Today marked the day where Kids in Glass Houses announced their ending. To be quite frank with you, there's nothing new about a pop-punk band shutting down shop and moving on. It's life. We'll get over it. They weren't chart toppers, they didn't end world poverty, but KIGH provided me with an introduction to the world of live music and local talent. And for that, I am entirely indebted to them.
Music didn't interest me until I had my first iPod for my birthday, aged 12. I was never particularly into music; none of my friends were, and I had had a crack at playing the cello in primary school, only to realise the lack of talent I possessed and promptly returned it. However, that iPod Shuffle got me into music. Its sole function was to play hours of music, and there was something alluring about an iPod to a 12 year old. Anyway, I digress. I started listening to music, and got myself into the usual blur of Blink 182, Slipknot, punk, and the heaviest possible noise Limewire could muster for me. Anything remotely poppy was frowned upon.
As I had become more interested in music, so too had the rest of the people around me; it must be a puberty thing. A neighbour of mine had started having guitar lessons, and we spoke very regularly on music; namely what was the heaviest thing we had heard that week. Like all good music 'passing down' sessions, his had started with his older sister. This time she mentioned her friend's band. They had just released a demo, and she had kindly (and rather forcibly, as big sisters are) introduced their sound to him, who then played it to me on his phone in the street. The song was 'Me Me Me'.
Jump to a few months later, and I was sat in a music lesson. They weren't fun or enjoyable at this stage in school; we were a bunch of snotty nosed, bum-fluff toting hormone bags that had the sole objective of obliterating everything in our path, so it's quite obvious why the music teacher didn't allow us near anything of any value. This particular lesson, however, involved her testing us to see how much we knew about chart music. She plugged her Mac into the stereo, held both very close to her chest and out of our zone of destruction, and played us various chart songs and some more niche offerings. Lostprophets had a play, so to did Metallica and whatever else was in the charts at the time. The last thing she played was a rather familiar but nameless tinkling of guitar chords: 'Me Me Me'.
'Anyone heard this before?' she quizzed, eyes bright and a bit too eagerly. I raised an unsure hand, owning up to potentially embarrassing myself at my lack of knowledge. Smile still plastered on her face, she had great pleasure in explaining that the band was in fact called Kids in Glass Houses, and that they were local and going places, and the guitarist was from our school. It had a quick acknowledgement from us as a class, and then we carried on dismantling the tables and generally being young offenders.
As my interest in music grew, the next step was to scour music channels for days on end, searching for something new and exciting. Still on a diet of heavy metal and noise, it seemed weird that a music video adorned with pink neon lights and leather jackets would interest me. It had a familiar tone, something recognisable. It was the music video for 'Easy Tiger' on Kerrang. So, the local boys were doing alright. I didn't realise people from The Valley's could 'make it' and be on TV. Crazy.
That summer, they played the Big Weekend in Cardiff. I went down with a few mates and it was a fantastic. It embodied so much of what was important to us as teenagers; loud music, a day without parents, and plenty of awkward encounters with members of the female sex. I entered my very first moshpit (we all remember our first), and as a group, we managed to push, claw and bite our way to the very front. Ben Fogle may have been on some pretty epic adventures, but none were as amazing, tiring and downright impossible as ours. We made the front.
Soon after, they opened for Fall Out Boy in what used to be called the CIA. Life was better when the CIA was actually called 'The CIA'; the Motorpoint Arena sounds as appetising as the collection of liquid that transmigrates from food in a food recycling bin. Again, more biting, stamping and pushing got us respectably close to the front of that gig. My skin had been peeled by a mixture of girl's makeup and everyone's sweat, but the gig itself was utterly incredible.
A friend's Mam happened to be the person in charge of writing the music for the string sections in Dirt. As a very kind lady, she offered us to go into the studio in the Atrium (something else that's had a pretty diabolical name change to something more corporate) and listen to it being done. We got to spend some time in a rather sweaty studio with our idols at the time, their producer (the guy from A. I know, who?) and some musicians swiping away with their bows and sheet music. Getting to hear one of your favourite band's tracks before anyone else was the biggest 'fuck you' to all my friends that I have ever had. I tried desperately to memorise the rhythms and melodies, but like everything when you're 16, it floated gently into one ear and straight out of the other. Pretty cool though, eh?
To this day, I still place their Christmas show in 2009 in Clwb Ifor Bach as one of the top three gigs I have ever been to. I'm pretty sure it was around the 23rd of December, and snow brought the UK to complete and utter pandemonium, so much so that the first support band didn't turn up. Instead, Aled, Iain, and two of their friends came out and filled the opening slot with some Glassjaw covers. They really went for it, guitars and heads flying everywhere. It was a nice contrast to the poppy melodies of KIGH; to hear Aled covering Glassjaw's 'Tip Your Bartender' and the gentler, but still encapsulatingly dark 'Piano' seemed bizarre and yet utterly right. These were the bands they listened to as teens themselves, the seeds that KIGH had stemmed from.
Due to the snow, Clwb was at about half capacity, but everyone clambered to the stage. Everyone suddenly became friends, and we were all out for good time. We screamed and chanted along with them, and they even kindly covered 'Killing in the Name Of' and Mariah's 'All I Want for Christmas'. Everyone danced, smiled and screamed their way through the gig, and no-one left with anything less than a Cheshire Cat's grin.
Most recently, I met one of my best friends through a mutual liking for KIGH. We now share a house together in our second year in Uni. How weird is that?
Basically, Kid in Glass Houses aren't a groundbreaking or particularly big band, but they provided me with a soundtrack for my teenage years. Through the shitty bits of growing up and girls, to getting drunk for the first time, KIGH weren't far away. Listening back to recordings of the band I was part of when I was 16, it's amazing how much they permeated our sound. My bassline carries a rather large whiff of 'Easy Tiger' about it, all done subconsciously. Rather aptly, as they come to an end, so to do my teenage years. Now at the respectable age of 20, I am now expected to start thinking of work, of life, and monotony. Shame. I quite liked the teenage years.
Cheers, Kids in Glass Houses. It was a pleasure. See you in October for the farewell tour. Smart Casual is currently nestling between Queens of the Stone Age's 'Songs for the Deaf' and Rage Against the Machine's self-titled debut record in my top 5 albums of all time. You want it all, but you want more.
Wednesday, 26 February 2014
Sunday, 23 February 2014
Review Time: Gibson Midtown Signature Bass
I promised myself to post at least once a month, but a delightful bout of constant illness last month put a swift end to that. So, to make up for it, I'm writing a review (something I secretly enjoy and occasionally post on review websites. Yes I am one of those.) on a bass. And to be honest, it's a startlingly handsome one. Ladies and gentleman, the Gibson Midtown Signature Bass in Bullion Gold.
Oddly enticing looking thing, isn't it? It pricked my attention partly due to the way it looks, and partly because I had never seen one before. To me, it looks like the result of a fumble between an Epiphone Jack Casady and a Gibbo EB-3 at a Hot Tuna gig. Here are the mugshots of the parents, to help with pinpointing its genealogy.
So it's got its father's hips, and a slimmer lower horn and electronics courtesy of its mother. So it's going to be a boomer; big dubby tones, smooth and creamy, with a certain hollowness to the sound that has the strange ability to fill a large room with brown-note inducing bottom end. Usually the thing I hate. And in the Gibson Midtown, its business as usual, except I don't quite hate it.
It booms. It really booms. Planting all the strings through the big neck humbucker, you get that famous earthquake inducing bottom. But in all honesty, its not dominating. It's more subtle than that. It's like an EB-3 that's gone to finishing school and no longer wipes its nose on the curtains. I mean, it still spills wine over the furniture and burps mid-meal, but the belch is followed by a quick and polite apology, and a reverential clearing of the throat. It compliments, as opposed to shouts. It creates a wave that jangly, Weller-esque tones can float on, and carry themselves into ears rather soothingly. For a big old Boomer, its got some finesse.
That said, and I feel this may be a little uncalled for or due to my own negligence of the EQ, there was a tiny bit of muddiness on the lowest notes. But again, that is part of the Boomer's character; if I wanted utmost clarity, I should've tried something a bit more modern. I played it through a nice little Ampeg Fliptop/Portaflex rig, which was excellent, and really complimented the character of the Midtown.
There's a delightfully simple set up to the electronics on the Midtown; one volume knob, one tone, and a three-way pick-up selector. Cranking the tone knob to the darker side of things, the neck pickup develops a bit of character, and shows its heritage. Keeping it clean provides a perfect bed for clean guitar tones to waft over.
Flicking the selector to the middle position, we see the introduction of the bridge pick-up in the sound. It's a small humbucker, held a bit closer to the strings and gives an overall clang to the sound. Personally, I think it's redundant in a bass like this. The deep, dubby tones produced by the neck pick-up are crashed over by snappy, yappy pinches that highlight just how longer your fingernails are that day. It doesn't detract from any of the bottom end, but adds a metallic clank that isn't needed in this context. Think of the neck pick-up as a big old St. Bernard; big, dignified, a bit slobbery, but full of love. Place atop its back a little, annoyed Yorkshire Terrier, yapping away at the very thought of its own existence. That Yorkshire Terrier is the bridge pick-up, and it doesn't make for a particularly inviting package.
I flicked the selector down, silencing the St. Bernard, and gave the yappy thing a chance to redeem itself. It does a good impression of Jaco Pastorius, but nothing more. On a bass like this, it is about as much use as Yahoo Answers; it provides no solution, nothing productive and adds nothing of any benefit to the sound.
Onto the feel of thing. Nicely balanced and fantastically finished, it is a thing of beauty. I can't remember the exact price, but I feel it was just under £1300, say £1268 or so. To be completely honest, I was surprised at how little this was for the quality. The colour, much lighter in person than in the picture above, carries with it a bizarre finish; visible brush strokes up the neck did make me ponder on quality, but the lacquer and fitment of everything suggests that this is part of the handmade character. It's a sturdy beast, not delicate in the slightest.
I read a lot on the Gibson website about the unique construction; their new way of building the Midtown, yadda yadda yadda. I hate sales rhetoric because I am very often drawn in and take the bait. Frankly, the way this thing was designed carries no impact with me. All I can say is it's a fantastic bass for the old-school deep reggae beats, a finely cut accompaniment for laid-back tunes, and with a bit of fuzz, could even carry off some of the more docile heavy tones, a la Jack Bruce. The quality is top notch, and it looks fantastic.
Please, Gibson. Get rid of the bridge pick-up, bring the price down by a hundred quid or so and we have an absolute future classic that could happily be used week in, week out for the next 30 years. Just don't expect to fire machine gun triplets at Mark King on it though; she's a Boomer, and always will be.
It booms. It really booms. Planting all the strings through the big neck humbucker, you get that famous earthquake inducing bottom. But in all honesty, its not dominating. It's more subtle than that. It's like an EB-3 that's gone to finishing school and no longer wipes its nose on the curtains. I mean, it still spills wine over the furniture and burps mid-meal, but the belch is followed by a quick and polite apology, and a reverential clearing of the throat. It compliments, as opposed to shouts. It creates a wave that jangly, Weller-esque tones can float on, and carry themselves into ears rather soothingly. For a big old Boomer, its got some finesse.
That said, and I feel this may be a little uncalled for or due to my own negligence of the EQ, there was a tiny bit of muddiness on the lowest notes. But again, that is part of the Boomer's character; if I wanted utmost clarity, I should've tried something a bit more modern. I played it through a nice little Ampeg Fliptop/Portaflex rig, which was excellent, and really complimented the character of the Midtown.
There's a delightfully simple set up to the electronics on the Midtown; one volume knob, one tone, and a three-way pick-up selector. Cranking the tone knob to the darker side of things, the neck pickup develops a bit of character, and shows its heritage. Keeping it clean provides a perfect bed for clean guitar tones to waft over.
Flicking the selector to the middle position, we see the introduction of the bridge pick-up in the sound. It's a small humbucker, held a bit closer to the strings and gives an overall clang to the sound. Personally, I think it's redundant in a bass like this. The deep, dubby tones produced by the neck pick-up are crashed over by snappy, yappy pinches that highlight just how longer your fingernails are that day. It doesn't detract from any of the bottom end, but adds a metallic clank that isn't needed in this context. Think of the neck pick-up as a big old St. Bernard; big, dignified, a bit slobbery, but full of love. Place atop its back a little, annoyed Yorkshire Terrier, yapping away at the very thought of its own existence. That Yorkshire Terrier is the bridge pick-up, and it doesn't make for a particularly inviting package.
I flicked the selector down, silencing the St. Bernard, and gave the yappy thing a chance to redeem itself. It does a good impression of Jaco Pastorius, but nothing more. On a bass like this, it is about as much use as Yahoo Answers; it provides no solution, nothing productive and adds nothing of any benefit to the sound.
Onto the feel of thing. Nicely balanced and fantastically finished, it is a thing of beauty. I can't remember the exact price, but I feel it was just under £1300, say £1268 or so. To be completely honest, I was surprised at how little this was for the quality. The colour, much lighter in person than in the picture above, carries with it a bizarre finish; visible brush strokes up the neck did make me ponder on quality, but the lacquer and fitment of everything suggests that this is part of the handmade character. It's a sturdy beast, not delicate in the slightest.
I read a lot on the Gibson website about the unique construction; their new way of building the Midtown, yadda yadda yadda. I hate sales rhetoric because I am very often drawn in and take the bait. Frankly, the way this thing was designed carries no impact with me. All I can say is it's a fantastic bass for the old-school deep reggae beats, a finely cut accompaniment for laid-back tunes, and with a bit of fuzz, could even carry off some of the more docile heavy tones, a la Jack Bruce. The quality is top notch, and it looks fantastic.
Please, Gibson. Get rid of the bridge pick-up, bring the price down by a hundred quid or so and we have an absolute future classic that could happily be used week in, week out for the next 30 years. Just don't expect to fire machine gun triplets at Mark King on it though; she's a Boomer, and always will be.
Sunday, 22 December 2013
Past Dunk - My Album of the Year
The title looks like I've had copyright issues and wasn't allowed to use actual names. Ha.
Let's take a 'past dunk' (geddit?) into my favourite album of the year, Daft Punk's 'Random Access Memories'.
I have a rather large and commendable array of ways to procrastinate. One of my favourites is to let myself loose on Spotify and tell myself that music aids in studying and improves performance. There's probably some truth in that, particularly if it's a nice Beethoven piece, or maybe some Bach. Something you listen to with one eyebrow raised and your lips pursed. Anyway, I doubt this performance-enhancement applies when listening to Daft Punk's Random Access Memories. However, God loves a trier. Random Access Memories it was.
I adore this album for many reasons. Firstly, it's a fantastic documentary on pop music from the last 30-40 years. Secondly, it's so heavily garnished with jazz and funk licks that the groove thrusts your crotch and bites your lips until you realise you've had a rather massive trouser accident and the computer chair is now soaked through. This is mainly due to Nile Rogers' unparalleled ability to make any human being collapse in ecstasy simply by chonking his way through four chords on his guitar. Thirdly, and what I have come to understand as the most crucial reason for my adoration, it was the sound to the end my first year at Uni, and the beginnings of Summer.
I remember people making a massive fuss over the album before it was released. I remember people mentioning a potential leak; people I had no idea had even heard of Daft Punk going crazy over what seemed like a small and insignificant rumour. Naturally, I dismissed all of the Daft Punk hype as a phase that will pass and eventually be overtaken by something else. Then I remember listening in my car to what I thought was either an undiscovered Chic song, or some major rip-off of a Nile Rogers track. I remember reversing out of my drive and thinking: 'This is pretty damn cool. This is one of the coolest things I have ever heard'. I checked the radio station to find that it wasn't on Radio 2, as I expected, but rather Radio 1. Alarm bells rang. This is not the place for funk? This is the place for young and hip and cool people; people who buy clothes in charity shops and don't eat creatures with more than three legs or that cast a shadow. It turned out that the song was 'Get Lucky'.
I lapped it up. It played on my mind for days. Suddenly Daft Punk had become a bigger deal. They weren't some slightly washed up duo looking to pay the next mortgage payment on time. They were bringing funk back. Funk. A genre I so highly admire for its bass players, its sheer groove, and the attitude of fun and promiscuity it preaches. I had to give the album a listen.
I listened to the album. I listened to it again. And again. It was on repeat, in between Spotify adverts, permanently. At the time, Summer had emerged from its elusive hiding place and threw itself over Cardiff in a blanket of hazy evenings and cut grass. I was sat at my computer chair in Talybont Court at around 4 in the afternoon, and the Sun's heat permeated every last inch of my desk. I sat and stared out of my window, eyes familiar with the view of the white walls and windows belonging next block of flats. The window opened marginally, letting in a breath of warm, wet air, and with it the sounds of first year students crunching over the stones beneath. Sunglasses became a permanent fixture on peoples' faces, and shorts an absolute necessity to avoid death by boiling. The days were long; the Sun hung ahead indefinitely, as if strung to a tac in the sky. I listened, avoiding any consideration of writing an essay.
I listened to it all day; through the sepia tones of daylight and into the purple hues of evening. I loved it. Eventually, I sat down and worked. Listening had become an overindulgent treat, and spent any spare/break time (of which there was much) being aurally pleasured by it. Eventually, I worked myself free of the essays. They were soon packaged up and sent to the powers that be for judgement and mockery (again, of which there was much). But the times had changed. We were free. Celebrations were in order.
I remember, after having a shower, putting 'Give Life Back to Music' on. After the horrendously cheesy and over-dramatic intro, the song settled and the groove just oozed out. I was buttoning up a slightly baggy pale blue and white gingham shirt, and staring out of the window. I bobbed my head, as you do, and had the strange but not awful taste of toothpaste and cider in my mouth. A fresh smattering of aftershave stung my neck and wrists. Staring out of the window, I could see people on their travels to other flats to begin the celebration of the end of exams. The day had been hot, but the evening crept up with the cool temperature of bathwater. I had friends coming around that evening to predrink at my flat, and I was just on my way to meet them at the front door. At that moment, everything in life was absolutely amazing. Adrenaline wasn't coursing through my veins, and neither was I heavy and lazy with an alcohol-tickled brain. I was calm, happy. The night was cool, the Sun bathed everything in orange, and I had my absolutely amazing pack of friends coming around to celebrate. It was the most content I had ever felt.
Later on, whilst we drank and danced in a club, 'Get Lucky' made an appearance to the sound of cheers. The slightly awkward, out-of-sync movements of the club became unified in the same head-bob/crotch thrust combo that had taken a hold of me earlier in the evening. It was amazing, that groove. I've yet to experience another song that will have that effect on a crowded room.
In short, Random Access Memories is a collection of songs. It's some digital waves and signals being thrown into an amplifier and the signal exploded into the regurgitating resonance of paper cones. And yet, despite not being able to reach out at touch it, this collection of noises evokes some of the most powerful chemical reactions in my brain. It unlatches the memory box and releases the most fantastic memories of fantastic experiences with fantastic people.
I like the title. It sort of reflects the story I've just told. Listen to it, and those memories will come back. Random Access Memories.
Let's take a 'past dunk' (geddit?) into my favourite album of the year, Daft Punk's 'Random Access Memories'.
I have a rather large and commendable array of ways to procrastinate. One of my favourites is to let myself loose on Spotify and tell myself that music aids in studying and improves performance. There's probably some truth in that, particularly if it's a nice Beethoven piece, or maybe some Bach. Something you listen to with one eyebrow raised and your lips pursed. Anyway, I doubt this performance-enhancement applies when listening to Daft Punk's Random Access Memories. However, God loves a trier. Random Access Memories it was.
I adore this album for many reasons. Firstly, it's a fantastic documentary on pop music from the last 30-40 years. Secondly, it's so heavily garnished with jazz and funk licks that the groove thrusts your crotch and bites your lips until you realise you've had a rather massive trouser accident and the computer chair is now soaked through. This is mainly due to Nile Rogers' unparalleled ability to make any human being collapse in ecstasy simply by chonking his way through four chords on his guitar. Thirdly, and what I have come to understand as the most crucial reason for my adoration, it was the sound to the end my first year at Uni, and the beginnings of Summer.
I remember people making a massive fuss over the album before it was released. I remember people mentioning a potential leak; people I had no idea had even heard of Daft Punk going crazy over what seemed like a small and insignificant rumour. Naturally, I dismissed all of the Daft Punk hype as a phase that will pass and eventually be overtaken by something else. Then I remember listening in my car to what I thought was either an undiscovered Chic song, or some major rip-off of a Nile Rogers track. I remember reversing out of my drive and thinking: 'This is pretty damn cool. This is one of the coolest things I have ever heard'. I checked the radio station to find that it wasn't on Radio 2, as I expected, but rather Radio 1. Alarm bells rang. This is not the place for funk? This is the place for young and hip and cool people; people who buy clothes in charity shops and don't eat creatures with more than three legs or that cast a shadow. It turned out that the song was 'Get Lucky'.
I lapped it up. It played on my mind for days. Suddenly Daft Punk had become a bigger deal. They weren't some slightly washed up duo looking to pay the next mortgage payment on time. They were bringing funk back. Funk. A genre I so highly admire for its bass players, its sheer groove, and the attitude of fun and promiscuity it preaches. I had to give the album a listen.
I listened to the album. I listened to it again. And again. It was on repeat, in between Spotify adverts, permanently. At the time, Summer had emerged from its elusive hiding place and threw itself over Cardiff in a blanket of hazy evenings and cut grass. I was sat at my computer chair in Talybont Court at around 4 in the afternoon, and the Sun's heat permeated every last inch of my desk. I sat and stared out of my window, eyes familiar with the view of the white walls and windows belonging next block of flats. The window opened marginally, letting in a breath of warm, wet air, and with it the sounds of first year students crunching over the stones beneath. Sunglasses became a permanent fixture on peoples' faces, and shorts an absolute necessity to avoid death by boiling. The days were long; the Sun hung ahead indefinitely, as if strung to a tac in the sky. I listened, avoiding any consideration of writing an essay.
I listened to it all day; through the sepia tones of daylight and into the purple hues of evening. I loved it. Eventually, I sat down and worked. Listening had become an overindulgent treat, and spent any spare/break time (of which there was much) being aurally pleasured by it. Eventually, I worked myself free of the essays. They were soon packaged up and sent to the powers that be for judgement and mockery (again, of which there was much). But the times had changed. We were free. Celebrations were in order.
I remember, after having a shower, putting 'Give Life Back to Music' on. After the horrendously cheesy and over-dramatic intro, the song settled and the groove just oozed out. I was buttoning up a slightly baggy pale blue and white gingham shirt, and staring out of the window. I bobbed my head, as you do, and had the strange but not awful taste of toothpaste and cider in my mouth. A fresh smattering of aftershave stung my neck and wrists. Staring out of the window, I could see people on their travels to other flats to begin the celebration of the end of exams. The day had been hot, but the evening crept up with the cool temperature of bathwater. I had friends coming around that evening to predrink at my flat, and I was just on my way to meet them at the front door. At that moment, everything in life was absolutely amazing. Adrenaline wasn't coursing through my veins, and neither was I heavy and lazy with an alcohol-tickled brain. I was calm, happy. The night was cool, the Sun bathed everything in orange, and I had my absolutely amazing pack of friends coming around to celebrate. It was the most content I had ever felt.
Later on, whilst we drank and danced in a club, 'Get Lucky' made an appearance to the sound of cheers. The slightly awkward, out-of-sync movements of the club became unified in the same head-bob/crotch thrust combo that had taken a hold of me earlier in the evening. It was amazing, that groove. I've yet to experience another song that will have that effect on a crowded room.
In short, Random Access Memories is a collection of songs. It's some digital waves and signals being thrown into an amplifier and the signal exploded into the regurgitating resonance of paper cones. And yet, despite not being able to reach out at touch it, this collection of noises evokes some of the most powerful chemical reactions in my brain. It unlatches the memory box and releases the most fantastic memories of fantastic experiences with fantastic people.
I like the title. It sort of reflects the story I've just told. Listen to it, and those memories will come back. Random Access Memories.
Sunday, 17 November 2013
Who Lets the Dog's House? (WHO, WHO, WHO, WHO)
I have a thing for puns in the title. Sorry.
So who lets the dog's house. Who? Who? Who? Who? Every time I venture into Uni, I am forced to walk through a triangle of letting agencies that pretty much control the vast population of Cardiff and Cardiff Met's students' dwellings. They are in charge of providing, receiving payment for, maintaining, stealing deposits for, and of course, forcing down students' necks, housing for Mummy and Daddy's precious little Prince or Princess. In all honesty, I don't see a problem with this; business is business, time is money and all that.
What I do have a problem with is the sheer juxtaposition between the lives these letting agency folk live, and the lives of the cash cows (us faithful ol' students). As I walk through the Letting Agency Triangle, I feel the opulence-level rise faster than the bank manager's eyebrows when asked for an overdraft extension. Gone are the cantankerous doors and shifty-eyed windows of studentville, and in with the Cheshire gates and perfectly tanned façades of the Letting Agency Triangle. Metallic cans once containing watery hops do not stray into the Triangle. Neither do the homo sapiens that thrive on the alcoholic beverage stay for longer than is absolutely necessary. The buildings stand straighter than everyone else's; they stand like worthy war heroes: 'Look at the shelter I am providing you with, the space in which you sleep and study. I'm only asking for your praise and admiration', they say. Again, I don't see a problem with this. I'm not going to part with my hard applied-for money and hand it over to some shabby little squat-shop occupied by a man chewing on a matchstick flipping a coin in his hand. Of course I wouldn't. I'd much rather hand it over to a nicely groomed man or woman in a suit, a warming smile, and your best interests at heart. If only.
Being a petrol head, I have mixed views when walking through the Letting Agency Triangle. The cars that adorn the pavement are as flashy as a Chav's knuckles. BMW, Mercedes, Audi, Bentley; they're all there. A nice BMW M3, brand new: £55k, minus extras. A BMW 535d, again, brand new: £45k. Audi TT, private plate, £35k. Bentley Continental (the W12 one, not the V8, you pauper), fresh from Crewe: £135k. And there's another one, convertible this time, in a delightfully discrete crystalline white: another £160k. This is my equivalent of walking through a street where pretty girls come out to greet and flutter their eyelashes at you. Yes, I realise how sad it sounds that I prefer cars over scantily-clad women. There is a big impact of seeing so much wealth nestled in poverty; it's like a jeweller placing a 12 carat diamond atop a ring made of pig iron. It is the hyperbole of juxtaposition. And what places me into despair is knowing my money went into it. I paid for someone's Bentley, someone's holiday to the Bahamas (first class, of course), someone's wife's botox. And yet I live in a house where we don't mark each other's heights, we mark how far up the wall the damp has grown. Posters have become structurally integral. Radiators have become vast metal ornaments because placing hot water in them is too expensive. We've even had a few furry neighbours, one of which we caught. The carpet in the hall can only be described as 'corpse grey' with filth (it's described on our itinerary as being 'dark cream'), and doors refuse to open because the frames in which they inhabit have nervous breakdowns and collapse onto them. I could go on.
And so I shall. The shower likes to descend water upon anyone eating downstairs, the walls lean like they're awaiting a hip-replacement, there is enough fridge/freezer space for 2.5 people (there are 5 of us) and I'm pretty sure my mattress has assumed the lotus position, because it is not the flat and comfortable haven it is meant to be. Alas, I have picked many holes. I should also add that I do enjoy living in my wonky, arthritic house, and yes, it's the 'experience' and the people you live with who make the experience yadda yadda yadda.
It pained me to know that the Letting Agency people live not just humble lives, but extravagant ones. Excessive displays of wealth in a place where £20 will get you a night out is just a monumental show of bellendery. I even thought that these people should be monitored by an external source and money regulated, but after a bit of thought, I suppose I'm just jealous. I felt like complaining at someone else's success. I would've been no better than anyone who slandered Bill Gates, Richard Branson or Wayne Rooney when they first looked at the sky and thought 'that's the limit' (except Wayne, who saw the sky through the hole in the top of the potato bag he arrived in). I'd be no better than those horrendous people on Points of View, who scream bloody murder at the prospect of a repeat of Pointless being shown whilst the current series is ongoing.
In truth, I am jealous that I didn't get the idea first. They live financially rewarding lives, void of the choice between eating or going out. They saw an opportunity and capitalised on it. I can't comment on the rest of their lives for they may be utterly miserable in every other way. I just wish I could've secured my slice of the cake before it became their monopoly (and may I add that the houses I would let would be worthy of human living, and may even be described as 'quite nice'). My only wish is that they would be more discreet in their earnings. We students are a poor bunch, and months of procrastination have meant that many of us have turned to less-honourable pastimes, say, lock-picking, for example. Or the ability to fraternise and seduce wealthy business people. I'm not saying much, I'm just saying.
(Sidenote: I'm not completely wrapped up in how much money people earn or how much people own in terms of material goods, as my blog may denote. I enjoy a success story, and at the end of the day, we all sort of want to be rich. Don't lie, you self-righteous little shit. Get your arse back down here with the rest of us. There you go. Do you feel that? That's called acceptance. Now keep your head down and shut up, you'll do as your told.)
So who lets the dog's house. Who? Who? Who? Who? Every time I venture into Uni, I am forced to walk through a triangle of letting agencies that pretty much control the vast population of Cardiff and Cardiff Met's students' dwellings. They are in charge of providing, receiving payment for, maintaining, stealing deposits for, and of course, forcing down students' necks, housing for Mummy and Daddy's precious little Prince or Princess. In all honesty, I don't see a problem with this; business is business, time is money and all that.
What I do have a problem with is the sheer juxtaposition between the lives these letting agency folk live, and the lives of the cash cows (us faithful ol' students). As I walk through the Letting Agency Triangle, I feel the opulence-level rise faster than the bank manager's eyebrows when asked for an overdraft extension. Gone are the cantankerous doors and shifty-eyed windows of studentville, and in with the Cheshire gates and perfectly tanned façades of the Letting Agency Triangle. Metallic cans once containing watery hops do not stray into the Triangle. Neither do the homo sapiens that thrive on the alcoholic beverage stay for longer than is absolutely necessary. The buildings stand straighter than everyone else's; they stand like worthy war heroes: 'Look at the shelter I am providing you with, the space in which you sleep and study. I'm only asking for your praise and admiration', they say. Again, I don't see a problem with this. I'm not going to part with my hard applied-for money and hand it over to some shabby little squat-shop occupied by a man chewing on a matchstick flipping a coin in his hand. Of course I wouldn't. I'd much rather hand it over to a nicely groomed man or woman in a suit, a warming smile, and your best interests at heart. If only.
Being a petrol head, I have mixed views when walking through the Letting Agency Triangle. The cars that adorn the pavement are as flashy as a Chav's knuckles. BMW, Mercedes, Audi, Bentley; they're all there. A nice BMW M3, brand new: £55k, minus extras. A BMW 535d, again, brand new: £45k. Audi TT, private plate, £35k. Bentley Continental (the W12 one, not the V8, you pauper), fresh from Crewe: £135k. And there's another one, convertible this time, in a delightfully discrete crystalline white: another £160k. This is my equivalent of walking through a street where pretty girls come out to greet and flutter their eyelashes at you. Yes, I realise how sad it sounds that I prefer cars over scantily-clad women. There is a big impact of seeing so much wealth nestled in poverty; it's like a jeweller placing a 12 carat diamond atop a ring made of pig iron. It is the hyperbole of juxtaposition. And what places me into despair is knowing my money went into it. I paid for someone's Bentley, someone's holiday to the Bahamas (first class, of course), someone's wife's botox. And yet I live in a house where we don't mark each other's heights, we mark how far up the wall the damp has grown. Posters have become structurally integral. Radiators have become vast metal ornaments because placing hot water in them is too expensive. We've even had a few furry neighbours, one of which we caught. The carpet in the hall can only be described as 'corpse grey' with filth (it's described on our itinerary as being 'dark cream'), and doors refuse to open because the frames in which they inhabit have nervous breakdowns and collapse onto them. I could go on.
And so I shall. The shower likes to descend water upon anyone eating downstairs, the walls lean like they're awaiting a hip-replacement, there is enough fridge/freezer space for 2.5 people (there are 5 of us) and I'm pretty sure my mattress has assumed the lotus position, because it is not the flat and comfortable haven it is meant to be. Alas, I have picked many holes. I should also add that I do enjoy living in my wonky, arthritic house, and yes, it's the 'experience' and the people you live with who make the experience yadda yadda yadda.
It pained me to know that the Letting Agency people live not just humble lives, but extravagant ones. Excessive displays of wealth in a place where £20 will get you a night out is just a monumental show of bellendery. I even thought that these people should be monitored by an external source and money regulated, but after a bit of thought, I suppose I'm just jealous. I felt like complaining at someone else's success. I would've been no better than anyone who slandered Bill Gates, Richard Branson or Wayne Rooney when they first looked at the sky and thought 'that's the limit' (except Wayne, who saw the sky through the hole in the top of the potato bag he arrived in). I'd be no better than those horrendous people on Points of View, who scream bloody murder at the prospect of a repeat of Pointless being shown whilst the current series is ongoing.
In truth, I am jealous that I didn't get the idea first. They live financially rewarding lives, void of the choice between eating or going out. They saw an opportunity and capitalised on it. I can't comment on the rest of their lives for they may be utterly miserable in every other way. I just wish I could've secured my slice of the cake before it became their monopoly (and may I add that the houses I would let would be worthy of human living, and may even be described as 'quite nice'). My only wish is that they would be more discreet in their earnings. We students are a poor bunch, and months of procrastination have meant that many of us have turned to less-honourable pastimes, say, lock-picking, for example. Or the ability to fraternise and seduce wealthy business people. I'm not saying much, I'm just saying.
(Sidenote: I'm not completely wrapped up in how much money people earn or how much people own in terms of material goods, as my blog may denote. I enjoy a success story, and at the end of the day, we all sort of want to be rich. Don't lie, you self-righteous little shit. Get your arse back down here with the rest of us. There you go. Do you feel that? That's called acceptance. Now keep your head down and shut up, you'll do as your told.)
Monday, 4 November 2013
Babbling on.
I have no real point to make in this post, just a slightly fuzzy head and fingers itching to type. In a slightly Kafka-esque style, I will literally write my mind, and if anything intelligible or even legible turns up, then we shall call this post a success. Right, here we go...
Time. That background thing that we can never quite escape. It's a funny old thing, time. It's usually running out, healing wounds or placing enjoyable events as far away as possible from each other. A pretty busy character, is our time.
Recently, I've had a lot of time to think and essentially do nothing. These last 6 weeks have been filled with the slightly more taxing job of avoiding work, but largely, I have still done nothing. And d'you know what? I quite like it. Time is not a conscious being, but the way it acts on us as conscious beings is quite alarming, in the best way possible. It loosens ties to once dear things, it chops to-do lists down and down until you have very little else to do. And then, as a plateau is reached, time drops little parcels of things to do, by which point you are hungry and eager to do them. The second year of Uni has been a complete triumph over the first. I did not enjoy my first year studying English Literature. I enjoyed the people, I enjoyed the places, but the course was horrendous. Now in my second year, I have been able to cut the crap out of my learning and concentrate on things that appeal to me and only me. I've had a little saying for a few years now: 'Before you can enjoy the best in life, you must learn to appreciate the worst in life'. Studying ye olde Englishe did not appeal to me. Shakespeare didn't particularly interest me. Beowulf bored me. African Literature made me want to end my education. Modernism, however, captivates me.
Modernism is essentially the act of sticking two fingers up to whatever came before it. After the heavy, sterile, and middle-class Victorian novels, modernist writers (and artists, whom were the genesis of the movement) took a look at the artfulness that was on display and had a sit down. In all honesty, I would have done the same. What a masterpiece of feminist literature Bronte's Jane Eyre is. Dickens, what a fantastically talented and brilliant chap he was. Bravo. And then these modernists stood up, and, when trying to come up with their next piece of work, completely ignored the fantastic old Victorian style. Instead, they tackled different topics; topics of power, of everyday life, of being turned into bug and worrying about how they may have to miss work because of it. I have been taught that there is no real definition of Modernism, and I love that. With most literary movements, there are codes and conventions that define it. Modernism is the opposite. It is the breaking of the codes and conventions that define it. It takes some brain power to stand up and realise an opposite even exists. Just to make it even cooler (and maybe even justify the brain power involved), many of the writers and artists were fucking mental. Would I like to read a novel by someone who was about as stable as Piers Morgan is popular? Yes I would. Hand me that Virginia Woolf novel.
I think I see a little bit of myself in Modernism. I shouldn't fit in in life. I do not work hard, I scrape by on a cat's whisker in most cases. I've blagged my way through occasions that I should really know what I am doing and I've had the time of my life. I shouldn't have had so many fantastic experiences. I do not feel that I have deserved them, but still, opportunities creep up. Call it luck, call it what you will. Modernism is praised for being such a dick. I guess I've been a dick in the sense that I have no idea what I am doing and have ended up landing on my feet more times than I haven't. It's not something I'm proud of, but it's something that I treasure in a strange, retrospective way.
There was no real purpose to this post. It literally was me, as the title suggests, babbling on. I guess I'm just having my feet touch the ground again for the umpteenth time, and now the ground has started moving. I'm hoping that it is a floor, and not a treadmill on which I am landing, because some progress to something new and exciting would be most welcome for a dick like me.
Time. That background thing that we can never quite escape. It's a funny old thing, time. It's usually running out, healing wounds or placing enjoyable events as far away as possible from each other. A pretty busy character, is our time.
Recently, I've had a lot of time to think and essentially do nothing. These last 6 weeks have been filled with the slightly more taxing job of avoiding work, but largely, I have still done nothing. And d'you know what? I quite like it. Time is not a conscious being, but the way it acts on us as conscious beings is quite alarming, in the best way possible. It loosens ties to once dear things, it chops to-do lists down and down until you have very little else to do. And then, as a plateau is reached, time drops little parcels of things to do, by which point you are hungry and eager to do them. The second year of Uni has been a complete triumph over the first. I did not enjoy my first year studying English Literature. I enjoyed the people, I enjoyed the places, but the course was horrendous. Now in my second year, I have been able to cut the crap out of my learning and concentrate on things that appeal to me and only me. I've had a little saying for a few years now: 'Before you can enjoy the best in life, you must learn to appreciate the worst in life'. Studying ye olde Englishe did not appeal to me. Shakespeare didn't particularly interest me. Beowulf bored me. African Literature made me want to end my education. Modernism, however, captivates me.
Modernism is essentially the act of sticking two fingers up to whatever came before it. After the heavy, sterile, and middle-class Victorian novels, modernist writers (and artists, whom were the genesis of the movement) took a look at the artfulness that was on display and had a sit down. In all honesty, I would have done the same. What a masterpiece of feminist literature Bronte's Jane Eyre is. Dickens, what a fantastically talented and brilliant chap he was. Bravo. And then these modernists stood up, and, when trying to come up with their next piece of work, completely ignored the fantastic old Victorian style. Instead, they tackled different topics; topics of power, of everyday life, of being turned into bug and worrying about how they may have to miss work because of it. I have been taught that there is no real definition of Modernism, and I love that. With most literary movements, there are codes and conventions that define it. Modernism is the opposite. It is the breaking of the codes and conventions that define it. It takes some brain power to stand up and realise an opposite even exists. Just to make it even cooler (and maybe even justify the brain power involved), many of the writers and artists were fucking mental. Would I like to read a novel by someone who was about as stable as Piers Morgan is popular? Yes I would. Hand me that Virginia Woolf novel.
I think I see a little bit of myself in Modernism. I shouldn't fit in in life. I do not work hard, I scrape by on a cat's whisker in most cases. I've blagged my way through occasions that I should really know what I am doing and I've had the time of my life. I shouldn't have had so many fantastic experiences. I do not feel that I have deserved them, but still, opportunities creep up. Call it luck, call it what you will. Modernism is praised for being such a dick. I guess I've been a dick in the sense that I have no idea what I am doing and have ended up landing on my feet more times than I haven't. It's not something I'm proud of, but it's something that I treasure in a strange, retrospective way.
There was no real purpose to this post. It literally was me, as the title suggests, babbling on. I guess I'm just having my feet touch the ground again for the umpteenth time, and now the ground has started moving. I'm hoping that it is a floor, and not a treadmill on which I am landing, because some progress to something new and exciting would be most welcome for a dick like me.
Sunday, 29 September 2013
The Beautiful People, The Beautiful People
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.
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.
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.
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