The Audacity of Self Publication

Only Human

2010-08-07T14:18:00.000-07:00

Forgetting the shopping, failing a job interview, getting yourself lost. What can you do? “You’re only human”. I hate that phrase. It annoys me because it uses being human as an excuse to failure. Human beings, both structurally and mentally, are phenomenal works of nature. I am not the sharpest knife in the draw, I was a pretty average student and although I went to a good University I wouldn’t say I was abundantly educated. But I can still challenge any anteater to a maths quiz.

I may get lucky on University Challenge every now and again but a monkey in a suit wouldn’t stand a chance. “Burge Homosapiens” would wipe the floor with “Chuckles Pantrogulatytes”. Maybe I’m shooting too low? Ok. I’ll go up against a more sophisticated breed. Dolphins are some of the most intelligent life forms on the planet are they? Fine, get me flipper and a chess board. Even on my worse day of chess I’ll have the slippery bugger clicking in frustration and flipping the board in disgust.

Of course, unlike the dolphin I can’t breathe underwater, and I can’t see as well as an eagle, nor can I run as fast as a cheater. In those situations I could claim it’s because “I’m only human”, but no. Some bright spark of our species developed the gun one Sunday afternoon and that means even if the cheetah did beat me, which it would, the fact I wouldn’t be carpeting his floor at the end of the day in front of a roaring fire while I sip brandy and read Flashman still makes me the winner.

I must warn you now that I’m drunk, or at least just drunk enough to imagine myself playing chess with a dolphin but not enough to demanded a tiger or a lion. It’s going to take quiet a few more G&Ts before I challenge something that could rip my face off, no matter how firm the monopoly board or sharp the scrabble pieces. What I’m trying to get at here is that we, human beings, are awesome creatures capable of things never before seen on this planet. So, to justify failure because of who we are just seems like a bit of a cop out.

I know this because I went to University and truly learnt what failure was. You could say I have never been more human in my life. I failed in top level sports, relationships, academics, fights, debates, challenges, dancing, drinking, women, logic, money, business, enterprise and planning (which is even more depressing because you don’t even get to attempt to fail). It wasn’t so much a learning curve but a Nuremberg ring or trial, error and car wrecks. Everything from a dent in the bonnet to a 200mph kamikaze through the tire wall… on fire… upside down… with gusto.

I didn’t fail because I’m human. I failed because I was an idiot. Also because I don’t often think things through. Well, many things in fact. Everything from arrogance to timing, destiny to drunkenness. You could say these are all human traits, and you’d be right, but the phrase isn’t wrong because of the word “human”. It’s wrong because of the word “only”. It implies a certain inevitability. A nagging “of course you shouldn’t have tried. You’re human for Gods sake!” It’s the hint of “why bother?” that gets me.

Sometimes, I freely admit that I just get things wrong. I’ve had some awful break ups this year simply because I got things wrong. There was no malice or evil agenda in mind. In fact I have never tried so hard to make something work before; it just didn’t pan out how I hoped. I had to quit rugby a few times too; no fault of my own apart from finding myself in front of a twenty stone Neanderthal Yorkshireman with a tendency for casual violence and a hatred for Londoners… when I had the ball. In my first business plan I didn’t include a paragraph on failing (which could explain things) but sometimes that’s the way an apathetic target market and an unremitting (and tight fisted) client base work. Sometimes, even if you try your hardest, go with your gut, put everything else first and do the correct things well and the right things better – it still just doesn’t go right.

So where does this leave us humans. Well, it’s unfair to use “being a human” as a get out clause for not getting the job done. It’s being human in the first place that makes us aim and strive and work hard for what we want. It’s the human part of us that refuses to quit (even to everyone else’s better judgement) and forces us to keep plugging away when all else has failed already. Being only human is the reason we aim so high, yes, and pick ourselves up when we fall, yes, and try again and again and again, yes. But failure? Never. And what allows me to be so hard headed in the face of total annihilation and shame? Shouldn’t I know better? Yes, I probably should. But I’m only human.

Home is where the iPhone is

2010-07-28T09:14:00.001-07:00

My last days of University life were crystallized this weekend when I moved out of Leeds for the last time. With the bins full, the rooms empty and my hands still stinging from excessive bleach use, I set the alarm, locked the door and walked away from my last ever student home.

I’ve moved out of houses in Leeds before as inevitably students will lay their hat in more than one location during their time at university, even if it is only a few streets away. People come and go, circumstances change and a brand new year in a brand new house with a brand new dynamic is refreshing. But this time the move was dark with the air of finality. There was no new house to look forward to next year. No coming adventures to be shared through the seasons. This was it. This was the end. I was leaving the city that has been my home for four years and I had no plans, or even excuse, ever to return.

At the other end of the country was the chaotic and unsubtle unloading of books, clothes, pictures, and, well, crap into a house that my parents have only recently moved into. It is not the house I grew up in, nor an area I even remotely know, so my feelings about spending the summer in isolation are not appealing. No summer job at the old pub, no nostalgic school stomping grounds, no familiar childhood room to fill the gap that a bohemian student lifestyle has left. Just miles of unchartered territory, strange sounding locals and the “spare room” so small that my possessions are eventually to be stored in the loft encased in plastic, air tight coffins.

Now this may all sound very childish but understand that when I left for University my parents almost immediately sold the house I grew up in. Leeds was my home now. Everywhere else would forever be “where my parents lived” or “where I was staying”.

All my peers at this stage do one of two things. Either they have found a job and move into their own place, imaginations fuelled with the new disposable income, fresh bars and a vastly more varied demographic to socially exploit and swim neck deep in, or they haven’t found a job and move back home. I seem to have ended up with neither. I feel like I’m on tour and even the sprawling of all my worldly possessions on the new magnolia walls like a domestic dwelling virus, it still wouldn’t hide the fact I was with a tribute band. It was a fake home, and I need to grow up quick and find my own cave. I want my clothes, which have been folded a certain way to fit in my draws for years, to fit naturally in new ones. But they don’t. It’s like trying to wrap a banana in pineapple skin. Both are fruit, but they just don’t fit.

And this brought me round to a new way of thinking, for social survival if nothing else. What exactly is home? I’ve mentioned material possessions but what I’m actually going along here is familiarity. All those things you do regularly without thinking that make a place a home. The walk to University paced out every day with autopilot on and safe road crossing off. It’s the sound of your street and the way the bell rings when you walk into the newsagents. It’s knowing the bouncers on the door and the tenders behind the bar. The way doors feel when you open them and the once annoying jingle of the key in the lock that is now a second nature but still stumps visitors. It’s a particular side to a street, or a shortcut into town. It’s a ritual, not a routine, but a regular event that you’ve carved out yourself, on your own accord, a city wide arse manoeuvre to fit more comfortably into your sofa. It’s those roughed up worn out patches. That’s home. And most importantly, more important than the colour of the sofa, the style of the cushions or even which direction it’s facing, it’s about the friends that filled all those spaces and places. They’re the ones that bring it to life.

So if I can’t have that, what can I have? Well friends are important. And in the end they are what you want the most. You need them to be at your fingertips just like they always were and, to be honest, all the crap can be boiled down into a few injections of nostalgia. The right playlist, a couple of snap shots and the ramblings over a cold beer like we always had will teleport you back home. A virtual home conjured up in the senses and expanded in the mind.

In fact, come to think of it, all of that can fit on my iPhone. I’ve got plenty of photos and videos, all the music I used to listen to, instant calling and even a social network access to steal everyone else’s too.

So in the end, it’s not about cramming all your worldly belongings into a room two sizes too small. No, you have to wake up and realise it’s about the links, friends and floaty feelings that will live in no matter what inhospitable climate you find yourself in. Maybe home is where the iPhone is?

The Yalta Game

2010-07-21T06:06:00.001-07:00

I always seem to struggle with chairs. My six foot four frame has created a game out of grabbing the back seat of a coach or the emergency exit of a plane. Thos extra few inches are all that stand (or sit) between tolerable comfort and a world of hurt. When it comes to battery style seating it’s mere minutes before my brain realises that the seat is too close to the ground, the arm rest too high, the back too low and that only a great deal of fiddling and shuffling can help such contortion. It was therefore, with some relief that I sat down at the New Diorama Theatre knowing I would only be there for forty minutes.

Short plays usually have to compromise in areas but this was certainly not the case for “The Yalta Game” written by Brian Friel. Set in Russia the story follows the affair of Dmitry Gurov and Anna Sergeyevna who meet on vacation in Yalta. As their story unfolds so do their imaginations and soon the audience is chasing them down a rabbit hole of desire and fantasy where fiction and reality become entangled in what is, essentially, a classic love story.

The script and the structure are nothing short of complex and director Frances Loy does sterling work to keep the tempo alive. The hours of work are abundantly clear that leave a smooth exterior. What are left are perfectly timed jolts of adrenalin as the story twists and shakes its way through the real and the imagination. The small cast and almost non existent set does not humble the atmosphere as the basic tools for theatre are transformed into an armoury of entertainment. Some epic productions have volume because they’ve bought it in lavish sets and costumes. The Yalta Game has volume because it has earned it.

I must admit that, like everyone there, I instantly fell for Dmitry’s charm and was happy to ignore the fact he’s a cheating bastard to sidle up to his eccentric attitude and dark slightly cringing humour. Jake Harders breathes his role with a natural ease becoming more likeable as he transforms from love rat to love struck. And how could he not alongside Anna? When I first read the book (and when I say book I mean chapter) I assumed Anna was a pretentious, self indulged and unappreciative prig. However, Kirsty Manns’ translation is an innocent and adorable character that requires no effort to follow through her peaks and troughs of fantasy. Her quick connection with the audience is reminiscent of a good friend sharing just a little bit too much gossip and brings to life a script that is as tantalising and inviting as her own performance.

The speed of the play is encapsulated with clever lighting and design by William Reynolds and Fergus Waldron. They transform the flashes of reality to fiction in a way that leaves you, not lost, but certainly scattered as everyone in the theatre plays catch up to a plot like a rubix cube. I found myself desperately seeking in those split second changes for my own interpretation of a ‘happy ending’ with the subtle design heightening that involvement.

The play is tragically relatable and the confusion the characters go through is as raw as it is desperate. The pace increases as does the care for the characters and I hope I wasn’t the only person there happy to sacrifice the most basic of morals for some sort of happy ending…

And then it was over. The lights went down, the actors left and it was over. Left there in the sudden light I felt deprived yet relieved that I was no longer accountable to something that could only end badly. But it wasn’t long before the urge to know the outcome grew, a testament to the achievement of such a small production. And as I walked away stretching my legs, pondering the parallels of the performance, I knew I would have continued to put up with those wretched chairs if only to play the game a little longer.

--

The Yalta Game is on until the 24th July ONLY!
For tickets and information visit www.newdiorama.com

Facing up to the burqa issue

2010-07-19T06:35:00.000-07:00

On Sunday “This Morning” bravely hosted a debate that has filled the air of newsrooms, offices, homes and parliaments. A debate with so many arguments, counter arguments and counter-counter arguments that on any given day it is unsure which side of the fence we are on. Are we being racist, patriotic, understanding, defensive? Even the idea that we are conforming to our Neanderthal routes has been dragged into mix. In the end, I could only stand on the sides so long. So it’s time to tackle this whole burqa thing once and for all – probably.

One of the weakest arguments I have come across to ban the burqa (the entire face and body concealed , leaving just a mesh screen to see through) or the niqab (a veil for the face that only leaves the area around the eyes clear) is that such clothing covers up domestic violence. Really? Because I’m pretty sure that if you were beating your other half a government ban on what they could wear would not change the fact you got as kick out of it and did it to make you feel big and strong. “Oh darling, I’ve been beating you for years but now I can’t hide your bruises behind a burqa means I’m going to have to be a loving husband to you from now on.” 1 in 8 women experience abuse yearly where jeans and jumpers are just as covering. In the end I’d hope that we had better systems in place to deal with domestic violence than ‘don’t wear that because then we can’t all have a good gander’.

Another flimsy argument for a ban is this notion of aiding security. Have there been bank robbers dressed up in burqas? Yes. Does this warrant a ban? No. Criminals conceal their faces with all manner of clothing which is why you can’t wear a crash helmet in banks or post offices. But we’re forgetting that criminals hold up banks with weapons, not lack of identity and I’m less concerned with someone hiding their face than hiding a handgun - something done just as easily in a bag or down the trousers (which is a favourite if I’m to believe Michael Cain) - than getting a clear view of the convicts face as he wields a shotgun in my own.

There is, however, cause for concern when the burqa enters schools, hospitals, police stations and, well, anywhere where human interaction is an imperative. How can a nurse create trust when her patients can’t see the care on her face? How does a policeman understand the seriousness of an incident when he can’t see trouble in the victims’ eyes? How does the teacher get her students excited about a subject when they can’t see her own enthusiasm? Arguments suggesting that the niqabs empowers women to be judged more by their opinions and minds than their looks is a fallacy in a society where facial communication is unavoidable and crucial.

In fact, this is where the whole debate came from when Jack Straw asked a woman to remove her veil during a meeting. It is difficult. A friend of mine works on a student expulsion committee and finds it impossible to communicate effectively with those in veils. I was watching the TV when I suddenly realised the woman in a niqab on screen was talking and I wasn’t just listening to recorded narration. We’ve known how important the face is, which is why police helmets are designed to cover the eyebrows to limit the expressions. The simple fact is that when it comes to communication we need to see the face.

And just when you think you’ve arrived at some sort of decision Freedom of Choice throws itself into the argument. People in this country have the right to express themselves as they wish and have the choice to wear what the want. Fact? Well, no. Because freedom is not a riot shield to hide behind one minute only to batter your oppressor with the next. Freedom is there to build a safe, cohesive and better society by being open and explorative and, well, free; not an excuse to shut yourself off from the world and exclude you from taking part. If society and the state are to be open and transparent then you must be too. The burqa and the niqab are not forms of expression but barriers to the outside world.

So this is where I should probably come to some from of conclusion. My personal feeling is that you can’t ban the niqab and the burqa. Not because I feel people should be able to do what they want and wear what they please but because it doesn’t solve the problem of having individuals brazenly shutting themselves off from society. It is up to local people and groups to decide. The government should be there to back up the hospital and the school when they say their staff shouldn’t cover their face.

People should also be able to voice their discomforts without being accused of Islamaphobia. Covering your face is contrary to British culture and society. It is a sign of aggression and fear and, though it may feel liberating and empowering to some the wearers, it is a selfish act which puts you on the fringes of society.

Pride before pixels, commitment before cameras

2010-07-01T08:24:00.000-07:00

Before I tread onto that sacred ground that is England football criticism I shall first admit that I am not a football fan, I don’t support a team and given the option of watching a premiership game and setting myself on fire for 90 minutes – well, I’d bring my own blow torch!

But what I do have is a brain, some common sense and some basic problem solving skills (which is more than can be said for most of the England squad). Therefore, please give me just a few moments to voice some of my concerns.
Many things have been said over the last few weeks on how to improve the beautiful game. Technology has been at the very forefront of this debate with plenty of excuses at to why we should help the Germans more. But personally I think there’s a deeper cultural problem with football that needs to be slide tackled first.

I can’t stand to watch football mainly due to the sever level of cheating involved. A friend of mine says it makes it more exciting but frankly it makes me sick. Badgering the referee, theatrical diving, faking injuries – how these have become so indoctrinated in the game is beyond belief. Everyone may be appalled how the camera clearly shows the ball crossing the German line but they also show the German goalkeeper staring straight at it. Where was his honesty or his integrity when he grabbed the ball out of the net and exclaimed he had saved the day? On many occasions I’ve seen professional cricket players go up to the umpire and admit they dropped the ball even though they could have claimed it was caught. Why do we never see this in football?

In terms of development, apparently children don’t play 11 a side football in Brazil until they are sixteen. They spend their childhood constrained to the five a side pitch perfecting their ball control, balance and speed. They learn to be fast and manoeuvrable relying on their team mates in close proximity creating a style as deadly as it is delicate. Meanwhile, on the drizzling clay pitches of Woking, Saturday Dads scream the infamous two words at their twelve year old protégées drowning out any samba dreams that inspired them in the first place. “HOOF IT!” Even England admitted to practising this missile like approach during the tournament. Successful? We’ll let the record speak.

Foreign players in the premiership is another difficult subject. For me, it highlights the way football is a business more than it is a sport. Many commentators now say that talent from abroad stifles talent at home. Why spend years building bright young things up in academies when you can get a brand stamped on your chest and buy them pre-packaged from the continent? It is a sad reality of a league that has forgotten its roots and it’s a trend that plagues England management still.

But above all of these issues there’s another statement that I’ve heard one too many times - Club before country. Time and time again we were told England lacked drive, passion and fire. How could they be so lacklustre when they are wearing their countries strip? Has the novelty worn off already? I was infuriated to read that they were bored in camp and needed home comforts to help buoy their patriotic drive. It really is shameful.

To represent your country on the world stage is what every athlete dreams of. It is the highest honour to be the sporting emancipation of your nation. Steve Redgrave, Chris Hoy, David Haye did not need flat screen televisions to spur them on to victory. They did it with a flag around their shoulder and a universe full of determination. In the end if we are ever going to be a winning football nation again, then we need to get our priorities straight. When the team finds that fight, that commitment, that unprecedented want to achieve, then we won’t need ball tracking technology to beat the Germans.

England Team, Letter to the Times

2010-07-01T01:45:00.000-07:00

Sent a letter to The Times on an article excusing Englands lacklustre performance against Algeria on boredom, a dull training camp and lack of home comforts. It wasn't published in the end but thought some of you might find it interesting.

--

written 20th June 2010

Dear Sir,

I was disappointed to read England’s poor performance against Algeria
being blamed on the “manager’s disciplinarian regime” and “crippling
boredom” in camp. The thought that players need PSPs and mobile
phones to help buoy their patriotic drive is frankly sickening.

Professional sport requires dedication that, inevitably, will be
monotonous at times. Our Olympic athletes, like Sir Steve Redgrave or
Sir Chris Hoy, have often highlighted the loneliness and boredom in
strict training routines. Before competitions even start athletes
leave family and home to attend training camps that actually last
longer than the entire World Cup tournament.

Sacrificing “home comforts” to achieve an end goal is also something
that British soldiers in Afghanistan know all too well. The gap made
by absent wives and flat screen TVs is replaced by teamwork,
dedication and determination to prevail.

The England football squad should need no more inspiration to perform
well than wearing their countries shirt. If that’s not enough they
should not put it on in the first place.

Kind Regards,

Edward Burge

20% truth from an "unfit" media

2010-01-12T10:20:00.000-08:00

A report today deeming 20% of the British Army infantry "unfit" for duty brought out the true colours of our two headed media pit bull; one week so eager to damn defense cuts and encourage charitable giving, the next happy to scorn battlefield errors and demand a level of morality higher than that of their own readers. But it's not that they have reported such a finding that is the insult. It's the predictable sacrifice of analysis for a sexy headline.

"Unfit" from a civilian point of view means fat and unhealthy. Not true for the military. The Army have a wonderful way of generalising terms because, no matter what the reason, if you can't go to war you can't go to war. "Not suitable" or "Unable" may be better terms but I'm sure the press room would be perfectly able to spin those as well. So before judgement can truly be passed on the Royal Pie Munching Battalion, a poor interpretation of words has already done so.

Five thousand soldiers, however, that make up the percentage is still quite a lot. Can they truly all be fatties "unable" to run up a hill or "not suitable" to lead a bayonet charge against Terry Taliban? Well no, of course not. The Armed Forces provides a stable and secure job. It's not Butlins and 241 pizza.

One in five of that 20% have been wounded in previous operations to such a degree that they cannot fight on the battle field again. We're talking lost limbs, sever burns, mental scaring - all the sexy stuff that newspapers miss out. So it's not very kind to lumber those who have served, fought and been debilitated with a word reserved for the playground fatty or your Saturday night larger lout.

Another portion includes under 18’s. Yes, that's right, the British Army doesn't send children into battle. Could we? Yes. Should we? No. Why? Well, lots of reasons but certainly not because they are lazy. In fact their are hundreds of new recruits busting a gut in their regimental gyms right now so they are physical machines for when they do inevitably go on operations.

Who else apart from amputees and children are not being shipped off to war zones? Well we have pregnant women, conscientious objectors, those on compassionate grounds (including those with young families or stressful issues), those temporarily injured, those with religious conflictions, personnel facing disciplinary action and – yes – a few who who can’t run up a hill that fast.

The Army rightfully stated that, though "unfit", these people still work in other crucial capacities. Vital roles within the clerical, medical and logistical departments – roles that unless, filled with competent and dedicated professionals, the Forces would not be able to function. No to mention roles in the UK during times of crisis, flooding, freezing and fire fighter strikes.

So why do the media fail to breakdown such a damaging figure? It's not hard, even a monkey like me has managed to do it in a few short phrases. I always take media headlines with a coma inducing amount of salt and have laughed at the past attempts to try and big up a story to greater heights of hysteria. But I wasn’t laughing today. I wasn’t laughing when amputee’s were classed not good enough. I wasn’t laughing when pregnant women were scapegoats on the electoral battlefield. And I wasn’t laughing when sixteen year old boys, currently preparing to give everything for this country were coined with a term of apathetic unprofessionalism. If this is journalism then it's barely 20% - and a lazy one at that.

Poster Protection

2010-01-11T02:31:00.000-08:00

I keep seeing more and more adverts on the London tube network highlighting their zero tolerance attitude to abuse against their members of staff. Good. That's a good thing. Last time I heard being physically abused was bad for your health and therefore a zero tolerance attitude is sensible, if not a little obvious. However, I'm a little confused as to what a poster is going to do about it?

First of all, I'm not planning on punching anyone in the face, let alone the person who decides whether I can get from A to B - no matter how power hungry the little jumped up high vis wearing jobs-worth happens to be. I don't need a poster to remind me that physical violence is wrong and consequential (seven years at an all boys school taught me that much at least). To be honest, it's pretty insulting to have a sad looking transport worker staring into your soul through their black and swelling eyes. I'm already paying £2 a second to wait for a delayed train, how bad do they want me to feel on a Monday morning?

Presumably the posters are for those who would potentially abuse a transport worker. The drunk, the angry, the vengeful and naturally violent. Everyone who, if they're willing to introduce your face to an oyster card reader, is unlikely to be dissuaded by a teary eyed poster. If anything it's surely only going to incite them.

Of course I wouldn't incite casual violence against tube workers, no matter how much worse the service gets with every price hike. That puppy is reserved for Boris. But I feel that behind these posters is a lack of responsibility and even the basic ability to be able to take the rough with the smooth.

Tube workers, on the whole, have it pretty smooth (which is more than be said for the passengers). I wouldn't want to see a worker being stripped naked and chased the length of the district line by an angry mob. But they should at least own up to the fact that their place of work is filled with stress, anxiety and emotion and that, occasionally, some of that is going to have to fall back on them. The same applied to customer call centres when the 'advisor' tell you not to shout at them. Well, I'm sorry, but I'm bloody angry and if I'm to put up with a utility service more likely to be found in a shack in Somalia then you can put up with a two minute vent about it. You represent the company, you accept their paycheque so you have to put up with the occasional ramifications when they get it wrong. You don't see soldiers in Afghanistan standing up in the middle of a firefight saying, "Don't shoot at me! It's not my fault our countries are at war. I’m only trying to help."

I think what annoys me the most about the posters though is that it adds yet another layer of comfort to a job that is already pretty bloody comfortable. A train driver is paid more than a nurse and think of all the abuse and violence they have to put up with on a daily basis. The other week I had to intervene when a paramedic was being harassed by a group of drunken men when he tried to hook their friend up to a stomach pump - potentially saving his life. If I were in his shoes I would have let the bugger go. "Fine, I don't fancy being thrown up on anymore tonight. Here you go, you take him and explain to his Mum why he's dead." I was enraged when the transport union announced strike action on the same day as 1,600 people lost their jobs at C&G. Never mind being able to take it on the chin once in the while, where's the basic dignity in a move like that.

Last week Steve Hilton, director of strategy for the Conservatives, was arrested at a train station during an argument with a conductor. Mr Hilton had a valid ticket but had "failed to show it in time". If I was going to be fined because of the lack of light speed reactions when carrying luggage whilst squeezing through a barrier with despite having all the necessary paper work I would be pretty incensed too. I can’t imagine the train conductor was any more helpful or any less slippery than the German Gustapo agent in the ‘Great Escape’. “Iv you are to pas zee barrier vivout a penalty Mista Hilton yoo mast produs zee tikit in no less dan too secondz. Good Luck!” Ok, so his bubble wrapped job of routine and standard operations had been knocked out of sync by this time infraction but was the best way to resolve the ensuing argument to call the Police? What happened to rolling with the punches in calmly resolving a stressful situation.

And that's where the problem lies. To be confronted, to have to deal with issues out of your comfort zone is what it's like to be human. The short term pain produces a long term benefit. This is a good thing. Because one day you're going to find yourself in a position of confrontation - whether that's being shouted at, doing a bungee jump or having one of those 'chats' with your other half - and believe me, you're going to wish you'd spent more time manning up and less time hiding behind a poster.

I'm going outside now, I may need the frying pan..

2010-01-10T02:55:00.000-08:00

It was good to see that amongst the canned food, bin lids and bottled water that made up Britain's panic buying shopping list were condoms. Yes, it may be cold and I can't get to work but, damn it, if we're going to be snowed in by the insurmountable six inches of snow outside then we might as well enjoy ourselves. This is the sort of plucky British attitude I like to see in times of not much crisis.

Unfortunately that's about it. As our tiny island is covered in a flouring of what is, essentially, slightly colder rain we have once again lost our heads and decided that we're all doomed to a Scott like end. Whatever happened to British steel went with the industry and our character like grit is as unfounded as our council supplies. I may be going a bit over the top with the snow like metaphors but it really does seem we are as wet, miserable and annoying as the sludge that covers our B roads. God, don't tell the Americans we're not as hard as they think we are!

Well, actually they probably know. The photo above was taken by a NASA satellite since presumably ours wouldn't start that morning. We have become a terrified nation sent into a spin at the mere mention of an incident outside of routine. The last petrol shortage had cars queuing for miles (leaving their engines running I might ad) and local residents tending to the pumps with empty milk bottles. There was no shortage. There was plenty of oil. We had warehouses full of the stuff. But word had gotten out, the thought was infested in peoples mind and we wouldn't rest until the forecourts were empty and we had, rather impressively, created our own shortage. It's a domino effect that isn't even specifically saved for emergencies. A few years ago Jamie Oliver stated a specific type of herb to use in a recipe. Fans of the show went and bought far too much, stocks got low, one newspaper mentioned it and before you could say "surely tarragon will do?" you couldn't find it for love nor money.

I have no doubt that this attitude has gotten us out of some tight situations. You'll notice the distinct lack of old railings in London. Well, when it was mentioned that we needed more metal during WWII we didn't just take what we needed, we took the whole lot.

It is humorous, if not a little tragic, how we scare ourselves. We are a nation that is hounded by terrorism and yet we reserve the 'let's-all-shit-ourselves' rights to more homegrown troubles. When the weather man advices us to wear a scarf we'll go and buy our body weight in carrots. But someone in an 'I love Jihad' t shirt drives a flaming car into Glasgow airport and we're far more likely to punch him the face before calling an ambulance. It's the small stuff that gets us.

Yesterday it had been snowing pretty hard and the house was freezing. In fact the kitchen was colder than the garden. Therefore, with an old bag of charcoal and a few make shift snowboards we had a fantastic winter BBQ on the street. Hot food straight off the grill and some snow sports on the side it was the perfect setting for what could have been a miserable night.

So please, if you're reading this, enjoy the snow. I applaud those who go sledging on frying pans and make man size snow penises. Well done to the hundreds of people who attended a giant snowball fight this afternoon in the park. Congratulations to the man who made his own snow plow out of a shelf. This is the ingenuity and unashamedly British attitude that the world expects from us. Calm and conformed when trouble strikes but eccentric and absurd when everything is actually fine. Enjoy it now because you'll be back at your desk before you know it.

Blood, Sweat and Sterling

2010-01-03T15:30:00.000-08:00

Being in a University sport team ensures you are instantly recognisable across campus, chiefly because chances are you're wearing a part of your kit list at all times. Students bustle through the corridors and walkways with their various acronyms, crests and initials. Shoulders, legs, arms and chests are all branded upon custom made hoody/rugby/polo/tshirt/jumper impailing the bearer to whatever demographic they belong to. "Oh," you realise. "That's why he's acting like such a dick." The rowing team are not innocent in this, in fact we could be one of the biggest offenders. As other teams customise University stockwear we parade around in our own splash jackets - lightweight, waterproof, high collar tops specifically designed for rowing. And since we're the only club with these garish garments we don't even have the need for acronyms. A bright white stitched in "LEEDS" across the back is our brand of choice.

However, being recognised is not recognition and all garments of this nature must be earnt. If you don't have thighs the size of your waist and a permanent hut in the weights room then you shouldn't be wearing a Rugby Union top. If you don't have UGG boots, an all weather mini skirt and chemically bleached hair then you can't be part of Leeds Cheer. If you're not consistently trying to shove a vegetable up your - or a team mates - orifice then your clearly unqualified for Mens Hockey. And if you aren't prepared to half kill yourself twice a day for the sake of a tenth of a second then what on earth are you doing in one of our splash jackets?

I've always felt that rowers lie somewhere between masochists and perfectionists. The love child of Max Mosely and Gordon Ramsey would probably make GB. The sheer amount of pain that rowing puts the body through is unbridled in all sports, except maybe nettle eating or that one where you crack coconuts open with your face. Dedication is high with training, usually involving sitting in the rain or ignoring the dagger like feeling in your legs (but usually both), taking place at least daily. The public opinion of rowers is usually committed, extremely fit and certainly mad - a perception built upon by the ever increasing number of rowers being knighted. Matthew Pinsent (there's one) once said, "I never feel the pain in my arms, back, chest or legs. It's always distracted by the pain in your throat, physically burnt by the sheer amount of air you're breathing in." Sometimes I feel it would be easier to just set myself on fire three times a week.

This is not to say that we are invincible. You always have some sort of ache inflicted from hours on the ergs (thats rowing machines for normal people) or finding yourself unable to walk properly from repetitively lifting (essentially) big blocks of metal in the gyn. We spend a lot of time sweating outside in the rain on a river in winter; an environment guaranteed to harvest colds and flus for months at a time. Come to think of it I spend a lot of time feeling awful and looking worse. At the end of an hour long erg I sound like a puppy being kicked to death with a clog. At our Christmas ball I was genuinely stunned by the number of good looking women we have in our club, the months of circuit training and sports kit making me assume the club was atheistically challenged.

Rowing is surprisingly expensive. I spend a fortune on the food that my body now demands. The shakes, the gym passes, the memberships, the transport, the kit. It all adds up to shocking amounts. Our famous British rowers, the ones we place upon sporting pedestals, have looked bankruptcy in the face at one point or another. Craig Pickering, Teams GB's 100m athlete said, "If I was a footballer at this level I'd be on 100k a week, but thats not why I do it." My team mates and I are not at these levels of dedication but we've all made sacrifices financially.

But what is it all for? I shan't deny that every now and again my mind screams, "What the fuck are you doing!?". Usually when you're pushing hard with another 6km to go and your vision starts to blur. Or when you can't use shampoo because the open soars on your hands haven't had a day to heal. Or when your legs feel like the bones have turned to dust as you lift your body weight again and again and again and again. The reasons are the same for any of the University teams. You love it. You may not like the process but walking away from a good session, achieving your goals and pushing your limits always outweighs the effort. That public recognition plays it part as living up to those expectations and stereotypes is a monumental feeling. From the sideways glances when you're creaming everyone else in the gym from the tourists taking photos from the bridges in York - it's an ego trip.

But for me I do it just because I can. Because as I train I improve and I enjoy the feeling. It's basic, almost animalistic. You work hard on something - really hard - and you get the result. I imagine it's how cavemen felt after trying to work out fire for millennia. It's simple but effective. When you get that tenth of a second, when you make that perfect pass, when you get it just right, when you're on form and working well. That's why we all do it. And maybe that's why we stride through campus, showing the colours and wearing our badges with pride.

TASP Christmas Message 2009

2009-12-25T04:05:00.001-08:00

This year Christmas was announced to me while in the gym via a crackling speaker system in the form of a DFS advert. Yes, the half price happy sofa dealers were all too keen to remind me to merry with another one of their deals and, in case I didn't realise it was a "festive" deal, decided to throw in some sleigh bells and Mariah Carey just to ring it home. I could have screamed. Once again Christmas had come - in October.

I should be getting used to this. Only when we lived in the deep Shropshire countryside did Christmas begin in December unforced by the bandwagon of commercial gain and potential sales. I genuinely feel sorry for Halloween and Bonfire Night. Christmas comes so early they are but brief intervals in avalanche of decorative tat, only momentarily replacing the plastic snowflakes taped to the asbestos ceiling.

The premature arrival of Christmas is only matched in its absurdity by the lack of acknowledgment for the actual day. The 25th of December is the adopted day of the Christian church when they celebrate the birth of Christ (see, it's all in the names). This is a big thing for them and deservedly so. The anniversary of when their god - God! - came to earth as a human being to tell us all that, despite how rubbish we were, he still thought we were worth keeping and just to prove it would let us kill him in the most brutal way we could think of. It is the very beginning of the Christian Faith. Yet I have barely seen a single nativity display. I've hardly heard anyone even mention the word Jesus. Do you know the sort of look you get in Hallmarks when you ask for a Christmas card with Jesus on it? No chance. I don't want to say that Christmas has been hijacked but the commercial industry has certainly made their mark where people now look forward more to boxing day sales than to rekindling their faith.

Of course it's unfair to assume that the winter period should remain solely for Christians (a thought they certainly don't demand). These winter months are arduous and hard. The nights become longer and the days get colder. Animals hide away and we barricade ourselves against these desolate months. And yet we have made this time possibly the most happiest of our year. We shun the darkness by lighting our homes. We embrace nature by decorating trees. We feast together in the months of famine. And we share and we give when we have very little. The winter months, though they may be dark and cold, bring out our own warmth and generosity.

The covering of Christmas and its Christian origins is a sad fact of a commercial country more in touch with the latest iPod accessories than they are with their faith. But the characteristics that we show in these most dismal of months are still something to behold, and surprisingly Christian. Generosity, selflessness and charity. Brotherhood and togetherness. Thinking of our families, and friends and particularly those who have none. For a period that has become so divorced from its very existence it still holds the fundamentals and values of that beginning. And isn't that something worth celebrating.

Merry Christmas.

On this day please take a moment to think our our serving Armed Forces spending Christmas away from their families and loved ones to fight on foreign soil for our peace and security. And particularly to those killed this year and their families left behind.

Take a Seat, They Earned It

2009-12-24T12:58:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I saw the Strictly Come Dancing final and – hang on – Yesterday I was showing my mother how to record the Strictly Come Dancing final on her new TV when I noticed this strange obsession that is sweeping through television crowds. Standing Ovations.

Whether it’s “Britain’s got the Chlamydia” or “Chavs on Ice” whenever any contestant manages to perform even the most basic of what is asked the audience seem to obtain numb behinds. Most of the acts on “Britain’s got Talent” wouldn’t persuade me to rise in my own living room let alone in front of thousands of people. They would all see, surely? In fact, the only way they could bring me to stand was if I was leaving.

There is a misunderstanding as to what the standing ovation actually means. The idea that a show is so good, a performance so great that you literally can’t stay in one place. A moment that moves you to such an extent that you can’t contain yourself. A moment of such magnitude that breaks all expectations and has you racked with enthusiasm. The moment a performer manages to smash the boundaries of simple showmanship. The moment your my favourite team come inches from victory. You're on your feet because it’s all you can do. If you could fly, sing, breathe fire you would do all that too could because you're so completely caught up in the moment. That is a standing ovation.

Being surprised that the acne plagued, lager guzzling, tracksuit bulging moron can actually hold a reasonable chord is not one of these moments. That is a moment to wonder about any possible refund on your ticket.

Have we become so expectant of failure that we are roused to our feet the instant someone from a council estate shows the slightest ounce of talent. Are we so amazed that an ageing sportsmen or children’s TV presenter can co-ordinate their own limbs. I find it all rather sad.

This country is not starved of things to stand for. Our little island is riddled with world champion sport stars, inspiring events of passion, renowned performances of emotion. In Tate Britain right now there is a painting by Rembrandt that moved people so that they removed their hats in reverence. That is the sign of something worth standing for.

That's something worth remembering the next time someone from Big Brother 284 is prancing around your television screen in a bid to rekindle a less than blustering career. Is it really worth your attention, let alone your uncompromised praise? Has it left you feeling like a freight train is racing through your heart? That if you don’t stand you’re going to explode? Have you got tears in your eyes? No. Then take a seat – they earned it.

Sporting Greatness; just not in our eyes

2009-12-14T03:51:00.000-08:00

Last night Ryan Giggs managed to beat six World Champions to be crowned Sports Personality of the Year. Piking Up the Youth Award was Tom Daley who became World Champion at the 10m dive at the tender age of only fifteen. Another young star was Jessica Ennis who overcame a potentially career ending ankle injury to become World Champion at the Heptathlon but only third in last nights show. In second place was Jenson Button who despite not having a team or a car to race for twelve months ago, ended his season as another Champion of the World.

I wouldn't say that Ryan Giggs is not undeserving of an accolade as what he has achieved this year alone is admirable. At the age of 36 he won a record 11th Premier League medal, made his 800th appearance for Manchester United and scored his 150th goal. For this he won the Professional Footballers' Association Player of the Year Award and Wales Sports Personality of the Year. The Welshman is now Englands most decorated football player.

And yet when I look at the result from last night I feel that the recognition in sport is somehow misplaced in Britain and our undying obsession with the game is clouding our other more notable achievements. Giggs said he was "shocked" and I understand why. This was a public vote and I cant help but feel that when it came to voting there were more ManU supporters willing to part with 15p than other sports fans congratulating their heros.

Last year a friend of mine lost his arm in an accident which he admits was entirely his fault. With his Army career over I asked him what he was planning to do (figuring that learning how to write again and tying your laces single handedly would be enough for now). "I was thinking about going for the Paralympics Team. I'm pretty quick over 800m." My surprise was only counted by my self loathing when I nearly burst out laughing.

In the 2008 Beijing Paralympic Games Britain game second in the medal table. Can we just have a moment and take that in please. Our little island with its mere sixty million people beat every single nation on the planet apart from China in the Paralympics. That may be a testament to our country's sport funding and disability support but to be honest the real testimony belongs to the athletes themselves. And yet, can you remember any of their names?

There's this appalling attitude amongst some that suggests that those taking part in the Games are 'giving it a go'. What a horrible thought. These men and women are dedicated athletes that put in the time and effort as much as their Summer Olympic counterparts do, the only difference being is they have a disability to conquer as well. All credit to my friend as he is extremely fit and one of the toughest blokes I know, but as he cradles his pint and nips out for a cigarette I don't think he quite understands that Paralympians are nothing short of professionals.

Giles Long is one of the most successful Paralympic swimmers in history. He was won a total of 20 international medals for Britain including World Champion Gold, four European Champion Golds and three Paralympic Golds. Kelly Holmes was knighted for winning two golds and now swans around Kellogg adverts demanding everyone calls her 'Dame'. Giles Long won three and was given an MBE. I hope the people at the Honors List have some pretty poor maths to excuse themselves otherwise the only explanation is that they feel Paralympians aren't as deserving of their achievements.

When it comes to women's sports the distinction is even clearer. Last night we also saw the Men's England Cricket Team outdo the Women's in a bid for team of the year despite the girls winning every cricket trophy, cup and campaign possible. England's women's football team got to the world cup final when the mens team struggle to qualify for the most basic of European competitions. The Female Rugby Union Team won the six nations; anyone notice? It could be said this is a media issue and that if we were better informed then we could show our support but I find this unlikely.

Britain is one of the best cycling teams in the world and yet we barely know the name of the events. Mark Cavendish won six stages of the Tour de France this year earning him an SP nomination. Yet where is our passion for this sport being placed? When Britain cleared up at this years World Championships I couldn't find a single article in the newspaper. Have we become too good at it? Have we lost that feeling of a winning under dog? We hailed our Olympic team for a day or so but failed to raise the roof when the Paralympic team did even better. What division two football game were we watching instead I wonder?

All too often I find the public adoring foreign players, clinging on to shameful shows and increasingly ignoring other much more impressive and inspiring sporting achievements. I leave you with this. 'Para' in Paralympics doesn't stand for paraplegic. It stands for parallel. The Olympic community consider the two games at different times, not standards. Why don't we?

University Politics: too inane to care, too insane to not...

2009-11-27T04:32:00.000-08:00

I was once told that in Australia the most popular time to go on holiday abroad doesn't fall over the school holidays, international sporting events or winter months (of which there aren't any). No, trends show that in fact it is when a general election is looming that all the Aussies decide to go on tour. This is bizarre to me. The most competitive population in the world decide to flee the shores on the eve of the biggest political events it can hold? That can't be right. They'll miss out on the critical debates, the timely guffs, the endless canvassing across 300miles of scrub land. Maybe it's because an Australian is guaranteed to win and therefore the sporting rush just isn't there. Or maybe it's because Australia is one of the few countries on this planet that have compulsory voting.

I have just voted in our University Union elections for the last time. In my four year career at University I haven't missed one and, in fact, became most impassioned about blocking a motion during a year away from campus. However, my unmoving participation does not come from a sense of civic duty or even to bring about change within the institution. The sad fact is that the easiest way to get passed the tide of activists clogging the entrance is to curtly state "I've already voted."

Apart from that there is no real incentive to get overly involved in the elections. The majority of motions are submerged under a thick layer of self riotousness, political indulgence and vegan diets. I thought Uni politics was a time when you can put forward some looney ideas, attempt to get one over the establishment and generally make the Union a much more student orientated place to be. Instead we're harassed by dreadlocked media students putting pushing a referendum that is as dull as it is futile. For instance, "This Union does not support the Iraq War" was meant to achieve. Were the powers at be about to turn take their fingers off the button, cancel the invasion and starve Britain of oil for the next decade because 941 students in Yorkshire signed 'no' on their way to buying a £1 sandwich? I highly doubt it.

Other motions lacking infliction included asking the University to stop doing research for Britain arms manufacturers, a petition almost certain to hit the bin on arrival unless it came with a £24million pound cheque to cover the cost. Another motion demanded not to close a Halls of Residence because it was "awesome" but failed to notice it was structurally unsound never mind that anyone who did vote would never even live there.

If the motions aren't futile in their achievements they are cringing in their complexities, put forward by the over zealous minority who assume everyone will be as emotionally attached and fully educated on the subject as they are. This is where the Israel Palestine debate usually rears its flag waving, megaphone blaring, ultimately pointless head. The overly infused banned together in their minority, the unsure abstain through racial tension and everyone else wouldn't even know what was happening.

And just when you thought it was safe to go back into the polling station the most demoralising of all arguments comes in with a leftist hook. Voting numbers. Leeds University Union has a population of 33,000 members. A good turnout for a motion is 1,000. If that vote wins by 60% you're talking about decisions being made by less than 5% of LUU students. That's not democratic nor is it dictorate. It's just insane. In any institution where referendums were more than a chance for the Union shops to shift a lot of card and marker pens, they would throw out the motions on the clear fact that, although those who have voted agree, the rest of the population simply don't care.

But why is it like this? We shouldn't be so numb, our voting population should be huge and the University VC should be quaking when referendum time comes around. Students are meant to be passionate, forthright and determined. Instead we look apathetic, uninspired and fickle. A few years ago a stem of real student politics appeared in "This Union should have an Abba Day" motion. I rigorously voted for it - anything to instigate the tinniest spark in such sedation. But it failed even though there was no "Against Motion". That could have been brilliant! An "Against Motion" in the form of Black Sabbath Day - bleached hair, retro outfits and heavy stereotypes battling for victory outside the Union gates.

So could compulsory voting have a place within the LUU walls? It would certainly up the voting percentages for a start and I have no doubt it would stimulate the campaigns. With a larger population motions would probably transform under the increased popularity and publicity. Maybe we would start giving a damn and with that actually put forward ideas that bring about real change? Maybe we need an tyrannical action to improve a democratic system? Maybe Australia has a point. Of course the only sad fact is you can rest assure that come voting day half of us would be in Manchester.

But worst than all than this. Worse than the futility of the votes, the lack of action, the ridiculous voting figures and the general smallness of the whole event is the tone of the motions themselves. They are so patronising it resembles park wardens banning parents from entering laygrounds with their children. Motions passing with the smallest of votes

Ambridge: Satans Layby

2009-11-23T16:39:00.000-08:00

Old Article written 2nd June 2006

For those of you in between the ages of Time team and The Chelsea Flower Show you will understand when I say God help me if I ever retire to the town of Ambridge in the Archers. For those in between the ages of The Simpson’s and Top Gear but partial to the odd PMQ - take heed.

At first glance Ambridge, the sleepy village featured in Radio 4's 'The Archers' looks to be (or hears to be) like your average fictional countryside hamlet, which is blessed with those classic local shops, cups of tea, quaint sports 'families' and the occasional dog show. Life is calm and tranquil and the common man regardless of colour or creed is treated as equal and they all muck in together when times get rough. Like when John got his tractor stuck in the hedgerow (again) or when Bert needed a new hip and the whole village held a cake fair - with apple bobbing on the side for the children - to raise the necessary amount (not that the beloved NHS couldn't sort it all out perfectly well themselves, but it is nice to help). The harvest is always good and the sun/studio lights always shine. It’s the place my generation will go to in fifty years and the place where my grandmother has been for the past fifty years. Ambridge: last stop before paradise.

Or so it may seem…

Ambridge is actually the last place on earth you would ever want to spend a recordable amount of time in. During WWII it was undoubtedly bombed by the Germans and, with the utmost respect, God damn the RAF for sparing the inhabitants. Ambridge is a terrible place once you’ve scratched beneath he surface, now riddled with Nazi explosives and Messerschmitt remains - Jees, it's built upon a burial ground from the forties. The reason everybody is treated as equal regardless of colour or creed is because they are all white, working/lower class, Christian, heterosexual, non disabled humanoids and are probably all related in some way or another. They were also all born in England if not in Ambridge itself. And as for the brochure tranquillity, Bert’s hip needs replacing because it got smashed up by a group of ‘hooded youths’ on his way back from a bridge game, Bob’s tractor isn’t just stuck in the hedgerow but he is slowly being crushed underneath the well made British Steel bulbar. This is also the tractor that took his father and his father before that. And you would be fooling yourself if you thought that was icing on the top of those ‘special’ cakes at the village fair.

I listen to the Archers on my brief excursions to the fridge yet as my mother listens I have been exposed to murder, adultery, gambling, drunken bar fights, death, divorce and enough corruption that would make Robert Mugabe blush. So many businesses have gone under in Ambridge that if it were true it would force the government to lower cooperation tax. Ambridge is the end of the line, the last stand, next stop: Baghdad International Airport. And if it did ever exist I bet it was underneath the Huntingdon facility.

But there’s a simple reason why no one has noticed. The only people who would notice such an anomaly aren’t exactly members of the Archers fan club. They are out boy racing, or working in the city or listening to non-classical music and none of them are spending their pensions yet. And for those who are regular listeners feel at home there. It’s a slow moving place (even when someone is getting affixiated by their John Deer) and the relaxing pace is calming to their grey haired minds. Archers listeners still have Viacom video players, think Blackburn Rovers could win the UEFA cup and would have the “da da da da da da daaa” ring tone if they knew how to work the mobile phone their grandson gave them for Christmas.

Parallels over 350km of space

2009-11-23T02:38:00.000-08:00

Last night I was taking part in a small hobby which, out of all sense and purposes, is keeping an eye on the International Space Station. Trust me, my spying on mankind's largest orbiting object is nothing scientific or investigative or even useful. You couldn't even call it exploratory since I don't need to get up let alone go outside. The sad fact is (and it is sad) I have an app on my phone that does it all for me.

Before you groan and click away I would just like to point out how fascinating this is. On my phone I can access a program and with a few clicks see instantly on a map exactly where the International Space Station (ISS) is hovering in real time. The little ISS icon even moves across the screen respectively. That is amazing isn't it? In fact that sort of technology, which has come around faster than anyone ever predicted, is almost as staggering as the ISS itself.

This occasional browsing is nowhere near as boring as it sounds either due to the numbers involved in the ISS's orbit. Right now it has just skimmed past Papa New Guinea at 17,000mph. Just try and take that figure in. Seventeen Thousand miles per hour. I'm struggling to find anything terrestrial to put that into perspective as the fastest things we have down here is the unmanned X43 that NASA claimed reached a measly seven thousand miles per hour. Pah! I hear you cry. And it has to be launched from the undercarriage of a B52 bomber. It's more of a missile than a plane.

Last night, while the kettle boiled, I thought I would see where the ISS was currently. Such is the make up of our planet that usually it is above an ocean or sea at any one time, buried in the middle of the Pacific somewhere. However, this time it was just passing over the Congo. By the time I had zoomed in to get a precise location it had entered Angola and by the time I had caught up with its path it was just hovering over the small town of Saimbuanda.

It then struck me that at that exact moment in time this sleepy African town of Saimbuanda, the men just home from work, the stoves all gently lighting up to prepare the evening meals while the dogs grew sleepy on the side of the dirt roads just as the call of crickets and song birds began to fill the air. All the while 350km above them was silently gliding a spaceship and its crew, both from a culture so foreign to the people of Saimbuanda that they might as well be alien.

It is with no doubt in my mind that at that moment both the people of Saimbuanda and the crew of the International Space Station had no idea each other existed. Both when observed from their counterparts would have been swallowed up in the respective worlds, the space crew another dot in the vast blanket of star filled space, the Angolans an unlit cluster buried within the features of earth.

However, at that moment each place would have also shared many parallels of life. Both would have been going about their business, maybe even eating at the same time. I have no doubt that both would have had a Coca Cola nearby such is the nature of the corporate beast. They would be surrounded by their few treasured possessions and they would have their bed to sleep in where they would dream their dreams. It makes me smile to think that both would have ants as neighbours but for entirely different reasons. While the crew of the ISS may be missing family members the Saimbuandan's may have just been reuniting with their loved ones at the end of the day.

In the few minutes I had spent indulging in these presumptions the ISS had continued on its voyage over the south of that vast continent and into the Indian Ocean. So too had the people of Saimbuanda continued on with their evenings both none the wiser of each others movements at that time. I find it truly extraordinary that in that blip, that little moment, both people lived on the same line of space and shared so much in common and difference for such a brief amount of time. If that's not something to experience on your phone then I don't know what is.

Tearing Me Apart - Single Launch

2009-11-21T16:03:00.000-08:00

When I went to school in Highgate there were all manner of pubs and bars. To the villages credit nearly all have remained as they were when I joined in 1998 and in fact it's rumoured that Highgate has the highest density of pubs per square mile than anywhere else in England. Such was the number that the route of the infamous 'Highgate Ten' pubcrawl purposely left the boundary of Highgate itself to add a bit of distance to the route. Along this route was a bar called the Boogaloo. A small, single level bar the Boogaloo stood out from other Highgate venues not only for its name but for its eclectic artwork, lack of beer garden and the fact it had a stage. And it was on this stage that an unknown band played regularly to a free crowd slowly developing, tweaking and crafting their music until before you knew it they were scooped up by a management company and thrown into world wide superstardom. For years, just down the road from my school were being held almost weekly gigs by Coldplay.

Tonight, I have just returned from a gig that I was desperate to go to despite the fact this is only my first day out of the house having been bed ridden for the best part of the week with flu - possibly of the swine variety. However, with a head full of tamiflu and a stomach full of ibruprofen I wrapped up warm and headed to the two hundred venue down the road aptly named The Library. You can imagine the phone conversations now. "Son, where are you?", "I'm in The Library Dad", "Ah! Good boy, working hard I gather." Actually that would never happen as the reception is terrible and even if a call did connect why on earth would you pick up? Anyway...

I live with the guitarist of band called The Phoenix Fall who, quite recently, have really started to make a sound in Leeds. I've known Ben for nearly four years now and it seems much longer when I first saw him play play with the band in the upstairs of some dodgy pub on the edge of 'student Leeds' next to an industrial estate. Since then I've come to know the rest of the band and have in fact been their very own graphic designer over the last year designing their covers, merchandise material and even a music video here and there.

Tonights gig, their second single launch for "Tearing Me Apart", confirmed for me how much this band have truly developed. It was a long time ago that they played to a static crowd their tinny indie rock under the bare bulbs of a pub gig. Everyone in those rooms were friends yet none were overly interested and as we stood and listened we shifted our weight across legs more to keep the blood flowing than anything else.

I'm starting now, however, to get the feeling they could be going the same way that small band at the Boogaloo went and tonight certainly went someway in proving that. The gig was superbly created ducking in and out of songs, meddling the favourites and getting people off their feet. Everyone in the sold out venue was loving the music and demonstrating it with their voices and bodies. At one point Lewis' bass stopped working, another time Ollie's guitar completely cut out but they rolled with the punches got the crowd involved and absolutely everyone there had a fantastic time.

At the back of the stage they had projected the artwork we had made for the single cover and it helped show how they had also developed in character and style. In the depths of YouTube is a video of their frontman Ollie back in that dreary pub looking more at Ben than the crowd as if he's unsure he's on the right song. Now he lives up to his title and owns the room that he gives his singing soul to. The whole band fit so much better now and it's truly wonderful to see them play at this pivotal point in their career. This transformation hasn't just come through time but unmeasurable effort, patience and self assessment.

The single is out on Monday (on iTunes and Amazon UK) and I implore everyone to purchase it. There is also the option of 'The Bundle' where you can listen to other alternatives and a B Side single called Hold Back the Tears. That track I first heard them play in a venue I still frequent called Carpe Diem at another gig dotted along their growing path. The first time I heard it I was nearly brought to tears (granted that I was very drunk at the time). However, tonight, even through medically induced sobriety and the fact a ripped copy sits in my iTunes 'most played' lists my arms couldn't help but goosebump and the hairs on my neck to mirror the arms and feelings of the crowd.

The Phoenix Fall. Remember them now, listen to them sooner.

(This article has been published without being re read. This is because I am trying to improve my writing and thus am doing a few of these exercises to get an idea of how I write off the cuff. Sorry if it's therefore a load of illegible crap!)

Leeds Student Newspaper

2009-11-04T05:32:00.001-08:00

I haven't been able to write on this blog for ages. The black hole of University work, societies, sports and activities has swallowed up all my time and now even the relaxed ponderings that I used to partake in seem oh so long ago. It was therefore with a sense of relief, excitement and gusto that I answered the call from our University Newspaper to write a debate article. Therefore, a tad rusty (and a little drunk) I wrote my thoughts and sent it off.

--

Should LUU students partake in the two minutes silence on Remembrance Day?

As I write this the body of Corporal James Oakland is being flown back to Britain after he was killed on operations in Afghanistan. Cpl Oakland of the Royal Military Police was 26 when he departed this safe haven of ours to take on the daily role of defusing landmines and improvised explosive devices’. These are the same devices responsible for 80% of British deaths and countless Afghani lives and limbs. His name, picture and stories of everyday family life will flicker across our media screens until by the end of the week he is eternally placed amongst the statistics of war.

I understand why it is hard for our generation to appreciate the importance of standing in silent remembrance. The World Wars for us is dislocated history difficult to relate to while our contempory wars are not only far away but charged with intense politics. It could be said that we don’t feel the impact of war so readily as we did back in the forties when there was the constant reminder of roaring spitfires and the fiery hell of blitzkrieg. Today, the impact of our active Armed Forces falls amongst the common and forgettable. Things like riding a train, going to a concert or filling up your car. We are vigilant towards terrorism rather than hounded by it. We live in comfort and security and we are free therefore to worry about inflation rather than car bombs outside our favourite nightclub.

Our media with its lust for glamour and gossip doesn’t give time to the men and women who have given everything for other people. We rarely even hear of their accomplishments. James Oakland had defused over sixty four explosives that could have killed anyone who happened to stumble upon them. The work he did directly saved lives in that region, of that there can be no debate.

It’s important to remember that the minutes silence is not a celebration of war but a commemoration for its casualties both military and civilian. Wars may be unpopular but we shouldn’t let overarching politics conceal the true message of Remembrance Day. The minutes silence is a time when us as a people can come together and absorb our thoughts in the memory of those who have both lost and given their lives. Buying a poppy, supporting the events and taking part in the silence does in no way justify war. You will be taking part in a fitting and admirable moment in the year. There is no exlcusivness, no prerequisites, no membership, no room for small mindedness, division or segregation. There is just the humble act of Remembrance.

The simple fact is that students should want to stand in silent remembrance for the same reason that the rest of the world does - because we bask in the reward of sacrifice.

At Leeds we know what a precious commodity freedom of speech and choice are, which is why we work so hard to protect them as well as use them responsibly for good. But we forget that these freedoms aren’t free at all. They’ve been paid for – heavily. Since the end of World War II over 17,000 British military personnel have sacrificed their lives - for us. Men and women have volunteered, stepped up and paid the ultimate price - for us. They have left behind their families, wives, husbands and children so we can live in peace. It is thanks to them that we can ride the bus, meet with friends, vote for our government, enjoy a free press, religious freedom, choice, representation and debate in public. It’s everything, everyday, all the time. The silence is not a morbid affair. It’s a poignant moment we can all be proud to be part of. And I hope that I will be surrounded by my fellow students on Wednesday outside the Union for a few minutes at 11 o’clock.

I’ve just finished this article and turned on the television. Five more British soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan.

--

Thank you to my editor Katie Beverley!

RATIONAL

2009-10-08T16:08:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I hand in my blog for marking along with this rational on what I have done, achieved and learnt from the experience. The first thing that I should say is that I have loved doing this blog project and that writing this rational is almost like closing the lid on some big adventure. That may sound pretty corny but this project has spanned three months, taken up over twenty five thousand words and has been the most sustained activity I have done all summer. When I was travelling I became increasingly frustrated at my inability to post topics to the point where I filled a hand written journal on the most banal observations that will make no sense in years to come. But what has it amounted to?

As I said in my self-assessment a few weeks back I am staggered by how much I have enjoyed writing. For someone who can’t spell it has been great fun to be able to sit down and work on my literary skills. I found myself in August changing my facebook activities box to even include “writing”. I honestly hope I keep up this newfound hobby in some sort of capacity in the future.

The great thing about writing is that it gives you time to really think about what you are saying. Your words are also being recorded so your opinion, statements and accusations need to be spot on. But more than this writing gives room for self discussion and debate. Often I would read back what I had written and see another aspect of the topic. You act as your own devils advocate allowing you to dissect your subject extremely deeply. This has been very interesting to do regularly.

I have found that the blog has also made me much more aware of my surroundings. It has become a running joke amongst my mates for me to say “I could write a blog about that” every time something catches my eye. But seriously it is interesting to see what you would consider blog worthy while other things stay in the pile. I was desperate to write an article on Hunter S Thompson but for some reason this never occured. Maybe this is because the things that I find fascinating are a constant in my life whereas the temporary nature of the more sporadic topics makes them a greater priority. I do know that there is a list, however, as long as my arm on things I never got to investigate, publish and share.

Blogging has certainly improved my observation of the world around me. Everything is a potential subject, topic, post or discussion. I like to think of myself as knowledgeable and blogging has certainly improved on that greatly. I have been amazed by the variety of subjects that could justify going into a design blog. Some of my favourite discussions have been on politics, sociology and cultural diversity and in witnessing this variety I have reaffirmed my belief that design and communication is a cornerstone of civilisation.

The things I have decided to talk about have surprised me somewhat. Looking down the index there are some strange entries that I never thought I would be bothered to share with people. This made me realise that, in many ways, blogging is a very selfish activity. You’re not really writing to that galaxy of Internet users. You’re simply pondering to yourself while people in China and Thameshouse eavesdrop. I’ve been very keen to really dig deep in my articles making sure they are comprehensive and have some substance to them. This has consequently disqualified the random things I stumble upon day to day.

I have, to the increasing frustration of my peers, really enjoyed commenting on other people’s work. Give enough graphic designers the time to observe their daily lives and there’s no end to what they’ll talk about. There have been some amazing articles on every topic possible. On more than one occasion I found myself pipped to the post on current affairs or shared passions. However, through this they displayed other perspectives that I was previously blind to. This has been a real eye opener at times and has helped me to explore topics more thoroughly.

I myself have also loved to have comments made on my blog. It’s fine for me to ramble on about topics that I find interesting but it’s much more divulging for friends, family and randomer’s to get involved and give feedback. Whether it has been on my writing, on the topic or their own opinion it has been a further tool to use in exploring my inspiration. I particularly enjoyed comments from people conflicting with my own opinion and opening up the debate on some pretty hot issues.

Has this blog aided my thoughts on my final project? Absolutely. Looking back at my articles there are distinct patterns that I have inadvertently created. My blog is not just a random collection of whatever ‘stumble upon toolbar’ spits out at me. I’ve taken pride in focusing my articles on things that really matter to me. This has aided me greatly. Certain topics include Britain, justice, literature and comparison. A particular post entitled “Taking the Peace” really spoke to me too. It was initially just going to be a rant about the messy tents outside the Houses of Parliament but it developed into so much more. The idea of Parliament Square being a wasted space in the heart of London has become something I’m impassioned about with a potential redesign becoming my main Final Project concept.

When it comes to my dissertation I already knew I was doing it on war journalism. However, seeing this blog has reaffirmed my choice, as I know I am interested in and passionate about our Armed Forces. But of course, it’s been just as valuable to see what I don’t talk about as well. Advertising has barely made a mark and marketing is non existent. I have lost interest in these areas since my year in industry, happier to comment on other people’s findings and articles than dig around looking for my own.

Overall this has been the best project I have undertaken in University. Not only because it has been fun and enjoyable but because I personally have gained so much from it. A new interest, better awareness, design insight, detailed communication techniques and enough topics of conversation to last me the academic year.

My Library

2009-10-06T09:15:00.000-07:00

Since Literature has been such a large subject in this book I thought it would be worthwhile analysing my own library in my student home. Now I'm no book worm and I certainly am not a writer but I believe that even the smallest amount of reading can bring big positive loveliness upon people. Also, even though there are mere days before the hand in, it would be really interesting if other bloggers investigated their shelves. We could draw from each other and see where possible similarities lie. But until then, I divulge from the top.

Hunter S Thompson - I'm a big Hunter fan finding his writing a fascinating whirlwind of thought and conscious. A political, economical, topical and comical genius the man was an enigma in the literary world. I'd recommend anyone reads Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and just falls into the surreal wonders that is this great authors mind.

In Search of Schrodinger's Cat - a book on quantum mechanics and astro physics for the person who can barely spell them. I've actually only scratched the surface of this book but for anyone who is even remotely interested in space, time and everything in between, this is definitely worth the mind blowing headache it induces!

Six Degrees by Mark Lynas- the world is coming to an end so I better get clued up on why. I actually got this book because I was impressed by the sheer amount of reading that has gone into creating it (literally thousands of major journals and reports). Reviewed as one of the best books to read off the high street if you want to find out when you'll drown.

Blair Unbound by Anthony Sledon - one of the best, fair and uncompromising accounts of our past Prime Minister. The sequel to the previous 'Blair' this portrayal focuses more on the growth of Tony Blair and his rise to be a world leader through the highs and lows. With over 2 million words of transcribed interviews and help from Peter Snowdon and Daniel Collingwood, Blair Unbound is unique in its detail and result.

American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis - undoubtedly one of the best books I have ever read. Twisted and uncompromising in a emotionally barren portrayal of the materialistic yuppie culture of New York. Surprisingly lovable before becoming despairingly stomach churning - I would recommend this book to anyone simply for the experience.

Amazing Tales by Neil Oliver - a great collection of tales depicting the best in British character throughout the ages. Focusing on the story of Scott of the Antarctic the book does become somewhat of a "How to die like a man" guide but generally a great read with some truly inspiring stories of courage, determination and pride.

The Time Travellers Wife by Audrey Niffenegger - currently halfway through but it's making it onto the list because it is so fantastic already. The mere concept is mind blowing let alone the beauty of the writing and the unfolding of the story. A book that has opened my mind to a whole new genre of reading I thought I would never go near.

Last Orders.. or so they say!

2009-10-05T04:20:00.000-07:00

The first calls for a ban on alcohol advertising have been made and it seems the battlefield of morality has been set. As the Armies mass and the debates are staged it is uncertain who will win. The doctors want our health, livers and freedom while the breweries want our choice, opinions and cash. Heads will roll and wine will be spilt as turnover, public influence and a firm moral footing is held high for the victor. Let battle commence!

Personally, I'm amazed it's taken so long. The assault on enjoyment that is rifling through our country has happened with staggering speed. First the smoking ban, then the age limit, then new legislation on alcohol consumption, moaning about binge drinking and general health and safety lurking behind every corner. The taxes kept rising and the exposure kept falling until 1984 seemed just a hurried parliamentary adjustment away. Don't get me wrong, I love the smoking ban and am glad to see it the age limit rise to 18. But this ludicrous assault on advertising is a self righteous rant too far. I think a ban on the government using my "well being and safety" as an excuse to strip my rights should be enforced - but let's not go down that route here.

One of the main arguments for banning alcohol advertising is that it encourages binge drinking. This is completely false. Advertising encourages brand loyalty and promotes a certain lifestyle choice but it doesn't promote over indulgence. For one thing there is strict laws and regulations already in place to stop brands using unsuitable material including the underage and the overly erotic (and definitely not the two at the same time). But I can't imagine Stella selling many cans if they did promote binge drinking. "Stella Artois; drink ten of us and get four back FREE!". Below is one of my favorite adverts of all time. At no point does it encourage binge drinking or the lewd behavior everyone is being blamed for. It creates an atmosphere and an emotion that the brand associates itself with. The message is simple and, frankly, very positive. I've seen Children's Television that was more threatening to the public.

I once stopped a man outside the Royal Courts of Justice who was demanding a ban on actors smoking on TV because it encourages people to smoke. That's like banning car chases because it encourages people to break the speed limit. Imagine the dressing down Bond would get for letting the bad guys get away in a Citroen Berlingo - License to Mill. The argument of influence is compelling and detailed but how can the government accuse breweries of inappropriate placement when they're happy for McDonald's to be an official sponsor of the 2012 Olympic games? When I competed for Middlesex I had to race with Coca-Cola scrawled across my front and that was directly aimed at children.

On a more creative note we would be losing the only adverts on TV worth watching. Alcohol adverts are some of the best thirty second operas we have. The genius of Carlsberg alternatives, the beauty of Guinness metaphors and the swarv, swish seduction of Stella Artois. We'd be left with nothing but lawyers for you and Barry Scott filling the void. And is this ban going to include everything? What about wine and spirits? Will there be specific targeting or just a general carpet bombing of all drink ads?

I feel sorry for the companies. They are loved by the population, hated by the government and have all the responsibility dropped on their laps. They already have drink aware notices in all their adverts, they have strict regulation to adhere to, they are banned in numerous places already and now it looks like their creative output and ability to compete is about to be fully stripped as well.

A ban on alcohol advertising would however incite some fantastic new methods of awareness. Already we've seen how clever they can be. In France, alcohol advertising is banned in Rubgy. Therefore when Wales turn up to play Le Blues their main sponsor Brains Beer has to be cunning. In 2005 they turned up with the word 'Brawn' replacing the main shirt spot, a move that earned them more exposure than if the French had just left it by. Recently Brains decided to push for their blonde variant called SA. When the team marched onto the pitch the slogan "Try Essai" on their shirts caused an even bigger response. These brands will find a way, which is potentially far more damaging and uncontrollable, if we push them to these limits.

All I know is that these sort of bans are an easy way out and that us the consumer should start taking the responsibility on board. If we drink too much then we're going to have to pay the price and not try to blame the breweries which we were more than in love with the night before. And if the government feels obliged to step in (as they always do) then it has to step in on our behaviour. If you have to receive medical attention because of your lack of self control then you should have to pay for it. Even the threat of £50 would probably reduce the number of comatose students filling up our waiting rooms. If there is going to be a solution then we have to be creative - just like a certain genre of advertising.

My Visual Journal

2009-10-04T16:15:00.000-07:00

After posting about the new Phoenix Fall cover album I suddenly remembered some images very similar to it that I used to do. Back in 2005 I began keeping a visual log. It wasn't really a diary, nor was it a journal. In fact a lot of it isn't even chronological. It was simply things that caught my eye or seemed important at the time. Of course many things that were important were neglected and things of no real substance still managed to make it in. But I suppose that's how the mind of an 18 year old works.

I found this journal the other day along with some pages I had scanned in. These had, believe it or not, been used as part of my portfolio for getting onto the Graphics course. Attached to these print outs was the note "Here are some images that I collect and create just for me. They are not official work but they are a record of the sort of thing I am interested in. Please do not show them around!"

Well, 18-year-old-Edd, I think the time has come for things to come full circle. Four years on I think we can leak one or two to the wider world. It's interesting to see how little my handwriting has really changed and that in many ways this work is instantly recognisable as my own. The opinions are sometimes a little odd and there's certainly some images that make me cringe slightly. But this was me and it's comforting to look back at my past self in this way and recount on that persons thoughts, skills and observations. Thanks little dude, you made me who I am today.

Tearing Me Apart

2009-10-04T15:25:00.000-07:00

I've just finished the latest single cover for the new Phoenix Fall track Tearing Me Apart (due out late November) - and here it is. The tune is a rock pop ballad with a sixty two piece choir and enough instrument parts to give Mozart a headache. Delicately balanced throughout, the track has been magnificently crafted into what is sure to become a classic. I've worked with the Phoenix Fall before designing their last single What Really Matters To Me. We decided a long time ago to move away from pictures of the band and instead compliment their music with artwork.

In this piece we wanted to pick out the uneasy feeling of thinking someone is going to leave you but not being able to do anything about it. I found this by coating a sheet of paper in the cut out female eyes. I cut the eyes out rather than tear them as I thought this would be a little cliched given the track name. Their varying sizes and qualities makes it hard to focus on a single set yet instantly retentive. Your eye flickers around the image finding it hard to actually sustain contact, like you would in a difficult relationship. Eventually you seek refuge on the red disk that houses the band and track names. In production this red circle will take the form of a sticker on the sleeve rather than in the print. However, it will be completely left out for the digital release.

I realised that with digital music, covers are more of an accessory and that the track will always be accompanied by its name and band no matter what device it is being played upon. I thus managed to persuade the band to go for this edgy and stand-out-from-the-crowd-design.

Self Assessment

2009-09-30T11:09:00.001-07:00

I've now written over fifty posts for this University summer brief. Fifty thoughts, concepts, findings, ideas, revelations, reviews and opinions. Since the whole point of this blog is to learn about ourselves, our surroundings and what makes us tick, I thought it would be worth reading through what I've said so far and do a bit of self assessment (Katie Beverley will be proud!). Here goes...

Firstly I am surprised by how much I have enjoyed writing. I've never really put pen to paper much as I'm not very good at it and I get frustrated at my own ineptitude. However, Since July I've written well over 24,000 words. That's a rough average of 480 words per post. In fact - and I know this because I'm sad and counted - whereas the majority of posts are around 500 words each I have written five articles that surmount 1000. I didn't realise I could write that much not least that I enjoyed it so much. I've also started developing a style. I hate starting a post with the subject. I seem to always try and add some sort of warm up or the reason that I'm writing the post in the first place. That will certainly beef up the word count but I think it adds a lot more to the article. Ricky Gervais once commented on how he didn't understand people who wanted to tell the world about their mundane everyday lives. "My name is Henry and this is a picture of my cat... thanks very much!?" I hope I haven't managed to fall into this catagory.

But what on earth have I been writing about. Well, one of my top labels is literature and, having read the articles, they are mostly about my growing love for writing (go figure). The other top spot belongs to Architecture, however, this doesn't take the form of a selection of buildings I like. It's more about concepts, new ideas and things that haven't even happened. One of the most dominant pieces is about the shoddy Peace Camp in Parliament Square and how we should have a permanent structure. I'm a big fan of architecture and building design but I would rather pick up on major issues than just talk about buildings I find interesting. I live in London after all. I could go on forever (even more so).

In fact a trend in my articles is about solving problems. I relished in the Apollo 13 story at the same time as discussing the problems with Police Uniforms. The advertising label only has two attachments and both of these are about examples of standing out from the crowd. Unsurprisingly the Armed Forces have also played a big role in this blog and are some of the only posts to be reviews more than investigations.

I've obviously included my own work in the blog but rather than just put up random designs they have been major projects. These in turn are embedded within the other labels like theatre and music. While this has left the Graphics label a bit bare it has made me realise how far my interests spread and the use of media I've gained.

I've done pretty much nothing to aesthetically enhance my site. For a while my banner was just a picture I had taken of some cows as I thought that suited the title quite well. But I like keeping the page clean and simple making it easy to navigate and focusing more on content than wacky arrangements. The title of "The Audacity of Self Publication" has always been. I wasn't too sure about the brief initially thinking that a bunch of students rabbiting on about themselves could be pretty tedious. I therefore took the title of Barrack Obama's infamous book and twisted the title to be a reminder that in essence I am writing about things I am interested in. It's a selfish act and I should work hard to make sure it's not a definitive article but merely my own humble ponderings.

Of course I can't write about everything. Nearly every day I find something that I want to post about. I've got a list on my phone and various scraps of paper with what I am yet to write about (or at least have always intended to delve into). Of course there's still time before the hand in. Maybe I'll still get to write about...

...the London tube map, German wall murals, Dr Suess, Alfred Eisenstaedt, animated music videos, Mario Testino, Amazing Tales by Neil Oliver, cap badges, space invaders, New Labour, album artwork, Hunter S Thomspon, the new Phoenix Fall single, a scanner darkly, Mercury Fur, John Cleese's BAFTA speech, alcohol advertising, flags, Chernobyl, the iPod, National Geographic, plants and fruit, skycrapercity.com, Jurassic Park, blackboards, Adidas Originals, iTunes, the BBC website, rugby union and coins.

School Evacuation

2009-09-30T08:25:00.000-07:00

BBC Report - Evacuation Reenactment

I saw this report on the BBC today of a school reenacting their evacuation during the War seventy years ago. I was so impressed with their dedication to detail that I thought it would be worth a blog. When they said they reenacted the evacuation I was expecting a couple of name tags, the odd peak cap and maybe a demonstration of how children were picked out of the line upon arriving at their new homes. We once did a reenactment at my old school which was hard to appreciate seeing as we already in the countryside. What I didn't expect to see was every single child dressed up in period clothes, each carrying a 1930's bag (presumably for lunch) accompanied by parents who had also gone the whole hog and mimicked their predecessors from the shoes they wore to the way they did their hair.

And it didn't stop there. The children and parents then proceeded to board a steam train, complete with flags, and take a journey out to the countryside where there was a whole event set up to teach them about the War. Throughout the entire day they were accompanied by real life evacuee's. This is education. I was blown away by how well the day had been put together and what an effort had been made. The children seemed genuinely interested and enthralled in the whole event learning and experiencing far more than just sitting in classroom looking out the window more than their history books.

Tongue n' Cheek Advert

2009-09-30T05:39:00.000-07:00

Dizzee Rascal is on top of the music world at the moment. His new album is taking the UK by storm, he's got three tracks still in the Top40 and everyone wants a piece of him. He's grown up from his rough teenager image to become a true musical talent producing tracks to lift every crowd in the peak of a frenzied dance episode. When I heard Bonkers I thought it was genius. He made a track like no other and has branded himself as the one true Hip Hop star who stands out from the American crap we have to put up with on these talented shores. No one in the states would dare make a track like that and, as well as the tunes, the man and video fit the style perfectly. Dizzee Rascal is pushing the boundaries in a stagnate genre, appealing to a majority and keeping the flag raised high for British music.

His new album Tongue n' Cheek is being promoted by a great advert. It throws everything in the face of all the usual ads we see for new releases. This is so refreshing since I'm fed up of seeing moody black and white videos montaged to oblivion before having a dull screen shot of the album cover. Even worse are the endless club mixes pushing their happy hardcore with nothing but dodgy videos of scantily clad Preston girls gyrating as best as their VK induced bodies will let them. Dizzee's promotion is brave and memorable. The man doesn't move, talk, rap - we don't even hear the tracks! We get a few glimpses of the album front but that's it. And why do we need more? You're going to listen to the album before you buy it anyway and you'll probably recognise most of the songs. You don't really need to know exactly what it looks like because you know where to find it online or in the shops. All you need is the artist (who you know) and the album name which is said over and over again. What the ad does give you is a real sense of its character. I think that's so much more important and probably much more effective. I love the details in the ad like the Calvin Harris figurine (with the banner reading 'not a genuine offer'), the ridiculously dramatic assistant and the blistering tan on the host.

When there's a standard formula for promotion it's easy to just follow the trend. I really admire work like this which bucks normality and just stands alone, strong in what it is. It may be Bonkers but if it works, it works so well.

Threadless T-Shirts

2009-09-30T04:54:00.000-07:00

Like everybody else, I have drawn up my "if I ever win the lottery" list. My big dreams to materialism are similar to most people who have ever flicked through a John Lewis catalogue but made even more unattainable by the fact I don't even buy a lottery ticket. However, in between the iPods, flat screen TV, Thames riverside apartment and my own personal Waterstones sits humbler desires. In fact, if I ever won just a few hundred pounds I'd probably blow it all on Threadless T-Shirts.

Threadless is a community based t shirt company set up not exclusive to America. They take in submissions from anyone who fancies designing t shirts. Those designs that are voted by the community get turned into the real deal and sold to the world. The designers get paid, the public get limited edition designs, the community grows and even the tree's get a big hug thanks to their environmental promises.

Obviously nearly all the people who take part are designers in some way yet the amount of talent is staggering. The company has attracted millions of designs that spread from the cool to the mad to the surreal to the sweet. I love just browsing their online catalogue and seeing what people have come up with in a simple image to be printed on a t shirt. There are a lot of puns, simple gags and nearly all designed to make you smile in some way or another. In fact the community is incredibly happy full of young fresh talent who are clued up on the digital world (facebook, sharing, RSS) and love a good visual.

The website is incredibly easy to use and designed really well. The quality of the photos that they use to promote the shirts are also fantastic. The models are usually the designers themselves striking poses that bring out the character of the design if not mimicking the actions themselves. There's also celebrity spotting to see whose wearing the designs and if they appear on TV. One thing I love about the site is that when you click on a design all the info is there about the designer, the shirt, where its been seen and also of customers who love the shirts and have sent in their own photos!

You can make a bit of cash off doing this and I'm sure that some even make a good living. I've decided to get involved in the future although for now I'm just a happy onlooker. The tee's are also really good quality and good value when you consider how much a shirt is on the high street. Even so I may need to wait until my chosen balls are finally spat out by fate and chance for me to go on a spree!

Flickr Through Colour

2009-09-29T07:03:00.000-07:00

For people who use a Stumble Upon toolbar you'll know that for the most part you can't use it for anything overly constructive. The websites, no matter how detailed your profile settings, are random and don't always suit the mood you're in at the time. This isn't to say it's not a good tool. It's fantastic. The number of different things you come across that actually interest you is reassuring in the sprawling mess of porn and cat pictures that it is Internet. Most of the time I use Stumble Upon when I am desperately bored, seeking a cheap laugh or just in need of a distraction. However, the other day it found Multicolr from flickr.

We all know how useful flickr is when you're in need of that specific photo. However, like any Internet search finding that perfect match is often very difficult. This amazing little site makes finding photos by colour so much easier. Simply go on the site and from the colour menu just start selecting the colours you're after. Immediately endless photos start appearing matching your colour choice. Jobs a Gooden!

If you select one colour more than others it will make that tone the dominant colour in the selection. The variety of photos you get, and their quality, is staggering and sometimes it's interesting just to search through the results to see all that flare and creativity out there. I can only suggest that every graphics student goes to the site and adds it to their toolbar quick. This will no doubt become and invariably useful tool. Enjoy!

Ashes to Ashes, now Dust to Dust

2009-09-28T02:59:00.000-07:00

The little penile colony at the ends of the earth has grown up to be an aching thorn in the British public's side. We get a surprising amount of contact with Australians, our furthest possible neighbours, mostly on the sporting pitches and pubs across the globe. Our relationship is friendly yet the threat of casual violence always seems just a chairs throw away. Of course this sort of works with us Brits, always happy to buy a fellow furniture dueller a pint afterwards. We are siblings laughing at each others failings, always trying to out do the other, never letting the them forget their loses but being their through thick and think when the shit really does hit the fan.

This week we all turned our eyes to our annoying little brother when they became completely engulfed in the most spectacular dust cloud. Unbeknown to the general public Australia is suffering from a prolonged and extreme drought. And we're not talking hose pipe ban stuff here - Australians are complaining about the heat! That's pretty serious. Entire towns have been abandoned as rivers and lakes dry up and farming could be on the verge of collapsing in case something is done.

This drought has caused a massive build up of dust inland which has now made its way through Sydney by the offshore winds creating scenes of an apocalyptic nature. The sky turned red as the dust settled everywhere. So vast and alien was the sight that many residents panicked literally thinking that the end of the earth was upon them (trust Australians to think they would come first in the Doomsday race for extinction). The hazy orange and yellow colours created some epic scenes that had flickr bucking like an England Cricket winner.

In all seriousness the sights are spectacular and well worth a look. Sydney's iconic buildings have been captured fantastically, the usually blue Australian sky being banished for our visual enjoyment. Just remember that it's all due to a crippling drought bringing the country to its knee's. You can use it in the pub next time they start mouthing off about sport.

PS - just thought. If you do meet an Ozzie who insists on reminding you of their sporting back catalogue just tell them that they have literally lost every major sporting trophy they ever had over the last eight years. And while he's down remind him that Britain beat them in the Rugby, Cricket and Olympics. Three cheers for the Queen...

Cycling Breeds

2009-09-23T08:54:00.000-07:00

In London, the affect of the credit crunch has become abundantly clear on commuters as the rise in cyclists taking to the street each morning has exploded. Travel for London has recorded an 83% increase since 2000 and with a travel card reaching the pocket burning heights of £35 a week it is not surprising people are taking to pedal power. As well as the cash benefits there are also the obvious health aspects to be smug about too. But is cycling to work really as simple as “get fit and save money”?

According to the Mayors office the number of cyclist killed or seriously injured has fallen by 28% this year. But, with hundreds of cyclists killed on the road every year, this isn’t an invitation to flippancy. In 2008 seventeen thousand cyclists entered the capital each day. That means that along with buses, taxis, cars, road works, motorbikes, mopeds, pedestrians and those annoying old men on buggies there is now an army of amateur cyclists to avoid on the roads. The trend naturally appears to be very seasonal, peaking during the warmth of the summer, and maybe as the leaves fall so will the number of bicycles. But with every day people starting to worry about money more and more, the bike may soon become the only option for thousands of Londoners.

However,it's not just the number that is changing but the demographics too. There is no one type of cyclist any more than there is one type of car. They all come with their own styles, designs, characteristics and risk assessments. Here are some of the groupings that are becoming all the more clear.

Credit Crunch Crashers - Stubborn riders whose main aim is to save money. Having dragged the old Raleigh out of the shed and brushed off the dust they are straight onto the roads in there suits and leather shoes. Unfortunately, like their credit debt, they underestimated the seriousness of the situation and after one attempt at the Vauxhall roundabout, have retreated to the pavement and its softer obstructions.
How to recognise them: three piece suite, winter gloves and trousers tucked in socks.

The Dandys - The ‘Christian Drivers’ of the bicycling world these - usually women - believe the morning commute is like the checkout queue at M&S; patient, orderly and cringingly polite. Unfortunately their Jane-Austen-of-the-road fantasy is shattered the first time the are overtaken by a double decker bus at speed. They are terrifyingly dangerous thinking that going through a red light at snails pace makes things much safer. Not to worry, at least her shoes still match her specially for ladies bicycle with a traditional French wicker basket. Just like the continent darling!
How to recognise them: flowing dresses, no helmet and constantly looking upwards.

Oblivious Amateurs - Spending more money on their iPod headphones than their bike lock, the oblivious amateur is on his bike until the price of petrol falls. They simply can’t see the point in a helmet and wear roughly the same as their Sunday football kit. Taking out cyclists and pedestrians alike they remain completely oblivious throughout their journey to car horns, angry shouts and the fact that everybody hates them
How to recognise them: sports bag, usually smoking and permanently glued to their headphones.

Team Lycra - Clad head to toe in skin tight racing gear, Team Lycra treat every road like a Velodrome. Their professional get up gives them instant rights to the front of any queue and they’re determination to dominate every inch of road will check even the sternest of white van drivers. They are perfectly happy to stop at red lights safe in the knowledge they will catch almost anybody up making the hatred (and secret envy) of them run deeper. However, any frustration against them is short lived as they are the first people to slam head first into the back of a quick breaking vehicle.
How to recognise them: every item of clothing and equipment on them looks at home in a wind tunnel.

The Couriers - The true kings of the road although no one likes to admit it. Instead of roads and pavements the Couriers see a concrete jungle to jump, twist and power all around. With dreadlocks as big as their calves they live on their bikes that, to an amateur, look like they made it themselves. No gears, no brakes and no suspension, the couriers can outstrip anybody across the city despite the fact they are carrying a two tonne parcel.
How to recognise them: three quarter length trousers at all times and the most technical piece of kit they have is the radio gaffer taped to their bag strap.

Can't Stop Feeling Video

2009-09-23T08:04:00.001-07:00

Last site I was sitting in the Terrace Bar when I saw Franz Ferdinand's video for "Can't Stop Feeling". I'm a big fan of cheap, simply made and effective music video's. Too often music videos are all glitz and glamour trying to out do each other and ultimately becoming tired and obvious. The rap stars drive around in big cars and go to ridiculous looking clubs; the club mixes are set at house parties with some stupid love plot woven into them; RnB videos have as much mood lighting and as little clothing as possible. It's all too predictable.

However, Franz Ferdinand have produced a gem which made me smile, remember it and talk about it. For me they've really captured the character of the song without having to higher thousands of extras and wrap the tune up in an overindulgent metaphor. It also made me think of other Franz Ferdinand videos like "No You Girls". In this three minute opera the band are playing simply in a vast studio. Around them dance a group of silkily clad girls. The bite in this video however is the girls are all holding camera's with what they are filming being shown in the video as well. Okay, it's not rocket science but it's fun and different and the editing team have got some great effects and looks out of it.

When I did the music video for "What really Matters To Me" for the Phoenix Fall we had an idea of getting a dance act in and doing some location filming. In the end we kept the concept really simple and the result was great. The video cost nothing to produce, was great for publicity and worked hand in hand with the tune.

So put away the Lamborghini's and wasted glasses of champagne. Give me a close band with a kooky song and a video camera any day.

The FA: Whatever your level

2009-09-23T04:12:00.000-07:00

I hate professional football. The game is tedious and boring, the lack of role models is pathetic, the amount of cheating is embarrassing and the entire charade is as far away from being a sport as it could attempt to be. The clubs are nothing but businesses, money waves far too much influence and a forth official is the least of it's cultural and institutionalised problems. And just to make sure nothing changes the governing bodies completely fail in replacing unsportmanship, corruption and selfishness with dignity, inspiration and - well, anything you can take even the slightest amount of pride in.

I love sport. I truly believe that sport can cure most of the problems that face individuals, communities and countries. The sheer variety of what's out there means that absolutely anybody can get involved in a sport no matter what size, shape or stamina you are. Sport brings people together and pushes them to the edge. It requires dedication, commitment and determination. When winning it boosts confidence and self esteem. When loosing it inspires drive and focus. It can lift entire countries and leave lasting memories. The character of the sportsman (and this is when professional footballs can leave the room) is something just as magnificent as the games that are played. One of the most lasting images of the 2005 England Ashes victory was Freddie Flintoff consoling an opponent as he broke down in the last seconds of the game and the first seconds of Englands glory. What about when teams that have been fighting against each other for years shake hands at the Olympics before rising to the podiums? Even at the most amateur level that feeling of respect is still there. After every rugby match I played their was the unquestionable formation of tunnels no matter what happened on the pitch. It's this amateur level, the younger game, the social game and the development which makes me love sport the most.

Therefore, when I saw the FA's new advert for getting into social football I nearly hit the roof. First off the ad is fast paced, very funny and brilliantly edited. There's a story, the characters are all there and a great balance as we follow 'Bobby' developing through his team. What I love about the video is that it doesn't shy away from the football culture - arguing with the ref, post game lash, the magic sponge. However, these are little in jokes spread around the main themes. Training, improving your game, being part of a team and having fun.

I'd love to see some more videos like this but with different sports. Rugby, hockey, lacrosse, cricket could show some really interesting dynamics - although swimming might be a little repetitive. So well done football. Maybe it's finally making its way back to the flock to be something the nation can take pride in rather than a national embarrassment?

In Foreign Fields

2009-09-17T05:47:00.000-07:00

I never like rereading what I’ve previous written. See, that sounds terrible already and will probably make me cringe in a few weeks. Time tends to dissolve any character, substance and structure that was previously in my writing. The flow is no longer there, those delicate phrases seem clumpy and generally I’m a bit disappointed.

However, when rereading (is that even a word?) my post on Helmand by Robert J Wilson my disappointment lay elsewhere. I’d originally said that Richard Holmes’ bestseller Dusty Warriors was “chewy” and it may have been taken that I thought a photographic journal could portray the battlefield better. This is not true, or at the very least should not disqualify any written works from their places at the top. I’m sure even the vast majority of the literary world would agree with my simple thoughts there.

If you wondered into Waterstone’s now the choice of tales from the front would be mind boggling to anyone with less than a firm grasp of tour duties, Army structure and an ISBN number. Should I read about 3 Para or 2 Para? What about the SAS? This was written in 2004; is that good? Typing "Afghanistan" into the Waterstone's website yields over 700 results. It is with both the mountainous choice of publishing and the understanding of a difficult choice that I recommend my own humble choice.

Dan Collins’s book In Foreign Fields holds twenty five unedited stories from British Army medal winners. Working through the Iraq war before migrating to Afghanistan the book takes tales from different ranks, regiments, corps and campaigns. This is done without feeling random with Collins adding his own edits to help link the stories. But as he says, “My name is on the front because someone’s had to be; all I did was sit and listen. This book is by them.”

Even though you know the book is going to have stories of the mad, bad and dangerous it still knocks you for six. The actions that these men and women take is simply astonishing. It could so easily be taken as a work of fiction as you become engulfed in the pages that become impossible to put down. It could be said that In Foreign Fields is able to do this because it focuses on medal winners. Collins explains that “to win the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross, the Military Cross or any other award featured… you must have performed to a very high level. Many of the soldiers herein stood toe-to-toe with death and moved forward in its face.” However, after all the gallantry, the bravery, the selfless acts of camaraderie and leadership; it is one aspect that is burnt into you mind. The humble nature of the story tellers.

War is hell but that doesn’t mean humanity can’t live there. The humble nature of the soldiers in the book is alien to their scenarios and situations. Pride does not give way to arrogance. Courage does not make them emotionally indifferent. Their ferociousness in battle is always equaled by their compassion in victory and death. The book, with its personal unedited archive, makes for one of the most in depth and beautiful accounts I have ever come across. This is not a book about the courageous events that a faceless soldier has achieved. It is about the soldiers themselves, their decorum and professionalism in the most desolate of places. To get a real idea of the sort of people the British Army is made up of, and the type of daily challenges they have to face, I can only recommend you read this title.

On a finishing note the book was originally going to be called Heroes. This was dropped after the soldiers themselves informed Collins that the title would be embarrassing.

The Apollo 13 Filter Problem

2009-09-15T01:43:00.000-07:00

I was recently reading the story of the ill fated Apollo 13 mission and the events, catastrophes and triumphs of those 5 days 22 hours 54 minutes and 41 seconds. After an onboard explosion destroyed vital ship components, as well as any chance of now landing on the moon, the three man crew were challenged with a new mission; get home alive. With the world watching they took on every obstacle that came their way with the steadfast, calm and determined composure that only astronauts and a few other professionals posses.

There are many emotive tales throughout the story that can be told again and again without a single hair failing to raise on the back of your neck. One of my favourites is how the crew dealt with the rising levels of CO2 in the spacecraft. The initial explosion had played havoc with the command modules controls and a sequence of events led to the rapidly rising levels of poisonous CO2. The CO2 'scrubbers' in the lunar module were still working but not in the command module. Although separate pieces were still operable neither were compatible and it fell down to the scientists back on earth to make them fit. The scene to unfold has been parodied throughout TV history, a compliment to the absurd challenge that faced those men in that hour.

In a small back room of Mission Control the small team covered a table which the material possessions available to them on board Apollo 13 and got down to the job of "making a square peg fit a round hole". This is designing at the extreme end of the spectrum. They took on the job knowing that the lives of men depended on them and failure would only bring the sound of their slow suffocation down the crackling radio. Their materials to do the job were sparse (spares even more so) and they were on an excruciatingly short time frame. The eyes of the world were watching them as they diligently fought. It's also worth mentioning at this point that the average age of the NASA technicians was only 26.

When they were done they ran to the control desk to relay the building instructions. Of course they couldn't just build the damn thing and hand it over. As they made it - going back and forth, making mistakes, retracing their steps - they had to write a manual on it. A manual that was easy enough to follow, transmit across 200,000miles of space, and be followed in a zero gravity environment at bitterly low temperatures in a space no bigger than a wardrobe. The work was genius and more importantly, saved the lives of all those on board.

The CO2 filter problem is one the the lesser known issues of the Apollo 13 mission, overshadowed with the glitz of explosions and glory of re-entry. But the ingenuity in design and skill is second to none. If someone threw me a box and said "make these two highly tuned pieces of technical apparatus work using whatever is in your pantry, oh, by the way, you've got an hour and people are going to die if you don't do it"... I'd probably have a stroke. As designers we often have to tackle "obstacles" under "pressure". But screwing up your pantone selection is embarrassing compared to what those gentleman did that day.

Below is a clip from the film Apollo 13 depicting that epic scene (however I thoroughly suggest you watch all five minutes here.)

The Hubble Telescope

2009-09-13T03:02:00.000-07:00

There is something deeply moving about space photography. It's hard to pin down exactly why it causes such reactions within the human mind but we just know it does. Maybe it's the way it bypasses our evolutionary advance. For millenniums man stared up at the stars... and that was about it. All we could do was lie there and inhale the billions of tiny dots that pricked the black velvet sky. There was no up close, there was no special detail, there wasn't even any colour. Other objects in space are simply too far away for us to fully appreciate. As beings we're not meant to see images of towering nebula's or even the rings of Saturn. We have given ourselves the ability to peek through the keyhole into heaven. More than this we understand, or believe to understand, what we are looking at. This is a huge perversion on the Universe; its private areas we were never created to see. And personally, I think it's fantastic.

The Hubble Telescope is the greatest thing that man has done in space since we walked on the Moon. The concept of such a piece of machinery in space reaffirms my slim faith in humanity. The mission was simple - lets see whats out there. There is no monetary gain, no violent advantage to be had. Hubble is up there to gaze into the black vacuum that engulfs us and seek out beauty and wonder. It is a tool for education intended for all of mankind.

Hubble has recently gone through a refit since it original launch in April 1990. In May astronauts aboard the space shuttle undertook five highly dangerous spacewalks to upgrade the telescope with new cameras and millions of dollars worth of unpronounceable technology. Since its imancipation in the 70's the Hubble mission has cost over $10bn. The results though, are truly breathtaking with Ed Weiler, NASA's associate administrator for space science, stating, "Bottom line, these professionals left Hubble as a new state-of-the-art telescope." And he's right. Above is one of the first images Hubble gave us, the Butterfly Nebular. This dying star, originally five times the mass of our own, is spraying out its atmosphere in a spectacular show of cosmic elegance. It's ironic that we name these images after our own terrestrial wonders. They are just so foreign to us, so incomprehensible, that we have to bring them down to earth - literally!

But what for the future. Can one telescope, on the crest of its 20th birthday, really continue to inject excitement and intrigue into the hearts of a new generation? "Every field of astrophysics, whether it's our local neighborhood of planets, nearby stars, out to the edge of the universe, every field has questions that are awaiting the power of Hubble," said Heidi Hammel, senior research scientist at the Space Science Institute in Boulder, Colombia. "Hubble's new beginning is just setting the stage for what's going to be coming." Now isn't that something worth looking up for.

More space photography? Read my article on seeing

"The Curvature of the Earth"

Facebook Application

2009-09-12T09:35:00.001-07:00

Facebook have recently updated their iPhone application and it's such an improvement I thought it was worthy of publication. I know, I'm so generous! Originally the app had been useful as a quick check to make sure you were still socially acceptable. It did most things and the photo browsing ability was impressive when connected to Wifi. However it could be very slow, the chat feature was a bit of a waste of time and everything was a bit fiddly.

Now the app works alongside a menu system very much how you would have got on an old Nokia bizarrely. All the pages have been cleaned up and make excellent use of the screen space. Somehow it's also got a lot faster and chat is now a good tool for a quick gabble or some good old drunken messaging. One thing I've also noticed is how the app pushes you to make little comments and upload tit bits to your wall. This I found was very interesting and shows how Facebook is trying to change its dynamic more. They want lots of little snippets and little publications rather than huge wall posts. This bolsters the reports of Facebook trying to rival Twitter as a social snapshot. Either way, the app seems to have found a good comfort point after a year of very strenuous development.

iPod Nano with Video

2009-09-12T09:17:00.000-07:00

Apple has released another iPod Nano and this time it comes with video. When the Nano first came out it was incredible technology. No one could believe how small it was and yet how much music it could store. It was so impressive in its design and looks that the poster campaign just had a picture of the tiny device being held between thumb and forefinger with the word "Small" written next to it. They sold millions. Soon it was being developed further getting thiner, classier, unbelievably colourful and more advanced.

Now the new one is here and, quite brilliantly, Apple have included a video camera. This is a genius feature when you think that the Nano is aimed at the young generation especially school children. This demographic, with their short attention spans, mass networking and love for technology (as well as themselves) will walk through fire to get to one of these. They will video everything and anything and share it amongst their friends. On the bus, in the classroom, in a club, on the beach or down the slopes. "And we can do all this while listening to music??", they cry! Life has never been so good.

District 9

2009-09-11T05:23:00.000-07:00

If I rant now you have to promise that you'll keep on reading. I say this because the last forty five minutes of District 9 really disappointed me and I don't want to end this review like that. It does deserve some good words and therefore I shall leave them to the end. But for the next few minutes I'd be really grateful if you bared with me. Thank you.

What the hell was Peter Jackson thinking?! I fully hold the hobbit sized producer responsible for turning this brilliantly shot, conceptually complex and wonderfully acted film into another Hollywood shoot them up, boys toys, romanticised pile of clippings. Why couldn't they just let the idea run? Why did they try and turn it into a gun slinging, audience pleasing sci fi? Why couldn't it remain clever? What's wrong with a bit of sophistication and out there cinema? No, he had to let the computers take over, the main character come over all Bruce Willis and give the plot more painfully unbelievable twists than a sclerosis patient. Just wait till you see the last shot - that's got Jacko's chubby chase all over it!

District 9 is the story of what happens when Aliens come to earth and it's not the heavenly light on enlightenment we thought it would be. Instead the ship, resembling a giant rubbish lorry hovering over Johannesburg, arrives unexpectedly full of malnourished refugees looking for somewhere to live. Due to the slow action and public unrest that people are so prone to, a slum quickly develops on the border of the city, enforced and encamped to house the one million 'prawns'. The story is picked up twenty years later during the attempted resettlement of the Aliens to another permanent camp with its bumbling organiser Wickers Van De Merwe. However, it soon becomes clear that District 9 is not a sci fi film about Aliens but indeed about humans and the delicacy of our humanity.

The fact that that Disrtrict 9 is set in Joburg does not make it a film about racial tension but it certainly bolsters the concept. Smatterings of apartheid and immigration are evident from the start with clips of opinions and interviews adding weight. "They're called prawns," says Wickers, "which is not nice but that's what they look like so that's what we call them." The 'racism' when looking at it in this unique perspective is almost logical and it takes a good length of the film before you start emphasising with the aliens. "I wouldn't mind if they were from another country but they're not even from this planet," is another unconvincing comment. The issues are not delicately brought up - nor should they be - but director Neil Blomkamp balances them with brilliant precision between our world and the conceptual one.

I've seen films try and use documentary esq editing to begin a story but none have done it so extensively and superbly as D9. Opening with various interviews and video archive footage the first hour is mesmerising as you are brought up to speed as well as briefed on the varying issues that will be the bread and butter of the film. This intensive editing slowly slips into a more cinematic tone that is easier to watch as the film follows the trials and tribulations of Wickers.

Another key issue of the film is the fall of man. It's good to see honesty in the perception of human kind. In D9 xenophobia sits alongside profiteering in all its forms. Whether it's the Nigerians moving into the slum to run their own criminal rackets, the barbarism of scientists trying to exploit Alien technology or even poor Wickers as he tries to claw himself back to his normal life. D9 doesn't fall victim to the illusion that the human race is a perfect specimen for life. Obviously we would do everything to gain an advantage from these beings and most likely loose our humanity in the pursuit of personal gains. Our destructive attitude makes the audience empathise with the 'prawns' as they are used and subjected to the demands of man.

Overall I enjoyed District 9 and was thoroughly impressed with its script, editing and general concept. There are some tricky subjects to try and branch and it works hard to ensure the right balance. However, its last minute drifting leaves a lot to be desired and ruins what would have been a perfect film. Very much like a fat, bearded, American producer would ruin a nice restaurant dinner as he gorges himself on CGI and extended endings.

Helmand, Faces of Conflict

2009-09-11T04:28:00.000-07:00

In 2007 Richard Holmes published his book Dusty Warriors. The book described the life of 'modern soldiers at war' following the Princess of Wale's Royal Regiment during their tour of Afghanistan. Through the acts of bravery, the soulless courage, the brotherly bonds and the indescribable pressures one characteristic came through time and time again... Admin. The book is very very chewy to read. Those without much military knowledge will find the bizarre anagrams, constant Army chat and pages upon pages of administrative tasking quite a demanding read. For those with no Army knowledge? Well, you'll quite simply be 'hanging'.

Dusty Warriors, however, is a number one bestseller and has received critical acclaim worldwide. Although saying this I have no doubt in my mind that the majority of people who bought and raved about the book were either privately educated or ex military. That's not to say that the common man wouldn't be able to understand it but frankly if I was on my lunch break and had to decipher sentences like "the CO of PWRR had called up twenty extra 432's, with their mounted .50 GPMGs to recce cimic house" then I'd be a little put off. This annoys me. How are we going to portray what it's like out their in Afghanistan for the men and women of the Armed Forces? How do we truly explain what these people are doing? How do we cut through everything to give, in an instant, a true representation that everyone can understand? How do we fight the Hollywood imagery of war and it's glory? Luckily, photography has the answer.

Robert Wilson is a fashion photographer specialising in portraits. Swapping the glitz and glamour of the catwalk to the sweat and toil of the battlefield, he was embedded in Afghanistan alongside British Forces. It must be said that over the years we have seen mountains of books and images come out of that desolate region. The MoD itself has set up it's own image database. Our news, it could be said, is even becoming saturated with the images of fire fights and stock clips of missile detonations. However, Helmand offers something new.

The pages focus on the soldiers faces as they return to Camp Bastion from whatever recce, patrol or sortie they were on. Unshaven jaws, parched lips and creased eyes all give evidence to the environment they've been exposed to. Some seem slightly shaken but for the most part they are steadfast, hardened with the glimmer of relief in their eyes. What have they been doing? Where have they been? What have they done? Female portraits are also included and their gaze is just as inflicting as their counterparts. They play their role too and they play it just as hard and as well. Some of the men are so covered in the dust and dirt of their work that they might even be unrecognisable, their eyes glinting through the clean patches left by goggles and masks. The photos are brutal in their simplicity but not full of the gore and horror of war that we are sadly becoming acclimatised to. Yes they're uncomfortable and no they're not happy. But the images are stripped to their essence rather than dictating emotions we are required to revel in. Wilson lets the faces explain the situation and we understand immediately. Simply, we don't need to be stroked by the thin hand of death when we look into the eyes of these dusty warriors.

Timberland Boots

2009-09-08T14:59:00.002-07:00

Last year a friend of mine and I decided to go and hiking in the Peak District for no other reason than to get away from the concrete jungle of Leeds. Therefore with limited supplies and not a huge amount of planning we set off South. During the train journey we spoke about what kit we had brought. Neither of us had thought too heavily about first aid or even emergency rations for that matter and we couldn't stop laughing at the fact both of us had forgotten our roll mats. But then my friend made the error of picking me up on my selection of footwear - the classic Timberland six inch boot.

Three days later - slightly hungrier with a few unearthed splinters and new roll mats - that I was able to stand with my head held high. My Timberland's had survived and I had fallen in love. Not one blister had formed. Not one drop of water had seeped in. My feet were dry and in complete comfort the entire boot supporting my ankle but allowing me the total flexibility for those annoying rocky bits. And when I got home? Well, I simply brushed off the dried mud, gave them a wipe with warm water and wore them to the pub - no problem. The Timberland six inch has to be one of the best designed and produced boots around.

The Timberland Company has come a long way since its origins through Nathan Swartz at the The Abington Shoe Company in 1952. It was in 1960 that Swartz introduced the new injection moulding technique into the boot production. This allowed a perfectly waterproof seal between sole and shoe without the need for stitches. The boot, known as the Timberland, proved so popular that in 1973 the company changed its name. Now, despite a large range of outdoor wear and clothing, the company is mainly known for their classic six inch boot whether it's in the field, on MTV or just down the high street.

Recently I went on the Timberland website and I managed to waste a good few hours on the boot designer. Keeping the original shape and design customers can now choose different colours, details and stitching as well as customise the boot further with initials. It's nowhere near as complex or detailed as Nike iD but it is a good laugh and the website is very quick and well designed. In fact Timberland aren't afraid of updating their classics when the need fills them. Every year they hold an online competition "Rate My Boot" where anyone can enter their own boot design with the winner decided by public vote. Some of the results have been spectacular with high rated graphics designers to artists of all medians.

"But why the hell is Edd going on about Timberland's?", I hear you cry. Well, as brilliant as they are, my Timber's finally gave up on me with a hole in the 'revolutionary' binding. However, not too disheartened, I bought a new pair and within 24 hours was ankle deep in countryside mud as I toiled away on a country fair. Five days later with every inch of the boot caked in mud, dirt and tractor grease I did the old brush, wet and wipe method. Now, drying nicely by the front door, they looked like they were bought yesterday. Splendid.

Red, Yellow, Clean

2009-09-08T13:10:00.000-07:00

I hate Oxford Street. Now, as a Londoner - with nothing but bristling pride for my city - that is a big statement to make. However, I feel I'm justified, as if the scarred mess of road, pavement and function wasn't justification in itself. The infamous street stretches a huge length of London through Bond Street, across Oxford Circus and to Tottenham Court Road. The shops degrade as you walk down the street along with the infrastructure, paving and general road equipment. The dirt mounts, the quality slips, the street itself narrows and no amount of building work seems to solve the problems of overcrowding, confusion and danger. As a cyclist I stayed away from Oxford Street never once cycling down it. There was no way, with the random interjection of side streets, channeling traffic, bizarre road markings and constant barraging of buses that I was going to face that death trap. I have always said that the street needs addressing, reshaping - maybe even pedestrianising - anything to inject some life into what is meant to be Europe's busiest (and most profitable) thoroughfare.

For years we've had talk of trams and monorails. We get excited. We get interested. We stare at the photoshopped images of what could be. We dare to dream. And then the Christmas lights come out; those shoddy, muddied, underfunded lights that are an embarrassment to walk under, and we know that nothing will be done.

It was therefore with great interest I read about Mayor Boris Johnson discussing 'naked streets' in London. Having started in Holland (naturally) the concept of decluttering streets of unnecessary signage, markings and curbs is now sweeping across Britain. First Ashton followed by Brighton and Kent the scheme is now in the capital. The idea is that drivers (as well as other road users) are more cautious when on the naked streets and are forced to use their judgement, rather than blindly obeying instructions. But it's more than that says Boris. "It's about improving journeys and the beauty of our public spaces. More and more traffic lights are not always the answer."

The concept has already been put into practice in Kensington High Street where it was welcomed with a 44% drop in accidents. Now the scheme is planned to spread into Soho between Oxford Circus and Piccadilly. I love this type of street design especially for intricate parts of London that have been losing character with the constant installation of barriers, posts and needless safety features. Surely we can design better methods for pedestrians and vehicles to share the streets. My only concern is, as a London cyclist, that when accidents do occur that the legal aspects could become confused. Signs and markings cram our roads because the law is excruciatingly specific in order to find responsibility. However, with thorough thought this can only be a good move for an ever crowding city and can help beautify this wondrous town of ours.

Heraldry

2009-09-01T07:37:00.000-07:00

"Now Good Master Ducket." the clerk began, "you shall see the wonderful mystery of heraldry. First your arms will have a background colour. Except." he smiled, "that in heraldry we do not say colour, we say Tincture. This background is called the Field. You can partition the Field with lines any way you want. Whatever else you add upon it is called a charge. You can have a cross, for instance, or swords, axes, arrows, horseshoes, knots, harps. Here's a knight who's chosen a battering ram. Or you can have tree's, flowers, stars..."

"What about animals?" Ducket asked.

"Ah," the clerk beamed. "Yes indeed." And turning over some great sheets of parchment: "These," he said contentedly, "are only a few." Ducket gasped. It was astonishing. There were depictions of lions, leopards, bears, wolves, stags, hares, bulls, swans, eagles, dolphins, serpents. But not only that, each was shown in a variety of different attitudes: rising up on hindlegs (this he learned was Rampant); sitting, crouching, turning; upper half only; head only. The combinations seemed endless. Nearby he noticed another clerk working up a design of two lions rearing up as though about to fight. "Lions Rampant Combatant," his guide advised. "But you haven't seen best of all," he said, and taking Ducket to another pile of drawings he began to spread them out. "These," he said fondly, "are the heraldic monsters."

How exotic they were. Some were familiar; a magnificent dragon, a handsome unicorn. But others were more curious: a griffin, half lion half eagle; a cockatrice, cock in front, tailed dragon behind; the heraldic panther, which breathes fire; a sea lion, which was shown as a lion with a fish's tail; and of course a mermaid.

"So," the clerk concluded, "have you any thoughts as to what you might like?"

London: The Novel by Edward Rutherford (page 616 "London Bridge")

A couple of years ago I was sitting at home in a rather bored state. There was nothing on the TV, the weather wasn't quite good enough to go outside and I had exhausted the Internet of all the billions of files available to me. It was only at this point, noticing a painting my Grandad had done many years before, did my mind start to wonder towards Family Crests. Being somewhat of a traditionalist Coats of Arms have always been something that have vaguely interested me. When designing the cover for our school yearbook I had used Highgate's crest as the main centrepiece. Now, after a few Google searches, I soon realised that the Burge family doesn't really have a crest of sorts and that the art of heraldry is viciously complicated to an apathetic mind. However, a few weeks back I read the passage above and immediately started researching the art of forming Arms again.

It turns out that Heraldry is as fascinating as it is complex and although the art form is guarded by the pompous and dusty nature of the College of Arms it is certainly worth getting into. The idea of painted shields have been around since Hastings yet the art of Heraldry became more of a fashion during the crusades and on through medieval times. Originally reserved for knights it wasn't long before all nobleman and alderman were having their own crests designed.

On that note crests isn't strictly the right wording, in fact none of my previous knowledge on heraldry appears to be right. In fact there is a whole language to describe the varying forms and combinations. Although you can generally make up what you want on a coat of arms their are still strict rules and regulations that must be adhered to. After supporters and tinctures and coronets and helms the entire business can seem overly structured and the passing of arms down a family line opens a whole can of worms of further intricacies.

However, the process is genuinely enjoyable and can produce some stunning pieces of work. Whether it's a grand motif or simply a symbol of status the Arms of a person can portray true character in even its most basic form. And so, with my head buzzing with Lions Argent and Rampant Purpure I leave you with the official Blazon for the Royal Coat of Arms (above).

Quarterly, first and fourth Gules three lions passant gardant in pale Or armed and langued Azure (for England), second quarter Or a lion rampant within a double tressure flory-counter-flory Gules (for Scotland), third quarter Azure a harp Or stringed Argent (for Ireland), the whole surrounded by the Garter; for a Crest, upon the Royal helm the imperial crown Proper, thereon a lion statant gardant Or imperially crowned Proper; Mantling Or and ermine; for Supporters, dexter a lion rampant gardant Or crowned as the Crest, sinister a unicorn Argent armed, crined and unguled Proper, gorged with a coronet Or composed of crosses patée and fleurs de lis a chain affixed thereto passing between the forelegs and reflexed over the back also Or. Motto 'Dieu et mon Droit' in the compartment below the shield, with the Union rose, shamrock and thistle engrafted on the same stem.

Less Pixels, More Paper

2009-09-01T01:56:00.000-07:00

Travel Writing

2009-08-31T13:43:00.000-07:00

I've recently got back from a trip to Eastern Europe. Naturally, such a prolonged period away from viable computer and Internet access is going to kick up the usual excuses for leaving this blog stagnate and quiet for so long. Although I did manage to get one or two little pieces up online during my time abroad it hasn't nearly been as much as I would have wished. However, while away, I did rediscover my love for writing.

For six weeks I somehow managed to keep a day to day (ish) journal of where I went, what I did and what I saw. I absolutely loved it. After a long day I found nothing better than relaxing in a quiet bar, a hostel common room, my bed or even the hallway of a sleeper train and digest what I had experienced that day. There was something about being able to write it all down, get it out of my brain and see my thoughts on paper that was so enjoyable. I am no travel writer and I'm sure that a lot of what I wrote was just absent ramblings from a tired and confused mind. The strangest thing, not including me being able to sit quietly for hours at a time, was that I have yet to re read any of it. At no point did I feel the urge to look back at what I wrote or correct any past annotations. I hope that I manage to remain disciplined in this as it would be sad to change what has happened - like editing a holiday picture on photoshop to make it seem somehow more appealing. I enjoyed writing so much I found myself actually taking less pictures preferring to enjoy the moment and scribble down some reminiscent thoughts rather than try to out do a Google image search with as many megapixels as my student budget could afford.

Not that I suppose anyone cares but, despite its personal appearance, I'm happy to lend it to anyone who wants to read it. From the cold fields of Auschwitz to the abandoned city of Chernobyl, the minefields of Bosnia and the cool coast of Croatia the trip was an incredible experience which I hope that my writing reflects somehow. I certainly hope to carry on my writing in the future, even just for my own enjoyment if not for anything else.

London: The Novel

2009-08-31T13:38:00.000-07:00

When I was ten I moved down to London. Having come from a small farmhouse on the Welsh border the culture shock was incredible. Morning routines no longer involved feeding the pigs and chickens nor clearing the path of snow. My route to school was still on a bus but no longer exclusively with school friends. There were no fields or styles or lakes at the bottom of the garden. The majority of my friends were Asian, the playground was walled concrete and the dawn chorus had vanished. I remember seeing my first Donner kebab through a greasy shop window and being scared witless. "How did that used to be a cow!". Yet as time passed I got to know this new place, this concrete jungle. I learned her roads, her shops and markets. I explored the towns, the different cultures and varying districts. I bathed in her museums and galleries, her education was the best bar none. I grew up with her enjoying my first beers, getting my first job (in a pub naturally) and she provided me with more adventures than a voracious young lad could ask for. It wasn't long before I fell in love and now, after more than a decade, could call no other place home.

It was therefore with pure joy and wonder that I read Edward Rutherford's epic novel 'London'. The story follows the growth and evolution of the greatest city in the world across sixteen centuries. From the great Roman rule to the Victorian engineers right up to the late 90's. With a host of characters whose family tree's span - as well as mingle - through time the book is a masterpiece of adventure, history and storytelling.

For me the book was a huge eye opener. I am not arrogant enough to think I know my city even remotely well. There are vast parts of London I am yet to go anywhere near. There are thousands of streets I have yet to walk down. Even in my most well trodden parts there are things that surprise me still. But to have a book that takes you through this ancient place in such vision, colour and charm is like sitting down with a best friend and sharing past adventures over a cool pint.

So often throughout the book you hear of the escapades of certain characters on streets that you have often visited. The familiar names that I've known since a boy come to life with Rutherford's descriptions, explanations and story telling. The city comes to life in his work taking on more facets of character than I have ever known it to take and makes you just fall in love with the place over and over again.

For those not from London, or those who indeed don't like the city, the book is still a marvellous read. Relaying the history of this iconic place makes for fantastic reading and could even pull you closer to the river based town. As quoted by the Daily Telegraph, "few literary novels tell us as much about the history of modern humans, or have such charity".

Taking the Peace

2009-08-12T14:44:00.000-07:00

The Peace Camp outside the Houses of Parliament has become, despite every possible effort, a permanent fixture on the infamous Square. It all began in 2001 when Brain Haw, a carpenter from Essex, set up his camp in protest to war wherever it was found in the world. Even though the camp was started before the 9/11 attacks on America it soon became the symbol of the Iraq (and now Afghanistan) Antiwar movement for Britain. The rise and falls of the camp are endless and indeed still ongoing. Haw used to stand on the corner continually bellowing his views and disagreements through a megaphone onto the walls of Parliament. His camp at one point stretched the entire length of the square and was festooned with banners, posters, letters and tents. The Serious Organised Crime and Police Act of 2005 failed to remove him and he fought every legal attempt made upon him and his camp to obliterate their stand. Defiant and resilient it was a great embodiment of the peace movement in Britain, shadowed by the vast grandeur of Parliament yet still being heard.

Slowly, however, it began to grow quiet and tired. The majority of the signs were removed by Police with the remaining ones now tattered, beaten and dirty. Only a couple of people gather there at any one time mostly to bring Brian food and supplies. The court hearings have become stagnate as they run up thousands of pounds in tax payer bills. Even Haw has grown quiet, propped up by two crutches he doesn't even voice his venomous concerns anymore leaving the talking to the weather stained posters, illegible through the grime as well as unsourced rhetoric. The Peace Camp is still the only place where a citizen can protest outside Parliament on a whim and is still, in many respects, a symbol for peace in Britain. Yet now, every time I see it, a single thought always enters my head. "Is that it?"

Those shabby tents, those hand scrawled banners. Is this really the symbol of peace in Britain? Is this what we have decided to construct to make the politicians sit up and listen in? Although you could never argue with Haw's staying power the rest of the camp - visually at least - lacks in any real effort or objective. Gone are the camps glory days of original Banksy artwork and multi coloured flags flying high. What have they been replaced with? As far as I can tell, nothing.

Frankly I would rather it wasn't there and let dedication to peace fall back to our war memorials. Our lasting monuments to men and women who lay down their lives for the cause; not just sat in a tent. I am greatly opposed to the banning of free protest outside Parliament in the name of security yet when I look at the peace camp I feel thoroughly let down. It has so much weight behind it, so much history already. With well wishers like Tony Benn and Mark Thomas it could get a lot more done and subsequently do more for the people.

Sometimes when I see it I am torn in my reaction. Maybe this is what the peace movement should look like. Desperate yet unmoving. Tired yet hardening. Downtrodden but not forgotten. But then I look at it again and the fact it looks like nothing at all fills me with disappointment. I want the camp to inspire more people to strive for a better world. I want the issues discussed, the ideas debated, the movement pushed forward. I want people to travel to see it and leave with hope in their hearts. I want a permanent structure that we can be part of, that evolves with the changing times. I want the real estate to be taken advantage of, for politicians to wonder the camp and be reminded why we put them in that building across the street.

But instead we're left with a few tents and some shabby posters. Maybe it is a true reflection of the British peace movement. Unorganised, stale and depressing. Here, yes, but going nowhere. A hodgepodge of demands but no real ideas. Wasted land left to a tired few.

The Weather Man

2009-08-08T23:43:00.000-07:00

It is with deep regret and a sad heart that I have to admit something to you all. I am not proud of my actions, nor their consequences. Although the decision was not meticulously planned or even thoroughly thought out it was of my own taking and has thus humbled me. If it brings some comfort to your heart then let it be known that this in no way represents the good country of Slovenia and I hope the proud people can forgive me for this disgusting act that has tarnished their culture, their reputation and their dignity. For let it be known that yesterday - I went to McDonald's.

To be fair, it was only chips but I haven't eaten, or at least don't remember eating, a McDonald's since 2006 after a heavy rowing session at York. Completely drained or energy, dehydrated and physically shaking from the exhaustion we would pull into McDonald's to simply get the calories back in our bodies. In that condition it is amazing how many cheeseburgers you can pack away without the use of your molars. I think I managed 12 once. Anyway, sitting their with my accomplice with that bright packaging and sub standard food eating it simply to fill a void in my stomach I began thinking about a favorite film of mine called The Weather Man.

Directed by Gore Verbinski and starring Nicolas Cage the film follows Chicago weatherman David Spritz. While his career is going well his personal life is severely suffering. His ex wife is moving on, he struggles to treat his kids equally and his father - who he has always had a distant relationship with - is now dying. He sees the wrongs, it seems he always has, and promises to make amends reuniting his family and making his father proud. Then, when a job offer for a huge promotion to New York comes along it seems that nothing can stop David spiraling out of control.

The film is full of quiet cinematography that goes so well with the gentle narration from Spritz. In fact the script is remarkable in its ability to explain his situation whilst at the same time be the recognisable ramblings of another mans mind. Often chopping and changing between subjects, turning over ideas in his head, it is easy to follow and thoroughly absorbing. At the same time the colours within the film, along with certain shots are gentle and help reflect the bitterly cold Chicago winter. At the beginning I love how Spritz goes through the motions of a weatherman at the green screen while he drinks his morning coffee looking out from his penthouse floor to ceiling windows. Its like his own personal Tia Chi as he prepares for the day and its these small actions which help divulge the character and make him more affable.

The Weatherman fails to become victim to the "Hollywood Effect", unashamedly trying to please its audience by abandoning all realism, dilemma and any scene that may require thought. For this it worth watching. David is not the type of guy to win the girl, save the day and live happily ever after and therefore he doesn't. What he does do is try to make the best of bad situations like all of us do. Usually he completely fails like encouraging his daughter to finish a race to learn a lesson only to tear her knee ligaments in the process. This comes across further when he sticks up for his son who is being abused by his councilor. His revenge is ridiculous and pathetic but so full of the emotion and desperation of a failed father that you cant help but feel empathy for this man doing his best.

Finally, there are certain themes that carry through the film. Completely plausible they evolve as Spritz does - his thoughts, and thus narration, adapting alongside them. One is his growing interest in archery that builds up to the only yet seriously tense climax of the film. The other is the masses, who while they both love and hate him, continue to throw fast food at him at random. "Fast food. Things that people would rather throw out than finish. It's easy, it tastes all right, but it doesn't really provide you any nourishment. I'm fast food." Once again these ponderings help keep your attention.

I actually didn't watch the film for months due to its shockingly bad advert. The ad tried to portray the film as a slapstick family fun film that will have your rolling in the isles. It really wont! The comedy is dark and brutal, surprisingly British in fact. The script isn't obvious nor is it full of punchlines. Why they tried to portray it like this I have no idea. One thing is for sure is that it is definitely worth watching and those with perhaps a more creative flare will get more out of it. However, don't YouTube the advert or you will shelf this great piece of cinema with the likes of "Just Friends" and "Old School".

I leave you with this. "Who gets hit with a fucking pie, anyway? Did anyone ever throw a pie at Thomas Jefferson? Or Buzz Aldrin? I doubt it. But this is like the ninth time I got - ........ Clowns get hit with pies"

The Qwerty Keyboard

2009-08-06T08:08:00.000-07:00

For the last few months Ive been travelling around Eastern Europe. In between gawping at cathedrals and getting lost in the old towns of previously unthought of countries there have always been three things you can find. A chilled bottle of coke, a magnum classic and a computer with an Internet connection. They have come in many forms - the internet cafes that is, Magnums and Coke seems to rarely change. Sometimes in the basement of some bombed out building, othertimes provided by some casual hippy hostel. However, despite the ability to contact the Western World at the drop of a hat there is always one last hurdle that never seems to go away. The differentiating forms of the Qwerty keyboard.

Right now Im in Zagreb in Croatia, carefully dancing around the foreign characters and alien symbols that are needed in this part of the world. On this version, although most of the letters are in the "right place" it took me fifteen minutes to find the @ and the y and the z are opposites. However, despite my moaning its not to difficult to use (if you dont need apostrophes) and Ive quickly adapted to its strange ways and forms.

The Qwerty keyboard was invented by newpsaper editor Christopher Sholes sometime around the 1870s. The mostly unknown inventor of the type writer spent many years trying to perfect his platform for typeing. Bizarrely he was not trying to improve it.

The main issue found when using a typewriter was called "hammer clashes". This was when two bars would crash together if struck in too rapid a sucession, jamming the system and sometimes even damaging the machine. Sholes worked endlessly to perfect his design trying numerous configurations and alignments. His aim was actually to slow down the users ability to type preventing less crashes. Looking down on the board it is awash with perverse tricks. The most commonly used letters are scatterred all over the rows and levels concentrated on the left hand side forcing right handed people to use their weaker hand. It is a feat of anti-engineering that the keyboard is actually designed to under perform with the most inneffcient configuration of keys.

Jared Diamond describes in his book "Guns, Germs and Steel" the ludicrous nature of such a product in the modern world. "When improvements in typewriters eliminated the problem of jamming, trials in 1932 with an efficiently layed out keyboard showed that it would let us double our speed and reduce our typing effort by 95%." However, by the time this was realised the Qwerty keyboard was already heavily entrenched.

I dont think intograting a second more efficient keyboard would not be hard even today. Introducing a new keyboard at school level would allow the slow dilution of the second keyboard until eventually, after many decades, there would be a complete world wide haul over. The speed at which children adopt new technologies leaves me in no doubt that they would be able to handle to two different layouts with ease.

But is there actually a need? Do we really need to type faster? Is a 90% effort reduction actually that obvious? Well probably. But right now, before I even think about a whole new version, Im just looking forward to getting back to where the @ symbols are obvious, the apostrophes are a plenty and where the zeds and whys know there place.

Imagery through Consequence

2009-07-16T10:16:00.000-07:00

I'm currently travelling through Europe and will be doing so for the next four weeks. Needless to say that getting the time and the internet access to write a proper blog post is near impossible. In fact Im glad fabio said no holiday pics because the chances of being able to download images off my camera are about as likely as a German train running on time (I know - I thought they were amazing too but all four that we've taken have been late)

However, I do wish I could - and will in the future attempt to - show you some of the pictures I've taken in Berlin. The capital of Germany as everybodz knows has had a difficult and tormentful past. Two world wars, the collapse of an empire, three recessions, two plagues, a cold war, a physical divide of the entire city - it's amaying that it is still standing. In fact during the bombing runs of the Second World War over 90% of the city was destroyed. Ninety percent! That meant that as we walked around looking at the sites, taking in the history and walking the sands of time the majority of buildings were either new of had been rebuilt in some way.

German architecture is very strong and their love for great stone is evident. The old buildings that survived the war stand tall and proud creating fantastic centrepieces and skylines. However, as you get closer their character comes through in startling contrast. The stone has been patched up with new stone, cemented into places into the original feature. This causes a patchwork affect as the stone will never be of the same colour. In some instances entire statues, columns or towers have had to be replaced. The buildings bear enormous scars from the destruction and violence of war. In some cases it is even difficult to tell the original structure apart from the repairs.

It got me thinking that in so much of my work I am striving for new. I want it to look crisp and clean. In many instances I won't consider the true journey of some work as I'm worried that how it will affect my developing idea. But in all the briefs I get their are stories to be told, characters to be built and sometimes I don't take the time to truely reflect that in my work. Looking towards the third year, and having seen the outcome cause and history can do to imagery, this is something I want to be very aware of in the future.

Pedal Pusher Review

2009-07-12T01:50:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to see Pedal Pusher, the new production by Theatre Delicatessen. I've seen a lot of work by budding young theatre company before and all have been brilliant, therefore, being a keen cyclist, my expectations were high for this new performance... and they didn't fail.

Pedal Pusher follows three Gods of the cycling world - Jan Ullrich, Marco Pantani and Lance Armstrong - over five years that changed sporting history forever. From Jan Ullrich winning the Tour de France in 1997, through the near-collapse of the Tour de France in 1998, Armstrong's battle with cancer and the allegations of drug abuse that have dogged cycling for so long. For those who don't know Le Tour well it used to be a hotbed for drug taking, cheating and extreme doping - anything to win. Pedal Pusher drives this topic well clearly but balances it brilliantly with the intensity of riding one of the greatest cycling challenges in the world. You never see riders actually taking drugs either adding to the speculative atmosphere that was hyped up by the media. The insanity of Le Tour grows throughout the show to a fantastic climax that leaves you in a horrific state of awe.

Pedal Pusher's brave and beautifully constructed bike racers are brilliant. Inspired by Raging Bull, no two stages are portrayed in the same way. In one case the actors mimic a final sprint, other times chairs are used to expertly show the different riding styles, another race is done through freeze frame, another as a physical fight between two actors. It's hard to describe but damn it looks good and with the visuals being accompanied by a dramatic commentary you are truly gripped on the action. The scenes really made me think how sometimes in graphic design we opt for the most realistic or down the line approach because we're not brave enough to try different, untested methods. One of my aims for the coming year is to try and be more courageous in my work drawing inspiration from productions like Pedal Pusher.

The script has been developed a lot from biographies and real accounts which gives the play a documentary feel. Cyclists and followers of cycling will pick up on the detail that really elevates the play beyond just a show about cyclists. You can tell that the main people involved are part of the sport. However, this certainly doesn't dilute the enjoyment of the less cycling mad audience members. Throughout you hear certain phrases that you've heard these sporting heroes speak on television, which ads a great realism and nostalgia. One of my favourite lines is by Lance Armstrong and, being the geek I am, was waiting for them to say it. It's a line that has become Armstrong's defence for all the endless drug allegations and speculation that has dogged his career. It was then used in the Nike commercial below to great effect.

Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed Pedal Pusher and it took me back to when I used to cycle regularly in London. Afterwards, all I wanted to do was get on my bike and chew up some miles on the slick London roads. The thrill, the chase, the effort, the determination is all there. The major topics of doping, athleticism, euphoria and despair are intricately woven together. If you've only been grabbing the occassional highlight of this years tour, Pedal Pusher will make you want to grab a bike.

Tickets are on sale now - a great night out.

American Psycho Book vs Film

2009-07-10T09:40:00.000-07:00

In three days time I am embarking on a trip to the other side of Europe to Chernobyl, the epicentre of the first nuclear power station meltdown that killed scores of people, devastated the region and sent plumes of radioactive dust into the atmosphere to drift over the rest of Europe. Not exactly you're local tourist spot granted but still a place of real global interest and intrigue. Some of the places I'm visiting don't have antibiotics let alone DVD players therefore, as a last minute treat, I went round to my sisters to watch a real gem of a movie that will set me up for Eastern Europe perfectly - American Psycho.

I've seen American Psycho many times and am a great fan of the book. Usually when books are adapted for film they are exactly that - adapted. And American Psycho is no different, although I would say it was tamed more than adapted. A mere drop of blood in a ocean of dumbing down. Let me explain.

For those who don't know, the story follows the life of a young hipster called Patrick Bateman as he strides through his repetitive New York life of over indulgence, luxury suits and $700 lunches. Slowly his mind begins to unravel, pursuing his homicidal urges. As the body counts rise and no one seems to notice Patrick continues to doubt his sanity along with his stability.

Staring a younger and thus less annoying Christian Bale the film is an intense thriller throwing you from calm office scene discussing the quality of business cards to the intensely violent and brutal torturing of innocent bystanders - both actions just as petite as each other. It's difficult to keep up with the intensity of Bateman's character swings. The film places you so well within his character that, like Bateman, you're not sure if what is happening is real or not. The film is brutally violent in a way you don't experience in other genres (including horror) like the biting to death of victims and cruel choice of weapons (axes, coat hangers, chainsaws!?).

However the film - with all its blood, gore, explicity and twisting psychopathy is as threatening as having afternoon tea with your local vicar when compared to Bret Easton Ellis's creation. The book actually makes your stomach turn, makes you have to physically turn away from the page and makes your throat dry from breathing so hard through your mouth. Now I'm not a masochist nor a psychopath therefore it's hard to justify why this is one of the best books I've ever read. One reason could be that I hold books to the same ransom as films and music; they should be emotive and effective on your mind. That is pretty flimsy reasoning for enduring what is basically three hundred pages of extremely graphic torture. But the genius is not in the violence but in the detail.

Bateman has a habit of describing everything in perfect detail. From the soaps he uses in the morning, the type of glass he drinks from to exactly what he is wearing (including underwear). That same unemotional description is carried through to his homicidal actions reciting the technological sales pitch of a nail gun that he's using to secure a call girl to the floor of his apartment. It's truly bizarre! It's this detail that the film translates well that makes it a worthy visual accomplice. What was a twelve page chapter on a new CD is placed perfectly alongside the killing of a colleague, a dillusional monologue to an intrinsically planned murder.

Overall I feel the film is a necessary dilution of the book - and it has to be. To visually produce the murders that Ellis writes would distract from the intricate parallels embedded within the storyline leaving the audience with the memory of splitting cartilage and nothing else. When I finished the book I was left with a feeling of confusion and spent the next week trying to pin point my own theory behind Bateman's actions. This, again, is vital to the character of the story and the film does well - if not better - to carry this off.

Interestingly, once you experience both the film and book you appreciate the individual works more. You're able to understand some of the parallels better and get more from the sublines and plots. So if you've only seen one I highly recommend that you suck it up, skip lunch and experience the other too.

Seven

2009-07-09T02:38:00.000-07:00

Last week I endured both the new Terminator and Transformer films and both times was left bitterly disappointed. Despite wavering my "there's no way that could happen" attitude I still felt shallow and empty by the credits; a feeling I could have got far quicker by smothering my five year old cousins baby rabbit with the pillow from his own bunkbed. I'll admit that the special effects and stunt sequences were at times truly breathtaking but frankly, being penetrated by a CGI team on a sugar high and a B12 deficiency just doesn't cut it for me. If I wanted to see up Megan Fox's skirt ten times a minute I'd go on Google, not hand over five of my hard earned pounds to Mr Odeon.

It is a sad truth that the American public are being bubble wrapped by their movie industry more and more, encased in a prison of inconsequential events and happy endings. At no point, in either movie, did I expect the good guy to perish or be sacrificed or the bad guys to win. Hell I didn't even expect a tough decision to be made. I'm not being intentionally masochistic but some human realism would be nice. I don't understand how I could watch over five hours of the human race on the breach of destruction and feel the same way I do about our Peugeot - "Yeah it's alright, but who cares if I write it off." The screenplays, scripts and plots are unchallenged if there at all and seem to lollop forward with a tedious inevitability. Merchandise sales before recognition is the mantra for the studios now.

You can understand my relief, therefore, when Five showed the epic thriller/horror film Seven (1995). Starring Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman and Gwyneth Paltrow the film follows the pursuit by two detectives for a biblicly obsessed serial killer in a dark, gloomy and ungodly city. The films script and storyline are the foundation for this fantastically shot and edited rollercoaster of twists and turns; the sets and cinematography all culminating together in perfect balance. Throughout the film you are faced with moments of sheer suspense that makes you physically restless. You find yourself pushed down paths of reason only to find these were false hopes. Eventually you sucumb to the unfolding events that are so far out of your control, moving faster and harder than the brain can generate a soft landing for you.

There are modern films out there which have also refused to bambify their audience - the latest Bond and Batman films come to mind - as they retain their original ruthlessness. An audience is there to entertain, not to pamper and if that means leaving them feeling like they've been hit with a sledgehammer then so be it.

Interestingly, Seven nearly got the Hollywood makeunder when the studio decided to take on Andrew Kevin Walker's screenplay on the condition the ending was toned down and made a lot happier - and I mean lambs, buttercups and rainbows happier! Thankfully the studios choice of director, David Fincher, was sent the original script by accident and refused to make the changes keeping the shock final twist in all its horrendously twisted glory. What was left is a masterpiece that will leave your heart in your mouth, your stomach at your feet and your Transformer 2 DVDs in the bin.

Alvin Reborn

2009-07-08T13:17:00.000-07:00

DSV Alvin, the worlds first deep sea exploration submarine, is due for a makeover. Built in 1964 by the US Navy, Alvin has travelled the depths of the oceans illuminating the Titanic, discovering hydrothermal vents and aiding the exploration of what's on our sea bed both natural and man made. The impressive sub first came to fame when, only two years into its mission, Alvin recovered a hydrogen bomb that had been lost at a depth of 3000ft. The three man sub even sank (to a depth of 5000ft) during transportation only to be found again ten months later completely intact and in perfect working order. It was even said - due to freezing temperatures and lack of oxidisation - that the lunches on board were still edible!

Named after the original innovator and prime mover of the project, Allyn Vine, the prestigious sub is having a techno haul over. New equipment include an 18% expansion of the cockpit bubble, another mobility thruster, more lighting and HD video equipment and adjustments to its arms and sampling tools. The little runner is even having a complete recharge with brand new Lithium-ion batteries to replace its aging lead based ones. The transformation will run into the millions but after 45 years of service and over 4,500 dives it has earned its stripes and then some. Once renovated Alvin 2.0 will be able to "dive to depths of 4miles instead of 2.8 and survey over 93% of the ocean bottom versus 63" says National Geographic.

Of course this is a bit detached from Graphic Design but Alvin has opened the doors to discovery and brought back images, information and samples of our world and history that had otherwise been lost at sea. Its role as an explorer for the world cannot be snubbed and we can only dream about the discoveries it is yet to find within the deep. Alvin is a maginificent feat of design and technology and therefore, I honor it with this Smirnoff advert - the closest we could get to unearthing the seabed without your help! Bon Voyage!

Pedal Pusher Poster Design

2009-07-08T03:18:00.001-07:00

Last night saw the first performance of Pedal Pusher, the latest theatre production by the budding young theatre company Theatre Delicatessen. I've worked with Theatre Delicatessen for a few years now as their Head Graphic Designer and once again designed the marketing material for the production.

Pedal Pusher follows three cyclists — Jan Ullrich, Marco Pantani and Lance Armstrong – through the five years that changed sporting history forever. From Jan Ullrich winning the Tour de France in 1997, through the near-collapse of the Tour de France in 1998, Armstrong’s battle with cancer and the allegations of drug abuse that have dogged cycling for so long.

To design the posters I worked closely with Director Roland Smith to create an image which gave the right feel of Le Tour. Being a keen cyclist myself I am aware, in some small capacity, of the physical effort that is required and the sheer determination and grit that is demanded. Having decided that anything racy or speedy would be one giant helping of cliche we instead focused on manipulating a single image to really bring forward the atmosphere of endurance cycling. I made the image look hotter - even painful - and blurred the detail to increase that nauseating feeling when your body just goes into the zone and your mind can't think. Adding a sun burst intensified that although getting the angles right was quite tricky.

The typeface choice was important. I chose one - which I can't remember the name of - which reflected the idea of roads and tracks and could be used universally throughout the media without making it too difficult to read. Finally, on the back of the flyer is the same image just reversed and translucent. This was to help place the audience in the race, an element which is being used to great affect in the production.

Tickets are on sale and on the back of past productions I highly recommend everyone to go and watch. I'll follow on with some reviews after the press night.

A Mirror For All Man

2009-07-07T12:50:00.001-07:00

Tonight, the world said goodbye to Michael Jackson with tributes, words and celebrations from some of the greatest Motown, soul, blues and pop artists the world has seen. Pictures of the stars four decade career were displayed to the 17,000 attendees to his funeral as no doubt millions watched the event on whatever televisions they could get their hands on. "Memorial, celebration and spectacle all rolled into one" was how the BBC commentators summed it up.

I have, since I began listening to music, been a Michael Jackson fan. The first memories I have were singing along to Bad on cassette in a den my sister and I had made in the garage. I would force my parents to endure my own Michael Jackson concerts and must have watched the film "Moonwalker" more times than I had had hot dinners. I saw him perform at the old Wembley Stadium on the world History Tour, a spectacular show that hasn't been matched to this day.

When I look back at Michael Jackson's career I can only describe it as extra terrestrial. His songs, dance, performance and entertainment were beyond and above anything else we have ever seen. When he appeared on the Ed Sullivan show at the age of ten people couldn't believe a boy that young could sing with such heart, such soul, such passion. As he grew his music just kept on coming. Out of the hundreds of songs he created there are only a handful that I don't adore... there are none that I hate. Endless number ones, the greatest album of all time, more records sold than any other artist ever before. The man was undoubtedly a musical genius, but to be so from the age of five to the day he died is unparalleled. And then there was the way he moved. We are so used to choreography and bands dancing away to their tinny soundtracks that we have somehow lost the importance of a performer to be able to carry themselves around a stage. The way Michael danced dominated the crowd, it enhanced the performance and once again it was better than anything we had experienced before. If you watch the video for Smooth Criminal, every single move is perfectly timed, wonderfully held, brilliantly put together. His way of dancing and holding himself on stage has gone on to inspire hundreds more. When it came to putting on a show, making a video and entertaining people there was only one Michael Jackson. The reality is, this sort of showmanship, these music videos, these dance routines will never be seen again leaving displays like Smooth Criminal as something of an artifact.

For one person to be as musically gifted as Michael is astonishing. For that same person to also be of the same calibre of dancer, entertainer and performer is unearthly. For that very same person to then be of the as high a calibre and moral makeup as Michael is God taking the piss. I can't think of a single malicious act that he has carried out and can't think when he has ever sort out or intended to bring harm to any person. Who is this guy?? My generation is teaming with celebrities and superstars who have failed the most basic of moral lessons. As a musical performer it's almost his perogative to be a twat - we expect it! Some try to use their childhood success as an excuse but that falters under the scourching spotlight of Michael Jackson's fame. The man had the world stage at his beckon call and not once did he use it for revenge, retribution or bad. Instead he used it to depserately spread a message of love, hope and care. Michael Jordan reminded use that Jackson holds the record for being the most generous philanthropist on the planet giving more money to charities than any other single person. His gentleness, his kindness and his innocence would prove to be his downfall in this cynical, harsh and violating world of ours.

When I listen to Michael Jackson songs I am still astonished at the brazenly open messages he promotes in his lyrics. "Heal the world, make it a better place". How can you be more honest? We cringe under his unfaltering demand for love and kinsmanship. We cringe because we know we can't do it. We can't live up to this unadulterated love that he speaks of with such ease. In many ways it's childish because he doesn't see the political and economic complications but then how sad are we to see that as a negative? It is painfully humbling to realise that Michael Jackson when given the world stage asked for humanity and love.

Of course the real tragedy is that a young man has died, children have lost a father, siblings have lost a brother and parents have lost their son. But as time passes we shall find that Michael Jackson, his music, his passion and his influence on the world will live on forever.

We're Not Afriad

2009-07-07T08:51:00.001-07:00

Today London commemorated the four year anniversary of the July 7 bombings with the opening of a memorial dedicated to the 52 people who lost their lives. Architects Carmody Groarke, who designed the memorial, said that the individual pillars of steel represented each person and the "random nature" in which they lost their lives.

I'm from London and know the city very wel. I regularly use all the stations that were hit so when it happened the feeling is very personal. The staggering thing for me was how quickly everything went back to normal. The next day we all got the tube, we rode buses, we got on with our lives. Over the coming year more and more banners began appearing across the city- "7 million Londoners: 1 London".

Hours after the bombs struck a young computer technician called Alfie Dennen set up a website called We're Not Afraid that people could upload pictures to stating how they would not be intimidated by the actions of terrorists. The site became a worldwide phenomenon with Internet users across the planet adding their own photos and statements. Many sent out messages to London and its population yet all showed the same message of solidarity. The striking thing about the images - and there are hundreds of thousands of them - are how personal they are. People have used pictures of their children, babies, families, pets, their favourite portraits and their most beloved memories to send out their message. I made one with a picture of me and my sister in it although it was on a past computer that has long since gone to pastures new.

Today the site is still running with hundreds of galleries available to view. A parody website called "We're Shitting Ourselves" was set up for a while - some classic British humour there - but has since expired. What I've learnt from the website is that if a topic is important enough then there is no point in hanging back when delivering your message. Make it raw, make it personal, leave yourself open; otherwise there's just no point.

British Police Uniforms

2009-07-07T02:42:00.000-07:00

There are at times, I am willing to admit, that I am a geek! The majority of my character is deeply embedded within the city bars, the rugby pitches, the welsh countryside and the Uni gym. However, from time to time I get swept up in television SciFi, I own all the Sharpe novels and I am irrationally annoyed by bad kerning on shop fronts. It's a problem and I need help...

I mention - or confess - this now because of a quote from the Award winning (but in no way justifying) programme Battlestar Galactica that got me thinking about the subject of this article. There is a moment when the spaceship colony (bear with me) is struggling to keep public order among it's 50,000 population. The President of the fleet (please... bear with me) asks the head of the military, Admiral Adama, to instigate marshall law and take over public enforcement. His response his very perceptive. "There's a reason you separate the military and the police. One fights the enemies of the state, the other serves and protects the people. When the military becomes both, then the enemies of the state tend to become the people."

Back in April, David Starky commented on the British Police in the wake of the G20 protests in London and the ensuing riots. Usually I try to ignore David Starkey and his rude, arrogant, patronising commentary. However, for once, he drew an interesting observation that the uniform of the Police is becoming more and more militaristic in its design and style.

The design of the Police uniform is known the world over. Since their emancipation by the then Home Secretary Robert Peel (1820's), the police force have always been distinctly separate from the military. The uniform was based upon casual wear at the time with its foundation being a white shirt and tie covered by a jacket not too dissimilar from the suit. The colour has always been a very dark navy blue (although today it's black more often than not) never incorporating the Army's red. It took years, and many officers lives, for the Police to finally adopt 50 flint lock pistols under Peel's orders to be used only in the most "exceptional of circumstances". In fact your local bobby has almost never carried a firearm, keeping on his belt instead a selection of tools including torches, handcuffs and a truncheon. The duty belt didn't come into form until the 1990's when instead officers used their pockets. Details in the design were well thought out but subtle like the high collars on the tunics to prevent garroting and clip on ties to prevent strangulation. The tall helmets evolved from the original cane reinforced hats that could be stood on to climb or look over walls. All in all the Police looked smart, approachable and part of the community, a service to protect the general public with the style and design reflecting their civilian status. The Boys in Blue, the bobbies on the beat, your friendly neighbourhood special.

However, in the last few years the Police uniform has been going through more and more changes with each addition seeming to give them a much more militaristic flavour. Some changes have inevitably come about like the wider introduction of stab proof vests as more - I'm trying not to say deviants - are carrying knives. However, other changes like the replacement of white shirts and black ties for UnderArmour t-shirts seem misjudged. Officers now wear black combat trousers with thigh pouches instead of just normal trousers. The epaulets, originally introduced so officers could be easily identified, now just seem to be a selection of indistinguishable numbers and brandished rank. They've even started migrating down the shoulder towards the chest - the same area that the Army wear their epaulets (minus the institutionalised personnel number of the police). The duty belt now openly houses all their enforcement equipment and weapons, strapped to a black canvas belt bolted together with the badge of the Met.

This alienation seems counter-active to other Police methods taken to bring 'the Force' closer to its communities. I'm reminded of the introduction of the hijab headwear into the female uniform for muslim women in the constabulary working within their communities (although I oppose the introduction seeing it as a wedge in social cohesion rather than an integration of foreign culture).

I firmly believe that riot police are of a different order and therefore their uniform should be of one too. All their heavy duty protective clothing, shields, helmets and hippy bashing equipment may make them look like stormtroopers but is needed regardless of their perceived heavy handed use. I personally believe it's the lack of an officer class selection and other failed administrative areas that are to blame for the downfall of the police over the last few years. But we have to remember that image is everything and the role of an informative guardian, protecting the general public from the minority rogues is being forgotten somewhat. For me there seems to be too much variety. Although there are many different positions and jobs within the police their roles are similiar enough to share attire. Why are there so many ad-ons and additions to the standard police uniform? Bizarrely, they should take a leaf out of the Army's uniform dress code book. In the military there is a standard dress depending on the varying forms of operations and deviation is not allowed by either rank or common sense. When soldiers are milling around their varying duties on barracks they don't coat themselves in kevlar jackets, nor do they wear their ceremonial headresses when fighting the Taleban in Helmand. Surely the police could adopt a similiar position with their own kit?

There seems to be this perception, mainly by Police spokesman, that coppers are always on the "frontline". Now I lived in Brixton for seven months and at no point would I compare my walk to Sainsbury's local to a bad day in Baghdad. The fact is that by openly wearing anti stab jackets and showing off all their public order kit, the Police alienate themselves from the community. Carrying around a small tin of pepper spray does not make you look like a force to be reckoned with anymore than brandishing a tasar gun makes you look like the perfect person to ask for directions. I understand that if you're about to take on a battalion of anti-capitalists held up in Natwest with a hesco bag full of bricks then looking like you've just walked off the Deathstar would be beneficial. But if you're not then wouldn't it be more suitable to look like you're part of the community rather than above it?

The House of Salvador Dali

2009-07-06T13:08:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I travelled down to Spain. That sounds pretty luxurious but my parents actually live in France so for me it was more of an escape from snotty greetings, public musac and predictable menu's. In a few hours I was in the Costa Brava sunning myself on a beach, tucking into a paella and cringing at the thought of seeing some pink yeti from Essex screaming "Egg and Chips!" at the local cafe holders.

I was pleasantly surprised to say the least. Costa Brava is not the lurid, pie eating, anti suncream mini Britain I'd been led to believe it was (apparently that's Costa Del Sol down the coastline). The region is a beautiful coast line of cliffs, coves and beaches with white washed settlements perching on the edge of the sea bathing in the Spanish sun like their inhabitants - friendly, hospitable and open. Oh and of course, Dali obsessed.

Salvador Dali lived in the Costa Brava and therefore the area has a huge crush on the infamous artists. There are five museums in the local area all offering their own Dali experience. Being from London I am lucky enough to have some of the worlds greatest art collections on my doorstep. In fact there are two huge bronze Dali inspired sculptures outside the London Aquarium. Therefore I decided to visit a very special collection of his life and works - his own house.

On the quiet cove of Portlligat bedded into the rock is a small fishing house that Dali bought, leaving the hussle and bussle of Parisian life with his partner. The house was tiny, literally an entrance kitchen, bedroom and what you could probably pass off as a bathroom. It was exactly what Dali wanted explaining "it was here that I learnt to impoverish myself, to limit and file down my thought that it might become effective as an axe." But the house didn't remain this simple shed like structure. Over the next thirty years, as Dali's fame and fortunes grew so did his house as he added, expanded and designed more rooms structures and buildings. "Our house has grown like a true biological structure, by cellular additions" he explains. "Each new event in our life corresponded to a new cell, a room." This shows as you explore the house going from room to slightly bigger room to slightly curvier room. You can really see how it has evolved from Dali's mind gently over the decades.

Like a classic Mediterranean house nearly all of it is whitewashed both outside and in. Of course Dali has added his own twist by white washing some of the rock around the house and accentuating the curved walls of some rooms. The white washed walls also help bring out the pictures and other decoration that Dali has collected that are as eclectic and random as his works. A pink bucket here, a fox head there.. it's just weird.

What I really like about the house though is the way you can see all the stories it holds. Everything is somewhere for a reason, whether it's a toy rhino buried in a sofa cushion or the empty light boxes wrapped around a chair leg. These things are there and they all have there own little stories that we'll probably never know.

As Josep Pla once said "Dali's house is completely unexpected. It contains nothing more than memories, obsessions. There is nothing traditional, nor inherited, nor repeated, nor copied here. All is indecipherable personal mythology."

The Winter's Tale

2009-07-03T03:22:00.000-07:00

The production of William Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale has finally come to a close in London. Within a week, the budding young theatre company Theatre Delicatessen will start their next show Pedal Pusher - a gripping play based on the true stories from the Tour De France and the rise of one of the worlds greatest endurance cyclists Lance Armstrong.

I have been working with Theatre Delicatessen since their emancipation in 2007. Since then I have designed their logo and all their press materials. Our relationship has always worked very well together working closely with their set designers and directors to ensure that the styling within the play is carried forward into the marketing imagery. The Winter's Tale was a great play to produce a poster for. A rough synopsis would say it is about a mad King who is sure that his closest friends are all conspiring against him - so much so that he ends up destroying everything and everyone he has ever loved (a classic Shakespeare comedy you'll agree!). The design of the poster came from his blindness to sense, trust or reason. This was portrayed using varying buildings and skylines from London to bare down on the main character, standing in a nonchalant or maybe more unknowing pose while lighting a cigarette. Built within the the upside down skyline are flowers taken from Blint paintings. This apparently was part of the directors inspiration and flowers (as well as bare brick wall) play a large part in the play. The image was printed as posters and flyers that were handed around London as well as sent to all the major newspapers and journals in their press packs (it even cropped up on a host of online theatre review guides).

Dans La Tete

2009-07-02T14:45:00.000-07:00

I'm currently in France and therefore I thought this would be a good time to show you one of my favourite short French animation films. France is somewhat known for its skill with animation compared to the more Hollywood world of Disney and Pixar. Belleville Rendez-vous was a huge hit in the UK when it came out with its intelligent storyline, gripping action sequences and depth of characterisation despite no speaking parts throughout the entire film.

Dans Le Tete is from animation studio ESMA and follows the story of a young man joining the Army. Amazingly, for the French Armed Forces, he actually see's some action and things don't go as heroically as he first imagined. But that's just the beginning of a journey of discovering the true value of life. With some hysterically funny moments and beautifully innocent script the film leaves a lasting impression of the studio if the 'lesson' is a little flat.

My favourite element of this film is the facial expressions some of the characters are able to produce. When you look at the structure of the face ESMA have used it is very simple with hardly any realistic features. However, this does not impede their ability to convey certain emotions and provide some perfectly timed comedy moments.

Enjoy! And remember - it's all dans la tete!

The Elizabeth Cross

2009-07-02T13:08:00.000-07:00

The Elizabeth Cross is a new recognition medal ordered by The Queen to honour and commemorate those Armed Forces personnel who have lost their lives on active operations or through terrorism. The huge acts of service and sacrifice that our British Armed Forces make are second to none - only today did I hear that another two soldiers have lost their lives in Afghanistan. Upon hearing the news of this new method of recognition I quickly went online to research it and was met with a medal design of such subtle and humble beauty that it could equal the Victoria Cross (the highest honour possible).

The hallmarked silver cross is a stark and bold foundation for the medals detail and meaning. Its strong dynamic shape is as clear as its purpose. I feel it enhances the idea of a dedicated service more in its clarity - a reality that shouldn't be clouded with pomp and ostentation's. The arms of the cross bear floral symbols representing England (Rose), Scotland (Thistle), Ireland (Shamrock) and Wales (Daffodil). These emblems themselves add a further touch of patriotism, a detail that will be especially felt by regional regiments in the Army. The centre of the Cross bears the crowned Cypher of Her Majesty the Queen, an image that has become imprinted in British life and culture over the last fifty years (agreeably mainly through postboxes!). Whether this will change through the monarchs has not been made clear although I'm not sure it won't (in the same way the VC has kept its original creators initials). Wrapped in laurel wreaths and presented alongside a miniature medal the cross is breathtakingly honest and pure with firm symbolism of home, country and honour.

Eligibility for the cross extends to those serving personnel who lost their lives from the 1st January 1948 which seems highly fitting considering the infinite sacrifice. The MoD state that "The Elizabeth Cross is not a posthumous medal for the fallen but an emblem demonstrating tangible national recognition for Service families for their loss." I like that. You don't receive one simply for dieing but through the service you provided to your country and kinsmen and the thanks they give you for that.

Our Living Room Totem Pole

2009-06-30T03:44:00.000-07:00

This week the lads and I moved out of our flat. Although I haven't lived in it for that long it was a mammoth task of scrubbing walls, sweeping floors and shoving the hoover extension unceremoniously under the sofa's. So many old coins and artifacts from parties past were collected I was expecting Tony Robinson to come through the door any minute with his over excited eyebrows and a waterproof that is obviously the most expensive on "the dig". It took days but eventually the flat was restored to some form of former glory leaving only a few fruits in the fridge and the old toenail snagged on a the stairwell. Lovely!

One piece of evidence we did decide to leave for the future tenants was a totem pole I drew on the wall over a succession of nights with rather empty television scheduling. Using a permanent pen I sketched out the design in between the windows of the living room. I made up all the characters except the frog developing the styling from a selection of photos grabbed of Google.

It is common misconception that Totem poles were worshipped and that the characters represent certain Gods. In actual fact they are usually symbols of their towns, in the same way that clock towers might be the main centre for our own quaint villages here. They were also used as memorials when Chiefs and important people died (think along the same lines as coat of arms). However my favourite use, and an ironic twist, was their use as celebration sculptures to mark events. In our little flat that overlooks the busy Hyde Park junction there have been many great memories and events that have made the year. Hopefully this random tower of characters - eagle, wolf, owl, frog and ...erm, penguin?? - will serve to future flatmates as a mark of events gone past. Actually, on second thoughts, we'll probably just lose the deposit!

Au reviour Flat 28a!

British Lions Shirt Design

2009-06-28T01:28:00.000-07:00

Since the Lions have now lost the South Africa tour it may be a good time to blog on the Exclusive Lions Supporters Top I designed for FrontUp Rugby Wear. I was contact by Jon at FrontUp who asked me to send a few concepts for what was originally a gym tee brief. I got really stuck into it since rugby is a huge passion of mine. Simply put, I designed a range of t shirts that I would like to wear - bold, strong and unmistakably Rugby! I focused on silhouettes of rugby players, highlighting elements of the game - scrums, tackles, hospital passes - and embedded them alongside suitably dominating copy.

FrontUp decided that the designs were a bit too 'rugby' for the gym range but wanted to use my scrum design for the Lions tour. I had originally written underneath the scrum "Whatever it takes." A mantra I coined from the film Any Given Sunday and now regularly use during my own training routines. FrontUp however decided to change it but I guess they know their demographic better. Apparently the shirts are selling well and I'm looking forward to possible future briefs from Front Up.

To have a look at the shirt, click here.

The Unavoidable Memorials

2009-06-25T11:02:00.000-07:00

On the corner of the Leeds city square, just opposite the main junction, is a Nero coffee shop where consumers sit in a darkened overly air conditioned room drinking hastily made beverages while suspiciously peering out at the world through the tall dark windows. I don't understand this agoraphobic behaviour, especially when the sun is shinning like it is today. The city square, which is in fact a rectangle, is small by London comparisons but seems to have everything that you would except from the centre of a bustling metropolis. An art gallery at the back, the Town Hall to the right, a hotel to the left and a main road to casually observe passers by as you bask in the sun. There's also plenty of seating but the most popular spots are the oversized gallery steps, harbouring of which is a great example of polite British rebellion when away from the strict office seating format! You can also guarantee that, just to the right, will be a group of young lads practising their parkour skills on the boulders, walls and barriers adding their own gentle, non invasive noise to the overall atmosphere. Although they'll happily hop, balance and clamber up the walls of the museum, they never seem to venture onto the large War memorial that dominates the centre of the square - an act of respect that pleases the inner middle aged man inside me.

There are two War Memorials in the square. The first is the classic obelisk of cream stone, gently inscribed, flanked by strong iron statues personifying the virtues of the great campaigns that dominated the previous century. Humble but enduring, these memorials can be found in every city in Britain, slightly lesser in every town and at the least a stone cross in every village. The other is a plaque dedicated to the members of Leeds who have won the VC. The plaque is in a prominent location yet easy to walk past. In fact, despite it being the meeting point for the staff in the shopping centre opposite in case of fire, a past employer of mine didn’t even know it was there. However, its importance is not completely lost on some people who have filled the sandbox at its front to the brim with crosses, poppies and messages of thanks.

I was having my lunch when I began to ponder over the design of the large memorial and how recognisable they are across the country, not only in style but location as well. "To the Glorious Dead", "Pro Patria Mori", "Honit Soit Qui". From here my mind wondered (as if often does) to the other side of the road and down the high street at the varying architecture that lines the streets. Most buildings on the street are from different periods with, it seems, different property developers throughout the years trying to out do each other in some way. I then noticed that right opposite the War Memorial is a classic example of sixties architecture, the cheap concrete structures built by the lowest bidder for the least convenience. And it got me thinking. Despite all our village memorials, our endless plaques and our traditions of silence held each year, there is something in these concrete monstrosities that serve as a less dramatic monument of the sacrifice Britain made for peace.

To appreciate this you have to understand how poor Britain was after World War II. The reconstruction of cities that had been extensively bombed for such a long period of time was dealt manly by the tax payer unlike France who was given huge amounts of aid by America and Germany as a sort of losers fee. Even our commemorative monuments were nearly all made through public donation or small village taxes. This is quite evident when looking at London railway commemorative plaques bearing the names of those who laid down their lives. We had lost 1% of our population (347,000) the vast majority of which were young men. We owed vast sums to common wealth countries who had sacrificed their own forces for the good of the empire and we were desperately trying to rebuild our factories and infrastructure for peace time - something the USA never experienced. The world was about to start moving very quickly and we had only just got over a six year slog with Jerry (only three of which were aided by our American allies). To get a better perspective of this theory, think along these lines. In Britain, the street lamps glowed orange because we couldn't afford the more expensive gasses that made them glow white.

Some argue a benefit of this poverty is that orange permeates fog a lot better than white light. But other benefits remained more foreign. It is heavily argued that the tidal wave of demand for countries to receive their independence from Britain couldn't have come at a better time as Britain aimed to shed some further expenditure.

From a design point of view it's hard to realise that Britain’s poverty could have dictated this market so much. Many people in Britain remained on ration books well into the fifties and with industries only just regaining their feet there wasn't always the desired amount to spend on good ad space. Council housing and office towers had to be made fast and cheaply and our country is still littered with them up and down our streets. Our rail network remained bitterly undeveloped for decades. Our motor car industry became a global laughing stock as we rolled out cheap transport for a desperately poor nation. Inequality was high, moral was low and Britain crawled its way out of the darkness leaving its sketch pads and paint brushes behind.

We celebrate the horrendous cost of War behind beautiful statues and striking monuments. In the next few decades all but a handful of the remaining veterans will have disappeared - the memorials, in their grandeur, pushing those distant wars into the past further. Maybe to remember all we have to do is look at our surroundings and think humbly upon the financial battle scars our city landscapes are only just reforming.

RFH Leaflet Stand

2009-06-23T01:52:00.000-07:00

I was wondering around the Royal Festival Hall the other day with my sister when I came across these leaflet stands. Now, okay, I know what your thinking. Whatever, they're just leaflet stands and yes they look pretty and pretty stylish but still... it's only a bloody leaflet stand. That is true, although I was impressed by how well it worked, how tidy and smart it looked, how easy it was to browse the leaflets, how child friendly and adaptable it was and I thought "that deserves a place in a mediocre student blog." It's the least I could do...

But then it got my thinking - as I'm sure design is meant to. It seems to be that often the best solution is the simplest. Look at the genius of the Dyson vacuum cleaner (which is only a vacuum cleaner after all) and the product design hype that has caused. It is because it is simple, it's effective and most importantly it works. This for me is also the case, a lot of the time, with monuments. I like the fact we've past the grandeur and overly styled work of the Victorians and now have sweeping curves and minimal styling. There is something beautifully simple about it all.

Although I am in no way comparing, say, the Alrewas Memorial to a lealfet stand but in my strange mind of hyper kinetic thought the two are vaguely connected....

The Worst Hat in the World

2009-06-22T04:11:00.000-07:00

This is my mate Hamish and this is the worst (and therefore the best) designed hat ever in the world...

The Curvature of the Earth

2009-06-21T16:09:00.000-07:00

Tonight I unexpectedly found myself watching "James May on the Moon" on BBC2. I'm a big fan of Top Gear and May, alongside Jeremy Clarkson and Richard Hammond, is a touch of class to the boyish trio. However, outside the award winning motor show I tend to find him a bit much by himself. He is often overly skeptical, arrogant in his opinion and misses the high point of most of his shows with his nonchalant attitude. On the thirtieth anniversary of the Moon Landing I was slightly anxious...

The moon landing has been looped so many times that it is hard to identify with the hope, anticipation and wonder that the public of 1969 held. The idea of mankind, as a combined entity, walking for the first time on our neighbour in space seems to need backing up with detailed and emotional commentary to help us really understand its significance. May did, despite my concerns, do a good job as did the editing team focusing on the lunar module landing and the astronauts exploring the surface rather than constantly focusing on Neil Armstrong descending the ladder. At the end of the show, and in many ways the main event, we witnessed James May boarding a two man flight on a U2 spy plane. The quiet ascent added real contrast to the violent penetration of a rocket and the views became more spectacular as the U2 climbed ever higher. May's commentary rolled on as he discussed atmospheric pressures and attempted to relieve an itch with a drinking straw. Then, at last, having left the tarmac, above the desert, through the clouds, past the mountains and the birds, beyond the planes and into the stratosphere did it reach its cruising altitude of 70,000 feet. It was at this point that May finally pulled his face from the dials and looked out of the window where he became one of the few people to see - with their own eyes - the curvature of the earth.

It is impossible to feel connected with this planet when looking up from the floor at the vastness of space. The billions of stars out there are so unimaginably far away that we can only gape in awe. However, there is something breathtakingly fantastic about looking at our own planet. Not from the moon, not as a whole, but from the edge of the atmosphere, just touching space. Having started off from the ground and slowly ascending beyond the distinguishable features on land; the curvature of the earth brings everything together. We see our planet - our planet - small, rounded and a single object that we live on. It looks, and is, intangibly delicate. The mere wisp of an atmosphere coating this blue pastel marble that hangs so simply in the eternal blackness of space. The pale mist blurring the edge, protecting the planet from the eternal harshness of the universe, its stars still so far away. The clouds graze the surface in a way that mocks the distance we experience them from the ground. The gentle sweep of the curve heightens the feeling of home. No matter how far away other countries may be the curve shows us that we are all there, every single one of us, balancing in space on this tiny planet that somehow - through the minefield of probability and cause - supports life. We have not found another planet out of the billions in our own galaxy that is like ours and why would we when we look down at the place we have been given to exist.

Moved and in awe - I was simply blown away by the pictures that James May shot from out of his window. However, although words failed to come to mind, an idea did. What would our planet be like if we could all go up there and look back on our world? How would we suddenly feel about our planet? Would we immediately have an affinity with it, secure our relationship and work harder to respect it more as a friend rather than a commodity? Would our political and social differences seem insignificant when weighed up against the responsibility of looking after our home? How would we feel about our neighbours when we realise that we all live together in this single floating garden? Seeing those pictures from that height made me think more about our planet than any other I have seen before. If only the rest of us could see it like May did... Oh, how we would laugh. "What were we thinking? Look what we have."

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00lfdbv/James_May_on_the_Moon/

Sello Tape Man

2009-06-21T01:15:00.000-07:00

Whilst walking through Streatham one night I stumbled upon a sellotape sculpture - the kind that have been filling bloggers cyberspace for a few years now. Being from London I'm quite used to seeing 'clever graffiti' of a usually politically charged nature. I had, however, never seen the sellotape kind before.

This piece was a man in business clothes, headless, slumped forward in a position as if he had fallen (at least I think that was the aim but it was a bit windy that night). He was sitting outside a closed down shop, one that was open only a few weeks previously but had now fallen victim to the recession. On the boards behind him was a flow chart showing the basic movement of money, people and goods through a generic economy. This, although a little childlike, was an interesting and strange to see a sellotape sculpture with extra props.

Overall, although great to see and interesting to look at, I was ever so slightly dissapointed by this. From what I have seen the sellotape sculptures are usually very clever in how they interact with the world they are placed in and are normally just aesthetically amusing. This one seemed a bit desperate to try and get a weakly expansive message across. Do we have to have the moral portculis infront of street art so much these days? Only eight years ago it was all 'point and smile' replaced now with 'discuss' seemingly starred at the bottom of each piece.

A Living Wall, London

2009-06-20T14:06:00.000-07:00

I was in London up near Shepherd's Bush when I saw a new "Living Wall" also called "Green Walls". The concept of growing plant life on a vertical surface is not a new one but it is taking some time for the idea to really come into fruition. The idea is to mask concrete, dull or dilapidated surfaces with vegetation in a bid to improve their aesthetics as well as bring nature back to an urban environment - reducing carbon dioxide in the air. This was the first wall I have seen and it looks fantastic. When you look at it, it's like being suspended above a forest floor due to the way the plants grow. It adds colour - since many flowers also grow on the surface - and looks beautiful. I have heard of further plans to cover motorway embankments. empty wall space and even entire building sides in these vertical gardens. A simple, sustainable and beautiful design solution to urban domination.

Judging Books By Their Covers

2009-06-20T11:18:00.000-07:00

Before becoming US President, Barrack Obama brought out a number of books to enlighten his audience and spread light over his character as well as his plans for America. "Dreams from my Father" and "The Audacity of Hope" were number one best sellers. Another prominent book to hit the shelves was "Change we can believe in" (above) that aimed to outline Obama's plans for America if elected. A very important and crucial piece of writing you would have thought that this copy would be one of his most personal interactions with the American public. However, on further inspection it seems that only the foreward is by the man himself, the rest evidently compiled by a no doubt vast team of policy makers, election strategists and ghost writers. I think this has been widely unoticed due to the books design and style, the bias type size and positioning as well as the photos. Fair enough, it was in essence a piece of campaign literature but a mere foreward seems a bit cheapened when the book is described to "outline his vision for America" and house "ideas about how Barack Obama plans to fix the ailing American economy".

London Chalk Art

2009-06-13T02:22:00.000-07:00

I came across this guy in London outside the National Gallery at the top of Trafalger Square. There is an abundance of street art in London taking on many forms in many places. Recently I saw the whole side of a building covered in giant photocopies of child soldiers. what it was for, what it was about, I have no idea but for me it did what art is meant to do - stop, imagine, share.

There are bigger chalk drawings in Trafalger Square and - perhaps more notably - Covent Garden. There is illusion, realism, political callings and all sorts of graffiti. However this one really struck me. This guy had obviously been working on this for a while, copying out a poem he had written on a scrap of paper. The writing was fluid and evolving, changing in shape and style depending on what he was writing. He also changed the passage as he saw fit - something I cant imagine many laurriettes doing so lucidly.

The best thing, however, was the calm around him. There was no harrasing policeman, no park wardens, no complaining street cleaners and no council messengers creating poor excuses to prevent his work. The public simply walked up, had a read, smiled and left. I stopped, I imagined and now I'm sharing.

The Phoenix Fall

2009-06-10T08:06:00.001-07:00

I've been working closely with Leeds based band The Phoenix Fall. They have been gearing up to release their debut single What Really Matters To Me. They approached me to come up with their main desing concepts that would envelope the campaign and promotion. Since they weren't being backed by a massive label it was really important that we developed something that was instantly recognizable and memorable. Originally they wanted just a picture and their own logo but I managed to steer them away fom that idea and every other indie, brit pop, blink 182 wannabe out there. We decided on well crafted, signifcant and developed artwork for each release the same way that Bloc Party, MGMT and Coldplay work.

We came up with the design shown above based on the idea that out of everything object, person, present, film, book, place... there's only one thing that really matters. The band really liked the concept and it is highly adaptable across all their promotional materials like leaflets and posters. I've also designed their CDs and inside sleeves which they are having printed currently.

The track is now available on iTunes and it's great to see the artwork on the site. Although there is a little bit of clashing with the iTunes background I think it looks great and can't wait to see it on iPods and iPhones soon. I'll upload a picture when I can scan one in.

WRMTM Music Video

2009-06-10T07:32:00.000-07:00

To go alongside the single release I made a music video for The Phoenix Fall. Building on the title "What Really Matters To Me" the video had two elements with the first involving the band playing in all their forms and the second filming random people in and around Leeds to write on a white board what really mattered to them. Of course we got a lot of crap but managed to sift through the collection to get some great ones. Montaged alongside the band practicing, chilling out, working hard and playing some gigs, the video had a really fun, studenty, happy go lucky feel to it. All the band parts are synced to the click track which was tricky at first but really helps the visuals flow alongside the music. Overall the band loved it and we've had over 3,500 views on YouTube. The video has also been played on SubTV and sent out to a long list of record companies as part of the press pack.

My favourite thing about the video is how none of it is faked. We literally told people what we were doing and let them write what they wanted. With the band, that is all live too. I just turned up and videoed them so the character and style shown is all there's. Of course this meant a lot of video to shift through (Over an hour for just 3 minutes!) but it was all worth it just for the end product if nothing else.

JFK's Presidential Portrait

2009-06-08T04:52:00.001-07:00

There is something deeply harrowing about the Official Presidential Portrait of Kennedy. It was Kennedy's brother Robert who would pose for the painting, the reason for him looking down being that the eyes would have given him away. JFK was killed in 1963, elected only a few years before due to his passion, energy and drive to improve America as it seemed to enter darker times. In 1961 he stood in front of a sea of people and declared that by the end of the decade "Man would walk on the Moon." At the time we could fire up rockets but we were a long way off from calling "crashing into the Pacific" landing, exploring, relaunching, not burning up on re-entry and safely returning home with people on board. JFK was a visionary, a positive force in American politics and a true inspirationalist.

So why is this his portrait?

At some angles you could see the heavy burden of American office being weighed down on the young President, the sheer scale of American unrest at the time only just beginning. Maybe it could be a somber homage to a young mans life taken early by fear and anger. It is definitely open to interpretation for its contrast with almost every other Presidential Portrait ever created (over 143 of them). I appreciate it for its subtlety and humility. There is a feeling that the painter knows what's coming in American History and shows the worries and concerns through the body language of the assassinated. The civil rights debate, the Watergate scandal, the Vietnam War, conscription, desertion, the American dream collapsing before its creation. But despite all this there is a strength in Kennedy. The arms are folded in endurance not weariness. The head is bowed in concentration not tiredness. The path is dark but Kennedy stares into it with steely determination, adamant in the ability to overcome the situation. It would have been better if the American People had shared this with him over the coming two decades.