Today's episode of Revelations: The Initial Journey (or, as the opening titles would have it, "Revelations (The Initial Journey...)") was, compared to last week's, a trifle disappointing. Jess — yes, that's the time-travelling one who can do no wrong — was shipwrecked. Indeed, he was the only surviving member of his crew. As he mentioned this is one of his voiceovers, we can only assume that he saw them all perish before he was washed away, but this traumatic experience seemed to have little effect on him.
Once Jess had washed up on some beach and been taken in by a friendly tribe, things slowed down for a while. For a year, in fact, to give his close friends on the island time to learn basic English, and for him to learn a little of their language — which strangely, we never see or hear spoken other than the odd single word directed at Jess in an attempt to teach him. In fact, in a scene where Jess is interpreting for the missionaries and the chief, the camera even cuts away to the missionaries as the chief whispers to Jess. Interestingly, he spent quite a lot of this year staring longingly towards home, despite the fact that he travels through time and so doesn't seem to have much of one. I'm sure all will become clear after further viewing of the series. Anyway, with the stage thus set, some missionaries arrived, although the ship that brought them sailed off too quickly for Jess to climb aboard. After having thrown words like "heathen" and "savage" around at the locals, they seemed very surprised to learn that there were no five-star hotels with clean linen and professionally-made mattresses. Now, I appreciate that the makers of the programme were trying to make a point, but these people were put across as reasonably intelligent. One would have thought that they would be prepared for less than stellar sleeping arrangements when they went to stay with a tribe of "savages".
Before long, a war broke out between the various tribes, due to their king having died and pretty much everyone wanting to take over. Just to add a little zest, some of them blamed the missionaries and their god for the whole affair, and set about slaughtering them and stealing their clothes. Only Big Chief Arrogant Evangelist got away, and he dropped his Bible. Forced to live in hiding with Jess and his friends, he become only more insufferable, promising revenge on whoever could be made to take it for the death of his mute missionary kin.
I'm sure you can guess where this is going.
Yes, that's right. About the time that the tribes settled their differences, and found the ones who had been doing the missionary killing, the one remaining missionary realised that he was being an utter arsehole, and that the tribespeople were actually rather nice. So, in a staggering display of kindness, he didn't have them all killed once a ship came to collect him. In fact, he stayed behind in an attempt to become yet nicer. Jess, meanwhile, happily set off "home", promising never to forget the tribespeople, who no doubt he will not mention in any future episode.
Alas, there were no classic lines in this episode, but there was thrilling commentary from Jess. As the deeply troubled missionary walked along the beach alone all morning, he handily informed us that "John Buchanan spent all morning walking alone on the beach, deeply troubled." I personally, would have been lost in the complex twist of subplots if he hadn't told us that he and his new friends still had much to teach each other just after they spent three minutes trying to discuss the concept of fishing. Once they had reached a conclusion and Jess had stuck a spear into the seabed for a while, he let us know that "any idea that Vaani had that I might be a fisherman seemed to disappear when she saw my terrible attempts at trying to catch a fish." You see, with her laughter and him stabbing randomly, we might never have worked that out. I know it would have gone straight over my head.
Overall, this was not a particularly memorable episode. I must, therefore, apologise for how poorly they above may read, as I had to watch it again for the sake of completeness and accuracy — nothing stuck in my mind quite well enough on the first viewing. I can only hope that next week will show a startling return to form.
Sunday, January 25, 2004
The Wiinner Takes It All
What is it about connection to the internet that makes so many people, even the reasonable, intelligent ones who can generally spell quite well, put an extra O in the word "lose"? Is there some kind of internet-wide O deficit that I haven't heard about, and people are banding together to solve the problem in an organised fashion? Because it seems to me that a single page full of O's would solve the problem nicely.
Saturday, January 24, 2004
We Don't Need No Education
In a few months, I have GCSE examinations. If I fail them, life becomes very awkward. That's fine. I don't expect to fail them; quite the opposite. And I can live with the coursework. It seems like a lot, but if I really knuckled down I could probably finish most if it off in a weekend. Nonetheless, it's a pretty high-pressure situation: a pretty huge chunk of my future hangs in the balance. And so, one might think it reasonable to expect my school, when it's looking at my year, to basically focus its attention on this whole niggling business of qualification.
A few days ago, I received a questionnaire to fill out about the general state of the school, the bulk of which was a huge bank of statements that were to be labelled as true or false. Now, to be perfectly fair, there were a few about the actual teaching, but there were significantly more that, well, weren't. Also, the whole thing was written so that there were a multitude of possible reasons for each answer but one obvious interpretation they were going to make. For example, the form asked if I would expect to be caught and punished if I truanted, and I said that I wouldn't. The school does check up on truants pretty well, but I reckon that I could get away with it if I put my mind to it. Later, it wanted to know whether the school teaches me the difference between right and wrong, which it doesn't. But that is not a criticism, as I expect it will be seen. The school should not be teaching me the difference between right and wrong because that is what parents are for. That is what society is for. That is a large part of what the first eleven years of my life were for.
That said, they may just grasp the correct end of that particular stick, because they have proven themselves to be very good at confusing that matter. If your hair is too short, you are immediately pulled out of your lessons and made to work elsewhere, as once it reaches a certain point short hair can immediately trigger violent and anarchic tendencies in the most calm and courteous of pupils. Short hair is Bad. But of course, we would never be told such a thing in our PSRE (that's "personal, social and religious education", for the thankfully uninitiated) lessons. For once you are within the realm of PSRE, nothing can possibly be wrong. Drugs are fine. Have all the irresponsible, unprotected sex you like, with whomever you like. Euthanasia for all that want it, even when you don't know who those people are.
I'm not going to discuss any of those points. I just want to question the value of the lessons. I mean, I'm all for discussion of important issues, and it's only an hour out of the week even if it is an hour that could be spent earning a future, but the fact is that there is no discussion. In my last PSRE lesson, the assignment was to write a poem about euthanasia, expressing the feelings of someone on some side of the argument in some way. Now, this didn't benefit any of us in any way, nor was it likely to be checked up on, but I did it anyway, partially because I quite enjoy writing the odd bit of poetry, but mainly to block out the idiots around me. And just so you don't think I'm being condescending, the person to my left spent five minutes putting a bar across the relevant U's in the pre-written euthanasia poem "Ordinary Guy" that it might read "Ordinary Gay", and then a further ten laughing madly. It was an hour that could have been spent doing some maths coursework, or perhaps reading to an old person or some other charitable work, but instead it was spent producing three brief stanzas while someone to my right levered the word "bong" into as many lines of "My Last And Final Wish" as he could, and several that he couldn't. I include the poem for completeness, and because I've really lost the direction of this little rant and want to avoid concluding it in any meaningful way.
So They Say
Life, they say, is a journey,
From one start to one destination,
Though feet may blister,
And boots may split,
And the path may grow steep and cold,
The journey's end remains.
Life, they say, is preparation,
Just training for a new world to come,
A world without sorrow,
A world without pain,
A world without proof of existence,
Still, the life before remains.
My life, they say, is unworthy,
No purpose to it but to suffer,
Though my eyes may see,
And my ears may hear,
And my mind may live for itself,
Still, their chosen end remains.
A few days ago, I received a questionnaire to fill out about the general state of the school, the bulk of which was a huge bank of statements that were to be labelled as true or false. Now, to be perfectly fair, there were a few about the actual teaching, but there were significantly more that, well, weren't. Also, the whole thing was written so that there were a multitude of possible reasons for each answer but one obvious interpretation they were going to make. For example, the form asked if I would expect to be caught and punished if I truanted, and I said that I wouldn't. The school does check up on truants pretty well, but I reckon that I could get away with it if I put my mind to it. Later, it wanted to know whether the school teaches me the difference between right and wrong, which it doesn't. But that is not a criticism, as I expect it will be seen. The school should not be teaching me the difference between right and wrong because that is what parents are for. That is what society is for. That is a large part of what the first eleven years of my life were for.
That said, they may just grasp the correct end of that particular stick, because they have proven themselves to be very good at confusing that matter. If your hair is too short, you are immediately pulled out of your lessons and made to work elsewhere, as once it reaches a certain point short hair can immediately trigger violent and anarchic tendencies in the most calm and courteous of pupils. Short hair is Bad. But of course, we would never be told such a thing in our PSRE (that's "personal, social and religious education", for the thankfully uninitiated) lessons. For once you are within the realm of PSRE, nothing can possibly be wrong. Drugs are fine. Have all the irresponsible, unprotected sex you like, with whomever you like. Euthanasia for all that want it, even when you don't know who those people are.
I'm not going to discuss any of those points. I just want to question the value of the lessons. I mean, I'm all for discussion of important issues, and it's only an hour out of the week even if it is an hour that could be spent earning a future, but the fact is that there is no discussion. In my last PSRE lesson, the assignment was to write a poem about euthanasia, expressing the feelings of someone on some side of the argument in some way. Now, this didn't benefit any of us in any way, nor was it likely to be checked up on, but I did it anyway, partially because I quite enjoy writing the odd bit of poetry, but mainly to block out the idiots around me. And just so you don't think I'm being condescending, the person to my left spent five minutes putting a bar across the relevant U's in the pre-written euthanasia poem "Ordinary Guy" that it might read "Ordinary Gay", and then a further ten laughing madly. It was an hour that could have been spent doing some maths coursework, or perhaps reading to an old person or some other charitable work, but instead it was spent producing three brief stanzas while someone to my right levered the word "bong" into as many lines of "My Last And Final Wish" as he could, and several that he couldn't. I include the poem for completeness, and because I've really lost the direction of this little rant and want to avoid concluding it in any meaningful way.
So They Say
Life, they say, is a journey,
From one start to one destination,
Though feet may blister,
And boots may split,
And the path may grow steep and cold,
The journey's end remains.
Life, they say, is preparation,
Just training for a new world to come,
A world without sorrow,
A world without pain,
A world without proof of existence,
Still, the life before remains.
My life, they say, is unworthy,
No purpose to it but to suffer,
Though my eyes may see,
And my ears may hear,
And my mind may live for itself,
Still, their chosen end remains.
Sunday, January 18, 2004
I've Got Something To Show You... About Eggs
Today, after watching a man drive up and down his own driveway for forty-five minutes while I held a ladder for someone as they suspended a giant peanut in a tree, a few of us assembled around the telly and watched Five, because in a bizarre role-reversal it was the only channel with good reception. Suddenly, after what seemed to be a technical fault, a programme started called "Revelations: The Initial Journey".
Life will never be quite the same again.
The show, set in America during a time of general Godliness, farming, and ugly clothing, began (after a brief monologue) with a girl in a blue dress — Dorcas — kissing a dog. In walked her friend, Sarah, in a red dress (the colours are important — it's the only way to tell them apart) who pointed out that Dorcas would probably prefer to kiss a boy. They chatted briefly about their unfulfilled love lives, and then Sarah uttered an immortal line, one which I'm sure will go down in history next to "To be or not to be" and "Here's looking at you, kid."
"I've got something to show you. About eggs."
About eggs. How could you not be excited? Anyway, as it transpired the eggy delight involved the seperation of the albumen from the yolk. The albumen was placed in a bowl of water, and I don't think the fate of the yolk was explained, though I could be wrong. The idea was that, by staring into the white/water mix, the girls could see the face of their future husbands.
Dorcas was not best pleased with her prospective spouse, as he was a skull. In fact, she spent quite a while screaming "Skull!" and "Death!" loudly enough to bring her mother, Mistress Something, running. The Mistress asked what was wrong, and Dorcas helpfully replied "Death!". The two girls were scalded for their dabblings in witchcraft, and were warned that the penalty for it was hanging.
Needless to say, Sarah was not a happy bunny as she walked home. Indeed, she saw a face in the sky during a sudden, momentary thunderstorm, and it startled her so much that she fell over unconvincingly a few seconds after it had settled down. Luckily, a man named Jess — the voice of the opening monologue — appeared (literally: Sarah thought she'd conjoured him up) to lend a hand, as because he was quite attractive she faked injury to get his assistance.
A few weeks passed, during which Jess was sent to work on Dorcas and the Mistress's farm, and it was firmly established that both Dorcas and Sarah fancied the arse off him. They also thought that the Mistress did, presumably because she didn't threated to hang him. And so, when Dorcas saw the Mistress hug Jess briefly, she ran of crying and complained to Sarah that her dead father had been horribly betrayed. Thinking on her feet, Sarah went home, acted like she'd been possessed by evil for a bit, then got up in the night claiming to have been confronted by a ghost, which we later learned was actually a spectre, or perhaps a visitation. She then — pay attention, this is an incredible twist — accused the Mistress of bewitching here.
I hope you like the word bewitching. You may well be hearing a lot of it.
Now, as is only natural, the village descended on the farm to take the Mistress away, and Dorcas sold her down the river for the sake of her dead dad. They called upon the Witchfinder, the most feared man in the land by Jess's account, to take the matter to trial. And in case you were wondering, there is a reason why Jess does all the narrationy bits. You'll just have to be patient.
The trial began, perfectly fairly and without a hint of bias, with the Witchfinder yelling "Bring in the witch!". What follows is an approximate transcript of the trial.
Witchfinder: Witch?
Sarah: Witch. Bewitched me.
Dorcas: Bewitched her.
Sarah's Dad: Bewitched.
Mistress: Not witch. Didn't bewitch.
Villager: Witch. Bewitched. Killed husband.
Dorcas: Father? Bewitched by witch? Bitch.
Mistress: Not witch. Nor bitch.
Enter Jess
Jess: Not witch.
Dorcas: Witch.
Jess: Not witch.
Dorcas: Witch. Bewitched.
Witchfinder: Hey! Dog! Familiar!
Villager: Yes. Familiar. Spirit. Witch.
Dorcas: No. Nice dog. Not familiar. Not witch. Wrong.
Jess: Dog not familiar. Maybe Mistress not which?
Dorcas: Nope. Witch. You shagged.
Mistress: What?
Jess: No. Comfort. Dead husband. Crying.
Dorcas: Oh. Not witch.
Witchfinder: Not witch.
Sarah: Not witch.
Villager: Not witch.
After which, Jess treated us to another gripping monologue, the credits rolled, and I went for a pie. But what I didn't know was that the premise of the series was far more that just this little snapshot of American life. The reason that Jess did all the narration was really very simple. He is the only recurring character, and he travels through time. A different era every episode.
Sometimes, it feels like life has blown you a thousand kisses. Or in this case, 23, because that's how many episodes of this superb programme are left in the series. So, noon on Sundays on Five. Don't miss it, unless you can travel in time.
Life will never be quite the same again.
The show, set in America during a time of general Godliness, farming, and ugly clothing, began (after a brief monologue) with a girl in a blue dress — Dorcas — kissing a dog. In walked her friend, Sarah, in a red dress (the colours are important — it's the only way to tell them apart) who pointed out that Dorcas would probably prefer to kiss a boy. They chatted briefly about their unfulfilled love lives, and then Sarah uttered an immortal line, one which I'm sure will go down in history next to "To be or not to be" and "Here's looking at you, kid."
"I've got something to show you. About eggs."
About eggs. How could you not be excited? Anyway, as it transpired the eggy delight involved the seperation of the albumen from the yolk. The albumen was placed in a bowl of water, and I don't think the fate of the yolk was explained, though I could be wrong. The idea was that, by staring into the white/water mix, the girls could see the face of their future husbands.
Dorcas was not best pleased with her prospective spouse, as he was a skull. In fact, she spent quite a while screaming "Skull!" and "Death!" loudly enough to bring her mother, Mistress Something, running. The Mistress asked what was wrong, and Dorcas helpfully replied "Death!". The two girls were scalded for their dabblings in witchcraft, and were warned that the penalty for it was hanging.
Needless to say, Sarah was not a happy bunny as she walked home. Indeed, she saw a face in the sky during a sudden, momentary thunderstorm, and it startled her so much that she fell over unconvincingly a few seconds after it had settled down. Luckily, a man named Jess — the voice of the opening monologue — appeared (literally: Sarah thought she'd conjoured him up) to lend a hand, as because he was quite attractive she faked injury to get his assistance.
A few weeks passed, during which Jess was sent to work on Dorcas and the Mistress's farm, and it was firmly established that both Dorcas and Sarah fancied the arse off him. They also thought that the Mistress did, presumably because she didn't threated to hang him. And so, when Dorcas saw the Mistress hug Jess briefly, she ran of crying and complained to Sarah that her dead father had been horribly betrayed. Thinking on her feet, Sarah went home, acted like she'd been possessed by evil for a bit, then got up in the night claiming to have been confronted by a ghost, which we later learned was actually a spectre, or perhaps a visitation. She then — pay attention, this is an incredible twist — accused the Mistress of bewitching here.
I hope you like the word bewitching. You may well be hearing a lot of it.
Now, as is only natural, the village descended on the farm to take the Mistress away, and Dorcas sold her down the river for the sake of her dead dad. They called upon the Witchfinder, the most feared man in the land by Jess's account, to take the matter to trial. And in case you were wondering, there is a reason why Jess does all the narrationy bits. You'll just have to be patient.
The trial began, perfectly fairly and without a hint of bias, with the Witchfinder yelling "Bring in the witch!". What follows is an approximate transcript of the trial.
Witchfinder: Witch?
Sarah: Witch. Bewitched me.
Dorcas: Bewitched her.
Sarah's Dad: Bewitched.
Mistress: Not witch. Didn't bewitch.
Villager: Witch. Bewitched. Killed husband.
Dorcas: Father? Bewitched by witch? Bitch.
Mistress: Not witch. Nor bitch.
Enter Jess
Jess: Not witch.
Dorcas: Witch.
Jess: Not witch.
Dorcas: Witch. Bewitched.
Witchfinder: Hey! Dog! Familiar!
Villager: Yes. Familiar. Spirit. Witch.
Dorcas: No. Nice dog. Not familiar. Not witch. Wrong.
Jess: Dog not familiar. Maybe Mistress not which?
Dorcas: Nope. Witch. You shagged.
Mistress: What?
Jess: No. Comfort. Dead husband. Crying.
Dorcas: Oh. Not witch.
Witchfinder: Not witch.
Sarah: Not witch.
Villager: Not witch.
After which, Jess treated us to another gripping monologue, the credits rolled, and I went for a pie. But what I didn't know was that the premise of the series was far more that just this little snapshot of American life. The reason that Jess did all the narration was really very simple. He is the only recurring character, and he travels through time. A different era every episode.
Sometimes, it feels like life has blown you a thousand kisses. Or in this case, 23, because that's how many episodes of this superb programme are left in the series. So, noon on Sundays on Five. Don't miss it, unless you can travel in time.
Sunday, January 11, 2004
Nothing For Money
Yesterday, I had what may have been my least successful shopping trip ever. I am, I will readily accept, not terribly good at shopping: I cannot shop like a bargain hunter because it would involve too much patience, nor like a Bargain Hunter because it would involve an interest in antiques, nor like the stereotypical lover of shopping because it would involve a sex change and emigration to New York (and also because, even if I did both these things, I would not be allowed in the category by virtue of having spent well over a year believing that the phrase "a pair of Jimmy Choos" was rhyming slang.)
The trip began quite well. I quickly found the book I was looking for and paid up, although I did only spend nine pounds of my ten-pound book token, leaving me with a largely useless one-pound book token. Still, it was surely better than no book token, so I moved on with a spring in my step.
There was little trouble when I attempted to buy stationery. I had been putting up with a three-year-old pencil case whose zip had been cut through using my own bloody scissors during one particularly interesting physics lesson (no sarcasm there: the fact that my pencil case was attacked ensured that it really was particularly interesting.) I also felt that a pencil sharpener might complement my blunt pencils rather well, as a file would my loose papers. The pencil sharpener was acquired rather speedily, perhaps because I am drawn to niftiness -- this particular one employs hinges and leverage to produce a sharpening experience like no other. The file and pencil case took twenty minutes to find in all, but that was largely due to my own fussiness. I paid up and got out, intending to use my swathes of change but failing because there was simply too much there to be handled efficiently and a queue was forming.
After this, I went to Clinton Cards, hoping to procure a card or two for my dad's birthday, and perhaps a small gift for a friend whose birthday is also coming up. I managed to get him a card (and a damn good one), and I should perhaps have got one for my friend too, but I thought I had a generic card kicking about and was expecting to buy her a present somewhere. I didn't bother fiddling about to pay with my change collection, because I wanted to get out of the shop as quickly as possible. It's music, layout and size were beginning to get to me. It had it's own café, for God's sake. A café in a card shop in a shopping centre near a pub that is also a restaurant!
It was now that the trip went downhill, perhaps because of Clinton's effect on my mind. I ran into my dad, who had given me a lift. He had already been to Savacentre to buy the relevant groceries, and so I would have to get the toothbrush I never told you that I needed as part of my own shopping, something which I utterly forgot to do. I then spent approximately forty minutes failing entirely to find gifts for my father or my friend, even though I had very good ideas for gifts for both of them. And so, defeated, and with only change to give as gifts and to brush my teeth with, I departed, walking straight past the Halifax I had intended to deposit about fifty quid in.
I've spent some time thinking about how I can acquire a gift with my limited time, but as I can't pay for anything over the internet and can hardly ask Dad to buy his gift on his credit card, there's not a lot I can do. But there's always a way. So, Katie, in case you read this before I give you some naff, bizarre and clearly handmade gift accompanied by a one-pound book token, I really am sorry.
The trip began quite well. I quickly found the book I was looking for and paid up, although I did only spend nine pounds of my ten-pound book token, leaving me with a largely useless one-pound book token. Still, it was surely better than no book token, so I moved on with a spring in my step.
There was little trouble when I attempted to buy stationery. I had been putting up with a three-year-old pencil case whose zip had been cut through using my own bloody scissors during one particularly interesting physics lesson (no sarcasm there: the fact that my pencil case was attacked ensured that it really was particularly interesting.) I also felt that a pencil sharpener might complement my blunt pencils rather well, as a file would my loose papers. The pencil sharpener was acquired rather speedily, perhaps because I am drawn to niftiness -- this particular one employs hinges and leverage to produce a sharpening experience like no other. The file and pencil case took twenty minutes to find in all, but that was largely due to my own fussiness. I paid up and got out, intending to use my swathes of change but failing because there was simply too much there to be handled efficiently and a queue was forming.
After this, I went to Clinton Cards, hoping to procure a card or two for my dad's birthday, and perhaps a small gift for a friend whose birthday is also coming up. I managed to get him a card (and a damn good one), and I should perhaps have got one for my friend too, but I thought I had a generic card kicking about and was expecting to buy her a present somewhere. I didn't bother fiddling about to pay with my change collection, because I wanted to get out of the shop as quickly as possible. It's music, layout and size were beginning to get to me. It had it's own café, for God's sake. A café in a card shop in a shopping centre near a pub that is also a restaurant!
It was now that the trip went downhill, perhaps because of Clinton's effect on my mind. I ran into my dad, who had given me a lift. He had already been to Savacentre to buy the relevant groceries, and so I would have to get the toothbrush I never told you that I needed as part of my own shopping, something which I utterly forgot to do. I then spent approximately forty minutes failing entirely to find gifts for my father or my friend, even though I had very good ideas for gifts for both of them. And so, defeated, and with only change to give as gifts and to brush my teeth with, I departed, walking straight past the Halifax I had intended to deposit about fifty quid in.
I've spent some time thinking about how I can acquire a gift with my limited time, but as I can't pay for anything over the internet and can hardly ask Dad to buy his gift on his credit card, there's not a lot I can do. But there's always a way. So, Katie, in case you read this before I give you some naff, bizarre and clearly handmade gift accompanied by a one-pound book token, I really am sorry.
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
Perhaps If You're Flash Gordon
I was watching Cube 2 a couple of days ago and, although it was by no means the worst part of the film, there was one particular bit of dialogue that irritated me. One character said, "I'm assuming..." and another interjected with "Well, you know what they say about that," or something to that effect. Now, I don't like the phrase being referred to at the best of times, but in this case the implication is that it "makes an ass out of U and ming", which isn't the most meaningful phrase I have ever heard.
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
Charity Continues At The Cinema
The free T-shirt count has now reached the dizzy heights of two, and the only way is up, providing that I don't somehow contrive to lose or destroy one. This particular shirt was given to me by my brother, but it was specially printed for a one-off event, and therefore counts. The event in question was a showing of Return of the King, and the printing was of the slogan "Frodo Dies". It's actually quite a nice shirt, and looks good with an open black coat.
I mentioned the shirt to some friends today, and they all got angry at me for ruining the film. I wasn't sure whether to enlighten them, but if they're going to assume that I'm an absolute bastard then I might as well act like one once in a while.
I mentioned the shirt to some friends today, and they all got angry at me for ruining the film. I wasn't sure whether to enlighten them, but if they're going to assume that I'm an absolute bastard then I might as well act like one once in a while.
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