I'd send you a postcard, but I'd probably beat it back home

Lawks-a-mussy, an early post! My reasons are in no way altruistic- I’m posting now because I’m gallivanting off to Thailand, starting from Norwich bus station at 3 am. My apologies if there is no post next weekend, I shall try and waste your time again sometime in the week after.

I decided I’d use the trip to start off this post, and I was going to write something (a very ill informed something) about culture shock, specifically the money gap. I sincerely hope there IS a money gap, as I spent all my cash on the tickets to get there, and so spending funds are a little thin on the ground. If I knew how to install a PayPal donate button, I’d slap the damn thing over my face on the profile photo- I have no shame. I am banking (Hah! Punnery!) on the pound being worth far more in the east, hoping that the tattered and disgraced Sterling will magically overcome her recent slump and fill my wallet with crispy, square diamonds. This also involves the disgraceful hope that the Thai currency has lost its value in a similar manner, and that the financial system of a country that cannot take the economic hit the way dear old Blighty can has gone down the tubes so I can have a nice holiday.

All this is disappointingly selfish, but I hadn’t really realised it until I ran into Darren the street poet outside Primark.

I’ve run into Darren once before. Both times he has approached me or someone I’ve been with, and offered to recite a poem of his own composing. Darren differs from other street poets I’ve encountered in that he generally singles out people he believes might be receptive and speaks to them personally, rather than finding a trapped audience and hoping one of them cares. I’ve been in the queue outside clubs, listening to the awkward shufflings of people who have no interest in poetry whatsoever, and are essentially paying the poet to leave so they can get back to the banter.

Darren is pretty talented. He gave me a choice of three poems, and I picked one about dreams. He recited it without any major stumbles, working my name into the narrative. It was about dreams of the future, and wondering if they could be realised without the cost of something precious. I thought it was nice, unless you think poetry is gay, in which case it was TOTALLY gay. When he learned I was off to Thailand he and his wife also gave me some sage advice, which I am not going to repeat here on the basis I may incriminate myself.

I gave him a quid. I considered the poem to be worth a little more than that (only a little more, he wasn’t, like, Rilke or anything). I also realise that many people wouldn’t want to pay anything for it, which is cool. I guess Darren knows as much. There isn’t much money in poetry, least of all street poetry (unless you call in hip-hop. Social commentary POW!).

At least Darren has found a way of making money without messing people around. No one has to pay for what he provides, and he works for it. It’s not something you can take away, admittedly, but I’ve often paid more money for an experience that was more transient and of less worth.

I firmly expect to be taken for a ride on some things in Thailand. I know if it was me, I’d want to take some of those tourist bastards for everything they had. It makes the fact I plan on doing the same to them a little easier to swallow. But Darren reminds me that you can make some chedda without screwing somebody over. I’ll get right on it when I get back.

******

Huh, that one wasn’t very funny, was it? Sorry, it’s rushed and I’m a tad stressed. I’ll come up with some jokes over the break.

Also, can anyone tell me what the fuck ‘lawks-a-mussy’ means?

"What's that itch in my brain? Oh, it's self-disgust."

I made a tit out of myself the other night. This is not a rare occurrence, as you may have deduced. I am not going to go into specifics, but it was one of those evenings when the alcohol goes in just as fast as your morals leak out, and my behaviour resembled what was known in 17th century courtly life as a 'savage bellende.'

The next morning, as I lay, mortified, under a duvet stuffed with shame and headaches, I pondered my next move. I suspect that you, dear (and possibly non-existent) reader, have found yourself in a similarly embarrassing situation; I proffer this list of how to cope with disgrace the morning after.

1. Be sure of your movements. Be aware that if your last solid memory is stepping out of a cab outside the pub at half past ten, and your current location is the foot of your bed covered in sick, your journey for the night probably wasn't a straight line between the two. Before you can ascertain what you did, you will certainly need to find out where you did it. The proliferation of CCTV in British streets and clubs will help you map your movements; why not compile a Crimewatch style collage of your night-time meanders?

Note. Places that are not normally covered by CCTV include: bushes, the boots of cars, the middle of golf courses, your front porch. If you go off the grid for a while, you might be asleep in one of these places.

2. Liaise with a cohort. Presumably you have at least one social contact with a continued interest in your acquaintance. Either you have managed to hide from them the fact you occasionally get wasted and act like a jerk, or they have borne witness to your douchebaggery and have decided to remain on your side. The idiots. They are therefore the perfect person to both confirm your actions and defend (i.e. lie about) them until you have the complete picture. Unless they were the target of your alky-hol fuelled gooning. In which case, they might have stabbed you in the back already. I know I would.

3. Check your mail. Or at the very least, your phone's sent message folder. Sample red flag message:

"I dont care wat u say i will liove you 4 eva baby."

On the bright side, at least your phone will let you know who you sent it to, and who you should be avoiding. Unless you sent it to your sister. Then at least... No. There's no bright side on that one.

But electronic foolishness is no longer limited to the cellular telephonic variety (hurrah..?). Now we have the internet! What better way to compound your intoxicated idiocy than to spend an hour before you go to bed commenting on photos of it, and leaving a super deep status message, that will last for all to see until you slither from your nest. Can you say... DELETED!?

Now, forewarned, you have a few choices:

4. Hide. Maybe it'll all blow over. Maybe you weren't that 'handsy'. Maybe she was too drunk to remember. Maybe she overreacted. Maybe you aren't kidding yourself.

5. Deny. "No way. Nu-uh. If I'd have done that I'd have remembered it. That's not something I'd do no matter how drunk I was. Who else even says this? She's just being a bitch. I barely saw her. I was with Dan all night. That's probably not even my blood."

6. Shift the blame. It can't be all your fault if it's someone else's! If there are wolves on your tail, simply throw somebody off the sleigh! By the time the mix up is discovered, perhaps no one will recall who the real culprit was.

Now... who to lumber with things... Who-- wait! Who was that poor sap from before? Y'know, from number 2? They seem like an easy target, let's land it all on them!

7. Take it like a man. This is an all or nothing strategy. Once you accept responsibility for your actions, you're in for a penny, in for a pounding. There's not denying half way- your credibility is already shot. And you best hope you already know all the facts by the time you 'fess up. If not, you will have to accept everything thrown your way. They might be putting in some extra stuff just to see you squirm, but it's too late for pride. You dick.

Once you've made your choice, the consequences lead to only one conclusion:

8. Swear to never drink again. It's ok. One more lie won't hurt anyone.

The Player of Games

I am playing an online game. This, under U.N. regulations, officially classifies me as a nerd. The only escape from this mildly pejorative but decidedly fashionable moniker is secrecy, which I’ve clearly blown by telling the whole freakin’ internet. The online game in question is called Travian, and to compound the sheer nerdery of my involvement my Dad introduced me to it. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the concept of coolness, I just have no idea how to acquire it.

Travian is one of the first games I’ve played on the ol’ interweb. I have an Xbox 360 that I bought with the last wage packet from my old job, but redundancy means that I can’t really afford games for it, and now it sits underneath my television, glowering dustily at me. I fear connecting it to the internet, lest it gain sentience and act out its feelings of neglect against me. Travian, however, is free like air, and requires little time (and mine, clearly, is precious) and absolutely no nouse. I’m not going to go into the specifics of the game here, this blog will only become one about videogames when I get totally stuck for posting topics, but I’m bringing it up for other reasons (and because I’m totally stuck for posting topics). Travian is based on co-operation- it would be nigh on impossible to win the game on your own. Normally, impossible is my business, but as I’m not much of a strategic thinker, I’m glad of the help.

I was surprised and fascinated by the completeness and self-sufficiency of the Travian online culture. “Now hold your horses,” I can hear you cry, “are you telling me there is stuff going on on the internet?” I’m a little hurt by your tone (I bruise easily), but you are right to patronise. Of course there is a culture there that I was unaware of, that is part of the internet’s fractal charm. And that, essentially, is my point this evening. When I have a little more time, and I’m a little less drunk, I shall regale you with my thoughts on some of the internet’s more obvious social enterprises, like Wikipedia. In the meantime, I was simply pleased to find a whole new area of discourse to dive right in to, should I choose. Although I’m a little ashamed of my new geekness, it’s another facet of my life that I can extend, should I feel like it. And that’s a nice feeling to have I think.

The reason for all the gubbins written above? One part of my life is drawing to a close. Tonight I finished the last essay I will write as an undergraduate student. It’s a pile of steaming tossbaggery, much like my other critical efforts, but it is the last one, and that makes it significant. My Literature Degree, that callous and inscrutable bitch that has dominated my waking hours for the last three years, is basically over. And I liked my degree, so it makes me a bit sad. It is therefore reassuring to realise that as one important part of your life gets smaller, there is always the opportunity to extend another to take up the slack. Now, Travian isn’t going to fill the hole in my time left by my degree. I plan to paper that crack with copious amounts of casual sex. But Travian is a nice example because it’s very small, and if you can find novelty in small things, I honestly believe that the big things, when they come along, will be that much easier to get on board with.

My, what sentimentalism. And what italics! Normal, cynical service will be resumed when I get my marks back for the essay. I hope you like cussin,’ ‘cause that’s almost certainly what they will inspire.

Just use some oinkment

"The BBC's Jon Donnison in Washington says most Americans are still not sure how concerned they should be about swine flu. "

Sometimes it's hard to be an average Joe. Results must tell you than swine flu is apparently less dangerous than seasonal flu (not as bad as man flu, though. That shit is the pits). On the other hand, the papers are confidently assuring you that if you look at a pig, you will immediately burst into flame.

Stuff like this really fucks me off. Shock journalism does more than bring the media into disrepute, and highlight lazy copywriting, and upset the elderly. The distribution of false information leads to real logistical problems. It can tie up the health services, for one thing. In the case of a potential pandemic (and regardless of swine flu's lethality, anything that infectious has the potential to really fuck a community over) ANY information without official or research related confirmation deserves to be labelled as false.

This disease deserves to be treated seriously. Shock journalism doesn't treat anything seriously. Wade, I hope you wake up with the sniffles.

There's no such thing as a cultural wasteland

Have you read T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land? If not, don’t worry, there won’t be a test. Poetry ain’t for everybody, and is broad enough in scope that its definition could mean lots of different things. Like, say… jam. Preserves. Whatever.

So even if you do like poetry, The Waste Land might not be your cup of lexical tea. It is notoriously obscure, full of sudden shifts in locution and voice. A predilection for difficult poetry doesn’t make you automatically smarter. It makes you look like a dick, if you keep going on about it.

Why is The Waste Land a tough read? One of the main reasons is its constant use of allusion, and its intimidating range of references to myriad cultures, languages and literatures. It is unashamedly ergodic (a little like this sentence). Don’t speak Sanskrit? Poor working knowledge of Latin culture? The Waste Land might require some boning up.*

You don’t have to bother, of course. Poetry doesn’t have to be hard. But one thing to bear in mind is the ease with which you manage a similar feat of translation every day.

Popular Culture is a tricky beast. Its footprints are everywhere, but no one’s ever seen it. It depends on a distinct interplay between ideas, attitudes and memes that requires prior knowledge to understand. A bit like The Waste Land. Well, actually, a LOT like The Waste Land. I admit, I set that part up- this post would have been a little redundant otherwise.

I don’t mean to be patronising in pointing all this out. It’s not a huge cognitive leap to make. I only bring it up because I was listening to the old ‘pop culture vs high culture’ theme on the radio the other day, and felt unable to contribute effectively to the debate (banging on the steering wheel and shouting at one of the guests wasn’t enough, apparently). The point was made that nothing worth doing is easy, and that by extension, popular culture was of less worth than that which requires some ‘learning.’

Well, what tosh, twaddle and twittering trash (take THAT, Elmer Fudd). Popular culture might appear easy, as the knowledge required for adept usage is made readily available. It’s on the telly, like. Other texts might require some greater research, but here’s the thing- the knowledge is static. Once you know it, you know it (unless you forget it). Someone who is familiar with all the sources for The Waste Land can understand their relevance with less effort than us mortals, but might have more difficulty with a spontaneous pop quiz on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It is the context that makes prior knowledge impressive.

I am not suggesting that all knowledge is of equal worth. I am extremely glad that I can quote Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, and am more likely to deploy it in polite conversation than the button commands for all the special moves on 'Street Fighter II'. Some knowledge is worth having, worth pursuing. Some is worthless out of context. Some is worthless full stop. But it all comes from the same place- out there, and ends up in the same place- in yer bonce. The skills required to get it from one to another are the same. Cultural analysis: “The Power… is yours!”

*...what?

Keep it clean. 'It' being your junk. And your 'junk' being your penis.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am free from sexually transmitted infections. I’m sure you were wondering, possibly squinting at the tiny profile photograph Blogger permits me, asking yourself, “Now what genito-urinary malady does that suspicious looking adolescent almost certainly carry?” If this is what you asked yourself, congratulations on your magnificent sentence structure. You should give your inner monologue a great big hand.

Your inner monologue might be forgiven for wondering (although I shan’t be doing so, I’m easily offended). As of 2007, 1 in 8 British males were found to carry the chlamydia infection, the most common STI in the UK. That was two years ago, and as we all know, things only ever get worse. There are, of course, several other common STIs that hang around in the body’s back alleys, and these too are on the rise. That chlamydia is the most prevalent is worrying as it is also a relatively new infection, that has increased at a nasty rate over the last decade. It is new enough that my laptop spell-check does not recognise the word (it does suggest an alternative, however, ‘chlamydeous,’ a horrific adjective if ever I saw one).

Luckily for all you ladies out there, I am STI free and sparkly clean down there, and have the test results to prove it. They arrived via text message, several worry- filled days after they were supposed to. I was already sure that I had no STIs and had no symptoms, but it seemed like a good time to get tested, partly because I was already in the clinic for an annual check-up and I’m an efficient kinda guy but mostly because I had lost an argument. I had been called out by a female friend, after I had ranted in her earshot about how necessary it is to get tested every once in a while.

It is though. So there. Without the occasional test, one cannot be sure that one has not contracted the Black Lion or some such (Potential Jacobean heroic euphemism for Chlamydia? Answers on a postcard). If you are having unprotected sex with strangers… well, you are an idiot. Would you like to take another swing at it? Knowing you are STI free is good for your peace of mind, but more than that you can expect a level of honesty and respect from your potential squeeze (not to mention take the moral high ground if you get a mysterious itch a fortnight later). If this level of respect were a given, we’d all be clean. STIs are treatable in almost every case. In a society like the UK there is the potential to eliminate them from the populace. If you can kill the little blighters, the percentages should be going down, not up. Were it not for a minority widdling in the collective sex pool, we’d all be able to relax a little bit on the nookie front. It takes five minutes. You just wee in a cup and get a swab. If everyone got tested after every new encounter, we’d all be better off, and there would be far fewer frightening adverts on the telly. Which would be a good thing. I frighten easily.