it'll look awesome on the Uni applications. Fail and there aren't any serious implications... (apart from losing all respect and having a shattered self-esteem. I've already suffered enough from my poor Chemistry result)

And having done the test today, I regret being so ill-prepared. The day before the exam, the only preparation I did was take a shower with "Herbal Essence's Fruit Fusion" (The ads on TV enticed me so I bought the product, and it did wonders for my hair. Afterwards I felt somewhat emasculated...). On the morning of the exam, I ate a pain-au-chocolate in the hope that the energy I gained from this little french pastry would convert into some kind of mental stimulant. I did very little actual studying.

So with that in mind, I realised I probably won't achieve my set target of Gold. Even Bronze would be a struggle. As I waited for my exam paper, I realised I should probably have revised more.

Nick: Face it Jingo, God's on my side. He'll guide me through this test no problem.
Jingo: God's on my side. How else did I get A* in French when I can't speak a word of it?

(at this point Nick begins mumbling a prayer)

Nick: Dear God, see everyone through this except Jingo... See everyone through this except Jingo...
Jingo: Glad to know I'm in your prayers Nick...

Before we could exchange further banter, the test had begun and I screwed it up. But anyway, it's over now. Results are on Monday.

So a stressful weak is over. I've just ran 5km and watched Pan's Labyrinth whilst eating a Big Mac. Therefore I'm extremely confused/disorientated/frightened at this moment in time. All I want to do is sleep...

Master of Pens

Entrepreneurial genius? Or just a sad little person obsessed with pens? As I watch Torquer pick up a broken biro, scrutinise it, and then finally pocket it; I really can't decide. All I can be certain of is that the cold-hearted bastard will never lend me one, unless I rent it for the day.

That's right, rent a pen. I'm sure if he had his way he'd make me sign a written contract, and force me to buy warranty and insurance. Only yesterday, I had to pay 7p for a pen (including 24 hour warranty apparently) which he found on the floor. I've still got the pen now, so it's only a matter of time before Torquer calls out the pen mafia to break my legs.

I also know for a fact that Torquer has some kind of bizarre pen refurbishing set up in his room. Plus a big cardboard box full of old recycled pens he has restored, ready to flog to hapless punters like me. His room is probably littered with nibs, springs and the empty plastic shells of pens. I can just picture him, toiling late into the night, trying to make some kind of Frankenstein pen (or whatever other pen-related activities he gets up to).

I used to think it annoying and sad, but now beginning to appreciate it for what it is: Pure Entrepreneurial Genius. Torquer shows incredible business sense in navigating his niche market and building up his reputation as the leading seller of writing implements (which does nothing for his popularity, but I don't think he cares). Therefore I want in.

I'm currently trying to persuade him to form a partnership with me, and dive into the confectionery market. "Cans and chocolate bars are where the big money is Torq. There are bigger fish to fry!", I keep telling him, but he's unsure. If we moved into these uncharted waters we would face stiff competition and Torquer's just happy with his little niche, despite the incredibly low profit margins (and girls laughing at him).

If there are any developments, I'll let you know. One things for certain, if me and Torquer ever do Young Enterprise, we'd kick arse.

Oh, and Physics Challenge on Friday. Hopefully we'll kick arse in that as well.

The Ultimate Playlist

Over the past few days, I have been deprived of internet because the wireless on my laptop mysteriously failed. After many hours spent figuring out how a year old £1,500 laptop could just spontaneously malfunction, with the "help" of Microsoft's trouble-shooter (a total nightmare), and consulting various different tech-heads over the phone; It was discovered that I am, as my mum put it: "a total moron" as I had simply switched off the wireless inadvertantly somehow.

So to occupy those boring internet-less days, I began sorting through and listening to all the music in my iTunes library.

Since I have over 1500 songs (and an 80GB iPod video), most of the music is deprived of my attention since I favour artists I know that are good (and with over 1500 songs, I can't really remember all the tunes to them if they aren't incrediby catchy).

The solution, I realised, was to make playlists. I used to think them a waste of time, prefering to listen to albums instead. But now I'm listening to the stuff I don't usually listen, judging whether they are any good, and then sticking them in the playlist that corresponds their genre. (And if it's emo deleting it.)

I've now compiled the ultimate Electronica/Acid Jazz/Synthesised Playlist ever (Jamiroquai, Kasabian etc.). And also quite a good Alternative Mellow Rock playlist (200ish songs and a lot of R.E.M.). No longer will people laugh at my poor music selection whenever I host a party, instead admiring my awesome arsenal of kickass tunes.

It was with these potential parties in mind that I reluctantly asked Torquer for some of his music (He has maybe the worst music taste ever. It's all techno trash and Brit pop):

"That Live Lounge album is pretty good, bring that in for tomorrow," I said casually.
"If you want a copy you can buy it off me for 50p. If not piss off," Torquer replies.

Half an hour of bartering ensues. I want it for nothing, citing: "That's what friends are for!" but he won't lower the price, defending his position with: "Stop freeloading off me you hobo". Eventually we agree that if I bring in an album (I never do) he'll trade it for his.

You should see what he's like when I lose one of his pens.

"Why do you even want it? You never host any parties and it's not like you have any friends to listen to it." Torquer said.

It was at that point I ran out of the class sobbing.

Torquer Teaches Me How To Bank

Despite Torquer being a total bore, I felt the urge to phone him last night. I rarely call the boring git, but when I do these phone calls span hours, and last night’s was pretty damn long (around two hours). What could I possibly be talking about for two hours? Especially with a person who’s idea of fun would be to admire his IKEA furniture and alphabetically sort his Formula 1 magazines?

We could have been talking about the many numerous subjects our fellow peers like to talk about: football, girls, exams, anything remotely interesting. Instead, we were discussing finance, and how best I should invest my money.

What started out as a casual question about credit cards soon had Torquer telling me everything he knew about banking. I felt like I was talking to a financial consultant:

Torquer: I suggest you set yourself a Right Track current account at HSBC, and then set up an ISA. But make sure you do it before the end of the financial year! That way you’ll be able to put in £3000 before the end and then immediately after so you’ll get £6000’s worth of interest at HSBC’s awesome offer of 5.3% APR! Do you know how much money you’ll get through interest this way? That’s a lot of mullah!

Jingo: Why HSBC? Can’t I just go to Barclays and get a Mini Cash ISA for less interest? I can’t be bothered hauling myself off to HSBC, I’ve already got a child saver account at Barclays.

(Torquer then laughs at my pitiful child saver account)

Torquer: Are you a fucking idiot or something? 0.1% of APR might not seem like much to someone as financially braindead as you but that 0.1% is worth that extra effort! You'll thank me when you have an extra £5 at the end of the year.

And this is coming from the person who, early today, refused to sell me one stick of chewing gum for 2 pence (He was holding out for 3 pence, citing that he had a family to feed. After much groveling, he did eventually take the 2 pence. But who on Earth charges for chewing gum?).

I really couldn't understand a thing he was talking about. But on his sound advice, I have set up a current account and am now the proud owner of a shiny HSBC debit card. Now if only I knew what to do with it...

We then spent an hour talking about Miss Congeniality, which I watched last night. Torquer said it was a "load of Bullock". Oh how I laughed.

Book Tag

What I really should be doing is understanding this complicated Calculus (Integration, Differentiation, which one's which again?). Instead, ShouFarn has cruelly decided to tag me. Therefore duty calls.

Rules are simple:

1) Grab the closest book to you.

"The Writer's Presence" compiled by Donald McQuade and Robert Atwin

2) Open to page 123, go down to the 4th sentence.
3) Post the text of the following 3 sentences on your blog.

"The mother was acting on her own, I think: That was her way of being cruel and competitive under the guise of being helpful and maternal. You have small breasts, she was saying; therefore you will never make him as happy as I have. Or you have small breasts; therefore you are less of a woman than I am."

The book is a collection of essays and extracts of books which were put together for the purpose of teaching students the different styles authors use. The three sentences were from the article "A Few Words about Breasts" (which seems like quite an interesting read).

I bought the book for $50, back when I was in America studying at John Hopkins (or Baltimore. I can't remember which) on an exchange programme. Ah, fond memories.

Back then I was short and fat but popular. Oh how the Americans love a Brit amongst them. It was in America where I wore a dress, discovered my love for R.E.M and drank a drink that was a mixture of Coke and Ice-cream (America! What a country!)

The book is huge; almost 1000 pages of font size 8. Which is why it's been sitting on my desk, unread, gathering dust.

And I tag whoever who wants to do this little meme.

It Seems I Have Been Tagged...

It was bound to happen sooner of later. I have been officially "tagged" by Gaz and I'm now under some kind of obligation to provide everyone with a list of "five things you did not know about me". I'm actually surprised I didn't get tagged by someone sooner, but I guess it's something to do with the company I keep. I tend to stay away from blogs that have "Half-Naked Thurdays" or "Picture Wednesdays" or whatever other memes bloggers must use when they lack creativity to come up with original posts and must resort to posting pictures of their own naked flesh.

(Having said that, some memes are very interesting.)

And why on earth am I doing this? Instead of writing this meme, I should be writing a literary essay comparing four different poems as practise for my GCSE english. Damn you Duffy! Damn you Armatage! Children all over the country are suffering thanks to those two; It borders on impossible trying to make sense what Simon Armitage is waffling on about in his poem "Homecoming" (which I'm currently analysing). I mean I don't mind reading poetry, but if you're gonna ask me to annotate it, then write a massive essay on it...

OK, so things you did not know about me:

• My life is terribly mundane. I get up late, I revise, I go back to bed. There's nothing of interest happening in my life at this moment in time other than exam related anxieties. Take what I'm doing right now: I'm reading up on Differentiation and Integration. And later, I intend to phone Torquer. Both very boring activities. I really can't stress enough how boring my life is.
  
  
• I'm a real stingy bastard. The mere thought of spending money makes me cry, which is strange considering I have no fiscal reponsibilities whatsoever. At my age, I should be screaming for more X-Boxes, Bratz dolls, Gucci underwear and generally being a spoilt brat. I'm currently in need of a new pair of slippers but I'd rather my feet go cold than spend £2.50.
  
  
• I cross-dressed in America. Now before you start jumping to conclusions that I'm some kind of deranged, sexually-confused, transvestite, hear me out! I blame those perverted Americans! Now that I think about it, is there even such a thing as Transvestites Day? And it was only a skirt! (I can now understand why girls wear them, I was overcome with an urge to twirl...) I simply grabbed a skirt (borrowed it) and put it over my perfectly normal, sports casual, male clothing! I won't go into further detail, it was too traumatising... (I really shouldn't have told my friends about it)
  
  
• I support Liverpool Football Club. But I haven't been to a game since Michael Owen, Emile Heskey, Milan Baros and Diouf made up the strike force, and that was with Torquer about 4 years ago. I just can't bring myself to buy a ticket...
  
  
• I'm a Mac lover, but have yet to own a Mac. I despise Windows with their crappy Vista upgrade (that's blatantly ripped off the Mac OSX, and downgrades media files, and has like 5 new features that aren't even new...). As soon as I've mustered up the £1.5 grand I'm off to buy a Macbook Pro.

That's it. I tag:

Miao
Gneake
and Mutley (I'd be interested to see what he writes)
and anyone else who wants to do it.

Strange Snowy Substance

What is this strange substance? It's white, it's cold, and as I look out of the window; the entire neighbourhood is covered with the stuff as if God had thrown his shit-stained blanket over Liverpool.

It's been over two years since that wonderful Christmas Day back in 2004 and I've almost forgotten what snow actually looks like. Everything was was so picturesque back then: A carpet of white under a star-strewn sky, the houses powdered like cakes and children frolicking and laughing everywhere you turned.

Fast-forward to now. The snow is a pathetic inch at most and has been reduced to a disgusting brownish sludge; how it had managed to evade the acid rain and carbon emissions to reach the ground is anyones guess. If this was God's attempt at making up for two snowless years then it was nothing more than an insult. As I looked out from my window early that morning, I treated it with cold indifference. This wasn't snow you could make snowmen and ice forts out of, this was the annoying, disgusting kind that you try to tip-toe around and used rock salt to destroy.

I used to regard snow as something fantastically fun and treated it like white gold. Now-a-days it's just a cold nuisance that needs to be scraped off the car.

But this depressing bleakness did not last. Whilst in school, staring wistfully out of the window (it was Religious Studies), a blizzard formed and the clouds dumped their load of snowy goodness all over the playground. It was a Godsend. The atmosphere soon reached fever pitch as we waited for Break, which would give us a good ten minutes for us to hurl this precious substance at one another.

When the bell rang, we burst from our classrooms and hurled ourselves at the glass doors only to discover something was horribly amiss: We were in here, and the snow was out there, and a glass barrier separated us from that pearly white Heaven. What resulted was a massive crush as students tried to force the doors back in vain.

The school decided, for health and safety reasons, that locking us all in the school would be the best course of action. Since snow is such a dangerous substance, and in all likelihood someone could have suffered immense trauma from an unsuspecting snowball, therefore I respect their decision. But it was a catch 22: Keep us locked inside and face health and safety over fire risk, or let us out and face health and safety over ice and snow. Either way we were extremely pissed off.

As lessons resumed, the fire alarm went off (we later learnt a gang of lads in hoodies triggered it) and the teachers were powerless to stop us. Soon snowballs began to fly. And anarchy was rife.

I spied Torquer weaving through the crowds of snowball-hurling people as if dodging shells. Sneaking up on him, I dealt a fatal blow to the back of his head and he crumpled to the ground. Before he could even mutter "What the fuck" I'd picked up another and smashed it into his face. I laughed as he struggled helplessly on the ground, wimpering in shock.

Oh how I love snow!

P.S. I've been informed by Torquer that I must link to his post on Taster Sessions, since he's holding my business studies coursework at ransom. Go to his blog and read it; his grammar is vastly superior to mine.

Physics Challenge!

Lately my interest in physics has sparked (no pun intended), and as if on cue the school announced that they would be entering the top physicists, the creme-de-la-creme of Year 11 in the highly esteemed, much sought-after, CV-boosting, nationwide physics competition that is The Physics Challenge.

The Physics Challenge consists of just a 1 hour test paper; nothing more, nothing less. Anyone who scores above 20/50 gets a commendation, but those that score above 35/50 get their papers sent to a mysterious place in Oxford where they are evaluated and given either bronze, silver or gold award. Last year only one person (out of many) managed a bronze, which proves why it's called "challenge".

No doubt those that get Gold are the uber-geek Jedi Masters with IQs past 200 who will later be head-hunted for the International Physics Olympiad. This is no piss-easy, I-Could-Sleep-Through-This-And-Still-Get-An-A* GCSE, Hell no. This is the real deal.

If you still can't grasp the difficulty of the paper, then think University Challenge but with Physics for every round.

Now the school only offered this fantastic opportunity to those who had scored 70% (an A) in the mock, but this basically meant that everyone (even the complete morons) who take physics could enter if they wish.

Of course some won't even consider entering (we are talking about students from Liverpool after all), but I think my year group stands a chance of doing extremely well (relatively that is, compared to the other Y11s of years past). This is because this is the first Year 11 group that is not single sex and it's common knowledge that female students are vastly superior academically compared to their male counter-parts (there's no denying it, boys are lazy).

But anyway, I tried doing a past paper last night and it was, to put it mildly, impossible. I'm one of more intelligent (and modest) people in my school and I had no clue, no fucking clue. I do Further Maths which is pretty damn hard but at least I understand what needs to be done, for this I had no idea.

Even with their combined efforts, I doubt they could score more than 40/50. If you know who all three are I'd be impressed (I've got no idea why I included the one on the right, shows how few famous physicists I know).

This is something I want to do extremely well in considering how CV-driven I am. Makes me glad my dad teaches mechanical engineering.

There's also added incentive to do well on this test: my arrogant friends. Nick and Rob did extremely well in their Chemistry mocks and think they can lord it over the rest of us and developing ideas above their station. There's been a lot of banter as to who will do well in the sciences for GCSE and they've already written off my chances (my chances? wtf?). This will provide the perfect opportunity for me to burst their over-inflated egos on a higher plateau of thinking.

But, I'm now beginning to feel the pressure (again, no pun intended). I'm becoming overwhelmed by my increasing workload and it's become quite an act juggling the revision time for 9 GCSEs, 1 Further Maths and now this. By the end of it all I'll be so stressed out those that are stressed out will seem laid back compared to me. But still, if I succeed it'll blow litter-picking out of the water in terms of CV-ability.

I better get gold.

Litter Picking - Part 2

Another month, another session of litter picking. If you need reminding as to why I go to Prince's Park on a Saturday morning, deprived of sleep and bereft of joy, this is the reason:

I care about the environment, and I care about the local community. Sure there are scumbags who live round here that are incapable of disposing their disease-ridden syringes and empty cans of beer, but someone's go to clean their mess and I care about them enough to waste my Saturday morning doing it. God will smile at my acts of charity, and hopefully award me bonus points for the afterlife. When parents see me striding purposefully through the mud and rain, picking litter, they'll point to me and say to their young children: "There's a hero, a role model, a saint." Oh yes, it's just one small step on the road to Sainthood.

For the real reason, click here to read the first instalment of litter picking.

So to start off me and Torquer were dropped off at the entrance to Princes Park where we were joined by Rob to complete our trio.

Last time we had simply been handed our equipment and forced into the harsh terrain to fend for ourselves (and collect litter). This time however, we followed a procession of middle-aged people who also claimed to be "friends of the park" but while we had the simple task of picking litter, they had the difficult and infinitely more challenging task of observing architecture.

As we were given our litter-pickers (the poles with the grabbing thing at the end) and big black plastic bag, the organiser shamed us all by announcing to all the "friends of the park" the services we had done and how awesome we were. They all smiled and clapped (one woman even filmed us), we smiled and felt embarrassed.

During our expedition, we discovered two syringes and a beer can with beer that had congealed disgustingly. There was even a tree that had roots which had grown around a piece of pipe; we spent a good ten minutes trying to remove it until we realised that the tree and the pipe had become one.

And only last week, someone had actually died in the park (probably drank too much congealed beer). For all we knew we could have been tampering with key evidence, stuffing it into our big plastic bags never to see the light of day. They only told us this after we had finished.

After being overwhelmed by the fragile beauty of it all, I decided to take this picture (Notice how litter free it is). Had I known there could have been a mass murderer on the loose I would have thought twice.

But there was a dark side to what we were doing, a dark side not shown by the photographic evidence we took. Every act of charity was done to look good in front of the camera; once the cameras were no longer pointing we went back to our selfish, careless ways.

We took a picture of Torquer putting up a bird feeder that had fallen to the ground, but as soon as it had been taken he slung it back in the mud looking for the next photo opportunity. And on one occasion I snapped a young sapling for no apparent reason (after taking a pic of us righting a fallen tree), and trod all over some sprouting daffodils (Torquer dived to protect them).

We were trying to take a picture of me in the process of stepping on the shoots, but Rob preventing me (which would have shown how conscientious were were of the environment). However I inadvertently trod all over them once the picture had been taken.

It was all a sham! The pictures didn't tell the truth of it all! (I would post some of them, but that would compromise my anonymity)

Once we finished, we strode through the fog back to Rob's house (Did I mention it was so foggy I couldn't see my own hands? It was also damn cold as well and Torquer refused to give me his spare gloves. His SPARE gloves! Something about me infecting them...). Had anyone been filming us, it would have looked very impressive; the three of us, striding across the lawn, appearing through the mist and fog, imaginary atmospheric background music playing in the background...

It was at Rob's house that we were re-vitalised with a hot mug of tea and listened to the Liverpool vs Everton match. Later on, I took Torquer to Tesco to enquiry about job opportunities (They took one look at Torquer and said No).

Another month, another litter picking session. I look forward to the next; The time will just fly by.

(Now go over to Torquer's blog and read his account of the events. DO IT!)

Academic Choices

Sooner or later, there comes a time when we must choices. Inevitable, career-defining choices. The kind of choices that would shape your life forever and would determine your happiness for the next twenty years.

Now with this in mind, imagine the roller coaster of emotions I went through as I sat through my taster sessions (the education equivalent of pitching products to sceptical punters. Except instead of products, think subjects. And instead of punters, think students).

Just to give some background info, I have come to the stage in my academic life when I must make the agonising choice of what subjects to take for 6th form college. It is mandatory to take four subjects at A-level, and I am taking 11 GCSEs. Therefore it leaves me with much to think about.

For the taster sessions, I had already picked five subjects I was considering: Maths, Physics, Chemistry, Biology and History (spot the odd one out?). So the purpose of today was for me to attend these sessions, listen to their feeble pitch and laugh at their pathetic attempts at convincing me their subject is the best thing since illegal downloads.

So here's my summary of the five tasters:

Biology
Went there. Sat there. Got bored.

Throughout the whole thirty minutes, the teacher couldn't stress enough the fact that people shouldn't take the subject course just for the 3-day ecological expedition.

Would anyone want to go on an expensive trip to Yorkshire (of all places) just so they can spend three nights in a shoddy YMCA and observe ecology? Pu-lease. If I wanted to wade in mud, count grass or stand in the rain I'd simply play football, or roll round in my garden when it's flooded.

Chemistry
The subject itself seemed less appealing than biology although the information given was far more useful. I'll probably end up taking it since I want to do medicine (and go to many tequila fuelled house parties like those in Grey's Anatomy).

When asked how many people in the room wanted to do Medicine, almost everyone indicated that they too shared my alcohol fueled dreams. I eyed up all the competition, and felt concerned all day.

Maths
Trust the maths session to be done by numbers! I was quoted facts, figures and percentage. Just like this paragraph, the teacher was ruthlessly efficient in delivering the details and there was time to spare. I sat for the remaining five minutes pondering my future.

History
I've got no idea why I picked this, I think I did it on impulse. The room was filled with people who had done GCSE History and I was extremely intimidated by the ginger catholic social-sciences freak sitting next to me (Torquer knows who I'm talking about!) ranting on about how the school pressurises people to take sciences.

That's all I can remember from the History taster session, which is probably why I won't take it next year.

Physics
And so we come to the last taster session.

This was the only subject that did not make any attempt to convince us to take it. The teacher said something along the lines of: "If you're not 100% committed to the course then fuck off! This course is oversubscribed as it is so I don't give a shit if you take it or not. Last year we failed a whole class of students. That's more than the number of people who subscribed for Art, failing all them was like a drop in the ocean. A drop in the fucking ocean!"

For some reason that just made me want to take Physics even more.

So that was a summary of my taster sessions. I have another litter-picking session this week-end and an options evening on Monday. Hopefully they'll make more interesting posts than this.

HSM

I'm so glad my last lesson on a Friday is IT. The class is always warm, stuffy and filled with girls ready to be impressed by my vast intellect. Usually I'll be playing online games, taking a nap or being "forced" to take the CosmoGirl quiz.

And on the subject of Cosmogirl, those tests are so demeaning! Why on Earth do girls do them? I couldn't care less if my inner girl is a total slut or my dream hunk will have blue eyes... (perhaps I do care a little...)

I digress. Last weeks IT lesson was different; a transaction was taking place.

"Have you brought it?"

Robin sits beside me in the corner of the room, he fidgets and his eyes dart from side to side. I'm playing an incredibly stupid flash game.

"The what?"

"Don't play games with me Jingo. Have you got the HSM?"

A smile flickers across my face. He's ashamed. I on the other hand have nothing to be ashamed of. Sure it was illegal, and quite frankly disturbing, but this was how I did business.

And on the subject of business, Torquer dominates the school stationery market. He sells shoddy crap at inflated prices and is known as: "The man who can locate certain things". It's a shame he doesn't deal with the illegal stuff or he'd make a killing.

"Why are you afraid of saying High Sch-"

"Shut up! I don't want anyone to know I like this shit!"

"Fine, fine... Have you brought the Cash?"

"Yeah it's right here" he says, patting his blazer pocket.

We exchange memory sticks. I take the Johnny Cash off him, he takes the High School Musical album (what a loser). Transaction complete. He skulks off to listen to his bootlegged music.

And so we come to the point of this post: High School Musical. Sure the plot is cliched and it's aimed at 9-12 year olds but damn those tunes are catchy! If I wasn't so ashamed I'd buy the encore edition right now and learn all those dance moves.

I tried to get Torquer to listen to the stuff but he threw away the headphone is disgust.

I was going to make this a massive post about my own musical tastes (varied) and my tendancy to sing in public (which freaks people out) but I can't, I have potato chip molarities to write about. Instead I suggest you buy the High School Musical Album, it's very good.

A Crazy Notion

Whilst clearing out my memory stick, I came across a Word file I forgot existed. The Word file contained the beginning of a story I co-wrote with a friend, two years ago; when I was young, naive and dreamed that one day I would become a novelist like Terry Pratchett or Neil Gaiman...

I was filled with such fanciful notions back then. We held the belief that the story would eventually manifest itself into Nobel prize-winning literature.

After writing a few pages, the story was abandoned and stuffed into a memory stick, never to see the light of day.

So after such a long time I read the story. And I thought parts of the story were damn good which is why I've decided to post an extract for you to read:


He stumbled awkwardly through the blackened streets of Dvirkivschyna, his mind as uncertain as the fluctuating MICEX. All his life he had lived a secluded life of religion but after reading the Book, he had been inspired like a Russian peasant to change his life.

The book had changed his life. It had given him a new start. It had inspired him to start a new adventure and release him from the shackles of religion.

He followed the path to the harbour and approached the sand-strewn beach. But the tranquil place he used to know was filled with commotion. He watched a great dark mass of capitalist Russian scum approach the rabble of discontent Ukrainian townspeople. The megaphone blared,

“The Russian Authority does not accept the Ukraine as a legitimate state. Swear your allegiance to Russia or be crushed like the pitiful Ukrainian stink-worm under the proud borsch-eating bear of Russian inequality.”

“As the pitiful spineless Ukrainian people we submit to our Russian Oppressors. Praise be to our borsch eating neighbours!” The townspeople began to walk away donning fur hats. Boris ran in front of them and blocked their path.

“How can you cast away your Ukrainian nationalism so easily? Comrades, you have let me down…” He pointed accusingly to each one of them. This took some time but when he was finished he continued his speech.

“We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in Ukraine, we shall fight on the borsch ponds of our motherland, we shall fight with growing nonsensical oil referendums and economic treaties of catastrophic proportions, we shall defend our fishing potential, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight in the gas plantations and in the poor quality wheat fields of woe. And we shall never suspend inflation!”

Boris struck a noble pose with a hale of Kalashnikov fire. A ragged cheer went round. His heart welled up with pride at the sight of his Ukrainian comrades spurring him on until he realised that his bodily fluids were pouring from a bullet wound to his chest. He watched his Ukrainian comrades hug their Russian oppressors. He collapsed on the floor, alone, pitiful and lacking in blood.

So to summarise the story: It's about the struggle of one politically minded individual as he tries to prevent Russia seizing control of Ukraine. The plot is weak because it's humour (and it wasn't really thought through)

And I know parts of it are awful and make you want to cringe... I was only 14 when I wrote it.

The reason I'm posting this is because I'd like some feedback on the story, from what you've read of that extract (I would include the whole thing but it's far too long and parts of it are shit).

And the reason for the asking of feedback is because I'm filled with a desire to rewrite and finish the story now that I'm a more mature and capable writer.

Naturally, Torquer has already informed me this crazy notion of mine is destined for failure.

Battling The Elements

"Are you sure you want to be dropped off here?"

It was 8:30. The air was crisp, the Sun was shining and I was in the car to school. Having not had much sleep the previous night (too much hardcore gaming), I was still too bleary-eyed to realise the distance he had dropped me off from the main entrance.

"Yeah whatever," I replied groggily.

As soon as I got out the car, I realised just how big a mistake I had made. As I looked up ahead, a dark, rumbling behemoth of a cloud hung in the air and seemed to be consuming the sky. By the time I reached the path the cloud had displaced the Sun and cast the street in an ominous semi-darkness.

Then the rain came. It felt like I had walked through a waterfall, or mistakenly walked into a lake. The drops beat down upon me like God himself was machine-gunning me with bullets made of H20. I floundered helplessly as the horizontal rain slowly paralysed me with cold, drawing out every ounce of warmth from my body. I tried to run but my limbs were weary, and my blazer felt like a lead jacket.

Had the rain not stopped, I might of drowned. But thankfully it did.

When I told my mate Dave about what had happened, he laughed uncontrollably at my misfortune. In retaliation I shed water all over his bag. That showed him.

"Was it raining outside?" asked another friend, who seemed unaware that I looked like a wet dog.

"No... My boat capsized and I swam my way to school." I replied.

Some people...

***
It's 12:30 and I'm outside playing football for the P.E lesson. Once again there's torrential rain, and once again there's mind-numbing cold. But this time, I have to endure it for a full hour.

And we're 7-0 down. The only thing that will warm me remotely is if I score a goal, but the wind is against us and every time we kick the ball upfield it ends up in the back of our net as if God himself wanted us to lose.

Will this rain ever stop? I thought as Neumonia set in.

But the rain did stop (huzzah!) to be replaced by hail (damn.) and what began as a monsoon turned into a blizzard. I couldn't see a thing as icy winds cut through me like a scythe. It was like God himself was throwing daggers made of ice at my eyes (which I need to see).

It felt like The Day After Tommorrow, except everyone was in shorts. Who likes short shorts? I certainly fucking don't.

But despite the overwhelming odds, a wild kick miraculously lofts the ball over the defense and right into my path. I blink at the ball.

"Run! Jingo! Run!" Someone screams.

And so I'm hurtling down the left wing, muttering obscenities and taking the ball past player after player as I transformed into an incredibly cold and unnattractive version of Cristiano Ronaldo. The cold bit at my hands and face, the hail induced semi-blindness, but I was completely focussed on the goal at the end of the pitch.

And the goal was empty! The goalkeeper had come out! My pace had left the defense for dead and I surged forward towards the empty goalmouth. I hit the ball sweetly and the ball soared majestically through the air. There could only be one outcome!

Now that I think about it, I really should have scored.

I collapsed to the ground a broken man. A humiliated broken man. A humiliate broken man who couldn't get back up because of cramp.

***
Two stories of pain and humiliation, both at the hands of the elements. Both events happened in the last week and I thought it relevant to share with you, considering the amount of weird weather England has been experiencing of late.

Only yesterday, walking home from school, I believed I could fly... It really was that windy! I felt like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix.

I'm sure some humiliating Mary-Poppins/Wizard-of-Oz-esque tale will emerge with these windy conditions. Hopefully it'll be Torquer for a change and not me.