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.