Joe Gardner's Blog

The Great Detectives - Sherlock Holmes/Batman Comparison

2012-01-03T10:49:00.000-08:00

While the two seem culturally worlds apart, it is easy to forget that Bob Kane's 'Batman', the phenomenal 'great detective' began barely a decade after the final story in the canon of 'Sherlock Holmes', Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's own 'Great Detective'. While few hold these two popular characters in close regard as equivalents, with some simple scrutiny it becomes clear that, despite their many differences, 'Batman' and 'Sherlock Holmes' have more in common than it appears. Personally I regard Batman as the American, 20th Century Holmes (although popular perception loses sight of the caped crusader as a detective first and foremost, he is NOT a super-hero. A cape and mask do not grant you super-hero status), and through a character comparison, my reasons will become clear.

Batman/Holmes

The protagonist is the most obvious. Both are detectives with cognitive skills far outmatching their contemporaries, both have prominent psychological defects (Bruce Wayne derives his strict moral code from the witness of his parents' murders at a young age and is constantly traumatised by these events long into his adult life, while Holmes' remarkable skills come at the expense of a near-complete lack of human emotion, allowing every living being to be viewed as a puzzle to be solved, and every crime a game that he thrives in and even enjoys, regardless of the seriousness.) Each character operates at the behest of the law, despite the law's reluctant pleasure that they do so, and the exploits of each see them rise to fame in their respective cities. Despite being famously lauded as heroes, both Holmes and Batman possess a somewhat dubious morality. Holmes has little interest in personal justice for the victims of the crimes he investigates, each factor is just a puzzle piece. He shows, for example, no remorse for inadvertedly causing the death of the antagonist in 'The Speckled Band', and on occasion withholds evidence from the police and takes the law into his own hands. He allows the thief in 'The Blue Carbuncle' to go free, simply because it is Christmas. Batman, while holding a strict sense of right and wrong and vowing never to kill, is hubristic in regarding himself above the law and exacting justice without the consent or approval of the police. His methods of apprehending criminals, meanwhile, are somewhat hypocritical in their brutality.

Robin/Dr. Watson

Not immediately equivalent; a Holmes story would be almost unthinkable without the presence and perspective of Dr. Watson, (although they do exist), whereas a Batman story without Robin is not only reasonable but increasingly common, especially among writers that view the character as detrimental to the franchise's darker, adult tone (Robin has not appeared in a 'Batman' movie in fourteen years). However, in each case, the character's initial purpose was to align the story with the reader where the main protagonist is to abstract or austere a character to immediately identify with. As a comic with a strong child readership, Robin makes for an invaluable audience-identifier in the earlier Batman stories, while Watson in the Holmes canon allows for the reader to see Sherlock with the same admiration and awe that he does. Furthermore, each character expands on the protagonist's remarkable abilities by bringing their own to the table. Dick Grayson is a phenomenal acrobat, able to spring Batman from traps and tackle enemies with agility and speed, while John Watson is an accomplished army doctor, often identifying medical anomalies that even Holmes occasionally misses.

Alfred Pennyworth/Mrs. Hudson

An obvious comparison to those familiar with both franchises. Alfred is the butler, seldom seen outside of Wayne Manor in the comics, whilst Mrs. Hudson is the landlady, seldom seen outside of 221b Baker Street in the stories. Each character acts as an iconic piece of living furniture in their respective famous addresses, but they are not merely sympathetic drink-dispensers to their protagonists. While Alfred and Mrs. Hudson often remain separate to the principle story, they are always on hand to aid in their own way. Mrs. Hudson tends to Holmes in 'The Dying Detective' and even assists in his scheme in 'The Empty House', moving the wax dummy of Holmes in the window in order to portray it as living and trick the assailant. Alfred, meanwhile, often assists Batman from the confines of Wayne Manor, conducting extra research and mending damaged gadgets when the protagonist can not. Above all else, each character is the spiritual parent of the franchise, a human signifier of comfort and safety. As Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock remarked in the most recent episode of the BBC series, echoing the sentiment of Holmes buffs throughout history, 'If Mrs. Hudson left Baker Street, England would fall.'

Commissioner James Gordon/Inspector Lestrade

The reluctant professional admirer of the protagonist, and by and large the sole link between law and vigilante. Gordon and Lestrade are almost identical in that they serve as the only sympathetic member of the police force and recognise the benefit of Batman/Holmes in crime solving. Lestrade is perhaps treated with less sympathy in that Holmes and Watson continually mock his pedestrian abilities when compared to Sherlock's remarkable skills, but like Gordon, he is unafraid to express his occasional frustration with the protagonist's unorthodox methods of detection. They are dwarfed by the titular heroes, yet Gordon and Lestrade are continually alluded to being the best of their kind. Gordon shines through in a force of corrupt and ineffective police officers, while Lestrade is remarked as being the most competent detective amidst Scotland Yard's bumbling elite.

Catwoman/Irene Adler

The most popular female character of each series (even Dr. Watson's wife Mary is largely absent beyond her first appearance), and both antagonists that are nevertheless held in a light of respect by their respective protagonists. Adler possesses an intelligence equal to that of Holmes, and remains the only character in the canon to successfully outwit him, while Selina Kyle's athletic, stealth and combat skills are an easy match for Batman's. Both characters cause conflict in the morality of the central character by possessing a trait that completely conflicts with them (the painfully mysoginistic Holmes admires 'the woman' Adler despite her sex, judicially-minded Bruce Wayne enters into a romantic relationship with Selina Kyle despite her proffession as a criminal). While Holmes has no truck with romance, there is proffessional admiration for Irene in place of Batman's actual romantic feelings for Catwoman.

The Joker/Proffessor Moriarty

The iconic foil. Neither Holmes nor Batman would be complete without their ultimate adversary. Both serve as the opposite side of the same coin, and both utterly match the abilities of the hero. They operate ominously from off stage, testing the limits of the hero, then finally reveal themselves for a physical showdown with devestating consequences. While the Joker is a constant presence in 'Batman', Moriarty only actually appears in one Holmes story, although Doyle later retroactively made him a presence in the shadows, orchestrating crimes from afar in 'The Valley of Fear', a story set before but written after Moriarty's defeat. Clearly Doyle recognised the character's impact as arch enemy enough to increase the prolificacy of his crimes. Furthermore, Moriarty's absence from the later stories is as keenly felt as his presence in the earlier, and Holmes makes numerous references to his departed foe right up until the very last story, 'His Last Bow'. There is a keen reversal of roles in that, while the Joker recognises how much he enjoys his conflicts with Batman, it is Holmes that continually remarks how much he misses the thrill of the chase with Moriarty, remarking that crime in London has become uninteresting since his death.

There are also some comparisons to be made among the lesser recurring characters;

Bane/Colonel Sebastian Moran

Both criminals that arrive on the scene with the express intention of murdering the protagonist. Moran wants to exact revenge upon Holmes for the death of his boss, Moriarty, while Bane wishes to kill Batman to remove Gotham's overwhelming fear of the Dark Knight. Each possess violent skills that cause the hero to fear for their life (Bane is stronger than Batman, Moran is an expert marksman).

Tim Drake/Stanley Hopkins

Tim Drake, as successor to Dick Grayson's Robin, shares similarities with minor 'Sherlock Holmes' character Stanley Hopkins, who is mentioned as being a young police officer with keen detective skills. Hopkins appears in later stories, where Watson spends increasing amounts of time away from Holmes, and is vaguely alluded to being a possible successor to Sherlock Holmes.

Gotham/London

It would be wrong not to mention the respective cities in which the great detectives solve their crimes. Each city is vivdly realised in the fiction, thriving and complex to the point of being something of a character itself. The reader is immersed in this artificial world (while London has the obvious advantage of being a real place, the London of 'Sherlock Holmes' is unique in its stark descriptions of gas-lit, foggy alleyways, rolling hansom cabs and ominous shadows. It is as exclusive to Sherlock Holmes in that respect as the fictional Gotham City is to Batman). Each character is completed, given a degree of dimension, by the city they live in.

An Exercise in Self-Deprication

2011-12-25T18:01:00.000-08:00

I am depressed, self-centred, unmotivated and underhanded. I make snide comments at respectable people to gage reactions which I in turn can not deal with.

I am an alcoholic, and despite knowing this I feel no need to make an effort to tackle this.

I am extremely arrogant and cynical to the point of hubris, and hold the natural assumption that everyone should be party to my opinions, yet I will simultaneously chide opinions I do not agree with while lambasting those that state opinion as fact, a habit I'm guilty of more than most.

I feel anger and resent at those who are professionally more successful than me, and try to internally justify my own lack of success with self-righteous, stock ideologies that, if I am honest with myself, I only profess to believe in.

I scold myself for not progressing professionally, yet I make no effort to set the ball in motion for this progression.

In my free time, whilst boasting to others that I am a writer, I seldom participate in anything productive. I would sooner watch television for hours on end than pursue my claims.

I get murky and angry at my friends when they appear to not show me any support, yet in truth I know that if this is the case, it is most likely due to my chronic inability to make any kind of effort on their behalf. Despite knowledge of this irony, I remain too self righteous to relent and pity my friends.

I rarely visit my family, even those that live close to me.

I am extremely vocal about my heroes, be they living, dead, fictional or factual, yet I never attempt to emulate their ideals and deeds, with the exception of Charles Dickens, who I most arrogantly consider myself to be his literary successor despite having nothing remotely credible to my name.

I seek undeserved sympathy for my misery that is derived from my selfishness and rash actions.

I feel self-deprecation is a form of entertainment and that my own cynicism should be enjoyed by my blog readers.

I start far too many sentences with 'I', a much frowned-upon grammatical flaw.

Whenever things don't go my way, or when the good people in my life criticise my actions or opinions, I run away and descend into anger and jealousy that lasts for days.

My bad feelings are often internal and I seldom vent healthily, which makes matters worse.

Although I do make a pretty awesome cappuccino.

Every cloud has a silver lining, Merry Christmas! xxxx

Coppervid Dafield (abridged)

2011-12-11T04:09:00.000-08:00

I'm a quarter of a century old today. This is that quarter. Although some events may be out of sequence.

Whether or not I am being the hero of my own life, I should have paid more attention. When I was twenty-five my novel, 'The Life and Loves of Jet Tea', was more or less finished. I became prolific in writing almost at the cost of my own well being. My typed-up tantrums and rants were the product of constant alcohol abuse as I would drink constantly and turn to Facebook or my blog to vent what would be my bottled-up sober thoughts in libellous, spiteful yet somewhat comical outbursts. These were always at either the amusement or annoyance of my friends.

I took residence in what is essentially the attic of a Soho pub after eventually leaving and becoming a successful writer, and I preceded to use what little free time I had to try and become a writer. My days (and nights) were spent dispensing beer to tourists, actors, perverts and businessmen and whenever I could fit it in, I would write my blog. This would continue unchanged until I eventually opened the blog.

Having acquired the job in the Soho pub, I eventually moved out of the flat in Finchley, North London, where I lived with my girlfriend and her chum from university. It was a lovely place, newly built only some years before and sitting pleasantly in one of those rare pockets of suburban London that can be walked around in at all hours without need to feel fear. Here I lived for two years, strolling the alleys and woodlands of Highgate and Barnet in my free time and keeping track of my thoughts in a little notebook I always kept on my person.

During this time, I found myself not yet having started the job in Soho and on the dole. This was a most depressing time for me and, despite always having been supportive of the work-shy (I was myself more creative when unemployed so I always assumed the benefit classes are prolific purveyors of fine art and literature), I did everything in my power to end it.

The inevitability of being on the dole came from my ill-advised decision to leave my job in Uxbridge, West London due to the painfully-long daily commute I had to put up with to get back to Finchley. Daily I would travel upwards of two hours on the Metropolitan and Northern lines just to get to and from work. Although as the old adage attests, every cloud has a silver lining and during these journeys I found myself able to read more than ever before. I worked in Uxbridge for almost three long, dull years and in the second of those years I moved into the flat in Finchley with my girlfriend and started working on a novel, tentatively titled 'The Life and Loves of Jet Tea'. It was to be about my best friend, who has a tendency to fall in love with every girl he meets.

My welcome home party, upon my return from New York, was cut short when an airborne, drunk teenager accidentally kicked my girlfriend in the face. She lost the feeling in her head and received a scar above her eye. I accompanied her to the hospital, during which time the attending doctor shot me funny look after funny look, silently accusing me of domestic violence.

Before long, I graduated from university with a 2:1 in English literature and film studies. By now my girlfriend was, for all intents and purposes, living with me in my parents' house in Hayes. Shortly before that, I met my girlfriend while playing guitar in a friend's band. We spent many evenings drinking various spirits from my parents' cupboard and watching obscure sci fi programmes and films until the small hours of the morning. She was brought in as a session violinist and we found the two of us had myriad common interests in uncommon things. The band, being the roster of musicians it was during my involvement, existed for, I suppose, a year and a half. We played lots of fun gigs all around London, many of which had hilarious drunken consequences, and I joined shortly after moving out of my house in Reading due to a nasty falling out with my friend and housemate.

University was a strange time for me. Shortly before the commencement of my third year, I broke up with my girlfriend of four years and towards the end of the second year we were spending less and less time together, despite living in the same town and both being students. Once upon a time, when I was older and worked full time, I used to realise how lucky I would have it when I was a student, complaining about having to be at school from 9am until 11am and spending the remainder of the afternoon in bed watching illegally-downloaded 'Robot Chicken' episodes until the evening when I would go into town with my friends and make short work of a bottle of After-Shock.

In my second year I moved into a house in Reading with eight other students. I wasn't there long, and before that I spent my first summer back home in Hayes crawling around London with my friends Maurice, Jet Tea and Wilhelm Neuf. It was a blurry affair, and both the passage of time and consumption of alcohol have left me with only snippets of recollection. We would trawl across London, attending gigs and open mic nights and watching each other get into various kinds of trouble with promoters, members of the audience and occasionally the police.

Eventually I began university. I moved away from Hayes, West London, for the first time in my life at the age of twenty and settled quickly into a grotty halls of residence in a rather remote part of Reading, Berkshire. I began studying English and soon decided that I'd like to be a writer of fiction. The nights out in Reading were, at that time of my life, the most incredible and intense I had ever experienced. We drank like good and true students and danced like charlatans with no self awareness.

University was preceded by a gap year, part of which I spent travelling by myself around Western Europe and gradually beginning to shape the person I was when I lived in Soho at the age of twenty-five. The reflective, mood-swinging alcoholic scribbler who enjoys his own company. I finished my travels in Paris, and prior to that travelled through Spain, Italy, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Holland, Belgium and eventually started in France, full circle.

Before leaving for Europe I began a relationship my first girlfriend in sixth form. I had known her for seven years before this. My school years were more-or-less par for the course of any teenage English boy. My small group of friends existed outside of school social circles and we would roam the school grounds looking for ghosts, getting into mild trouble with teachers and musing upon and observing our experiences with attitudes far beyond our years. I no longer wished to be a writer, instead I wanted to be an illustrator and I missed out on many a better grade for the multitude of cartoons and comics I would draw of my teachers and friends, safe in the modest knowledge that they weren't lifelike enough for them to notice.

We played gigs after school at a local youth centre to a crowd of alternative teenagers who hated us and threw chairs at us. In their defence we were terrible. I joined my first band. I began learning guitar. My mum bought me my first guitar for my fifteenth birthday.

I began feeling a funny change during my early teens in which I would feel awkward around the opposite sex and think about them more and more. This didn't last much longer and eventually I didn't really care and was just happy playing with toys and computer games.

I grew smaller and began wanting everything and being unwilling to contribute or realise how fortunate I was. I could care less about how hard my parents would have to work to give me the comfortable childhood I had. Even so, I still wrote. I would spend all my time sitting at the dining table with piles of blank paper, writing stories and comics until my hand was sore.

One summer afternoon I was climbing a tree outside my house when suddenly the branch I clung to snapped off and I fell hard onto the concrete, breaking my nose and tearing my upper lip apart. The scar would be there forevermore.

Eventually I lost the ability to write and draw. Before long I could no longer even spell my own name. All I had were vague traces of what would be my voice, and then that was gone.

I found myself invalided, scared of the world and completely unaware of what was going on. I cried all the time and lost control of my bodily functions entirely. I couldn't move, I couldn't tell anyone what I needed. Everything seemed so big, so scary and yet still it intrigued me. I wanted to learn about everything. Despite the despair I was constantly enduring, I knew this cold, bright place was a place to be explored and I'm sure I will have a lot of great adventures here.

Today I was born.

"When Can You Start?"

2011-12-05T13:36:00.000-08:00

'And this is the office.'
Derrick peered through the door window. It was most definitely the smallest office he'd seen. Not that pub offices were particularly renowned for being roomy. He nodded meekly.
'If you want to have a look inside I'll just run back upstairs and grab your paperwork' said Derrick's new manager, before bounding back down the corridor and up the stairs.
Derrick sat down. He hated being shown round a new place of work. He never really knew what to say or what questions to ask, if any. Although the job was in the bag, Derrick still felt as though he was in the interview stage until he properly began work.
Staring at nothing in particular, Derrick slowly swivveled and turned on the office chair waiting for his new manager to return. He turned over appropriate questions and comments in his mind, and decided against all of them. It didn't matter.
Then Derrick noticed the screen on his right. The CCTV screen that showed all possible angles in the pub. He stood up out of his chair and looked at it.
Boredom and curiosity curdled in Derrick's idle brain as he decided to grab the mouse and select a single screen for closer view. He selected the small, jittery image of the main bar and clicked. The image enlarged and filled the screen instantly. Then Derrick noticed the first odd thing he'd notice that evening.
The pub was empty.
How strange, he thought. It was more than plausible that the solitary bartender who greeted him when he arrived had just nipped out the back for a moment (as a long time bar manager Derrick was all too familiar with that most irritating habit), but there were at least thirty customers in the space that this CCTV camera was covering before he left. There was no way that they'd all leave at the same moment.
Then Derrick felt silly. Of course, he thought, it must be old footage. The time and date begged to differ. The footage of the deserted pub was completely live. He wondered where his manager had gotten to.
Then the second odd thing happened.
He didn't immediately notice what it was about the footage that was wrong, but after a moment of scrutiny Derrick saw it. The empty pint glass that stood on the bar had moved. No, was moving. As clear as these words are to you, Derrick would swear, that glass moved. It slid unsettlingly slowly across the bar. Painfully slowly, almost like it knew it shouldn't be allowed to do that. The jumpy, jittery pixelated footage occasionally distorted its journey and at times the glass appeared to jump suddenly upon its route. Then it reached the edge of the bar. And it kept going.
Derrick was rigid with morbid amazement as he watched the animated glass tumble over the edge of the bar and off the screen. The next odd thing made him jump.
With unbelievable coincidence, a loud smash startled Derrick into a chill and broke his gaze. He darted over to the office door and opened it.
There was a broken pint glass at his feet.
All manner of dread and foreboding lined Derrick's stomach as he considered the impossible. He slammed the door shut and went back to the CCTV screen, his heart pounding.
'Christ' he failed not to say aloud.
He wished he could see the whereabouts of the wayward glass on screen, just to put his mind at ease. The screen was no barer of relief.
The fourth odd thing happened. A door swung open, and nobody emerged. The fifth. Another glass tumbled off the bar. The sixth, the seventh. Eighth. Ninth. Beer pumps turned on by themselves, the beer flowing onto the ground and causing rapidly spreading puddles. That blasted door did not relent in its animation. Things flew by, too blurred by the mediocre camera quality for Derrick to work out what they were. Shadows. Large, ominous things that allowed for no quality or clarity. Something stood in the centre of all the chaos, the smashing glasses and swinging doors, it stood and it stared at Derrick. It stared malevolently. It wasn't actually there, but Derrick could feel it, staring and grinning. Grinning like it wanted to do evil things, grinning like it wanted Derrick to be there when it did them. Its invisible stare was more horrible and more intense than could be achieved by any worldly eyes.
Derrick gasped for breath and stumbled back, almost tripping over the chair as he did. He did not feel safe in the lonely office. He headed for the door.
It was open. Derrick thought he'd closed it, but he wasn't exactly at the height of concentration at this moment in time. He wanted to run away back down the corridor that he and his boss (where had he gotten to?) had came from, but the corridor was no longer there. How could that be? There was a wall in its place, a grey brick wall that looked like it had been there for decades, yet Derrick stepped freely through the space that wall now occupied just minutes before. On the opposing wall there was a door. The only door now, save for the one into the office, that Derrick could escape through. He took it without hesitation.
Breathing heavily and shaking like a dog in the snow, Derrick found himself in the pub. It should have been upstairs. The office was in the basement and Derrick had climbed no stairs. He had taken the door out of the office and somehow he was upstairs. The windows revealing the street outside attested to that. He was horrified and for a moment he shut his eyes tight, unwilling to see in front of him what the CCTV screen had shown.
He opened his eyes.
No activity was to be beheld. The bar remained empty, like it shouldn't have been, but there was no swinging door, no chaotic glasswear and no puddles of beer flowing out from behind the bar.
It wasn't a relief.
As Derrick slowly gazed around the cold, empty pub, taking in the dusty, abandoned wooden tables and old weathered chairs that should have been the carriers of cheer and liveliness but instead acted as a terrible display of isolation and darkness, Derrick still didn't feel alone. He felt as though that thing that he sensed in the middle of the room from the CCTV was still there. He sensed it pacing gleefully around its domain, he felt it staring accusingly at Derrick's intrusion. He didn't know what it wanted but he knew it was close. Facing him. Approaching him. Next to him. Those eyes! They weren't there, but, those eyes!
Derrick breathed deeply and started to move. The pub was so dark, so empty. He realised how big it seemed when uninhabited and the front door felt like it was a world away. He trod with caution slowly toward it. He would not look behind him, for Derrick had convinced himself that the invisible thing had taken form and trod in his shadow, claws outstretched, waiting for him to turn around and see the most horrific face he would ever see again.
Derrick reached the front door. He placed his hands on the cold wood and pushed. The door swung open and he rushed outside into the cold. He was out. It was as dark and lonely outside as it was in the pub but it felt safe and good. Derrick let the double doors swing behind him as he breathed a sigh of relief.
Then a voice from behind him said

Remembrance

2011-11-23T11:42:00.000-08:00

Albert awoke one morning and decided his life was pointless and boring. Sure, he'd raised a beautiful son thanks largely in part to his relationship and marriage to his beautiful wife Emma. But even so, he felt empty and felt his grasp on the world was ghost-like, with no contact or solidarity. He felt small. He felt his impact should reach beyond people that knew him and he hated the foreboding idea that once all of his contemporaries had passed on, there would be nobody on the planet who would remember him.

Albert looked into possible opportunities to prolong his posthumous influence on the world. He considered music, but recalled his angry, compulsory music lessons as a child. He never could immediately master the instruments he was most interested in and, despite his teachers telling him that this was completely normal, for even they were no good when they started out, Albert would refuse to believe it and burst into violent, frustrated outbursts. These outbursts became increasingly more commonplace at school and were the main factor in his eventual expulsion at the age of 15. Since then Albert came to resent education and, ultimately, to resent those who remained in education beyond the mandatory school years. He would regard students as detestable vermin, and with their regular gatherings and protests against what they called 'social wrongdoings', Albert would grow to hate them intensely, to the point where he would turn violent upon seeing a student. He loathed hearing their voices and deeply resented that they were given exposure just because they remained in education longer than he did. The stress Albert felt upon hearing a student speak led to him concluding that students enrage everyone and should not be allowed an opinion.

Recalling this anger, Albert decided against trying to take on the world by becoming a famous musician. Perhaps, instead, he could write a novel. A classic novel, he thought, like all the dusty old books in the library. Dusty, boring and intimidating though they appeared, he'd read somewhere that the authors of those books were all dead yet still celebrated hundreds of years since. Albert wanted to be like that.

He sat down at his computer and began to type a story about a man looking for a killer. He started off well, coming up with a title and vague outline all by himself, but when it came to typing the novel, Albert began feeling stressed and shaky. He thought back to his last couple of school years before expulsion. He and his friends were playing football, when Albert spotted a boy off to the side, sitting on a bench reading. Sweaty, light-headed and pumped up from the game, Albert rushed over to the boy, laughing. He then began to verbally attack the boy with violent incoherences that terrified him. Eventually becoming restless and frustrated with the boy's lack of response, Albert turned physically violent and pushed the boy to the ground. He then proceeded to beat his unresponsive victim to near-unconsciousness. Drops of blood flew enthusiastically hither and thither with each pull of Albert's fist, and the child waved his hands in terror and useless defence, squealing with pain. Albert punched the boy in the chin repeatedly, causing him to bite into his tongue and dribble blood onto his muddied shirt. Growing tired of punching, Albert then began to kick the boy all over his body, revelling in the crunches and cracks about the bones that his football boots produced. No fatigue pacified Albert, and eventually two alarmed teachers had to tear the two apart, dragging Albert swinging and snarling away from his battered victim.

As he was removed from the scene, the boy sat up and shouted 'Just because you can't read, you big idiot! Just because you can't read!'

That afternoon, Albert sat gloomily in his parents' living room while they were out. He was happy that he hurt the boy, but gradually the boy's words began to eat into him. It was true, at that age Albert couldn't read as well as all the others. He picked up the nearest book to him and opened it, promising he would read a whole page. He struggled with most words and tossed the book aside in anger. He decided to try something simpler. The Sun newspaper, which was mostly pictures and only featured a few words, so that not only clever people could read it, was on the armchair. He tried that. He did indeed get further through the article about 'evil Muslims' in The Sun than he did with the novel, but it was still difficult so he gave up.

Recalling that grim memory, Albert decided to put the novel writing idea to bed and think of something else.

Eventually, Albert confided in Emma about how he was feeling. Emma reassured him that he will always live on, through their son and future generations. But Albert felt angry at this and called her stupid for missing his point. Emma cried and pleaded with her husband to cheer up, but Albert became irate with her increasing the stress in the environment and her attempts at reassurance reminded him of the boy that goaded him for not being able to read. A violent rage clouded everything around Albert's head and when it cleared, Emma was cowered on the sofa, her hands covering her face, weeping intensely. Albert quickly realised what he had done as he saw a line of deep red blood trickle through Emma's rigid fingers. Disgusted with himself, he went for a walk.

On his walk he thought deeply. He thought about how much angrier he was as a child and wondered if he would have made something of himself by now if only he had listened to his teachers and councillors and their offers to work so much harder to help him get better. Albert sadly concluded that this was not the time of his life to change who he was as a person. He would always be violent and good at nothing. But he still wanted to be adored and remembered. It was at this moment that Albert decided to join the army.

One thing Albert always had been was physically healthy. He spent many years at school playing football and beating up small children and that had given him a well-toned body and a lot of stamina. He also, despite his violent past, managed to avoid ever receiving a criminal record. As such, entry into the army was easy for him.

Albert thought back to all those pioneers and independent thinkers that have achieved legendary status beyond their deaths, and how he always ultimately wanted to be one. He punished himself for not realising sooner that he could achieve similar levels of immortality just by being strong and willing to do as someone told him to.

He soon went to war. He wasn't quite sure what the war was all about, but he'd read many stories of soldiers coming back from war and being celebrated as heroes. He wanted that so much. Albert soon gained the respect of a lot of well-wishers and friends he didn't know he had. Even Emma forgave him. All he had to do was spend some time in the desert, equipped with armour and a rifle, and he was achieving hero status. Even all those dusty old novelists were never referred to as 'heroes'. One day, while home for a while, Albert came across a group of what looked like students protesting against something he didn't understand. Muttering with venom and disdain, Albert began to walk on. That is until he spotted the words 'NO WAR' scrawled on a creased white sheet above the crowd. Albert angrily accosted the nearest student and asked what was going on. The student replied that an ill war was being fought and innocent lives were being lost. Albert replied that he was fighting in that war and the student, despite being half Albert's size, defiantly looked him in the eye and told Albert that he was fighting for a corrupt government and the presence of armed forces only exacerbates the conflict because all nations are too laden with angry testosterone to back down from a fight. The student went on to say that many years ago, men of Britain were conscripted against their will to go into Europe and fight off an evil fascist war machine that stood to demolish all freedom throughout the world and bend it to its own fascist will. He said that these men were heroes. People that willingly sign up to fight for the benefit of greedy politicians are not heroes, in his eyes. It was the first time that Albert had experienced this deviant attitude. Violence overcame him and he punched the student in the face, breaking his nose and loosening at least one tooth. The student cried out in pain and a good number of the others rushed over to aid him. In doing so, they realised that a large man had attacked the student so they fought off the large man.

The next day, The Sun told the story of a group of feral protesters that brutally attacked a passing soldier during an anti-war protest. With this story, Albert became adored and admired as a living martyr. His letterbox was flooded with letters of appreciation, strangers shook his hand in the street and he had never heard the word 'hero' so much in his life.

Albert always had violent anger issues. He had also always had a desire to be admired on a massive scale. By joining the army he had finally found a way to appease both of these things without sacrificing the other. He could feed his complex by walking around with a gun, demanding everyone call him 'hero' and turning violently against any who refused to. But the greatest thing about this was that almost everyone, wherever he went, unquestionably agreed with him.

Soho is my Gotham: Prologue

2011-10-09T09:09:00.000-07:00

So I got this screwed up piece of paper shoved through the letterbox at work this morning. It had my name on it. This was also written on it:

Ghost Rules in the Theoretical World:

Each Ghost is preset with time energy. Time energy allows for the continued existence on Earth after death. When time energy is used up Ghosts are automatically transported to Darkspace, then their eternal whereabouts from then on is decided. They have no choice in the matter. Time energy burns relatively quickly, which is why genuine Ghost sightings are quite rare. There is, however, a way to extend time indefinitely.

Ghosts also possess 'fear' energy. This is burnt up by extracting fear from the living, through direct encounters. When fear energy is burnt up, time energy increases.

Unlike time energy, fear energy is readily available and can be replenished in 'Ghost Tower', a tower wherein time does not exist so extended time spent there is not threatening to a Ghost as time energy can only be spent where a passage of time is present. The reason time is still in Ghost Tower (which you no doubt know as 'Centre Point' near Tottenham Court Road station) is because it hangs directly below an entrance to Darkspace and can draw power from there in the manner of a person using their neighbour's unsecured wi fi network. When fear energy is replenished, Ghosts can endure hours of scaring the living before having to 'refuel'.

All living beings are born with this information, but there is a mental firewall around it and the info can not be accessed until the moment of death, at which point it feels retroactively like an old memory. This is how Ghosts are not driven insane at their own existence and also how they can instantly get on with maintaining their time energy. Some Ghosts have been known to remain on Earth for up to 2000 years, although the average endurance time is only 4 years.

I'll tell you about the Theoretical World at a later date.

In six months this won't be gibberish. Be ready.

What the fuck???

The Exploding of Jeremy and Jessica

2011-09-26T09:24:00.000-07:00

This will be my last individual blog for a while. Very soon the long story of Gentleman The Superhero will begin. Until then, enjoy this strange love story.

One afternoon, Jeremy blew up. Not in the manner of a balloon, rather, he exploded. It was a horrendous mess, for his body was all over the room. His ear, to give you one example, was sliding slowly down the radiator, leaving a nasty trail. Luckily, Jeremy managed to pull himself together and shake it off. He was not one for complaining needlessly about things that can't be changed.

Later, Jeremy went for a walk because it was a nice day. He bumped into his friend Jessica. Jessica was pretty. She was a street artist when she had spare time and Jeremy liked that about her (and her).

Noticing Jeremy's manner, she asked 'Why do you look so dishevelled?'

'I just exploded' said Jeremy. But he felt okay really.

Jessica sighed and nodded slowly. 'So did I' she said. 'There must be something going around.' Jeremy and Jessica walked.

A brash, angry man, also called Jeremy as coincidence would have it, sat on a bench far away. He knew other Jeremy and hated him. He hated him so much that he could almost never think about anything else at all, which, if you think about it, is quite a serious matter.

He was drinking from a can of beer on this bench, which he really shouldn't have been doing because it was still daytime and he was all on his own and, of course, he was angry enough without beer. When he finished it he went home, ever angrier for having no more beer.

'It isn't fair' thought angry Jeremy to himself. 'Other Jeremy exploded but he's okay already and I'm still so sad.' This negative reflection only made him hate other Jeremy even more.

Other Jeremy went to a coffee shop so he could talk to Jessica all afternoon. It wasn't a big, scary coffee shop that looked like a hundred others, it was a nice little one owned by people who worked there and it was the only one that looked like it in the world. Jeremy sipped his coffee and thought about how easily it had suddenly become to talk to Jessica. Had his earlier exploding had something to do with it? Jeremy looked around the room at all the different people sitting on armchairs and benches talking to one another, and wondered how many of them had exploded that morning.

Jessica talked about her and her friends' art and could tell that Jeremy was really listening to her and not just waiting for the conversation to turn more personal. Jeremy enjoyed talking about graffiti with Jessica, even though she didn't like calling it graffiti.

Angry Jeremy got home and decided to call his friend Cassie. He couldn't remember how he had gotten Cassie's number, but he knew, somehow, that he shouldn't have had it.

Cassie answered. 'Erm... hello?'

Jeremy sighed. 'Hi Cassie' he said, gloomily.

'Oh, erm...' Cassie shuddered. 'I don't know if, erm, I should be talking with you.'

This made angry Jeremy sad, and angry. 'Oh, please' he groaned.

'Well, I don't know'.

Jeremy shouted and threw his mobile phone at the wall so hard that the sound hurt Cassie's ear. She gasped. Then she hung up too.

Other Jeremy hugged Jessica and she got on the bus. He went home and turned the television on and smiled.

A week passed and Jeremy decided to throw a barbecue party because the weather was still nice and he had a day off. It was such a nice day that even angry Jeremy came. Of course, Cassie being there was motivation enough with or without sunshine. Jessica felt a bit sad because she used to be a vegetarian. Other Jeremy's friend, who was very sure of himself and enjoyed talking about things he had done more than listening to stories about other people, also came. He spent all afternoon flirting considerably with Jessica and Cassie's friend which was ultimately a vain effort because she hated men.

Cassie arrived and smiled nervously at angry Jeremy and when she turned away he got very angry and threw his sausage roll at the sky. Other Jeremy's cocky friend noticed this and told him to calm down, so angry Jeremy punched him so hard that he turned almost see-through.

Other Jeremy noticed the fight break out and rushed over to try and stop it all, but instead got punched as well and so a three-way, drunken fight ensued. Jeremy's cocky friend, who really loved Jeremy despite himself, tried to protect his friend and host against the brutal lashing of angry Jeremy, but got so badly hurt in the process that he disappeared completely.

Jessica, Cassie and their man-hating friend watched the event in horror. Cassie was so scared of the violence that she ran far, far away and was never seen again. Jessica was just disappointed and went home. This really upset Jeremy, who was usually so calm.

Days passed by and angry Jeremy was very sad and hadn't gone out in days. He sat in his lonely armchair drinking (whiskey, this time) and thought long and hard about how he would definitely never see Cassie again, all because of the fight at the barbecue.

The room was so big and bare that angry Jeremy felt tiny in it.

Angry Jeremy reached under his armchair and pulled out a gun that nobody knew he had. He took one big sip of whiskey and pointed the gun at his sad face. He took a deep breath and then disappeared forever.

Other Jeremy (now simply Jeremy) tried many times to apologise to Jessica, but her friend that hated men kept assuring her to stay away from him because he was violent really and not nice inside. She stood steadfastly by her advice for a long, long time. But after many occasions seeing Jeremy walk calmly by, getting on with his life and not feeling sorry for himself like angry Jeremy used to, and not insisting that he was in the right like their cocky friend used to, she began to understand a bit more.

One afternoon she accidentally found herself in a conversation with Jeremy.

'Hello, Jeremy' she said with some polite caution.

'Hello' replied Jeremy with a smile. 'How's Jessica?'

'She's just fine' said Jessica's friend. 'How are you?'

'I'm good' said Jeremy. 'It would be lovely to see Jessica again but if she'd rather not I will go on my way.' He smiled again. 'Hope you are well.' Then he waved and walked away.

After that conversation, Jessica's friend started to realise that Jeremy was most probably good for Jessica and began to think that not all men were horrible. Besides, all of Jeremy's bad friends were gone now anyway. Eventually she apologised to Jessica for interfering and went away.

Finally, after all their weaknesses and insecurities had died and gone away, Jeremy and Jessica were able to be together like they should have been in the first place. All they ever were from then on was happy. For, you see, there really were only ever two characters in this story.

The Adventure of the Regular Customer

2011-04-04T05:11:00.000-07:00

My Attempt at a Sherlock Holmes Short Story

'Yes Watson', remarked my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes on one particularly warm Saturday afternoon, 'I would very much like to go to the public house for a drink with you.

I started up, astonished. 'Holmes' I gasped, 'how on Earth did you know that was my desire?'

'I beg pardon?' replied Holmes, 'did you not just ask?'

'I certainly did not. I haven't spoken a word these last ten minutes!'

'Forgive me Watson' said Holmes. 'I must have just read the question and imagined myself hearing it. That is certainly feasible at times when my mind is so idly starved of work. I perceived that you have glanced longingly at that empty brandy decanter no fewer than three times in the last half-hour. Add to that your rather restless sitting posture, the long stare at the blue sky through the window and that quiet sigh you uttered just now that I was not meant to hear but heard all the same, then I can safely deduce that you desire to leave our dwellings for an afternoon. Am I not correct?'

'In every detail' I replied, somewhat begrudgingly.

'Well fortunately for you I would like nothing more than a pleasant walk to somewhere with more human activity than our little home is presently offering. I know just the place, collect your hat and we shall leave immediately.'

Before long we were taking a pleasant stroll away from Baker Street and into Regent's Park, which was alive with Holmes' much-desired human activity. Through the park we carried on northwards toward the Charing Cross Road. On the way Holmes described to me the public house which we were headed to.

'It is a terrific place, Watson' he exclaimed, 'newly built this past year on an excellent spot on Cambridge Circus. Unfortunately business has slipped in these last few days, they will be grateful of our custom I do not doubt.'

Considering the wonderful weather, I asked how business could possibly have been poor at a time like this.

'The discovery of a murdered corpse not ten feet from the entrance has rather put the fear into a lot of its regulars. It is completely absurd that one incident could have such a profound effect on so many not connected to it.'

I winced at Holmes' coldness and statistical manner toward the deceased. 'How was the murder committed?' I asked. 'Strange that I have not heard of so local a crime from the press.'

'Such a crime affords little publicity' Holmes replied. 'A drunken disagreement gone too far, no doubt. A little column on an insignificant page that no doubt you would have overlooked, or even read and forgotten about. Either way, I make it my endeavor not to miss these things.'

We arrived at the public house, which was indeed as pleasant as my friend had promised. Unfortunately its sparseness of custom also lived up to Holmes' descriptions. There was but one drinker in the building, and even he was leaving as we arrived.

As we approached the bar Holmes took me by the arm and hissed an excited whisper in my ear; 'That was the murderer' he said, glancing toward the table of the man who had just left.

I raised an eyebrow. 'How could you have deduced that?' I asked in reply.

Holmes did not reply. Instead he darted over to the man's former table, which held an empty ale glass and a copy of the Times, and stared at it intently for a number of seconds. He then strode over to the bartender.

'Who was that?' Holmes asked. 'The gentleman who left just now?'

'Simons' the barkeep replied. 'He's always here.'

Holmes returned to my side. 'I am correct' he said with some affirmation.

'Explain' said I.

Grabbing me firmly by the arm, Holmes escorted me to the departed gentleman's table with the intention of showing me exactly how he reached this seemingly unattainable conclusion.

'Notice the marks on the table' he said, gesturing.

I squinted at the marks. There were two circular glass marks, close to each other. 'What do you find remarkable about these?' I asked, defeated by the baffling scenario.

Holmes sighed. 'Watson' he groaned, 'I am continually astonished by your inability to see something so clearly embedded in your eyeline. What do you find interesting about the stains on the table that you have no less than admitted to seeing?'

I shrugged. Holmes continued. 'There are two marks' he said. 'Only two. You and I both know that ale is not a drink easily finished in two gulps. The man only placed his glass on the table twice since purchasing it, which means he must have finished it in two attempts.'

'Okay' said I, 'but how could you possibly know that it wasn't his original intention to drink hurriedly?'

'I don't know for certain' replied my friend, 'but do you believe he would have chosen a table so far from the bar, assuming he would bother choosing a table at all, if he intended to leave straight away? Add to that the mere presence of a newspaper and we can safely assume that he planned on staying a while, that is until he saw me coming through the window.'

Though admittedly impressed by Holmes' deductions thus far, one rather significant element still left me in doubt. 'What makes you so sure that it was your arrival that prompted him to leave?' I asked.

'The newspaper' Holmes replied with confidence. 'It is The Times, the daily which commonly, often against my better desires, reports my successes in the field of criminal detection. A man who regularly reads this paper would not fail to recognise me, and I am sure that our fellow is a regular reader of The Times because of these thumb markings.'

Holmes lifted the paper and, showing it to me, flicked briefly through it. 'Notice how these thumbprints (still damp in case you were doubting this man's ownership of the paper) only appear on every few pages, rather than every page. A regular reader eventually knows where his particular articles of interest lie, and is able to skip past the pages he does not wish to read. So we can faithfully conclude that the departed gentleman is indeed a regular reader of the times.'

'Remarkable!' I exclaimed. 'From little more than an empty glass and a discarded newspaper you have deduced that, upon seeing you, who he could not fail to recognise from the pages of The Times, our man quickly finished his drink and rushed off against his original intentions, having mistaken your visit for one of detection into his crime. My friend, you continue to astound me.'

'It is all there' Holmes replied, dismissing my compliments with a wave, 'I just endeavour to ensure that I see it. I have often told you, Watson, that you also possess my powers. You just need to make the extra effort to actually access them.'

'One thing remains though' I said, 'why on Earth would a murderer return to the place where the crime was comitted, knowing full well that it would be under investigation?'

'A commendable question Watson' replied Holmes with a smile. 'Though you have answered it yourself.'

'I'm sorry?'

'The man finished his drink in two gulps. He could have more easily left it unfinished. What does the fact that he drank to the last drop before fleeing tell you?'

'That he is addicted to the drink' said I.

'Precisely. He is a regular here, and an alcoholic. So much so that he would jeapordise his safety and freedom for another drink. One other thing, the murder was comitted outside of a public house opening hours, so only a regular, who would be invited to remain in the pub after closing, could have comitted the crime. The bruises on the body were all over the place, so the crime was clearly perpetrated by a drunken man. I have not been entirely honest with you Watson, I came here not simply to have a drink with you, but to investigate this murder, and it seems I have solved the case remarkably quicker than I anticipated. An intoxicated man is not difficult to follow, I shall apprehend him and you shall get us two pints of their finest ale, which we shall not finish in a hurry!'

In 10 years they'll all have mortgages...

2011-03-30T18:48:00.001-07:00

Saturday, May 26, 2011

Trent: "Mate, we're pretty much out of 'Red Stripe' "

Phil: "Really? Fucking arse wank."

Trent: "Yeah, man, fuck fucking up banks sober."

Phil: "Well just buy some more you cunt"

Trent: "Yeah fucking eh. Ahhhhhh bollocks"

Phil: "What?"

Trent: "I aint got no notes, eh"

Phil: "So? Go to the fucking cashpoint you dick"

Trent: "Mate, we fucked all the cashpoints"

Phil: "Aaaaaaah, gay"

Signs

2011-02-24T04:06:00.000-08:00

'Papa' says boy.

'Yes?' says man.

'I have made a mess, I was stirring icing and covered my hands. I wiped it all off onto a towel. Is that okay?'

Man scratches his chin. 'There is no mess? For we must be conscious of germs spreading.'

Boy shows his hands, 'they are clean.'

Man breathes a sigh of relief, but out of the corner of his eye he spies a sign;

NOW WASH YOUR HANDS

'My son!' He exclaims. 'The sign!'

Boy spins around in alarm. 'What sign?'

'Observe' cries man pointing with the utmost fervour.

Boy's lips silently speak the words of the sign. 'Must I wash my hands? They are clean.'

'You must!' Speaks man. Regard the sign!

Boy waddles intently to the washbasin and turns the tap on. His eyes glance down. His face turns to one of horror. 'Papa, there is no soap!' he says.

Man pauses, and raises his rigid claws toward his face. 'My word' he whispers. 'We must not delay. The sign. We must purchase soap!'

Within seconds they have slammed their front door behind them are bounding with intent down the quiet street. Man uses their journey to express the importance of signs. 'They are in place all over' he says. 'They explain to us exactly what we should do in absolutely every situation. As a result, of course, we must not look for ways around not being able to honour them. We must honour them.'

'All of them?' asks boy.

'All of them. Keep calm and carry on. Turn left here, stop. Here is the road.'

The two of them stand by the empty road. There is danger on neither side, but man has observed the pedestrian traffic light and the red, motionless man glares back at him, silently urging them to remain still.

'Can we carry on?' Asks boy, who has noted the road's emptiness.

'No' replies man watching the unpopulated concrete. 'Do not cross, for the man is red. The sign'.

And thus they wait. Then the man on the sign turns green, indicating movement, as in the distance a curious rumbling becomes the shape of a truck, helmed by a suicidal drunk driver, hurtling toward them.

'Now it is okay' says man, as they step blissfully into the path of the relentless vehicle and end their journey for ever after.

Suicide Day Backfires

2011-01-20T15:24:00.000-08:00

Thousands take own lives in 'whoopsy' act of societal recursion

Last Monday was, officially, the most depressing day of the year based upon a collected selection of factors ranging from winter blues, holiday weight-gain and accumulated debts. The so-called 'suicide day' falls annually upon the third Monday in January and is calculated as being the pinnacle point of the year in which all of these depressing factors overlap.

By Tuesday morning, however, the after-effects were looking slightly more startling than usual.

Police records have shown that suicide death rates in Britain were up by approximately eight and a half thousand on last year's toll, which in fact totalled around thirty-nine. Frantic research was undertaken immediately to determine the cause of this dramatic rise and results published on Wednesday seem to have deduced the reason for this.

Speaking at the University College School of Psychology, London, Professor Greg Eastwick said, 'sometimes people do things because they're told to.'

Elaborating further, the esteemed head of the department explained 'you know when you say "don't think of pink elephants", and then people think of pink elephants? Like that.'

When asked what Professor Eastwick actually meant, he responded 'I think everyone commited suicide because they were told they were going to. So whether or not they actually had any overwhelming personal problems, their subconscious told them they should be honouring the day. Its similar to how people caused a recession just by believing that there was a recession, becuase they stopped spending money. Monday was the most depressing day of the year because we were told it was going to be. Society can have its off days.'

Sales and Marketing clerk James Avon, 32, who survived an attempted suicide on Monday, said 'I just couldn't pay the rent. Because everyone at the bank had killed themselves.' When asked if there were any long term problems that he had been suffering from, Avon replied 'No.'

Sarah Gayton, a barmaid living in Hornsey whose assistant manager Irene was found dead on Tuesday morning, said 'we were behind the bar, it was a quiet Monday lunchtime so we were chatting to the regulars. Suddenly someone said "did you know today is the most depressing day of the year?" suddenly Irene stormed out without saying a word. The next day I heard she had killed herself. I didn't understand it, she seemed fine. I wanted to die too, which is wierd because I usually want to live.'

This phenomenon is known as 'Recursion', when an event causes itself.

The government has revealed that 'serious plans' are being made to prepare for the next Friday the 13th.

In light of Monday's tragedy, society is considering not telling people when to be miserable.

Snow Destroys Christmas

2010-12-24T14:03:00.000-08:00

Stay at home families bollocked by expected winterval

Domestic stay at home families were devestated yesterday by news that their Christmases would be put on hold by torrential snow conditions that would not relent in the south of England.

Following news that foreigners planning on travelling back home via flight or eurotunnel were preparing for festive disappointment, it now emerges that families without Christmas travel plans have been crippled and, as it were, 'Scrooged' by the unrelenting 'big freeze.'

To elaborate, families that have or had no intention of leaving home at Christmas have had their plans undercut by the dreaded 'White Christmas.' Snowfall infiltrating homes via ill-advised open windows, or exceptionally vented draught areas have rendered Christmas obsolete for those supposedly 'clued up' by staying in this festive season and planning on going safely downstairs in the morning.

Jack Gregson, 45, of Chatham, said 'This is bollocks. I was all geared up for heading downstairs on Xmas (he said Xmas we didn't abbreviate) but the godforsaken snow made that completely impossible.' Gregson went on to explain that snow on his stairs was too dangerous for him or his family to walk down, thus having to miss Christmas in the downstairs living room.

'We couldn't make it to our living room' Gregson continued. 'We had to spend Christmas day on the upstairs landing. All I could do for my kids is tell them what presents they had. They are heartbroken.'

'Scrooge, in Dickens' famous story, asked "what's today?" Now my kids don't know what the fuck day it is thanks very much to mr. Bing Crosby's beloved bloody snow.'

In light of Mr and Mrs Gregson's revelations, this column can reveal that an alarmingly large number of families had their Christmases ruined by attempting to stay at home. Ed Balls and Vince Cable (Cable and Balls) said that 'serious investigations' are being undertaken regarding unsafe, icy, domestic staircase conditions.

This is not in fact the first time that torrential snow has ruined Christmas, for the last several decades, Christmas has been reported as being ruined by the absence of snow. Because all the songs said there should be snow. Plans are currently being made to revise the atmospheric themes of new festive carols.

An impartial observer remarked, 'its like that bit in Angela's Ashes'. This reporter is exempt from accusations of plaigarism.

Panda Rally Riot

2010-11-26T05:45:00.000-08:00

Animal Rights protestors storm 'Save the Panda' rally

Fervent animal rights group PETA stormed a peaceful 'save the Panda' event in America's Chicago Zoo, causing several injuries and expensive damage to property, horrified witnesses reported yesterday.

The group, led by Steven Fedora of Connecticut, infiltrated the peaceful event, organized to raise money to aid the endangered species, brandishing placards bearing messages such as 'PETA loves PANDA' and 'Who the f-k are you to tell Panda what to do?'

Fedora, in a statement released prior to the gatecrashing, said 'Pandas are an endangered species, and evolutionary evidence has clearly shown that that's just the way they like it. Pandas don't have sex and thus clearly want their species to die out. Who are we, as human beings, to deny that right to them? To urge people to "save the Panda" is to keep them alive against their will, which is bordering on fascism.'

Daniel Curran, deputy manager of the Chicago Zoo Endangered Species Programme, speaking after the carnage, said 'I thought PETA liked animals. Oh well.'

Fedora responded, 'PETA love animals. We are an animal rights group, we feel that no animal should be denied any right that they are entitled to. We smile when a Panda dies just as we smile when a tortured bull mauls a matador to death. Animals shouldn't be subdued by mankind. I've eaten Panda, its alright.'

PETA stormed the zoo, yelling 'let them have the right to die' as well as numerous profanities, physically attacking zoo keepers, visitors and at least one child. The Panda enclosure suffered severe damage and is now closed until further notice. No Pandas were harmed though.

Fedora said 'we feel the event may have taken a somewhat violent turn but we also feel that our voices were heard and our message was understood.'

PETA stage protests and events on regular occasions. An inquest is to be held with regards to the vandalism and injuries caused.

"It's Only a Sentence"

2010-04-29T02:51:00.000-07:00

So at the moment you don't have to go too far to find some debate or discussion about the Gordon Brown gaffe. Not without merit, of course, and its good to see the notion of British herd mentality somewhat dispelled by the variety of opposing reactions. However, there is one particular reaction that demonstrates the most detestable, absent-minded pseudo-intellectual way of thinking. "It's only a sentence", "people are over reacting" and variations thereupon. This is a stock response that crops up at every major news story. Jordan and Peter divorce; so what? There are more important things happening. This is true, but the problem with this response is that it has become automated at the cost of actual thought. Is what Brown said "only a sentence?" Well of course, at face value. "Arbeit Macht Frei" is only a sentence, yet it evokes half a decade of genocide. "I have a dream" is only (part of) a sentence, yet it fuelled the biggest breakthough for human rights in history. "The force will be with you, always" is only a sentence, yet it gave demi-God status to a man who made three slightly cheesy sci-fi movies. What these airheaded backlashers have apparently completely failed to grasp that it is 'only' a sentence providing you take a totally superficial approach to words, not allowing for any word to resonate beyond its aesthetic impact.
"Bigoted woman" sounds horrible, especially when said about a pensioner who is only bigoted in the eyes of someone who believes expressing a slight concern about immigration is a bigoted view. In any other context, say for example a pub conversation turned heated and one participant branded the other a bigot, which I've seen happen plenty of times, a mass reaction would be an over reaction. But in this context, the key to the outrage being justified is the context of who the words were said by, and what they evoke. With 'only a sentence', Brown has made public what anyone with fully-functioning neural passages has always suspected, that the public face of a politician is not worth the steam off their piss. With 'only a sentence' Gordon Brown has more-or-less confirmed that he thinks anybody with differing opinions to his are bigoted, even his own supporters. In short, that minute or so of dialogue from inside the car has revealed that the current Prime Minster (and it would be arguably naive not to assume this also applies to the potential two) is a complete fraud, who has nothing in common with his public persona and has no faith in the intelligence of his supporters, the people who stuck by a man that nobody voted for and spent his years in power trying to get other people to tidy up the financial mess he helped make before he was in charge. As such, the reaction is more than justified, and not 'another example of the British dwelling on triviality' as somebody put it. If this is what a politician thinks of supporters with a slightly divergent regard for some of his values, what the hell does he think of the people who outright disagree with him? "Dogshit nazis conceived to fuel the coal-heap" is one option. Feel free to suggest others. Its only a sentence, and a sentence is all it takes to turn the world on its head.

The Con Man

2010-04-13T13:21:00.000-07:00

Something has just hit me and it has made the world, particularly the political climate, make a little more sense for the time being.

I've been frustrated by the niggling annoyance that Conservative Party leader David Cameron reminds me of someone and I've finally worked it out, its BNP leader Nick Griffin. He has that same flat-toned, grating public school accent and tone of voice, similar eyes and his Hitlerian side-parting wobbles in the same way when he gets enthusiastic about something, bikes or whatever. But he ISN'T a quivering, obese blob.
Then it occured to me, and I can't quite believe it has taken this long, David Cameron IS Nick Griffin, albeit an alternate-reality Nick Griffin, albeit an alternate-reality Nick Griffin where said alternate-reality hasn't quite panned out as desired.
Mr. Griffin, several years in the near-future, has finally resigned himself to the fact that his "purge all the blacks, deny the holocaust, England for the racist" attitude hasn't quite won over as many Britons as he had hoped. So, taking into account that this is a future in which faster-than-light travel has been developed and time travel is a reality, decides to take a trip into the past to change the course of his actions and ensure global domination. Mr. Griffin arrives at Cambridge University in the Eighties, where he gives his young, past self some important advice. His young, past self of course immediately accepts that he is talking to himself from the future, because he isn't exactly prone to believing sensible concepts and himself is the only person he will ever properly relate to who isn't in several pieces in a Russian filing cabinet.
Future Mr. Griffin tells past Mr. Griffin first to change his name, because 'Nick Griffin' just sounds evil. David is a nice name and its befitting a world leader. He then ensures the newly-christened David that it might be a good idea not to let on, in his future political career, that he's a gay-hating racist. Also, if you want people to like you, you should probably stay in shape. No more scrounging the bins round the back of abortion clinics or vet's surgeries. Get yourself to the gym.
Unfortunately, something goes terribly wrong. Authorities find and seize Mr. Griffin's time-travel device, considering it hostile, alien technology and leaving Mr. Griffin stranded in his own past. But making the most out of a bad situation, Mr. Griffin devises a plan. Throughout the ensuing years, and leading gracefully into what we perceive as the present day, Mr. Griffin acts as both a secret advisor to his new, David Cameron shaped self and an unbelievably OTT extremist with absurdly racist views that have no grounding in any functionable democracy, in order to make Cameron look a lot more desirable by comparison. He tells Cameron that the best course of action will be to act like a liberal; this way he may sway some lefties disillusioned by the tory-like running of Blairite New Labour and the horrendous descent of national pride driven by the sad face of policy-less Gordon Brown, while also maintaining the vote of confused Tories who will say "well, he, er, talks a bit like a lefty but he wears a blue tie, so he must still be all for over-taxing the working classes and discouraging immigration, right?". Cameron then gradually potters about TV channels, convincing people he's one of the kids because he sometimes rides a bike and listens to the Killers, and for some unknown reason he wants to hug people that wear hoodies (Despite his quote taken from the Daily Mail: "I wouldn't wear one, fuck that."), gathering support from impressionable non-voters and, in the privacy of his own home, rubbing his hands together with glee as he and his future self see the the sexy advance of world-domination upon the horizon.
Meanwhile, future Nick Griffin hatches a plan to go on Question Time, sit among a panel of very intelligent people, and reiterate to the nation that he is most definitely an idiot, slightly overcompensating said idiocy by implying that he hangs around with KKK members and making fun of another panelist's dead dad. Seeing this, Cameron looks like The Second Coming in comparison.
The 2010 general election looms. Griffin tells Cameron to smear the word 'Change' all over his campaign promotional material, "cos it worked for that black fella in the States". Cameron and Griffin smugly watch (from Cameron's makeup room as he is being applied with a concentration of makeup that makes him look startlingly similar to Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation) as Gordon Brown does little but frown and huff around party political broadcasts and the Lib Dems continue to try and figure out what they actually stand for, while the votes for Cameron flood in.
Then Cameron wins. Britain gets Nick Griffin, but sexier and pretending not to be a right-wing fascist (for now).

Well, Maybe Facebook Mobile is a bit much...

2010-04-02T09:36:00.000-07:00

My girlfriend has a friend who has decided to renounce facebook, myspace and the like. While this is, of course, an acceptable course of action in itself (nobody's forcing him), the grounds on which he has decided to do so are a little iffy.

Firstly, this man lives in Australia, and has many friends in the UK. He has cited that the reason he is deleting his facebook page is because he wishes for his life to be more like it was when he was younger, free of the over-reliance on technology; SMS, social networking, internet chat etc.

Again, there is little wrong with strivance to be free of a life laced by the internet, but when friendships so long-distance rely on a quick and convenient means of communication, is disregarding these means the best course of action, short of wishing to live the life of a misanthropic hermit? I'm sure, at 26 years old, these aren't his plans.

But between disgruntled standup comics complaining about it on BBC3's 'Most annoying things' and those people you meet that say things along the lines of 'I don't participate in all that internet bollocks', I am a little perplexed by the apparent prejudice that surrounds social networking sites. What is really wrong with a fast, free and broad way to keep in touch with everyone you know at a few clicks of the mouse? The Internet is the greatest source of knoledge, communication, entertainment, everything. I recall there were similar attitudes toward mobile phones when they started becoming commonplace, but I'm sure there's already a 12 year old blog covering that somewhere. Maybe people that complain about facebook don't even know why they complain, they just feel its somebody's duty to create a backlash against any new technological development. Maybe they took The Terminator too seriously. I wonder if people were uneasy at the invention of the printing press?
Most of the criticisms against it fail to convince. Some argue that facebook shouldn't be a replacement for real, face to face communication. But it isn't- nobody is sitting indoors on a Friday night, pint in hand, talking to their friends on facebook who are doing the same as them. The last time I checked, pubs and restaurants were still pretty packed-out. I use facebook constantly, but I don't see or speak to my friends less. Another criticism that comes from a very close friend (who, by the way, lives in New Zealand and keeps in contact with his UK friends using the Internet...hmmm) is that if you really cared that much about all the people that you add on facebook, then you'd make the effort to phone them or write them a letter. Write them a letter! This just smacks of a silly, roundabout way to go to awkward lengths just to spite a website. What real fundamental differences are there between a piece of paper and a computer screen? They're just two different means to the same ends, and the former costs money and takes longer. I lost touch with a good friend from School because he moved house and I drunkenly lost my phone around the same time. Obviously I couldn't contact him to tell him I wasn't ignoring him, but guess how we finally got back in touch, nigh on 7 years later? Facebook. My friend may have a point regarding the addition of people you otherwise wouldn't give a second thought in the real world, but that's at the behest of the individual. I personally don't add people I never cared for before.

Then, like it or not, the world has gone the facebook way. Refusing to board the bandwagon in this instance is less a statement of noble defiance and more a petty clinging on to the less-enriched aspects of days gone by. What harm does it do to your integrity to have a facebook page? The benefits outweigh the flaws. In the real world, the world that the anti-facebook brigade seem so scared of falling off, whether or not you are a member makes no difference. And to those that wish to hark back to their bygone glory days, it seems to me that the fact isn't considered that in those carefree days you saw your friends and family every day because you had to go to school and you lived at home. That's the difference between childhood and adulthood, and also the reason that fewer children have facebook pages, they don't need them. In most cases, YOU do. Your friends from school, the ones that were so easy to network with socially, have departed for greener pastures, as you grow up the people you love leave your convenient bubble and spread around the world, and facebook should be commended for supplying a means to make the distant ones seem closer, not sneered at as a misguided target for hypocritical technophobia, and it really does baffle me as to why this hasn't occured to, of all people, a man in Australia whose friends live half a planet away.

Or maybe I just didn't take The Terminator seriously enough.

I Spelt 'Embodiment' Wrong

2010-03-22T09:32:00.000-07:00

If I plan to make something of myself as a writer I should perhaps start getting into the habit of re-reading things before I unleash them upon the big wide world. I apologise to anybody who spotted that glaring error and I endeavour to ensure that such a travesty shall never occur henceforth.

You may notice that I'm being hyperbolic. This is, fortunately, a conscious effort and, even more fortunately, in jest and merely to bring me to the main point of this post. Unfortunately (oh it was going so well with two 'fortunately's'), I have found my prosaic style often veers toward mannerisms best suited to the the early Eighteen-Forties, by which I mean that I have developed (or perhaps always possessed) a tendency to over-describe and over-emote the somewhat mundane, in ways befitting (but, you must understand, not reaching the calibre of) George Elliot or Wilkie Collins. I have suspected it is an inclination stemming from a possible sub-conscious aspiration to Charles Dickens, which, if so, can be forgiven. However it may also be due to my having recently watched Withnail and I for the ninetieth time, and being infected by Richard Griffiths' character Monty's insistence on striving to verbalise to the highest possible degree the English language will allow ('as a youth I used to weep in butcher's shops'). Given the nature of his character (an overbearing, over-reacting sexual harrasser, for those who don't know), this can not be forgiven.

The optimist in me insists on telling me that said inclination is simply the manifestation of me finding my preferred writing style, that of a somewhat ironic harking back to a now virtually alien society. I can only think of the positives in attributing such profundity of language to a story largely set in the grey, WKD-fuelled environments of Uxbridge and Harrow. If nothing else the linguistic tone will prevent the story from being taken more seriously than it intends to be. What on Earth could be wrong with a story that includes the following paragraph

Jet Tea awoke with an erection. It wasn't a problem, for he often

awoke in such a state of arousal, particularly of late, and particularly

on days Jet Tea knew he would be receiving a visit from Vicky.

I'm fairly certain that a key element of successful comedy is the pairing of levels of culture that shouldn't be paired. Remember the episode of The Office (the proper one, not the American one) in which David Brent and another colleague spend a large portion of the working day discussing Fyodor Dostoyevsky? Had that exchange taken place at 9pm in a dimly lit BBC4 studio between two academics, it wouldn't have been the least bit humourous. As it is, it occurs in a Slough paper office, between an idiot boss and a postgraduate temp, and as a result is hilarious, because the setting doesn't match the content.

So, if I may slightly tweak the elements of setting and content into scenario and tone, therein lies what I hope may be the greatest strength of my novel, alongside the characterisation of which I discussed in my previous blog. I could perhaps further my attempts to emulate Dickens and spend an entire chapter detailing the sublime, archaic architecture of NatWest bank or wax lyrical upon the plight of the heretics in that park down Windsor Street, to add an environment to the comedy. Or it could be completely shambolic, misinterpreted (I must remember that Jet Tea pronounces that word 'misinterpretated') and see me come off as a pompous purveyor of sub-Victorian dross, the kind that has no place on our Twenty-First Century highstreet bookshelves.

Speaking of highstreet bookshelves, I feel it is of some interest (if only to my future, memory-numbed-by-alcoholism self) to report that I experienced my first contact with the world of professional literature yesterday, in the form of an email from a publishing company (that I shan't name) telling me that I am on their contact list. This may be, I am fully aware, the literary equivalent of adding Rough Trade Records on MySpace, but it is still exciting to me. For, being predominantly concerned with making it as a musician for the last seven years, and understandably having gathered a modest supply of knowledge of how that would work, beginning a career as a writer is the first completely brand new, uncharted territory, terra-incognita experience I have gone through in some time. I should print that email and have it framed. In terms of relevence to my success it predates even a rejection letter, but its still the first email I have received that is remotely of that kind. Perhaps in twenty years time I can remove it from the loft (or my sleeping bag, fortunes pending) and show it to people as a letter from when I tried to be an author. Or perhaps, if I may allow myself a little optimism, it will be the first of many. Watch this space.

P.S. You'll be pleased to know I spell checked at least seven words this time round.

Arachno-Nostalgia

2010-03-18T09:06:00.000-07:00

I planned to, in this blog, paste a funny mock-biography about William the Spider, a cartoon I made once. The biog was written in the form of a Dickensian memoir, and the humour lay in applying hyperbole, fond recollection and an ambitious lifespan to a spider that was prone to being stepped on.

But to my horror I find that blogspot doesn't allow material to be pasted into the blog, everything has to be typed from scratch (and no way am I typing that out again). The motivation and necessity for this absurd form of techno-prejudice is beyond me, so instead I'll use this intended spider-time to reflect on a new sub-theme I'm going to be applying to my novel.

Just to let you catch up, I'm partway through writing a novel about my friend, Jet Tea, with particular focus on his tendency to fall in love with every girl he meets. Within the realms of the novel, the tendency is manifest as a curse imposed on him by a magician, but as a means to satirise that way of behaving in the real world. The male tendency to over-exaggerate feelings of interest toward the opposite sex into neo-Keatsian poetic agonising has not been sufficiently covered as of late. The overall tone of the novel is that Jet Tea is the modern-day imbodiment of an angst-ridden romantic poet from the Regency era, albeit one who finds himself isolated in an environment where this sort of behaviour has no place. Surrounding characters are largely matter of fact about their feelings; not unemotive but honest with themselves. Jet Tea's expressions of feeling are melodramatic and hyperbolic, laced with overstretched metaphors and similes to put how he feels into words. With nobody to sufficiently counter-remark him, Jet Tea's main goal becomes to leave (nicely aligning the fictional Jet Tea with the real one, who has moved to New Zealand and achieved almost immediately what he was striving to do since I've known him; find love. Congratulations Mr. Tea).

But on a walk to clear my head and get some fresh air yesterday, I found myself listening to The Magnetic Fields' 'You Must Be Out of Your Mind' on my iPod. The song, in particular its lyrics, for some reason left me with feelings of nostalgia and lament for bygone days. I say 'for some reason' because the song itself is about a falling out of some kind, but the lyric 'you think you can leave the past behind / you must be out of your mind' fits my scenario just as sufficiently. The early parts of the novel see a regular scenario in which the three best friends (Jet Tea, and fictional characters based partially on myself and Glen Strachan), living in close proximity to one another, regularly meet at the pub for a drink and a debate. This was something I, at least, now think we took for granted. Jet Tea is now on the other side of the planet, Glen is out in the countryside and I 'm unemployed skulking around a flat in North London. The likelihood of meeting up at the local nowadays is slim, and unlikely to ever happen casually ever again. Such meetings now will be reunion-based, with conversation probably of the reminiscent variety. Its a shame, but its life, and it isn't like we don't communicate any more, only last week Jet Tea phoned me up drunk to tell me he'd refused a lift home on the basis that he didn't like the designated driver's taste in music, and I've seen Glen regularly as well.

But that brought me to thinking I should layer the narrative with a second tone, one of the fear of change. I thought about having this emit from my character, but that would contradict the largely unpoetic world in which Jet Tea lives, so its going to be a second hardship Jet Tea has to contend with, probably ultimately accepting it and deciding that the only way to numb the sadness of the end of the status quo is to begin again in a completely alien environment. That's where New Zealand comes into play.

Forgive me if I've ruined the ending of the unwritten novel for you (if that's the case then thank you for even considering reading it), but this story isn't really about the plot, its about the characters. There are plenty of biopics and biographies where the reader knows full well how it will end. Hey, Titanic and the Star Wars prequels wouldn't have been so successful if the audiences had such a huge problem with knowing how things turn out. The bottom line is, The Life and Loves of Jet Tea (working title) may be a fictional story, but its eponymous hero is very much real, and in real life Jet Tea buggered off to New Zealand with no intention of returning, so that's where my Jet Tea will go, so that the two parallel timelines can converge and the Jet Tea of the future is both the Jet Tea of the past and the Jet Tea of fiction.

Oh, and if you want to see that spider cartoon, its here.

Big Audio Dynamite

2010-03-16T04:17:00.001-07:00

I'm writing a Doctor Who short story for a Big Finish competition. Big Finish is the company that produces most of the Doctor Who audio dramas, and also a series of short stories. Haing read a fair few of the short stories and liking them a lot, and with little to fill the Who-shaped whole that last year's lack of a proper series has left me with, I've found myself getting into the audio dramas.

They're mostly great, but that's unsurprising. They don't have the cautions and restrictions of a special effects budget there to stop the story from being as ambitious as they want it to be like the classic TV series, they're not producing episodes for the whole country and thus having to make sure the lowest common denomenator is always kept in mind like the new TV series, and they have a plethora of lifelong Doctor Who fans who happen to have become superb sci fi and fantasy writers at the helm, all of whom are given mostly free reign over what they write and how far they play with the formula. So its easy to understand why the stories are so good.

They've also provided an invaluable way to do greater justice to the ill-treated Eighth Doctor, having only one TV appearance (he should have been invited to do that short Children In Need special instead of Peter Davison) despite his energy and ability but instead due to low ratings in the US for said story's airing. The Big Finish Audios have given him plenty of stories and even the opportunity to spar with a great companion in Sheridan Smith's (the blonde from 2 Pints of Lager) Lucie Miller (gone now sadly).

So having become an even bigger Doctor Who geek this way (there are whole spinoff series set on Gallifrey but I wont go into that) I have begun trying to get myself into this environment. Steven Moffat's Who career began, as I understand, with a short story. Now he's in charge of Doctor Who! He gets to decide who the Doctor is, what he does and what villains he bumps into. Imagine having that job. The first opportunity I went for was the chance to write one of four 25 minute audio plays featuring the Fifth Doctor (Peter Davison) and Nyssa. Although this is my least favourite Doctor and companion, I went for it and wrote a story where the two of them are effectively out of space Lenny Henrys, turning up on a devastated planet and appealing to its government to allow aid workers to land. Big Finish reported that around 1,200 people entered this, which put my likelihood of getting the job close to slipping in the shower on an airplane while putting my socks on. But they're still reading them as I type this so I haven't given up hope yet.

The next one was, to my delight, a short story competition (though to be released as an audiobook rather than a hardback), this time allowing me to write for any of the first eight Doctors (their liscence doesn't cover the new series) and any companion. Instinct led me to assume I'd either automatically opt for Tom Baker's Doctor, or spend ages mulling over who I should write for instead. To my surprise, however, I found myself immediately picking the Sixth Doctor, Colin Baker, and Peri. For those who don't know the Sixth Doctor is largely considered fandom's least favourite. I myself am not a fan of his 'era', but, while writing dialogue for him and enjoying doing so a great deal, I realised that it can't really be the Doctor himself people don't like.

On paper, Colin Baker has everything a successful Doctor needs. He can act, to get that issue out of the way, he has a commanding presence; whatever's going on in the scene, its always him you're drawn to (and not just because of his ridiculous clown coat) and he's got a big alien-looking face that's capable of displaying a thousand emotions. Add to that his curly hair and surname and there's very little about him that's different to everyone's favourite Doctor (pre Tennant anyway), Tom Baker.

So why is he often so neglected in polls? Simple. Everything else about Doctor Who was shoddy at that time and, as previous showrunner Russel T Davies has said, actors are the front line. When you see any film that you find dreadful, you always remember it as 'that shitty film with so-and-so in it.' Its not Colin Baker's fault that the props, writing and supporting cast were at their weakest, and its not Colin Baker's fault that the producer at the time insisted on dressing him in a horrendous multi-coloured clown costume when, as one of the darkest Doctors thus far, he should have been wearing something subtle and sinister (I've seen fanmade mockups of him in a black suit and he looks superb). Put Colin in the 'golden age' of the mid seventies instead of Tom and he might today be regarded as the best Doctor ever.

Which brings me back to Big Finish audios. Despite his misguided reputation and his abrupt sacking from Doctor Who by Michael Grade, Colin has had good grace enough to lend his services to Big Finish as the Doctor for many audio plays. Listen to him, if you're partial to a bit of Doctor Who and not too worried about not having anything to look at while the story is taking place. He's been in many brilliant audios but at gunpoint I'd recommend Jubilee or Medicinal Purposes (the latter of which also features David Tennant as a madman, before he received the part of the Doctor himself). Listen to one, close your eyes and imagine Colin Baker away from bad actors, papier mache walls, tin foil hats and a stupid costume, and just allowing himself to be the Doctor as best as anyone ever could, acting out a proper script that every Doctor Who story should have. Because let's be honest, there are thousands of people itching to be able to write for Doctor Who (myself very much included), and now the TV programme has the budget to do almost any script justice, so there's no excuse why it shouldn't be top notch all the time.

Retroactive Present Tense?

2010-03-15T08:50:00.000-07:00

Once, in a small but pleasant flat somewhere in the London borough of Barnet, there lived a twenty-something male named Joe Gardner. Joe was, though not through lack of trying, unemployed and living off of a mistakenly allocated credit card and the leftovers of a graduate overdraft.
Joe's goal in life was to be a writer. So he would often sit, day in, day out, at his laptop, writing short stories, lyrics and general plotless ramblings, whilst simultaneously working on the novel he was writing about his best friend.
One day, Joe decided to open an internet blog to store thoughts, ideas and the opportunity to look back at his progress on the path to recognition for his supposed creativity. If nothing else, the blog would be a good place to direct his frustrations and restlessness with the world of literature. Nonetheless, Joe was determined to one day have published something other than two mediocre poems in a little-known anthology when he was eighteen. So he sat down, armed with a coffee and a list of publishing companies, and a head full of ideas (some of them contrived), to make something of himself.

Unfortunately, no more of this story can be related to you, as it is still being written.