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.

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.

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...

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...

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.

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.

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.

The Blog is Dead... Long Live the Blog!

As you may have noticed, the blog is slightly different to how it was a few days ago. The reason for this was because the blogger template was boring me, and one of my resolutions was to overhaul the blog to bring it into the New Year.

The decision was not a whim. I had been thinking about a new template for some time and had come up with a meticulously calculated plan to transfer the blog to a new template with minimum effort and distress. Alas, as with most of my plans, it failed horribly.

What went wrong was:

I lost all my widgets in the transfer. All the colourful buttons gone. All gone. Now the blog is nothing more than a boring block of text.

The blog title image is a disaster; it's mundane and uninteresting and my attempts at emulating Miao's blog failed. And the colour scheme, as Torquer (the co-author who never posts) put it: "It looks like someone vomitted up mustard".

However, one person did give a positive comment about the new design. Those hours writing and re-writing HTML were not in vain after all.

But there were some improvements. I've reorganised the labels so that they are slightly less irrelevant.

I also separated my links section so that the friends of the blog get the recognition they deserve. The criteria I set was the following:

• Comments occasionally on the blog
  
• Links to me
  
• I like that blogger

Unfortunately, under that criteria, I realised I don't have that many blogging friends. It made me so depressed I even added Mutley to the list (who surprising met most of the criteria).

Now that I think about it what was the point in me doing this? The problems outweigh the improvements massively.

Still, it was time the blog had some change. Feel free to leave feedback on the new layout.

Not Another Harry Potter Book...

OMFG!

I've just found out the new Harry Potter book is called "Harry Potter and the Dealthly Hallows"!

This revelation makes me want to inundate the fan forums with lively discussion about the philosophical undercurrent of Harry's world, discuss and map out the entire plot of the 7th book with fellow fans and have heated arguments with 14 year old girls about Harry's sexuality. Perhaps I should stalk JK Rowling until she gives me another titbit of plot.

And to wile away the dull days until the book is published, I'll draw some portraits of what I think the characters should look like and post them on Mugglenet or write a series of homo-erotic fan-fiction featuring the boy wizard.

As you no doubt gather, I'm not a big fan of JK Rowling or her books.

But my relationship with Harry Potter wasn't always like this; I used to be a massive fan. Don't laugh, but when I was around ten (and with a lot of time on my hands) I set up a relatively popular Hogwarts Role-Playing website (I cringe writing this, I'm so ashamed) on Expage.com.

Whilst writing this post, I tried revisiting Expage. It's been six years since I last visited it and it hasn't changed at all since then. Funnily enough, I was introduced to it by a paedophile (I assume it was a paedophile... it seemed a bit unlikely that I should happen to play online chess with someone similar in age who wanted to be my "friend" and send emails to eachother).

But anyway, this isn't about me... This is about Harry Potter.

As I got older, I realised that Harry Potter books were stupid and had no literary value. Not only that but what irritated me the most was how JK Rowling would reveal tiny bits of info about the plot and that would attract world wide coverage... What other author has that kind of publicity?

And she's shamelessly sold out: The crap merchandise, the rubbish games, the films... Don't get me started on the films...

It makes me sick when people say Harry Potter inspires children to read other literature. It's true that people who haven't touched a book in their life will queue up in the early hours of the morning for the books, I have nothing against that. But will reading Harry Potter lead on to classics? Or boring chic books written by Jaqueline Wilson (don't get me started on her...)? You decide.

The worst thing about Harry Potter is the legions of obsessed fan-girls it has spawned. Seriously, don't they have anything better to do than discuss the books and defend their beloved Rowling?


Pottermania doesn't just warp your mind, it makes you short-sighted as well.
I refer you to this article.

I remember visiting Potter forums at the time and despite how wrong her comments were, the fans were slagging off Terry Pratchett, saying how he was a bitter old fart who was just jealous of Rowling's success.

It makes me sick it really does. Painful memories were brought by the latest Potter news and I had to get this rant out of my system. It's really spoiled my Christmas.