For part one see here.
As he made the slow and dejected walk home Tristan was drawn towards the bright lights of the bar. Entering he surveyed the examples of lost characters and hopeless drunks that lay slumped over tables and propped against the bar. The room was a dark brown; a fitting colour for a location so soaked in dullness and inaction. Balding men with bright red noses watched their surroundings through distorted glass and aged women cowered in corners with half finished bottles of wine; their glasses untouched. These were Tristan's peers. The people that gave up. One of the men that had succumb to hair loss and clown like protrusion caught his eye. A retired astronomy professor named Joseph Meakin stood and waved to Tristan to grab his attention and beckoned to one of the many empty seats surrounding his centre table. Tristan sidled over to the table and dumped his books.
"I'm just going to get a drink."
"Okey dokey" Joseph leant over the table and greedily shook his hand, "I'll have a pint."
After a speedy serving from the unoccupied yet still disgruntled barman Tristan returned to the table to plonk the two beers down. Froth spilled from the top of each glass and settled into liquid on the wooden surface. Tristan began to play with the spill with his finger making arches and eights on the table as Joseph began to divulge his regular misgivings.
"The wife called today."
"I don't think you can really call her that anymore, Joe." Joseph's wife had left him months earlier and after a quick divorce had married a friend of their sons. This had left him alone on the space station as his entire living family now resided on the new colony on Ganymede. It was around this transition that Tristan had first met him in the bar and on a lonely night they had bonded over a disinterest in each others' stories and a desire to air their own greivances.
"Well it would be rude of me to call her, simply, 'bitch'... Anyway, she called me today. She wants to know when I will be sending the rest of her things. I mean should I really be expected to organise that. She left me. This is her responsibility."
"It has been months now, maybe getting rid of her things will be therapeutic." Tristan's finger kept going round and round the spreading puddle as if it was the needle on the record of the conversation they seemed to have every time they met.
"Yeah maybe. It would be more therapeutic if I just burnt it all."
"What are you talking about? Where will you find a place on the space station where you can burn things?"
"Oh you know what I mean. Maybe I will wait till the moon gets terraformed then go down and burn it all in front of her."
"Well good luck." Tristan drew a packet of cigarettes from his bag and, after throwing one to Joseph, pressed the button on the side to 'light' it. "You know they are starting to say that these are bad for you, like the nicotene does something to your brain."
"Makes it happier?"
"Yes... I'm sure thats what they meant.... I am not happy, you know."
"What?-"
The bar suddenly went from brown to red. Hidden lights emerged from the walls as an alarm sounded over the startled voices and rushing feet. Their eyes turned from each other to the televisions on the wall that were displaying the words "EMERGENCY ANNOUNCEMENT ABOUT TO BEGIN". Joseph was gripped by fear, the last time that this happened the spacestation was battered by asteroids that had been flung around the planet unexpectedly. Over a hundred people had been killed that day. He fled leaving Tristan to marvel at the screen. Something struck him as the image of the familiar newsreader came into focus. This was not going to be a bad day.
Friday, 20 August 2010
Thursday, 19 August 2010
THIS IS THE NEWS
How about a format change? Recently I have discovered troubles in deciding what extraordinary subject I should write about each time I attempt to make a regular contribution to this site. Therefore I have decided that, while also splicing together some special topics, I will present you with my take on recent news with quick bursting paragraphs of commentary. Hopefully you will enjoy this but feel free to provide feedback to help shape this obscure project.
Let the great experiment begin!
Let the great experiment begin!
- Sit on it, weather: Today it transpired that one weatherman (Tomasz Schafernaker) sullied his awesome name with a collosal blunder on the BBC news. If you have not seen it yet, you can here. The man was caught raising his middle finger to society by raising his middle finger on the news. Of course it was not intentional but rather just someone joking around with his colleagues in a manner that many of us employ. Forgiveable of course but maybe not the smartest thing to do on national television. At least now he knows what all those cameras are for. The highlight: his face the moment he realises what he has done and starts scratching his chin.
- Harry Potter and the Ridiculous Module: Durham University have just declared that they will be offering a module course on Harry Potter soon. Oh, okay, I guess that English Literature students should study a series of books that have proved so popular in recent years. What's that? It's an education studies course?! Durham University (which I thought was supposed to be one of the better ones) seem to have mistaken simplistic writing combined, copious imagination and MAGIC to be the perfect tool in understanding how real schools work. Wrong. For example she went to my school therefore I can tell you that she is not writing about real experiences. Also it is about MAGIC. And it is for children. It is not some Charles Dickens-esque portrayal of social issues.
- There Goes The Neighbourhood: By now everyone knows that there will be a mosque near ground zero in New York. My reaction to this news is this: "That is unusual. It is not often that we are told about new mosques being built." It does not matter. Islam and muslims are not the reason that the attack happened. Some deluded maniacs did it and would have for other reasons if there was not this religion. It is not like Christians haven't behaved in extremely similar ways in the past; just not with planes. Well done Obama for not caving in to the multitude of Americans not willing to look at things in the clear and rational way they should.
Friday, 13 August 2010
The National
Greetings followers and casual readers. Today I thought I would have a rant because I have not done that since a moth based one months ago and this interweb of ours is suffering from a distinct lack of my opinions recently.
Today's rant is inspired by the news that the USA is taking steps to stop this country of ours influencing them slightly. Libel laws from the UK are going to be ignored by them over there and that's fine, I am not here to cast aspersions on this decision. It just got me thinking... Why is this country so terrible. I mean I realise that it is a relatively succesful democracy but that does not excuse it from the fact that it is so miserable. Even when The National sing about it they sound so melancholic and resigned. Although it is quite a good song.
Issue No. 1: We cannot look after ourselves. Our stupid elections were terrible and now we have an awful government that is going to effectively set fire to everything that is fine and working. Literally, I have seen the paperwork. Lots of people, myself included, just cannot seem to understand that when you do not have any money you should not be spending any. But it is alright because there are lots of other people we can pin that one on.
Issue No. 2: You are all so scared. I recently read some articles about the terrifying effects of other cultures. Apparently there will be a massive clock in Saudi Arabia soon and that is the worst news ever. They will be in control of time across the world and then someone will come and take away Big Ben! No. Maybe lots of people might use it as the standard for time keeping, but thats not terrible because the time will still be the same and Big Ben is old, maybe it is alright for something new to have a go. And then there was another one about Islamic art being in a police station. This of course means that all policemen will soon be trained as suicide bombers. Or maybe it is because most of the best culture comes from religion and Islamic art is so much more impressive that Christian art.
Issue No. 3: Fucking hypocrites. Like what I just said before so many people who get so scared and offended by the religious behaviour of other countries do not seem to realise that this is not a secular country. Christianity is the belief of the land and it is the whimsical church of England as well that was just a convenience move by Henry VIII. Plus Christianity has done countless terrible things. And everyone who complains about immigrants better look at their contribution to the country before they winge about a group of people who, more often than not, work really hard and do good things.
Issue No. 4: Miserable. Cheer up everyone. So many faces around are drooped in sadness and people think that I am weird when I am smiling on the tube. You are weird for hanging weights off the sides of your mouth. Oh wait, sorry, thats just your face.
Issue No. 5: Terrible contributions. What do us brits give to the world these days? The commonwealth is doing more harm than good thanks to India being shitty with the money. And then when we send our politicians around they do fuck all except talk about exchanging art. Maybe we do alright musically but rarely anyone but us wants to listen to that. With films we are taking away loads of funding for no good reason so they will get worse. And television wise we have a few gems but most of the effort seems to be going into generic tat. And on top of that we have channels like BBC3 and Viva (which makes me sick to my stomach) sucking out all of the creativity and intelligence from everyone.
And the weather is shit and no one likes us and we complain all of the time. I mean just look at what preceded these words.
Rant over.
Today's rant is inspired by the news that the USA is taking steps to stop this country of ours influencing them slightly. Libel laws from the UK are going to be ignored by them over there and that's fine, I am not here to cast aspersions on this decision. It just got me thinking... Why is this country so terrible. I mean I realise that it is a relatively succesful democracy but that does not excuse it from the fact that it is so miserable. Even when The National sing about it they sound so melancholic and resigned. Although it is quite a good song.
Issue No. 1: We cannot look after ourselves. Our stupid elections were terrible and now we have an awful government that is going to effectively set fire to everything that is fine and working. Literally, I have seen the paperwork. Lots of people, myself included, just cannot seem to understand that when you do not have any money you should not be spending any. But it is alright because there are lots of other people we can pin that one on.
Issue No. 2: You are all so scared. I recently read some articles about the terrifying effects of other cultures. Apparently there will be a massive clock in Saudi Arabia soon and that is the worst news ever. They will be in control of time across the world and then someone will come and take away Big Ben! No. Maybe lots of people might use it as the standard for time keeping, but thats not terrible because the time will still be the same and Big Ben is old, maybe it is alright for something new to have a go. And then there was another one about Islamic art being in a police station. This of course means that all policemen will soon be trained as suicide bombers. Or maybe it is because most of the best culture comes from religion and Islamic art is so much more impressive that Christian art.
Issue No. 3: Fucking hypocrites. Like what I just said before so many people who get so scared and offended by the religious behaviour of other countries do not seem to realise that this is not a secular country. Christianity is the belief of the land and it is the whimsical church of England as well that was just a convenience move by Henry VIII. Plus Christianity has done countless terrible things. And everyone who complains about immigrants better look at their contribution to the country before they winge about a group of people who, more often than not, work really hard and do good things.
Issue No. 4: Miserable. Cheer up everyone. So many faces around are drooped in sadness and people think that I am weird when I am smiling on the tube. You are weird for hanging weights off the sides of your mouth. Oh wait, sorry, thats just your face.
Issue No. 5: Terrible contributions. What do us brits give to the world these days? The commonwealth is doing more harm than good thanks to India being shitty with the money. And then when we send our politicians around they do fuck all except talk about exchanging art. Maybe we do alright musically but rarely anyone but us wants to listen to that. With films we are taking away loads of funding for no good reason so they will get worse. And television wise we have a few gems but most of the effort seems to be going into generic tat. And on top of that we have channels like BBC3 and Viva (which makes me sick to my stomach) sucking out all of the creativity and intelligence from everyone.
And the weather is shit and no one likes us and we complain all of the time. I mean just look at what preceded these words.
Rant over.
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
LRA pt 2
In an attempt to shield Mapute further, his father Abuu began taking him to work to cover up the absence of school. Herding goats was a welcome distraction and it nurtured a bond between father and son that left them both happy and forgetful. Gazing out across the landscape bathed in red dust, Abuu thanked God for the moments he shared with his son for he could sense that the storm would cut them short. Regret seized his heart as he thought of his daughter who was just a toddler, and what might become of her in the coming days. His only hope was that her lack of memory would dull the pain of the loss that was looming. With these thoughts and Mapute’s hand he returned to the deserted road of the village. Already he could hear distant shots as sounds carried across the empty plains.
It took the thunderous sound of shots being fired in the house opposite theirs to rouse Abuu and a further round to ring out for him to realise that it was not part of his dream world. Forgetting usual waking rituals he leapt from his bed and to the window, crouching down so as not to be seen by the multitude of waiting soldiers lining the road. Staying crouched close to the floor, he moved along the house gathering his wife, Masani, and son who were already awake, frozen in their beds by fear. Slowly and silently, Abuu signalling Mapute to stay noiseless and fight against the countless questions rushing around his head in a panic, they moved to the back room where they would be invisible to the outside and able to tend to Abbo as she started to stir with the noise.
Weeks had passed and the village lay huddled beneath shadow as dark figures traced bloodied footsteps on the forgotten road. Approaching the settlement, their pace increased with a determination born of the scent from new victims and recruits. They marched with crosses painted across their chests in oil, yet Christian compassion had long departed their black souls. At first glance the troops look old and haggard, scars of war and torture glaring as physical and mental anguish. However this army is one of only experience and not age, children as young as five have fought alongside them, but not for very long. Headed by the possessed Joseph Kony, this force was sweeping through North Uganda but had lost sight of its aims, now polluted with the wild rage of one fanatical murderer which was about to infect the lives of more innocent bystanders.
Joseph could easily have been described as a man with no lasting impact on the eye, but at the head of his ravenous army he carried the air of a terrifying, powerful and evil god. His clothes stood out against those of his soldiers as clean and intact, the general’s uniform decorating his body with unspoilt authority while the jackets and trousers of those that followed bore the tears and stains of war to a point where they almost lost their purpose. He was a short man, but pushed forward by his troops he moved with a determination that belied his height. His eyes were red, not windows to the soul but rather a showcase for his murderous intent and with these he surveyed the broken village, fighting the urge to lick his lips with the prospect of new blood. New blood to be shaped into heartless soldiers, and new blood to spill in the name of the Lord’s Resistance Army.
It took the thunderous sound of shots being fired in the house opposite theirs to rouse Abuu and a further round to ring out for him to realise that it was not part of his dream world. Forgetting usual waking rituals he leapt from his bed and to the window, crouching down so as not to be seen by the multitude of waiting soldiers lining the road. Staying crouched close to the floor, he moved along the house gathering his wife, Masani, and son who were already awake, frozen in their beds by fear. Slowly and silently, Abuu signalling Mapute to stay noiseless and fight against the countless questions rushing around his head in a panic, they moved to the back room where they would be invisible to the outside and able to tend to Abbo as she started to stir with the noise.
“What is happening, father?” a hushed voice asked from the floor.
“There are some people in the village, and they want to do bad things to us, we have to stay quiet and out of sight and it will all be okay” Abuu lied, the copious beads of sweat pouring down his face betrayed his words, as did the uncontrollable shaking as he clutched the equally sweaty hand of his son. He knew they would be found, but a few minutes of cheap reassurance was better than revealing to his family what he witnessed out of the window. The bodies of neighbours he had known for years thrown into the street to be looted by the impatient horde as two children, yet to become teenagers were led into the army to be swallowed up by the poisons of anger, revenge and insanity.
Then it came, the knock at the door. The family could hear the force of the fists already splintering the wood and each held their breath as a feeble attempt to stifle any noise. From outside, muffled voices could be heard agreeing to break down the door as they had done with every house so far. No one had opened their home to the tragedy, but it was well rehearsed in forcing its way in. With a crash that reverberated through the house the door came down and [daughter] immediately started crying. While his wife hurried to try to settle her, Abuu did not move, it did not matter, on the army’s arrival in the village; their fate was set as they were not trained to leave any house unexplored. Suddenly, a calm enveloped Abuu and he stood up and moved towards the door. Throwing off the pleading hands of his son he stepped through into the front room, now determined that his words would save his family.
It took the thunderous sound of shots being fired in the house opposite theirs to rouse Abuu and a further round to ring out for him to realise that it was not part of his dream world. Forgetting usual waking rituals he leapt from his bed and to the window, crouching down so as not to be seen by the multitude of waiting soldiers lining the road. Staying crouched close to the floor, he moved along the house gathering his wife, Masani, and son who were already awake, frozen in their beds by fear. Slowly and silently, Abuu signalling Mapute to stay noiseless and fight against the countless questions rushing around his head in a panic, they moved to the back room where they would be invisible to the outside and able to tend to Abbo as she started to stir with the noise.
Weeks had passed and the village lay huddled beneath shadow as dark figures traced bloodied footsteps on the forgotten road. Approaching the settlement, their pace increased with a determination born of the scent from new victims and recruits. They marched with crosses painted across their chests in oil, yet Christian compassion had long departed their black souls. At first glance the troops look old and haggard, scars of war and torture glaring as physical and mental anguish. However this army is one of only experience and not age, children as young as five have fought alongside them, but not for very long. Headed by the possessed Joseph Kony, this force was sweeping through North Uganda but had lost sight of its aims, now polluted with the wild rage of one fanatical murderer which was about to infect the lives of more innocent bystanders.
Joseph could easily have been described as a man with no lasting impact on the eye, but at the head of his ravenous army he carried the air of a terrifying, powerful and evil god. His clothes stood out against those of his soldiers as clean and intact, the general’s uniform decorating his body with unspoilt authority while the jackets and trousers of those that followed bore the tears and stains of war to a point where they almost lost their purpose. He was a short man, but pushed forward by his troops he moved with a determination that belied his height. His eyes were red, not windows to the soul but rather a showcase for his murderous intent and with these he surveyed the broken village, fighting the urge to lick his lips with the prospect of new blood. New blood to be shaped into heartless soldiers, and new blood to spill in the name of the Lord’s Resistance Army.
It took the thunderous sound of shots being fired in the house opposite theirs to rouse Abuu and a further round to ring out for him to realise that it was not part of his dream world. Forgetting usual waking rituals he leapt from his bed and to the window, crouching down so as not to be seen by the multitude of waiting soldiers lining the road. Staying crouched close to the floor, he moved along the house gathering his wife, Masani, and son who were already awake, frozen in their beds by fear. Slowly and silently, Abuu signalling Mapute to stay noiseless and fight against the countless questions rushing around his head in a panic, they moved to the back room where they would be invisible to the outside and able to tend to Abbo as she started to stir with the noise.
“What is happening, father?” a hushed voice asked from the floor.
“There are some people in the village, and they want to do bad things to us, we have to stay quiet and out of sight and it will all be okay” Abuu lied, the copious beads of sweat pouring down his face betrayed his words, as did the uncontrollable shaking as he clutched the equally sweaty hand of his son. He knew they would be found, but a few minutes of cheap reassurance was better than revealing to his family what he witnessed out of the window. The bodies of neighbours he had known for years thrown into the street to be looted by the impatient horde as two children, yet to become teenagers were led into the army to be swallowed up by the poisons of anger, revenge and insanity.
Then it came, the knock at the door. The family could hear the force of the fists already splintering the wood and each held their breath as a feeble attempt to stifle any noise. From outside, muffled voices could be heard agreeing to break down the door as they had done with every house so far. No one had opened their home to the tragedy, but it was well rehearsed in forcing its way in. With a crash that reverberated through the house the door came down and [daughter] immediately started crying. While his wife hurried to try to settle her, Abuu did not move, it did not matter, on the army’s arrival in the village; their fate was set as they were not trained to leave any house unexplored. Suddenly, a calm enveloped Abuu and he stood up and moved towards the door. Throwing off the pleading hands of his son he stepped through into the front room, now determined that his words would save his family.
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