The Christmas Journey ( & Brussel Sprouts)

The City of Winchester is not longer dark and dingy through the cold winter nights! Yes, now we have very elegant looking Christmas lights to brighten up our walks through town in the evenings! They are wonderful; yet something tells me they aren't the signifying the start of Christmas. Sadly, Christmas to me has come to mean endless onslaughts or rather advertising 'campaigns' by the supermarkets; the grand manufacturers of Christmas and festive joy. Or not. So what is important about Christmas, really? Does my family really hit the Church on the 25th for religious celebration? Well no, not exactly. The last time I visited a Church in any type of religious capacity, it was a Christingle service in Oxford. Question this you might, but in truth, it was the free oranges that enticed me; not to mention the possibility of holding a 'live' candle in my hands, buried deep into an orange (I did even get to eat the aforementioned 'orange' after the 'show'!). Note to self, I really do have to stop using inverted commas all of the time in my writing; it gives the impression that I mock everything these days...

Religious, my family are not. But Christmas to us is all about family. Getting the family together, logs on the fire, snow outside, and the distant dream (for me) of surfing Christmas Day with nothing on but a Santa hat. Somehow, I haven't gotten around to that yet, but every year I leave it, I stand the risk of creating a bigger chance of being arrested for indecent exposure...nevermind.

But I suppose Christmas is made by those who attend it. Every year, we're on the way down to Devon; to the haven that is Pyeworthy - my parents keep a holiday cottage there, due to pick up my Nan on route, who provides us with a halfway meal and a good cup of Tea. After that, we bundle both her and her huge baggage and every Christmas present she's bought; because she refuses to hand them over earlier in the year, into the car. It's not because she hasn't bought them earlier, she buys them years in advance... As grandparents seem to! So after picking up my Nan, we're on the road to the best place in the world. Our house is in the middle of nowhere, so after driving through fields of nothing, we reach nothing, really. Except that it isn't. Pyeworthy may be in the middle of nowhere, and yes, we might not have streetlamps, but it isn't about that! Perhaps a more entertaining arrival would be when our extreme sports neighbours are out in force. If you're lucky, you'll be coming back to the cottage in time to see the mother outside firing arrows in the garden. Yes, actual arrows - next door are busy establishing themselves as the most premier archers in the Westcountry in our garden. We share grounds, it isn't as if they aren't supposed to be there; but one can't help but thing one day one of those arrows will fall stray of the target and end up hitting an unassuming Llama; who won't be best pleased. (a curious animal to have in a field you might think, but apparently these hefty beasts keep the others in line - I'm told, by Dave, our local animal keeper. Well, actually, he's a builder, but Llamas seem to help with planning permission a lot...Don't ask.)

Christmas comes so slowly when we're there though. Things seem to drift by, as I spend a few days shouting randomly at my laptop as I try to stay online in a place where the internet just isn't supposed to exist. This usually involves a rather elaborate skill as I try to multitask by talking to my Nan at the same time. I love my Nan, she's like my second Mum; but things definitely get tough when I'm having to explain the way in which the sound system works for the third Christmas in a row. It isn't that hard; but when my sister decides to bail, I'm forced to explain the inner working of the volume buttons. I often hide the DVD and Playstation controllers in order to minimalise the risk of my Nan turning on GoodFellas or Casino on Christmas Day - the only two HD-DVD's that I; and for that matter, probably anyone in the UK owns to go with their HD-DVD player. You might laugh, but no, we didn't mess up and buy it when the format wars were going on - Blu Ray vs. HD-DVD; my old man bought it cheap from Comet, after the final shots had rung out and Blu Ray had won. We now use it as a glorified DVD player, of which my Dad is still immensely proud of getting for "£40 plus a HDMI cable". Often, it is the opportune time for me to receive a good old ribbing from my family for choosing the Christmas movies we should watch, and subsequently purchasing them for each member of the family. Come on, I thought some of the classics were meant to be seen every year. From the cringeworthy antics of Harry and Marv in Home Alone (the second film is definitely better!) to Chevy Chase's desperate actions to offer his family with the perfect Christmas; there's something for us all.

Oh! I almost forgot! As well as the movies, we've now got the music videos! I come down from my room at 8AM (I know, that's late for Christmas Day, but I'm an 'old man' now, my housemates often tell me... besides, we are all sozzled by about lunchtime, so I figure whats the point of starting earlier!?) and my sister is already there with the controller flicking through music channels looking for the ultimate Christmas song - I think that Noddy Holder probably just puts on his furry ear warmers, goes to bed on December 1st, and wakes up just after New Years' (it's disgraceful if you didn't know that he and his band Slade created the theme to Christmas 'Merry Christmas everybody'...) I mean, would it not be ripping your soul a bit after thirty years of use!?

And then there is the Christmas Dinner. An epic Smörgåsbord of festive food, sitting on a table laden with small explosive devices that one has to pull before eating, when really all they want to do is dine! Yes, there's super thick gravy, mini cocktail sausages wrapped in bacon, and especially for my Nan, A small army of Brussel Sprouts; one of God's greatest fail foods - why did he waste some time on one of those seven days making these horrible little nefarious soldiers, whose sole purpose is to lead a cavalry charge of vicious aftertaste, and potentially deadly after effects.... People, you know what I mean. Don't pretend that you haven't felt the attack of the Sprout!

The Cafeteria Lady

Ok, so this is a bit further from my usual style of blogging - but I think I'm in love with the Cafeteria Lady. Yeah, she works downstairs on the till in the University Lunch Hall. Why? She's got an aurora about her. I think I must see her about three lunchtimes a week, and every time, she makes me smile. Sometimes when we all sit down to lunch with the usual clan - the BNP group (that is, the Beal National Party; more on that later....) they will bicker and moan about her happiness and smiles. They will mock her outgoing and chilled out nature. Never shall I.

Today, there was pandemonium inside the usually subdued zone of the Canteen. Too much money in the tills! Three women all fiddling with £20 notes and bags of two pound coins, carrying it all back and forth from the tills to the chasmic depths of what must be the control centre and headquarters of the dinnerladies; behind the scenes, through the big white door where student meals are cooked by the finest of University Chefs. Okay, so I'm getting a little carried away. A little, maybe. Love is like that. Anyway. Where was I? Yeah, so all this pandemonium, and in the middle of it all, The Cafeteria Lady just laughs in the most adorable way - I'm a sucker for a beautifully phrased laugh... and everything is okay. What a stunning moment. It is moments like that that certain types prevail over others. Types of people - so you've got your typical workaholic "icantbearsedwiththistoday" type of being; I can't stand them. What's wrong with something funny to spice up your life a little bit? Clearly to some people, life is all about work. Well, here's to you - in twenty years, you'll either be dead, burnt out, or a very successful career orientated person - actually, of the latter words, the addition of the first two negatives, culminates in the third word. You can be a dead man walking, right? I've met and seen a few... not such a pretty sight.  I'm afraid workaholics can end up being shells of the people they were. If you know someone like that - and you're at Uni, you NEED to help them. Chill, relax, do your work, but don't forget that life is about moments.

I think The Foo Fighters summed it up for me with 'Times Like These'. Dave Grohl sings of moments that mean a great deal to him. Well it is little moments like the Cafeteria Lady's laugh that mean that much to me. She's always like that. For instance, ages ago, just as the new term had started, I was buying my usual at the cafe: a highly nutritious and carbonic diet of beans, bacon, sausages, pizza (if its the decent pepperoni one...) and chips. Yes, its healthy. Anyway, I was just heading over to the fair lady on the till when she asked me "how are you today!?" in her usual innocent and honest tone; and I replied "very well thanks, my holiday was wonderful... how was your time off?" to which she smiled, postively beaming and said "I got married this holiday!" - I was overcome with happiness, not sadness. This lovely lady has found someone who treats her amazingly and hopefully recognises the same amazing features of her personality that I had...Awesome! My holiday pales by comparison, I said, and she returned that every holiday is good for you! It really just goes to show that amazing people live  in-between us, in our society. People of such selflessness that they almost make us all look terribly greedy, ugly and self-absorbed - it is only when you are talking to such people can you truly realise how much of a destructive and selfish person you can sometimes be - and just for once, you might feel like taking a day off.

P.S - If you see the Lady in question; and it's not the dark haired one... Smile!

The dreaded fall (or rather eagerly anticipated fail) of Jedward.

Another week hard at the grindstone for the people of Great Britain, yet one made all the more easy by this weeks' X-Factor news. Yes, bye bye Jedward. Lets get this out of the way before I commence with a good old fashioned attack of character, commercialism and general televisual tripe, I am not an X-factor fan.

 To me, X-Factor symbolises everything I stand against. Instead of searching for talent; for true, untapped potential, it provides a plinth for some really rather ordinary people. At the moment, X-factor as a format is decaying. Folks, it really does stink. Every year, like a fantastically mesmerising hollywood director; Simon Cowell stands in front of potential new 'actors' - some of whom, he will inevitably transform into stars and offers them a way out, an escape from the daily terrors and treatcherous nature of being...actually rather ordinary. For there is always to be a sob-story; an enticing, juicy sub-plot which will see the emotional burdens of an individual character tested to the limit. A lost father, a distant brother, a disconnected mother...  There must always be one family member who is at fault for this character to truly 'work', and sure enough, every year, there is always one of these. However, not this year. At least, if there was, his afflictions didn't work upon us this time. I don't pretend to know all of the cast of this year's show, but I recognise most of them. It strikes me as odd though, that I don't recognise them through my watching of the show. Where can this be from? Ah, I remember, I overheard Sarah talking about Danyl's epic fail, in the canteen a week ago... Or maybe it was Euan, my hearty amigo who happens to live in the bedroom next door to mine, talking about his eventual confession of love for the entity that is (or was...) Jedward. Well, actually, it was all of these things and more. Every time I turn on the television, open a magazine, surf the net, I still end up getting caught up in the mix. Simon Cowell says, Louis Walsh says, some X-factor reject from the first season says... It is always the same. Needless to say, it is rather overwhelming. What shocks me the most, is how the public can influence a series like this. Of course, it is all based on votes from our expensive and as Dermot O'Leary constantly reminds us 'crucial' phone calls to 'save' a contestant on this week's show (presumably from the daily terrors and treatcherous nature of being... actually rather ordinary.) Everything is so imperative in the world of X-factor. We 'must', we 'should', we 'need' and we 'save' - apparently, we, the public control the show yet the 'programme' (it does not really deserve the 'title' of programme, owing to the fact that it contains no televisual quality whatsoever) requires the use of desperation to draw us in. I know the show works on this principle, and, if it pulls in the money, why change it? I'm definitely not suggesting that - I suppose what I am really getting at is the repetition of the same format, year in year out. "Oh, it's the X-factor time of year again..." No! It is not! It is November, a month before December, the month of that less popular thing, Christmas!

Jedward alone can and has already been analysed by media critics and theorists who seek to understand why such dross can stir up the masses in such a way. It is easy really, they were never meant to be. When they started to gain popularity as the show progressed, people saw this as a vote for the underdogs - give the lads a chance. In direct opposition to this, I saw the continued voting and presence of Jedward as a message from the public directly to Simon Cowell: we've lost faith in your show, we are now mocking it by proving that any old tosh can be made into superstars, despite your search for true talent: and we will make you transform them, you promised a record deal to the winner(s), now it is time to deliver. More a threat than a promise; the British public were out in force. However, with Jedward's fall from the show, this never happened. At least now, someone semi-decent will be given a record deal to go away and cover/destroy a classic like 'Hallelujah', who knows, perhaps this year it will be something new, original and fresh. Or not. Sadly, I know that enough people will buy the single and thus make it a number one over Christmas. Why can't Slade re-enter the charts and challenge the X-factor winner? Perhaps Noddy Holder is too old this year - or perhaps he's actually just rich enough; I mean, now he's got a nut company too... What more could a man want, with the best dry roast nuts in the land and a fantastic Christmas hit? No, Im being serious - its' all about Noddy, I mean, Nobby's nuts. Alas, I'm wandering slightly off piste - combining X-factor and Noddy Holder is not a good idea. I realise that.

Anyway, I will superseed all of my dislike for the X-factor to admit my like for Susan Boyle's performance of Wild Horses. Fantastic. Now there is a real performer. No fancy auto-tuning, no theatricals or dance routines, no false noses or stretched and paralyzed foreheads and faces. Nope, this is the real deal, nothing disrupts the connection between the music and the listener, and nothing needs to. Susan Boyle has an angelic voice, and life has not been overly kind to her. Okay, so it hasn't been overbearingly harsh to her either - she isn't a crack addict or a victim of some life destroying disease. But she was actually rather ordinary, and she was happy. Someone quite rightly took her and made her a star; Simon Cowell infact. How ironic. Still, I suppose the nearest person I can think of to compare him to, Steven Spielberg, has had some major stinkers too, alongside some good films. The reason I'd compare them is that they both orchestrate, and they are both known more for who they are than what they actually are capable of making. Spielberg has made some good movies, definitely. But who is the archetypal director that the average person can think of off of the top of their head. Yep, its Spieler. Simon Cowell, the ultimate producer? Yes. The only thing is, nobody really knows why. Does Sam Mendes get the recognition he deserves as a director? No, but then at least those who do know him know why he is to be recognised as a talented director. That is the fee that a true auteur will pay. Simon Cowell will never regain the reputation that I think, he craves. So he is making much more money this way, but he won't ever be a true practitioner of his craft due to the X-factor.

Anyhow, it is here that I feel my rant becoming more of a study of professions, so at the risk of appearing abrupt in my conclusion, it is here I will stop. Thanks for reading... if you feel the same way, I'm happy there are more of us out there!

The Unforgotten Soldier.

It is not out of choice that I come to write my most personal blog entry tonight. After a month of mixed rollercoasting emotions and the convergence of both my life back home and my life in Winchester, I wanted to write something uplifting; I really did.

On the eve of Remembrance Sunday a trooper died in Afghanistan. Deciding to stay behind when his unit had returned home; the 4th Rifles, he chose to remain and help his replacements in the 3rd Rifles settle into their new environment. Joining the army this year, the soldier had been trained and then flown out for immediate action in Helmand. You may be questioning why I've opted not to name the soldier in question, thus far. Well, at this point, he could be anyone. He could be any one of the hundreds of new recruits who enter the fight against the Taliban and insurgent forces this month, this year, this decade even. However much I would love to continue to shroud his identity in order to use the effect of his death as a general morality tale; his name is one of incredible importance to me.

Phillip Allen, of the 4th Rifles, was not always a soldier. Two years ago he performed around my local area with his own backing band - a time at which my band was also gigging the area. Amidst all of the backstage antics and excesses of rock and roll we had met before at a local battle of the bands in my local town of Verwood, Dorset. Unfortunately, the only immediate detail that I can recognise is how Phil looked at the time, and certainly his music, which was revived within my musical memory as soon as I viewed his MySpace profile again. But what made such a talented and unique musician put down his guitar and pick up a gun? Most of us would question why anyone would want to pass over into something so extreme though I think, in an odd way, I understand.

I was a young schoolboy of fifteen when I applied to join the Territorial Army. For years, I dreamed of defending my country from evil and harm - defending those of I considered decent and honest, from those whom I considered to be challenging, destroying and invading our way of life. Fifteen is a wonderful age to be, as I look upon it now, four years later. Things were probably much more monochrome and one thing or the other then than they are now. Yes or no, no maybes - no philosophical debate, and no moral complexities; I wanted to defend those who I saw as the people that made life work. I made an oath with a close friend that we would join up should our island ever be directly threatened. I'm still held to my promise; the only thing that holds me back is the phrasing of my oath. Directly threatened? Thus far, I don't believe we are, but sometimes I think I've cheated and have broken my own oath, which would be unforgiveable. On other, happier days when it comes to me, and I think about it, I still hold true to the oath I made three Summers ago.

I suppose what affects me the most; and what chokes me about Phil is that he could have been me, and I could have been him. To this day, I still hold my guitar, and I use it to make and create, to form and discover. Phil would know what I mean. In the end, it was he that ended up holding a gun, and I holding my guitar. But what ironic twist of fate would have us end up this way? Should I be out there with the others fighting? Sometimes I think I should, and that I decided not to take one particular path and ended up on another because of that. Other times, I think that I was not meant to be fighting. That I can do the same damage with a pen or a camera as a gun.

But now, and forever more, I will remember that I could have been different; and so could Phil. He died doing something he loved, quoted as being a 'brother in arms', he almost certainly gave his life in the fight for others. Every remembrance Sunday (the day he died) I will be remembering thousands of lives lost in countless wars, faces I cannot name or identify. Alongside that, I will always remember the face of Phillip Allen; and not as a soldier, but as a musician. In fact, I already know and realise, that I will recognise Phil as myself. As a boy with dreams. Phil was due to be married too. As he sat in the airport terminal at Brize Norton, he proposed to the love of his life, Karina. With a wedding planned for December, this wasn't an Engagement of convention, but rather a real declaration of love. Some say he'd found his soul mate in Karina - I hope that this was true, and that some of his last thoughts were of love and beauty, not of death and despair. I wish, with all my heart that he was almost in Heaven already - being engaged to the woman he loved and cherished.

This story comes at a difficult time for me, as I constantly find I'm reaching crossroads in my life; movements of consequence and commitment. The story of Phil forces me to confront these things, and realise that I am still here and he is not. In a strange way, he gave his life for me to live mine. I know that the action that he was experiencing in Afghanistan did not directly affect me. However, He took the road I did not; which feels like it serves a purpose in demonstrating to me the intensity and unpredictability of life, but also shows me that I am alive; and that there is no reason for me to waste what I do have. If I live to be ninety seven, I'll have lived a life much longer than that of Phil; who deserved exactly the same as me, and yet had it taken from him in such a volatile and destructive manner it was offensive.

I could write in passages forever about life and how it is unfathomable in so many ways, but I think the most clever man in the world actually put it in such a beautifully blunt way; I shall steal his understanding and end upon such a note. Albert Einstein once said "learn from yesterday, live for today, and hope for tomorrow".

I learned from Phil, and for that, I owe him everything.

By Divine Intervention

Having just returned from a fantastic holiday in Rome, my original intention was to write about the religious implications of Rome and its Catholic importance. Yet still I found myself in a different mindset when I found the familiar grooves of my laptop keyboard; instead focussing on friends, and understanding how they can save us from the deepest and darkest of places.

It is here that our story begins, aboard our trusty EasyJet Airbus(this in itself a bit of an oxymoronic turn of phrase...) we prepared for takeoff. The pilot introduced himself rather politely and the cabin crew were indeed pleasant enough, save for the chief cabin steward; whose job it was to announce that there were great deals to be had on products being sold from the aircraft shop, an announcement in which he was to describe every single item being offered, pausing frequently without reason, clearly reading the same blurb that passengers were reading from the EasyJet magazine. However, sat against the window of our plane; I was drawn to thinking about the passengers who were next to me. My best friends. It was early September that we had first decided that a lad's holiday was in order, though a destination was not immediately clear to us. We had thought about the cobbled Parisian streets, and we had looked into the warm and cosy atmosphere that Dublin might be able to afford three students in November. Certainly both locations offered something unique and special but it was Rome that captivated our interests when we stumbled upon the most perfect of offers; which then eliminated any other possibilities. And so we were destined, to find ourselves in the City of God, surrounded by his most enthusiastic and dedicated fans.

Sitting at my portal - my cabin side window, I watched the clouds thin out and drift, almost enveloping our plane but at the same time not threatening our journey, rather seeming to brace and support our plane through the skies. Yet it was the people beside me that I was more drawn to. It was on the way to Rome that we had each discovered that we were all in dire straits, and for different reasons - essentially, we were three men with three problems. It is not for I to disclose who is burdened with which issue, I shall only say that all of our issues lay within the boundaries of relationships. Three uniquely different scenarios, I might add. Nevertheless between the three of us, we had agreed to discuss and solve these with a gathered combination of our intellect - one of us a dreamer and writer, one of us a mathematician, and one of us a professional sportsman. Hopefully enough of a dynamic range to offer radically different perspectives, you may have been thinking. It was as we discussed this between us that I realised how different we were, but despite this, when we come together we work. 'Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: "What! You, too? Thought I was the only one' said C.S Lewis. Well he could not have been more right in our case.

Upon entering Rome for the first time, we discussed amongst ourselves where we should be visiting first. With no part of our merry band being religious, we were seeking to be enthralled and amazed by the intensity of the act behind the stunning religious artifacts of ancient Rome, rather than marvel at the implications that these buildings held in a religious sense. Nevertheless, when we reached the Trevi Fountain; something quite profound and almost religious humbled me. As I sat alone with my back to the waters of the fountain, I uttered a wish aloud, something that I had wished for before and had not received. As I sat there uttering, with my back to the waters, I watched the people infront of me, not by the waters' edge, but standing against the stone walls that encapsulated the monument. Couples held each other, some kissing, some cuddling, some just sharing the moment together. And so I threw my coin far into the middle of the fountain, almost hoping for some kind of magical response, or some encoded and cryptic return message; a notification to advise me that my message had been received, and was at least under some kind of consideration. After all, don't you notice that everything advises you or notifies you of something, regardless as to whether you actually have anything to be notified of? I regularly receive emails stating that my 'status has changed' or that I am 'being upgraded'. Thus naturally, I suppose I expected some form of divine messaging - just for my own piece of mind. And, I believe, in some way, I received it. I saw my answer in the faces of those who faced me. I literally had offered my back to the figure in the water, instead being atuned to studying those who languished in a similar moment to my own - It may not have been my moment, they probably did not know I was watching them, yet I felt a sense of togetherness and peace as I dwelled in the moment. My evening was changed, the vibe of the holiday had changed. Inside the chapel adjacent to the fountain, my friends and I sat at the pews, silently. Nobody spoke a word, nobody needed to. In that moment, everyone was locked inside of their own minds. I felt like I was being scrutinised, being analysed - by who, I have my own theories, though I shall leave this open to your own imagination. After about five minutes of reflection, as if by telepathy, our group stood, quite simultaneously, and left the chapel.

Have I committed wrongs, and 'sins'? Almost certainly. Did I ever ask to be forgiven? Yes, I did. But it wasn't God I turned to to find it; it was the same old people, my friends. My greatest sins and errors have been reflected in the treatment of friends; and their compassion. At that moment all I could do was hold in the overwhelming feeling of love that I had for every person that I consider a friend. Of course, that feeling is more powerfully conveyed towards those who I would consider my best friends, but every 'friend' I have has shaped my life inexplicably and beyond measure. Strangely, I often ponder to myself, who needs God when I have these people? and that, by believing in some God, would I be divorcing them from my own love for them? I think I would be; I would be demoting them to something below the rank of someone else. That someone else being someone I have never met and connected with, and consequentially, don't regard a friend.

So just for me, take a small moment to think about the people that might mean this much to you, and instead of making a prayer, tell at least one of your friends that you love them. I did.

The Leap

Ok, so it's been a while since I've put some new content up here. I've spent a long while thinking of a new topic - and for some reason can't find the right way of saying things. Remember the kind of day where its' almost like you're floating on a cloud - no-one can touch you, you own the stage? A day where you wake up thinking "Nothing can beat this. This moment can't be beaten." Well, I met such a day. It's almost like the world has finally given in and started handing you the Aces and Pairs - In my case, it feels as if the powers that be have taken a day off, allowing me a day without the usual trouble and mistakes that would normally ensue. I am, after all, prone to blowing any opportunity that comes my way, whenever it does. However, I suppose my main point to all of this, is that I am trying to understand a feeling. I can't describe in words, how amazing I have felt recently. It is just not transferrable to any form of text at the moment. The only thing wrong with allowing these feelings to take over you is that, sure enough, the nearer you fly to the Sun, the farther you fall when you're wings can't take the heat and melt. Cheesy biblical allegory, I know - but aside from the whole 'wings thing', but at least Icarus had the mettle and courage to take the leap. A leap of faith. Sure, it didn't exactly work out too well - but he jumped.

I suppose the topic that I'm subtly sidestepping, and know in my heart of hearts I need to confront is faith. Not religion, not faith in some God or higher power - but faith in other people, in your fellow person. I'll happily acknowledge that I am a risk taker. I'll look at the risk and think, its' okay, I am me, and I know that I can do this. In actual fact, everytime I try to surf the larger breaks in Cornwall, there is something telling me I need to stop surfing - I could die doing this. Although, the other voice in me, the true me, that takes risks and chances, tells me to live a little, live every day as if the next will not come - and I do. I'm addicted to the feeling that I get when I ride on the wave, it may only be five or maybe nine seconds, but it will be seven or nine seconds spent in Heaven; where my mind stops, and my heart takes over - I don't think, I let the wave take me, and I risk its' power and danger - thus far, it has brought me home safe.

The power of the camera

And so I find myself, once again musing over the things that I should decide to incorporate into my diverse blog which will span from the far reaches of philosophy, to the warmer, more accommodating medium of film!

However, this particular blog will be something different. Today, I'm going to muse over images. In-fact, what I really want to dwell on is the camera. Not in its' technical form; and with no particular regard to its status as a moving image camera, or a still image capture device. No, what I wish to discuss delves deeper than that. What I wish to look at is the power of such a device. "The pen is mightier than the sword" is an expression I rather dislike, that is commonly throw about by those who wish either to run away, or seek to hide behind scripture. Of course, most would say words are infinitely more powerful than any other form of communication; words enlighten us - I myself love poetry and thus should be the first person to degrade and discredit the supposed 'truth' of the camera. Yet time and time again, I find myself defending not a device, but a principle; a process, and thus a form of record that is perhaps just as valid as the written word. Remember those holiday snaps, taken on a throw-away 35mm from when you were a child - couldn't quite be trusted with a digital camera! (I already find myself making all of these allusions to childhood, where we were not kids of the digital age - I never had sky or a computer until rather later years; my tape walkman was my best friend) I suppose, what I am alluding to, is a time where a digital camera had the wow factor; but even so, the images that were taken on that holiday remain timeless. The light that passed through the lens that day was the same light that provided you with the photograph, the two are forever entwined together. There is something truly beautiful about the negative, and the way that you can physically 'touch' those moments in your hand. As the celluloid layer of formed silver halide crystals passes through your hands - you are touching an imprint. Not of chemistry, or of technicality. But of life itself, and its' documentation.

Whilst walking with a friend recently, we debated about the intensity of an image; the way in which an image can move you, can bring you to a swift conclusion, and can actually lie to you. The image of death shot by Ronald L. Haeberle, a US army soldier, present at the My Lai massacre in Vietnam during the war, speaks to me in volumes. When with my friend, we debated that the camera was more powerful than the gun, because death was a quick, and brutal action; and with as much respect to those who have fallen through war; death remains a largely anonymous and forgotten entity. Yet with the camera, the deaths of the victims of My Lai were not the same. Their names, we cannot see, and their faces we cannot distinguish or relate to. But what we can say, is that this image has scared millions. It has incited not violence, or hatred, but a different kind of thought provocation. This image could have prevented death, through its own influence.

What is certain, is that the image will live forever, but not in the same way that the memories of those who died will remain with those who live on to remember them. The image is real. It exists in our tactile world. The light went through the lens, and it captured death. However, it also captured life. Because, just like a pane of glass, or perhaps even a mirror, the people who see this image, will see themselves. They will see their own reaction. More importantly, they will feel it. Of course, the deaths of those pictured is terrible, horrific and inexcuseable; they will be remembered by those that knew them. But for me, I look at this image and I see a warning. I can see myself vowing that this will not happen if I can prevent it. If I can prevent war, with my small influence in the world, I will. It is all of us together that work together to stop war. The gun kills, and yes it wins figure wise of photography. Although, if a photo can change the way we think - perhaps its effects will echo further than the sound of a gunshot, which has no face, no humanity and no honesty. An image entertains all of these aspects and more; if it can prevent the need for guns and if it can prevent their use, then it has truly won.

Below, I am hotlinking the My Lai photo which has become one of the world's most defining images. I warn you, it is not a pretty piece of fine art. However, you need to see this to understand my perspective. Through death, is the prospect of saving life. Interesting? Do you view things differently? Comment!

http://www.martinfrost.ws/htmlfiles/june2006/my_lai.jpg

Democracy or Democrazy? Question Time: episode "Destroy The BNP"

In Question Time's latest episode, Nick Griffin, the leader of the BNP plays the underdog character, the prevailing hero, as he is tied to the lashing post by the producers; who I now wish to call 'directors' - he has committed a fellon on board the ship and must be punished likewise. His views are irrelevant on such real-time issues as Iraq and Afghanistan. His character is rigorously attacked by the panel; tied back to their chairs, not by microphone cabling, but by chains - which hold the pitbulls just inches from the perspiring face of Griffin, who does not cower. Instead, he tries to fend them off, with no weapons, he battles against them; who led by the Captain, the grand Admiral, who commands from which direction the lashes shalt come, the Lord Vader of political programming, David Dimbleby. As the crew watch on with mixed feelings; some rally around Admiral Dimbleby, baying for further blood; some take a more conservative viewpoint, but do not wish to walk the plank with the main target - the usurper, of whom Labour fears implicitly and the Conservatives cannot frankly be bothered with. Then suddenly, as if from nowhere, Jack Straw, a weak, yet experienced pirate, respected by all of those who sit inside his sinking ship, HMS Gordon Brown; offers Griffin a way out. Straw plays the roots card and questions the authenticity and subsequent use of Griffin's ultimate mentor and ideal figurehead, Churchill as a poster boy for his merry band of pirates. Unfortunately, Straw forgets that this was not the right area to approach, with a pirate whose parentage goes back very loyally to fighting in the largest war in the world, in which Griffin's family fought for the free world - Straw's family hid in the corner whilst the Nazis as Objectors - something he accuses Griffin of idolising, sought to murder, rape pillage and destroy any sign of resisting life they came across. So the movie draws to a cliff top climax, with Griffin narrowly escaping with his life, as the crew decides it is time to move onto something, or someone new. Until the next episode, no-one knows what became of Griffin; what is certain, is that he will have amassed a larger army and will return to contest the leading pirate hordes when the time is right - when he has decided that he can be seen as level with those of whom he dreams of being thought of in the same sense - yet for a reason he cannot determine, his voice has been muted, his eyes blindfolded, as he is held to account for something he knows not what; surely between pirates, viewpoints do not matter to much - he decides he's not a bad man, as he swims in the murky waters below the ship - but wait, what is that? is that a boat in the distance; coming to receive him into their company? Oh wait, its filled with people who recognise him and remember they are not fond of him - but realise that it would be inhumane and disgusting to let him drown in the cold and deep waters of the seas of politics.

Yes, even I have to put in my two cents worth! Basically, I was Student Editor and Producer of Student Question Time in 2008; now this doesn't give me any more authority than anyone else to comment on the newest and most recent 'episode' of Question Time; but I felt I might just voice my thoughts; the same as everyone else. I've decided to call this particular edition of Question Time an 'episode' in the dramatic and operatic style it was presented to the British public. Question Time stood as the pinnacle of British political programming. It was fair. It was just. And perhaps more importantly, it addressed all of the parties who guested on its half-mooned presentation table equally. This, it appears, was a previous incarnation of a once great programme. What went wrong? Well, for a start, someone, whose name I cannot mention, has clearly decided to slant the debate to such an extent, that 'QT' as it was once affectionately know has become the Jeremy Kyle of Political programmes.

My co-editor and I used to jest that 'This Week', the programme that succeeds QT, was a cheap, and hilarious parody of Question Time. We truly believed that we were working for the king-pin of all political programmes; that we were above all others because of our loyalty to debate and to remaining unbiased in all areas. It seems that we were the only producers who believed in this ideal. Please don't misunderstand me, neither myself, nor my family agree or support the British National Party. We do, however, respect the right of any party in this country that operates within the legitimate confines; or rather 'ideals' of the law and British politics.

Understandably, people are concerned over the 'ideals' of the British National Party. However, they must not fear them. Fear of the British National Party will not offer us a true democracy - it will distort the way in which we vote; with people deciding to opt to vote for safety in politics rather than ideals. We must vote for who we believe is right; ourselves. We cannot let this party cloud our aims of reaching a perfectly democratic country. We still have yet to reach this pinnacle, clearly; with ushered mutterings of expenses claims eventually morphing into outcries from the public themselves, and ridiculous apologies from MP's who were 'caught short' - for want of a less damaging and more politically suitable word (something the Labour Party could surely come up with).

A wise man once said: "monsieur, je déteste ce que vous écrivez, mais je donnerai ma vie pour que vous puissiez continuer à écrire". Translated, this statement reads: "Sir, I detest what you write, but I would give my life to make it possible for you to continue to write". My political mind is entirely based around this quote. Voltaire was willing to die for something he did not agree with; he was willing to die for the right to freedom. William Wallace also died in the fight for freedom, alongside countless others who campaigned for freedom and the right to democracy. Do not forget this; and think about the issues raised here - decide for yourselves.

The beauty of Poetry

Poetry. What does it mean to you? Were you the person at the back of the class who hated it; or did it open your mind to new ways of thinking and even new ways of living?

Well, for me, poetry was, and still is the latter. I've always been a fan of words and the way in which a particular construct of words, i.e a sentence (the word 'sentence' doesn't do the marrying of words justice, in my opinion, thus I avoid it!) can provoke different reactions in different people. I'm not ashamed to say, that Rupert Brooke's poem; 'The Soldier' struck a chord and left a deep impression inside the fifteen year old that I was the first time I heard it - although many see the poem as a call to arms and glorification of war, if I was Brooke, I would too hope that my sweetheart would think of me as the sweeping plains of rural England, my body may well be broken and destroyed, yet I remain the man I always was in life, in the minds of those who knew me best. There is something magical in the thoughts of others, I hear myself in all of my favourite poems; I assume this is because they connect with me, but maybe I connect with the poet and his ideas, his philosophies, and certainly his zest for life.

There are always people who seek to degrade the art of poetry as 'words on a page' or 'pompous wordplay' but I see it as a completely genuine and beautiful form. Its' features are true and honest; nothing obstructs the way in which the words which fill a poet's mind flow, or rather spill onto a page. Of course, now we have the internet, the 'page' begins to lose popularity in favour of the screen - though for me, the tactile beauty of a book can never be replaced. Unfortunately, the internet has actually destroyed the presentation of poetry; one can never view poems as some were meant to be, in a collect. Wordsworth and Coleridge's collection, 'The Lyrical Ballads' is one of my favourite books; however its' power and presence is in its true form as a book - the poems in isolation, do not work. Only when read in the context of the whole work, can they be truly appreciated. Some are weak, some are strong in their resolve, but what the book most offers me, is a delve into the minds of two great poets, or rather, two great friends, who fell apart in later years - the greed of Wordsworth and the intellectual and alternative prowess of Coleridge (who happens to be my favourite of the two; nothing to do with his Devonian roots... ahem.)

In later years, I became attached to the works of John Magee. A junior Pilot Officer in World War Two, Magee was nineteen; the same age as me. I think this was what partly drew me to Magee, but also, the strong RAF roots of my family and the way in which my family looks upon the RAF most likely had something to do with this. Tragically killed in an horrific accident, Magee's two works, 'Per Ardua Ad Astra' and 'High Flight' will forever be the bane to which the RAF rallies around when it needs to come together. Magee flew with an attitude that every Pilot in the RAF could relate to; that flight is a magnificent and life-changing process; bringing a Pilot closer to the rest of the universe, and further from the Earth. The 'wordsmithery' if I am allowed to call it that, of the poem, High Flight, makes me cry almost every time I hear it. Partly out of sorrow for Magee's loss, but mostly because I see a nineteen year old with dreams, hopes and ambitions, I also see a nineteen year old who had met God in a different way. The skies and flight had completed his life; his loss had not been in vain - thousands of people will have heard Ronald Reagan's speech to the nation of the United States of America in a time of great urgency and overwhelming sorrow. The tragic and untimely loss of the crew of Challenger; an explorative shuttle launched by NASA in 1986 led Reagan to make a speech that raised the hairs on the back of the most powerful nation on Earth. Reagan's heartfelt message (I am convinced this was not through his acting abilities) used Magee's poem to great effect. "I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth; reached out my hand, and touched the face of God", Reagan spoke in prophetic, hushed and calming tones, the words falling from his lips like tears flowing from the weary eyes of every American. A beautiful moment. One that extended this poem onwards, and forced its' beauty on those who did not usually defend poetry.

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along,
and flung my eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

John Magee


The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Rupert Brooke