Yes, this is another semi-rant with a conclusion strapped to the end of it. What I'd like to share this time is a rather rare opportunity that was given to me recently. I had a rare glimpse into another world. A very exclusive club with a cut-throat membership and no way back in once you're out. Think the opposite of Live Lounge. I am of course talking about the world of 'Beautiful People' - the club reserved for size 6 girls with perfect tans, perfectly natural and expertly applied make-up who socialise exclusively with 6 foot-something chiselled rugby and lacrosse players who have an All Saints label jutting out of every item of clothing and more. These people have perfected smiles, teeth so flawless that a diamond evaluator looks at them in envy. They smell of pure happiness and the petals of some obscure flower that only flowered once on a secluded island in 1789 and was captured by a perfect mix of fairies and angels. Cameras spin on their axis, aiming at these people square in the face, careful to include the mixture of smiling mouth with eyes that say 'You want me'. I have seen these people in their otherwise completely elusive habitat, and I have good news. These people do not live the fun and interesting lives that they show us.
I know, I know. I'm generalising. I'm sure there are plenty of 'Beautiful People' about who are perfectly normal and accepting of everyone and are fantastic people. But what I saw on that faithful night was beyond anything I ever expected.
I had been invited for pre-drinks over at a good friend's house. She lived with 5 other girls in a rather wonderfully decorated house that reflected them brilliantly. The long, full room-length sofa that leaned against one wall. Opposite, a pair of crisp, sharp fireplaces, and a rather large TV craned out on its movable mounts to welcome the faces of whoever walks into their living room. The wooden floor complimented the girls' foundation perfectly, and a massive sound system stood guard either side of some French doors. My friend's housemates welcomed me with big smiles, glassy, crystalline eyes and fanned, floating lashes. They made pleasant small talk, briefly telling me about some small trials and tribulations with the house and asking about how my friend and I met. All seemed good. I felt pleasantly surprised at how welcoming these people were.
A quarter of an hour or so passed, and soon came another knock at the door. Expecting maybe another 5 or 6 people to enter, I was taken aback when close to 30 people strolled in, each and every single one of them looking roughly like they could and have been featured in each respected brand's catalogue. The hallway became a catwalk. It was actually intimidating, especially considering each person's stance and stride when entering the room. Confidence oozed from every delicately cleaned pore; every single piece of stubble had been manicured to the appropriate length, every single millimetre of the girls' nails had been touched up with the same accuracy as da Vinci would've shown whilst perfecting the Mona Lisa. I was, we shall say, 'out of my depth'.
One housemate glided over to her Macbook, adjusted the volume on the remix of some house song to near club level, and then swanned back over to her perch near a group of lads. She then commenced in some small talk, perfected responses and eyelash flicks adorned every line. And then, less than 5 minutes later, nothing. There was no more talking. The once suave groups of guys had now relaxed into their iPhones, half-filled cups positioned directly between their legs. The girls had relaxed into theirs, occasionally glancing at each other and communicating in a way that the Enigma Code would be jealous of. More of our friends arrived through the sea of 'Beautiful People', and snuggled themselves into the corner I had so graciously prepared for us. We started talking, laughing, asking each other how our Summers went, shared jokes and stories. We drank, we laughed and we soon started about the elephant in the room: we were the only ones enjoying ourselves. The others looked decidedly bored and unsure of how to go about their evening. They were too conscious of themselves to drink, too afraid of judgement to talk. The girls stood on one side whilst the boys sat on the other, and they just existed together in a beautiful cocoon of sterility. The music, despite being dangerously loud and obscure enough to scupper most attempts at a lengthy conversation, was indecipherable to man or beast, and filled the room in place of human interaction. Essentially, those beautiful girls and handsome guys had put on their gladrags to be placed opposite each other in a loud room and pretend that they were texting other, 'cooler' people. One girl proceeded to take a few photos on her iPhone, at which point the boy who she grabbed pulled the muscles in his face into what seemed like a trademark smile, whilst the rather lovely looking girl contorted her face into the shape of enjoyment for the purpose of the photograph at least. This happened a few more times before I realised what I had seen. I had seen the conception of 'fun'. This is where all those exclusive photographs are taken, the very same ones that normal people like me look at and think 'God, I wish I had their life'. It's a sham.
To cut a long story short, I now realise how incredibly boring these 'Beautiful People' are. It's an image, and an illusion. These people probably don't even like each other, they just like being seen with each other to boost their self esteem and fuel their egos.
I will conclude by saying that the people who had asked me to join them were in fact the beautiful people, as they are the most fantastic and lovely people I could ever wish to meet. We didn't get into the club where the 'Beautiful People' fled to, despite an hour's waiting. We ended up going to the ropiest, cheapest club we could find and continued what we started; conversation, enjoyment, laughter. And you know what? We had a fucking amazing time.
Sunday, 29 September 2013
Saturday, 14 September 2013
Social Notworking.
Facebook. Zuckerberg's finest. A cash-cow so large that if it had a whiff of oil about it, the U.S. would've invaded it, and France surrendered to it. It is of course a massive part of our lives, almost unfortunately. On a personal level, I no longer 'like' Facebook. It's not because I'm trying to be a massive bellend and prove how hipster I am by pushing my Foursquare account on you, but rather because I feel Facebook is wasted on the youth of today.
The youth of today, myself included, are meant to be at that stage in life where you take the world by the horns and you ride it like Major Kong atop the atom bomb in Dr. Strangelove. You straddle it and scream and whoop and cheer as you enjoy the weightlessness, freedom and explosive power of the outside world. In theory, Facebook should be the perfect place in order to document your life's experiences. However, I don't think this is the case. Once again, we are to blame. Us. The networks of people who own Facebook accounts.
Now, I know I've been a tad cryptic, but here is my point. The human ego cannot function without giving in to the temptation of gossip, judgement and jealousy. They are a necessary evil; a preprogrammed set of basic survival instincts that nowadays are about as much use as McAfee's Security Software 2002. They are a leftover imperfection that evolution is still yet to strain out, and Facebook just happens to provide the most ideal place for these emotions, and many others like them, to breed and sustain. Facebook should be a catalogue of memories, but in reality, it is a catwalk on which people stroll. They dress up in their Sunday finest, create posts that try to emote a sense of 'look how brilliant I am', and await to be judged by crowd. The youth of today have stopped attempting to create memories and relive experiences, and rather try to keep the crowd happy. The crowd consisting of close friends, friends, old classmates, friends of old classmates, that girl you met at that barbecue, the groups of boys who you played pool against in the pub 2 years ago, your entire family, complete with 10 year old cousins on their own accounts, the people in that job you did for 2 months, everyone you met in Freshers Week, everyone you didn't meet in Freshers Week, everyone. Hundreds, thousands of people, most of whom you have barely met, let alone think about on a daily basis. And yet, people are obsessed with trying to appease every single last one of these people. The second a new trend comes out, you must buy into it, take photos with other people who have done the same thing, throw a few empty bottles around the place and call yourself a socialite party-goer. They will pay and sacrifice themselves to try and please a crowd of people who will give them no more than 10 seconds of their time surfing on their iPhone 5S's with the custom bunny case that they bought from a shop that neither you or they had ever heard of. It's utter madness.
I'd given up hope for Facebook, especially since it started catering for the more 'successful' Facebookers by allowing funny videos, pictures and the like to be 'shared' and these people 'followed'. But, and not for the first time, school came to the rescue, namely in the form of my old head of Sixth Form. Scrolling through his page (it was his birthday today, he had his fair share of 10 seconds from me), it quickly became apparent that he has possibly the best Facebook page I have ever seen. I cast an eye over the names who had wished him a happy birthday; old friends, new friends, ex-students, teachers of old, teachers of new. His recent photos included trips to Australia, trips to his allotment, trips out with his family, his ageing mother on her 92nd birthday. It blew me away at how fantastically he had used his small segment of the internet. He filled it with memories, filled it with small links to once forgotten old friends. He was not out to judge, and he was not out to become a successful, multi-thousand follower idiot. He had his life, past, present and future, displayed intently in front of him. I think most people nowadays have their Facebook account aimed for the viewing pleasure of others. He had his Facebook account for himself, and it is fantastically humbling to see.
I am guilty of gearing my Facebook account towards the views of others. I'm pretty sure nearly everyone my age can be accused of doing the same. My proposal is not that Facebook is flawed, but rather we are too young to enjoy Facebook. My old head of Sixth Form has enjoyed a fantastic life, and was keen to display his memories, allowing others to peek in and enjoy his experiences with him. The younger generations are too filled with the preoccupations of envy, jealousy and judgement to enjoy Facebook properly. We are at the age where we should be creating memories, not judging iffy fashions or fads. Therefore, in Sam's Britain, Facebookers will have a minimum age of 50. Vote Williams for Cardiff.
The youth of today, myself included, are meant to be at that stage in life where you take the world by the horns and you ride it like Major Kong atop the atom bomb in Dr. Strangelove. You straddle it and scream and whoop and cheer as you enjoy the weightlessness, freedom and explosive power of the outside world. In theory, Facebook should be the perfect place in order to document your life's experiences. However, I don't think this is the case. Once again, we are to blame. Us. The networks of people who own Facebook accounts.
Now, I know I've been a tad cryptic, but here is my point. The human ego cannot function without giving in to the temptation of gossip, judgement and jealousy. They are a necessary evil; a preprogrammed set of basic survival instincts that nowadays are about as much use as McAfee's Security Software 2002. They are a leftover imperfection that evolution is still yet to strain out, and Facebook just happens to provide the most ideal place for these emotions, and many others like them, to breed and sustain. Facebook should be a catalogue of memories, but in reality, it is a catwalk on which people stroll. They dress up in their Sunday finest, create posts that try to emote a sense of 'look how brilliant I am', and await to be judged by crowd. The youth of today have stopped attempting to create memories and relive experiences, and rather try to keep the crowd happy. The crowd consisting of close friends, friends, old classmates, friends of old classmates, that girl you met at that barbecue, the groups of boys who you played pool against in the pub 2 years ago, your entire family, complete with 10 year old cousins on their own accounts, the people in that job you did for 2 months, everyone you met in Freshers Week, everyone you didn't meet in Freshers Week, everyone. Hundreds, thousands of people, most of whom you have barely met, let alone think about on a daily basis. And yet, people are obsessed with trying to appease every single last one of these people. The second a new trend comes out, you must buy into it, take photos with other people who have done the same thing, throw a few empty bottles around the place and call yourself a socialite party-goer. They will pay and sacrifice themselves to try and please a crowd of people who will give them no more than 10 seconds of their time surfing on their iPhone 5S's with the custom bunny case that they bought from a shop that neither you or they had ever heard of. It's utter madness.
I'd given up hope for Facebook, especially since it started catering for the more 'successful' Facebookers by allowing funny videos, pictures and the like to be 'shared' and these people 'followed'. But, and not for the first time, school came to the rescue, namely in the form of my old head of Sixth Form. Scrolling through his page (it was his birthday today, he had his fair share of 10 seconds from me), it quickly became apparent that he has possibly the best Facebook page I have ever seen. I cast an eye over the names who had wished him a happy birthday; old friends, new friends, ex-students, teachers of old, teachers of new. His recent photos included trips to Australia, trips to his allotment, trips out with his family, his ageing mother on her 92nd birthday. It blew me away at how fantastically he had used his small segment of the internet. He filled it with memories, filled it with small links to once forgotten old friends. He was not out to judge, and he was not out to become a successful, multi-thousand follower idiot. He had his life, past, present and future, displayed intently in front of him. I think most people nowadays have their Facebook account aimed for the viewing pleasure of others. He had his Facebook account for himself, and it is fantastically humbling to see.
I am guilty of gearing my Facebook account towards the views of others. I'm pretty sure nearly everyone my age can be accused of doing the same. My proposal is not that Facebook is flawed, but rather we are too young to enjoy Facebook. My old head of Sixth Form has enjoyed a fantastic life, and was keen to display his memories, allowing others to peek in and enjoy his experiences with him. The younger generations are too filled with the preoccupations of envy, jealousy and judgement to enjoy Facebook properly. We are at the age where we should be creating memories, not judging iffy fashions or fads. Therefore, in Sam's Britain, Facebookers will have a minimum age of 50. Vote Williams for Cardiff.
Saturday, 3 August 2013
Life, the Universe, and Everything.
Well, sort of. Underneath the Douglas Adams reference, I am talking about that large expanse of space in front of me called life. Some call it beautiful, others a mystery, but I've suddenly decided to make it a massive fucking headache. With all this free time on my hands, I've decided to start thinking about where I want to go in life. What do I want to do. What do I want to be when I grow up.
Well, in truth, I have no idea. Seems strange that I have hopefully only been alive for 20-25% of my life, and now I feel like I need to decide what I am actually going fill the rest with. I've tackled this thought previously, concluding with a variety of options; train driver, motoring journalist, doctor, pharmacist (it turned out that I didn't like blood), pharmacist, owner of pharmacist shop/part-time surfer, nothing, nothing, local government, politics, local government, politics, nothing, motoring journalist again, barrister, solicitor, aaaaaaand finally teacher. Hmm.
I was fortunate enough to be able to do a mini-pupilage in a barrister's chambers last week, which was a fantastic experience (I haven't stopped mentioning it. Quite sad, really). Before that, I had a few bits and pieces as a tutor, tutoring kids in English and Maths. Before that, I worked in a chemist, and I've managed to speak to a large group of people about their jobs along the way. Now, back to the mini-pupilage. Every barrister I spoke to said they would not do it again, or recommend it. Many teachers I have encountered have said that they would not do it again and would not recommend it. I spoke to a few pharmacists, and not many would recommend it, however there wasn't as negative a response as the others. I have spoken to my dad, who wouldn't recommend his job. I have spoken to my mam, who wouldn't recommend her old job. Everyone I have spoken to says that their job is shit and they wouldn't go near it if given a second chance. I think you see the pattern.
So, from my highly scientific experiment conducted in pubs, gatherings and the workplace, no-one likes their job. No-one gets up early, eager and excited about going to work. Not one. Not a sausage.
Well, isn't that a kick in the teeth. They make it sound like life ends at 25. Pick your poison and be done with it. It's definitely starting to feel like that. Pick your poison.
Thinking about things from the perspective that no-one likes their job, I've decided to change tactics in choosing a career. I've stopped looking for something that I'll get up everyday and feel that I have hit the jackpot when I stroll into work, because it seems that is not reality. I'm starting to look at what pays well with the most amount of holidays/days off. Now, I know some fishermen work 6 weeks a year and get paid a full year's wages for it, but I'm not exactly and outdoors person. Teaching seems to be the next best thing. Teaching. That's right, the thing you vowed never to do, no matter how poor you are. 'Do you want to be a teacher then, if you're doing English Lit?' 'Yes, probably' will now be my answer. Teachers complain about their jobs but let's look at things from a realistic perspective; you aren't having bullets fired at you, no-one dies if you drop a bollock. You retire with a handsome pension and enjoy your time off. It's essentially keeping children occupied and hoping they learn something before their parents pick them up at half past 3, leaving you to tidy up, organise things for tomorrow and go home.
I understand that you have the stress of making sure that 30 rabid children don't tear each other apart, and that is it. Worrying about displays and boards being tidy is not a source of stress. It is not essential to my breathing, it is not essential to the life or health of the pupils. Don't stress about it. It's essentially painting. Chill out.
I can already hear people saying 'Well you give it a go if you think it's so easy!' Well kind people, I am about to. First week in September, I shall be there, in a class full of real, feral children, for a week. If I come out at the of the week and think that life isn't so bad, then I will be become a teacher. I will turn up at half past 8, go home at some point, and enjoy my 9 month a year job and be happy. I will spend my salary on things that will make me happy, and I shall enjoy life to the fullest, knowing that I have 6 weeks off in the summer and 6 weeks off in the rest of the year. Not a bad combo, if you ask me.
So, now I am at a semi-conclusion as to what I would like to do for the rest of my life, I will end this post. If I hate being a teacher, then we are back to the drawing board. A lot of people say that the most interesting people they have come across still don't know what they want to do in life. Well, I don't really care. Ideally, I would like a safe job that has it's perks, but ultimately I know I will hate it. Coming to terms with this is quite enlightening. It's not overly pleasant, but hey. C'est la vie.
Well, in truth, I have no idea. Seems strange that I have hopefully only been alive for 20-25% of my life, and now I feel like I need to decide what I am actually going fill the rest with. I've tackled this thought previously, concluding with a variety of options; train driver, motoring journalist, doctor, pharmacist (it turned out that I didn't like blood), pharmacist, owner of pharmacist shop/part-time surfer, nothing, nothing, local government, politics, local government, politics, nothing, motoring journalist again, barrister, solicitor, aaaaaaand finally teacher. Hmm.
I was fortunate enough to be able to do a mini-pupilage in a barrister's chambers last week, which was a fantastic experience (I haven't stopped mentioning it. Quite sad, really). Before that, I had a few bits and pieces as a tutor, tutoring kids in English and Maths. Before that, I worked in a chemist, and I've managed to speak to a large group of people about their jobs along the way. Now, back to the mini-pupilage. Every barrister I spoke to said they would not do it again, or recommend it. Many teachers I have encountered have said that they would not do it again and would not recommend it. I spoke to a few pharmacists, and not many would recommend it, however there wasn't as negative a response as the others. I have spoken to my dad, who wouldn't recommend his job. I have spoken to my mam, who wouldn't recommend her old job. Everyone I have spoken to says that their job is shit and they wouldn't go near it if given a second chance. I think you see the pattern.
So, from my highly scientific experiment conducted in pubs, gatherings and the workplace, no-one likes their job. No-one gets up early, eager and excited about going to work. Not one. Not a sausage.
Well, isn't that a kick in the teeth. They make it sound like life ends at 25. Pick your poison and be done with it. It's definitely starting to feel like that. Pick your poison.
Thinking about things from the perspective that no-one likes their job, I've decided to change tactics in choosing a career. I've stopped looking for something that I'll get up everyday and feel that I have hit the jackpot when I stroll into work, because it seems that is not reality. I'm starting to look at what pays well with the most amount of holidays/days off. Now, I know some fishermen work 6 weeks a year and get paid a full year's wages for it, but I'm not exactly and outdoors person. Teaching seems to be the next best thing. Teaching. That's right, the thing you vowed never to do, no matter how poor you are. 'Do you want to be a teacher then, if you're doing English Lit?' 'Yes, probably' will now be my answer. Teachers complain about their jobs but let's look at things from a realistic perspective; you aren't having bullets fired at you, no-one dies if you drop a bollock. You retire with a handsome pension and enjoy your time off. It's essentially keeping children occupied and hoping they learn something before their parents pick them up at half past 3, leaving you to tidy up, organise things for tomorrow and go home.
I understand that you have the stress of making sure that 30 rabid children don't tear each other apart, and that is it. Worrying about displays and boards being tidy is not a source of stress. It is not essential to my breathing, it is not essential to the life or health of the pupils. Don't stress about it. It's essentially painting. Chill out.
I can already hear people saying 'Well you give it a go if you think it's so easy!' Well kind people, I am about to. First week in September, I shall be there, in a class full of real, feral children, for a week. If I come out at the of the week and think that life isn't so bad, then I will be become a teacher. I will turn up at half past 8, go home at some point, and enjoy my 9 month a year job and be happy. I will spend my salary on things that will make me happy, and I shall enjoy life to the fullest, knowing that I have 6 weeks off in the summer and 6 weeks off in the rest of the year. Not a bad combo, if you ask me.
So, now I am at a semi-conclusion as to what I would like to do for the rest of my life, I will end this post. If I hate being a teacher, then we are back to the drawing board. A lot of people say that the most interesting people they have come across still don't know what they want to do in life. Well, I don't really care. Ideally, I would like a safe job that has it's perks, but ultimately I know I will hate it. Coming to terms with this is quite enlightening. It's not overly pleasant, but hey. C'est la vie.
Monday, 3 June 2013
Exam Time: Instigate the Invigilate-ors/Cheating.
It's exam time. Stress, books, paper, hand-outs and tears are all flying in a whirling dervish that rivals a scene from Tornado Alley. I will add, quite smugly, that I have now finished my exams. 4 essays and 2 exams later, the shackles have been lifted. I am free to do whatever I want for close to 4 months.
Talking of the topic of exams, I would like to not concentrate on the students, or even the teachers for that matter. No. I would like to talk about the silent, slow-shuffling and mysterious invigilators. These shadowy creatures tend to come in two guises: older, knitted jumper-wearing bespectacled folk, or young, fresh-skinned and slightly nervous looking young'uns. There is no in between, no median value. It carries a binary logic and that is proven scientific fact. Anyway, what intrigues me about these people is not the fact that most of them are either fresh, new teachers or more weathered and battle-hardened veterans. What intrigues me about them is the job they actually do.
There's probably some subsection of an appendix which has been bullet pointed and footnoted under section 568.B Classification 1.23.12 of the exam handbook that thoroughly and accurately describes what an invigilator does. In short, they're supposed to make sure everything goes swimmingly when hoards of beastly children descend on exam halls to unleash what little their memory can hold. They are also an invaluable dispenser of stationary (much like IKEA and Argos), and the gatekeepers to the sacred land that is the toilets during the few hours of an exam. From the perspective of the student, they are the all-seeing eye; the Big Brother in the room. They see all who dares cheat, and they punish the culprits in a similar manner to Icarus, melting their wings until they fall out of the exam-sky and into the sea of failure.
Now. This may seem a noble and worthwhile job, but from what I have gathered, it must be pretty fucking boring. A two and half hour English Literature exam is hideous enough from the perspective of someone who has been given something to occupy the two and a half hours with. Staring at a large group of students pushing a pen around a page and coughing occasionally sounds like a less exciting version of waterboarding. And so, it came to my attention last year that the invigilators, despite their appearance, are actually human.
As Radio 1 went on to prove, invigilators play games whilst invigilating. To the schools and councils that employ these guardians of our nations future, this will horrify them. Headteachers and Councillors look at each other with serious faces of woe, and parents of exam-takers will mutter about how things have changed and need to be tightened. But from the vulnerable underbelly that is the exam-taker, I find this absolutely amazing. In fact, I will go so far as to say that it has given me hope. Invigilators are human beings; they gain no satisfaction in being in the same room as an exam, let alone watching it be done by 200 or so people.
Many invigilators have come forward, and thanks to the anonymity of a computer screen, many have shared their games with the rest of the world. The first (and cruellest/most fantastic) game I heard of was the 'Stand by the person who...' game. The invigilators decide upon a suitable ending to this phrase (for example, 'Stand by the person who is the ugliest/most likely to be in prison by the age of 20/is still a virgin etc.), and then proceed to stand by the child who best fits the criteria. It's simple, effective, brutally fantastic and I very much applaud the invigilators for this gem. 9/10.
Another example (and my current favourite, in fact) is the school yard game of Tag: Invigilator's Edition. As you've probably guessed, it stays true to the tried and tested formula of Tag. An invigilator is 'on it', and then 'chases' at walking pace another invigilator, before swooping in on them. They will then whisper the magic word, donning a serious face: Tag. I'm guessing this could go on for hours, and to be honest, applaud it's genius. The subtlety of the 'tag' delivery is a true test of an invigilators composure, and I've yet to see one crack up. I'd rate it at a solid 7.5/10.
A more obscure game I've heard of is Battleships: Exam Hall. An invigilator will choose a row of students, dictated by their seat number, to be part of one of his 'ships'. Another invigilator, having done the same thing, will then attempt to guess where their opponents 'ship' is, and attempt to sink it: directly akin of the classic Battleships. This must've required some serious thought and devotion by the invigilators who first dreamed this up. I like the introduction of another classic game from the archives being brought into a new context, but I feel it is lacking the simplicity and easy application of Tag and 'Stand by...'. This is one for the longer exam; those sweaty, mid-June History or Politics badboys. 5/10. Must try harder.
The simplest, and probably most nerve-racking example of Invigilator's games is the 'Hold Out For As Long You Can Before Tending to the Pupil With Their Hand Up' game. This game requires, despite the name's cryptic nature, the invigilator to hold out for as long as they possibly can before caving in and tending to the pupil with their hand up. This would occur when multiple invigilators are dotted around the corners of the room, and they are required to act in a dignified manner and act completely professional at all times during the game. The beauty of this game is the sheer accessibility; any and all invigilators can and probably have been a part of this game. The pupil is left unsuspecting and with their dignity unharmed, unlike many of the other games. For sheer simpleness and inconvenience, I will rate this game as a solid 8/10. Childish, original, and almost definitely addictive, it is the invigilator's version of Angry Birds.
So, you may now be questioning as to why I chose to write and score invigilator's exam games. Well, the answer was pointed out earlier on: it gives me hope. When the invigilator, who's sole purpose during the time of an exam is to keep it running smoothly and rat out the cheaters, is distracted, then the job cannot be done properly. If their job cannot be done properly, then the rules are out and handcuffs taken off for the pupils to cheat; swerve answers from a neighbour, take a risky look at the notes written on your fingers, use the calculator stashed in your sleeve. The exam hall becomes much more like real life; the people who don't always abide by the rules and 'play the game' will be the winners. Potentially.
I've always sided with the people who attempted to cheat in an exam. I feel exams have always been a test more of memory than understanding and knowledge. If people were promoted to cheat, then schools would be promoting lateral and out-of-the-box thinking; the people who come up with the ideas and the goods in the world of business. I mean, how many honest businessmen/company directors do you know? Don't work hard, work smart. The invigilator's in the exam hall are a good example. They are getting paid handsomely for playing Tag, and allowing students to do that little bit extra to help them grade well. Sounds more fun than being shouted at for using two gherkins instead of one on a Big Mac, doesn't it?
Talking of the topic of exams, I would like to not concentrate on the students, or even the teachers for that matter. No. I would like to talk about the silent, slow-shuffling and mysterious invigilators. These shadowy creatures tend to come in two guises: older, knitted jumper-wearing bespectacled folk, or young, fresh-skinned and slightly nervous looking young'uns. There is no in between, no median value. It carries a binary logic and that is proven scientific fact. Anyway, what intrigues me about these people is not the fact that most of them are either fresh, new teachers or more weathered and battle-hardened veterans. What intrigues me about them is the job they actually do.
There's probably some subsection of an appendix which has been bullet pointed and footnoted under section 568.B Classification 1.23.12 of the exam handbook that thoroughly and accurately describes what an invigilator does. In short, they're supposed to make sure everything goes swimmingly when hoards of beastly children descend on exam halls to unleash what little their memory can hold. They are also an invaluable dispenser of stationary (much like IKEA and Argos), and the gatekeepers to the sacred land that is the toilets during the few hours of an exam. From the perspective of the student, they are the all-seeing eye; the Big Brother in the room. They see all who dares cheat, and they punish the culprits in a similar manner to Icarus, melting their wings until they fall out of the exam-sky and into the sea of failure.
Now. This may seem a noble and worthwhile job, but from what I have gathered, it must be pretty fucking boring. A two and half hour English Literature exam is hideous enough from the perspective of someone who has been given something to occupy the two and a half hours with. Staring at a large group of students pushing a pen around a page and coughing occasionally sounds like a less exciting version of waterboarding. And so, it came to my attention last year that the invigilators, despite their appearance, are actually human.
As Radio 1 went on to prove, invigilators play games whilst invigilating. To the schools and councils that employ these guardians of our nations future, this will horrify them. Headteachers and Councillors look at each other with serious faces of woe, and parents of exam-takers will mutter about how things have changed and need to be tightened. But from the vulnerable underbelly that is the exam-taker, I find this absolutely amazing. In fact, I will go so far as to say that it has given me hope. Invigilators are human beings; they gain no satisfaction in being in the same room as an exam, let alone watching it be done by 200 or so people.
Many invigilators have come forward, and thanks to the anonymity of a computer screen, many have shared their games with the rest of the world. The first (and cruellest/most fantastic) game I heard of was the 'Stand by the person who...' game. The invigilators decide upon a suitable ending to this phrase (for example, 'Stand by the person who is the ugliest/most likely to be in prison by the age of 20/is still a virgin etc.), and then proceed to stand by the child who best fits the criteria. It's simple, effective, brutally fantastic and I very much applaud the invigilators for this gem. 9/10.
Another example (and my current favourite, in fact) is the school yard game of Tag: Invigilator's Edition. As you've probably guessed, it stays true to the tried and tested formula of Tag. An invigilator is 'on it', and then 'chases' at walking pace another invigilator, before swooping in on them. They will then whisper the magic word, donning a serious face: Tag. I'm guessing this could go on for hours, and to be honest, applaud it's genius. The subtlety of the 'tag' delivery is a true test of an invigilators composure, and I've yet to see one crack up. I'd rate it at a solid 7.5/10.
A more obscure game I've heard of is Battleships: Exam Hall. An invigilator will choose a row of students, dictated by their seat number, to be part of one of his 'ships'. Another invigilator, having done the same thing, will then attempt to guess where their opponents 'ship' is, and attempt to sink it: directly akin of the classic Battleships. This must've required some serious thought and devotion by the invigilators who first dreamed this up. I like the introduction of another classic game from the archives being brought into a new context, but I feel it is lacking the simplicity and easy application of Tag and 'Stand by...'. This is one for the longer exam; those sweaty, mid-June History or Politics badboys. 5/10. Must try harder.
The simplest, and probably most nerve-racking example of Invigilator's games is the 'Hold Out For As Long You Can Before Tending to the Pupil With Their Hand Up' game. This game requires, despite the name's cryptic nature, the invigilator to hold out for as long as they possibly can before caving in and tending to the pupil with their hand up. This would occur when multiple invigilators are dotted around the corners of the room, and they are required to act in a dignified manner and act completely professional at all times during the game. The beauty of this game is the sheer accessibility; any and all invigilators can and probably have been a part of this game. The pupil is left unsuspecting and with their dignity unharmed, unlike many of the other games. For sheer simpleness and inconvenience, I will rate this game as a solid 8/10. Childish, original, and almost definitely addictive, it is the invigilator's version of Angry Birds.
So, you may now be questioning as to why I chose to write and score invigilator's exam games. Well, the answer was pointed out earlier on: it gives me hope. When the invigilator, who's sole purpose during the time of an exam is to keep it running smoothly and rat out the cheaters, is distracted, then the job cannot be done properly. If their job cannot be done properly, then the rules are out and handcuffs taken off for the pupils to cheat; swerve answers from a neighbour, take a risky look at the notes written on your fingers, use the calculator stashed in your sleeve. The exam hall becomes much more like real life; the people who don't always abide by the rules and 'play the game' will be the winners. Potentially.
I've always sided with the people who attempted to cheat in an exam. I feel exams have always been a test more of memory than understanding and knowledge. If people were promoted to cheat, then schools would be promoting lateral and out-of-the-box thinking; the people who come up with the ideas and the goods in the world of business. I mean, how many honest businessmen/company directors do you know? Don't work hard, work smart. The invigilator's in the exam hall are a good example. They are getting paid handsomely for playing Tag, and allowing students to do that little bit extra to help them grade well. Sounds more fun than being shouted at for using two gherkins instead of one on a Big Mac, doesn't it?
Sunday, 21 April 2013
Here in my car, I feel safest of all...
I'm going to pretend I have some free time (I haven't) and indulge in a post. On this occasion, I'm going to talk about my most long standing passion: cars. I have adored cars since before I could talk. Engines and wheels appeal to me in the most primeval way possible. Much like Mr. Caveman would feel his blood being replaced with chemicals as he walked past a dormant Sabre-toothed tiger, the same feeling greets me as I tiptoe past the Aston Martin garage that protrudes from North Road, near my accommodation in Cardiff.
Not only are they lining the walls and dreams of young boys everywhere, cars are also the missing link between father and son. Mothers and their daughters have a close, other-worldly connection with each other. Bonding through the fate of womanhood, they learn of each other's trials and tribulations. They hold on to each other, with mother guiding her young daughter through the tests of life, of love, and teenage hormones. Fathers and sons, however, do not share this verbal and emotional bond. What holds seemingly estranged fathers with their sons is usually their boy's first car. This is a proud moment for Dad. This is where the fibres of the bond between father and son are woven. Whether it's changing the head gasket on a Metro for the third time that week, or changing corroded brake disks in the dark using nothing more than a Halford's jack and a MagLite torch. Words may not even be spoken, but the bond is held and held close. Just as Mum has to help her young daughter through her first breakup, Dad has to see his son through his first break down. This solid unity between father and son is what makes cars so special.
Anyway, with the soppy bit done, I can move on to cars. I was recently passed on the A470 by a brand new Ford Focus ST, and truth be told, it astounded me. I was moving at a steady 70mph, my 1 litre, 3-cylinder Corsa thrumming and vibrating like I was approaching light speed. As I passed some ambling traffic, I spotted a rather small, yellow dot in my rear view mirror. A couple of seconds later, the small yellow dot had become a much larger yellow blob, with slitty eyes and a gaping, all consuming mouth. I recognised it from the off, but was expecting a replica or a trick of the eye as I didn't realise they were available for sale. I sidled over to the slow lane, eyes very much glued to the mirror to look for the little 'ST' badge on the grill. Sure enough, there it was, briefly. The car didn't just pass me, it blew us backward. It was disillusioning, the speed at which it passed me. By the time I had taken my eyes out of the mirrors and into the windscreen, all I could see was a shrinking yellow blob, complete with a gaping exhaust and the raw induction wail of air being forced into turbo, only to be sped up and rammed into one of four cylinders. I estimate that it must've been doing at least 125-130mph. Doing 70 myself, it shot past to give the illusion I was stationary.
Having done my homework, I happened to know a few key facts about the new model Focus ST. It had a new engine, a brand new unit unrelated to the old, Volvo sourced 5-cylinder, 2.5 litre turbocharged engine that first found fame in the standard issue Motorway Police Volvo V70 estates. The old engine had many devoted followers, and an engine note that was so characterful in comparison to the sea of 4-cylinder hatchbacks that boy-racers thrash and burn in a hard nights work. In fact, the car has a dedicated following, with even Jeremy Clarkson singing its praises. The new engine, I just happened to know, has one less cylinder. It had has 20% less displacement, being only 2.0 litres. But, it was more powerful. Faster, cleaner and kinder to the environment as well. What stood out for me was the fact that all I had seen was numbers on a page. A man, who I have never met, reviewing a car I have never seen in the flesh, let alone driven, let alone be allowed to drive, told me facts and voiced a little of his own opinion, which didn't give me much to go by. What I do have to go by, however, is the moment this thing went by me. It honestly took my breath away. It made my day, seeing this little fiery-yellow, almost aquatic-looking machine steam past me with such poise and stability. This is a car that I may one day be able to own and feel the pleasure of owning, and that in itself is a very rewarding thing.
In an age where the car companies are given more and more strict boxes to tick before they can produce a car, I am happy to report that things are going well. Despite the tightening of the emissions belt, car manufacturers are bursting at the seams with tricks up their sleeves. Gone are the days where going fast required a large engine and large reserves of liquid fossil with which to feed it. Engines are becoming smaller and cleaner and yet not losing their masculinity. Smaller engines mean more affordable costs and more affordable costs mean more accessibility to the young person of the U.K. who, when the poverty of studenthood is paid off, can turn their attention to getting into a car that truly excites and rewards them. In as little as the last 6 years, car companies are coming out with 1 litre engines very similar to the one that nestles under the bonnet of my little Corsa that can produce double the horsepower of my car, and can do it reliably for 100,000 miles.
I do enjoy following car companies. When governments and committees decide that the rules are too loose and require a hideous amount of tension, the car companies step up to the mark with their trickery and technology and come through barriers that seemed impossible not that long ago. Viva la future. Keep men connected with their sons. Keep men connected with their cars.
Not only are they lining the walls and dreams of young boys everywhere, cars are also the missing link between father and son. Mothers and their daughters have a close, other-worldly connection with each other. Bonding through the fate of womanhood, they learn of each other's trials and tribulations. They hold on to each other, with mother guiding her young daughter through the tests of life, of love, and teenage hormones. Fathers and sons, however, do not share this verbal and emotional bond. What holds seemingly estranged fathers with their sons is usually their boy's first car. This is a proud moment for Dad. This is where the fibres of the bond between father and son are woven. Whether it's changing the head gasket on a Metro for the third time that week, or changing corroded brake disks in the dark using nothing more than a Halford's jack and a MagLite torch. Words may not even be spoken, but the bond is held and held close. Just as Mum has to help her young daughter through her first breakup, Dad has to see his son through his first break down. This solid unity between father and son is what makes cars so special.
Anyway, with the soppy bit done, I can move on to cars. I was recently passed on the A470 by a brand new Ford Focus ST, and truth be told, it astounded me. I was moving at a steady 70mph, my 1 litre, 3-cylinder Corsa thrumming and vibrating like I was approaching light speed. As I passed some ambling traffic, I spotted a rather small, yellow dot in my rear view mirror. A couple of seconds later, the small yellow dot had become a much larger yellow blob, with slitty eyes and a gaping, all consuming mouth. I recognised it from the off, but was expecting a replica or a trick of the eye as I didn't realise they were available for sale. I sidled over to the slow lane, eyes very much glued to the mirror to look for the little 'ST' badge on the grill. Sure enough, there it was, briefly. The car didn't just pass me, it blew us backward. It was disillusioning, the speed at which it passed me. By the time I had taken my eyes out of the mirrors and into the windscreen, all I could see was a shrinking yellow blob, complete with a gaping exhaust and the raw induction wail of air being forced into turbo, only to be sped up and rammed into one of four cylinders. I estimate that it must've been doing at least 125-130mph. Doing 70 myself, it shot past to give the illusion I was stationary.
Having done my homework, I happened to know a few key facts about the new model Focus ST. It had a new engine, a brand new unit unrelated to the old, Volvo sourced 5-cylinder, 2.5 litre turbocharged engine that first found fame in the standard issue Motorway Police Volvo V70 estates. The old engine had many devoted followers, and an engine note that was so characterful in comparison to the sea of 4-cylinder hatchbacks that boy-racers thrash and burn in a hard nights work. In fact, the car has a dedicated following, with even Jeremy Clarkson singing its praises. The new engine, I just happened to know, has one less cylinder. It had has 20% less displacement, being only 2.0 litres. But, it was more powerful. Faster, cleaner and kinder to the environment as well. What stood out for me was the fact that all I had seen was numbers on a page. A man, who I have never met, reviewing a car I have never seen in the flesh, let alone driven, let alone be allowed to drive, told me facts and voiced a little of his own opinion, which didn't give me much to go by. What I do have to go by, however, is the moment this thing went by me. It honestly took my breath away. It made my day, seeing this little fiery-yellow, almost aquatic-looking machine steam past me with such poise and stability. This is a car that I may one day be able to own and feel the pleasure of owning, and that in itself is a very rewarding thing.
In an age where the car companies are given more and more strict boxes to tick before they can produce a car, I am happy to report that things are going well. Despite the tightening of the emissions belt, car manufacturers are bursting at the seams with tricks up their sleeves. Gone are the days where going fast required a large engine and large reserves of liquid fossil with which to feed it. Engines are becoming smaller and cleaner and yet not losing their masculinity. Smaller engines mean more affordable costs and more affordable costs mean more accessibility to the young person of the U.K. who, when the poverty of studenthood is paid off, can turn their attention to getting into a car that truly excites and rewards them. In as little as the last 6 years, car companies are coming out with 1 litre engines very similar to the one that nestles under the bonnet of my little Corsa that can produce double the horsepower of my car, and can do it reliably for 100,000 miles.
I do enjoy following car companies. When governments and committees decide that the rules are too loose and require a hideous amount of tension, the car companies step up to the mark with their trickery and technology and come through barriers that seemed impossible not that long ago. Viva la future. Keep men connected with their sons. Keep men connected with their cars.
Friday, 29 March 2013
Where am I?
Everyone wonders where they are. We all question whether what we are doing is in fact the right thing. Parents, Grandparents, teachers, strangers even, will tell you of their sure-fire way to be successful. 'Work hard and you can be a Doctor'. 'Teaching's a good one, think of the holidays!', 'Why not do a plumbing course and set up your own business? Plenty of money in that.' Indeed, I followed these mantra. I followed them so closely that I was becoming old and judgemental long before my time. The only thing I gained from this way of thinking was the ability to silence (or at least quell) that little nagging in the mind; 'What will I do with my life?' Be a pharmacist. Money comes in thick and fast. Job for life, as well. Can't go wrong. Every person I told gave me their approval; they'd raise their eyebrows and nod semi-enthusiastically, as if I had claimed to possess mind-reading powers and guessed what they had for tea yesterday. It was the correct thing to do, and anyone who thought otherwise was a fool.
Where am I now? I'm studying English Literature (that close, ever-so-relatable subject to Pharmacy) in Cardiff University, where I had always intended to go. I'm not going to say that everything turned out for the best and I'm suddenly really enjoying everything it has to offer, because I would be lying to you. But what it has enabled me to do is reopen that nagging feeling and explore. After 4 years of 'what should I be doing in life?', it is finally chiming away to the new sound of 'what do I want out of life?' People now look at me sympathetically when I tell them my new subject choice. They look with the same eyes that they would give a child after it spells it's name semi-correctly without the interference of a parent. That look of 'well, you tried'. Almost there. Close, but not there yet. Put it on the pile with the rest of them.
In terms of the rest of the world, I am a future teacher. I chose a path with limited options and the only foreseeable job with any solidarity will be teaching. In their eyes, I will earn ample money; live in an ample house with an ample car; lead an ample life with some excitement and pleasure derived from reading various books and wearing the odd Christmas jumper in the Winter to show how rebellious and funny I am. I may even crack the odd Shakespeare-related joke, and become disheartened when the class of offspring I will be teaching does not share the same massive enthusiasm that I, an English Teacher, possess for books.
This should downhearten me. I should be reconsidering my options, avoid wasting my time studying a hobby such as reading. In truth, I welcome the predispositions this world has on Arts students. It makes me realise how different, charismatic, and downright intelligent the people I have met are. They do not wallow in their own sense of achievement. They gain no satisfaction in pleasing the Parents, Grandparents, teachers and strangers that tell them they are wasting their time doing such a boring and limited subject such as English Literature. 'What do you gain from reading books all day? Go and do a proper subject, like maths or engineering'. Now, I agree with these people that proclaim degrees such as Maths and Engineering and the like are very difficult degrees and are considered 'intelligent'. But what I will say is that they attract a different type of person. Put an equation in front of them and they'll froth at the mouth in ecstasy, dribbling uncontrollably until they finally work out x, its range of values and drawn the correct graph corresponding to these values. These are, as many will reiterate, skills that are used in business, in banking and accountancy, and will earn you a very good living. However, do the people who sing the chorus of praises for these degrees think about the periphery of the companies?
If everyone studied 'intelligent' subjects, then the world will be full of what I call 'doers'. These are people who, when presented with a problem, solve it to within an inch of its life, work out the cheapest and most effective way of providing a solution, and keep track of that progress for the next 10 years. Being correct satisfies that primeval hunger that lies in the stomach of the mind. These people are well paid for their hard work, and have safety and security in their jobs.
Now, where is this going. Well, who sets the problems for these people to solve? Who looked at a business and spotted a problem on the horizon? I could go as far to say as who even wanted to start the business? A pioneer. Someone who wanted to be different, who saw problems with the current solution and strives to forge a new path, despite the consequences. Someone who didn't care what others thought, or if the sums added up. They had the drive, the desire and the foresight to do something different, risky even, to the rest of the world. They march to the beat of a different drummer, crossing lines and smashing apart boundaries that had been subconsciously placed by society. These people I call 'Thinkers'.
If the world were full of Doers, then the world would be endlessly efficient, yet very small. If the same were true for Thinkers, then the world would be full of big ideas, but no-one to implement them. The world would be fantastically big, but hideously inefficient. The purpose of this entry was to highlight how by placing these people together, the world can become a fantastic place. No-one should be steered away from something just because it doesn't hold a particularly solid future, or isn't 'safe'. A finely crafted work of art and a perfectly deduced formula carry the same appeal, but to different people. We don't have to choose in some binary manner what world we have to live in. The world of maths and science, and the world of art and literature shouldn't be pitted against each other and forced to clash head-on into a standstill. If we placed them on the same side and directed them at the horizon, we could enjoy the spoils of a very rich future .
So, whoever you were at my nan's funeral who gave me that judgemental look when I told you I had gone from Pharmacy to English Literature, bugger off. I do not care. Open your mind a bit and live your own life. Don't cross Arts students out of the running yet, you bitch. Yeah, I told you. Have that. Suck on dem apples. Cow.
Where am I now? I'm studying English Literature (that close, ever-so-relatable subject to Pharmacy) in Cardiff University, where I had always intended to go. I'm not going to say that everything turned out for the best and I'm suddenly really enjoying everything it has to offer, because I would be lying to you. But what it has enabled me to do is reopen that nagging feeling and explore. After 4 years of 'what should I be doing in life?', it is finally chiming away to the new sound of 'what do I want out of life?' People now look at me sympathetically when I tell them my new subject choice. They look with the same eyes that they would give a child after it spells it's name semi-correctly without the interference of a parent. That look of 'well, you tried'. Almost there. Close, but not there yet. Put it on the pile with the rest of them.
In terms of the rest of the world, I am a future teacher. I chose a path with limited options and the only foreseeable job with any solidarity will be teaching. In their eyes, I will earn ample money; live in an ample house with an ample car; lead an ample life with some excitement and pleasure derived from reading various books and wearing the odd Christmas jumper in the Winter to show how rebellious and funny I am. I may even crack the odd Shakespeare-related joke, and become disheartened when the class of offspring I will be teaching does not share the same massive enthusiasm that I, an English Teacher, possess for books.
This should downhearten me. I should be reconsidering my options, avoid wasting my time studying a hobby such as reading. In truth, I welcome the predispositions this world has on Arts students. It makes me realise how different, charismatic, and downright intelligent the people I have met are. They do not wallow in their own sense of achievement. They gain no satisfaction in pleasing the Parents, Grandparents, teachers and strangers that tell them they are wasting their time doing such a boring and limited subject such as English Literature. 'What do you gain from reading books all day? Go and do a proper subject, like maths or engineering'. Now, I agree with these people that proclaim degrees such as Maths and Engineering and the like are very difficult degrees and are considered 'intelligent'. But what I will say is that they attract a different type of person. Put an equation in front of them and they'll froth at the mouth in ecstasy, dribbling uncontrollably until they finally work out x, its range of values and drawn the correct graph corresponding to these values. These are, as many will reiterate, skills that are used in business, in banking and accountancy, and will earn you a very good living. However, do the people who sing the chorus of praises for these degrees think about the periphery of the companies?
If everyone studied 'intelligent' subjects, then the world will be full of what I call 'doers'. These are people who, when presented with a problem, solve it to within an inch of its life, work out the cheapest and most effective way of providing a solution, and keep track of that progress for the next 10 years. Being correct satisfies that primeval hunger that lies in the stomach of the mind. These people are well paid for their hard work, and have safety and security in their jobs.
Now, where is this going. Well, who sets the problems for these people to solve? Who looked at a business and spotted a problem on the horizon? I could go as far to say as who even wanted to start the business? A pioneer. Someone who wanted to be different, who saw problems with the current solution and strives to forge a new path, despite the consequences. Someone who didn't care what others thought, or if the sums added up. They had the drive, the desire and the foresight to do something different, risky even, to the rest of the world. They march to the beat of a different drummer, crossing lines and smashing apart boundaries that had been subconsciously placed by society. These people I call 'Thinkers'.
If the world were full of Doers, then the world would be endlessly efficient, yet very small. If the same were true for Thinkers, then the world would be full of big ideas, but no-one to implement them. The world would be fantastically big, but hideously inefficient. The purpose of this entry was to highlight how by placing these people together, the world can become a fantastic place. No-one should be steered away from something just because it doesn't hold a particularly solid future, or isn't 'safe'. A finely crafted work of art and a perfectly deduced formula carry the same appeal, but to different people. We don't have to choose in some binary manner what world we have to live in. The world of maths and science, and the world of art and literature shouldn't be pitted against each other and forced to clash head-on into a standstill. If we placed them on the same side and directed them at the horizon, we could enjoy the spoils of a very rich future .
So, whoever you were at my nan's funeral who gave me that judgemental look when I told you I had gone from Pharmacy to English Literature, bugger off. I do not care. Open your mind a bit and live your own life. Don't cross Arts students out of the running yet, you bitch. Yeah, I told you. Have that. Suck on dem apples. Cow.
Tuesday, 26 March 2013
What the Hell...
I've decided that as playful as 140 characters is, Twitter does not capacitate the lengthier arguments for my daily nuisances. Blogger, Blogspot, whatever the Hell you are, we will make friends. We will vent our annoyances together, form a force. This is the beginning, the opening, the prelude. A pact that will remain unbroken. You are Simon to my Garfunkel, bread to my butter, Vintage Shops to a Hipster. Let us do this. Together, the World is our annoying, flawed, sadomasochistic oyster, and we shall go through our daily lives, observing, silent, and bring back our findings to be judged and reflected upon. Blogspot/er, LETS ROCK'N'ROLL.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)