Just Another Lesson Learned...

Christmas week is a funny old time. Especially when the festivities fall on a weekend, because it make the days in the middle seem a little like no man's land. Of course for some people life just continues. The supermarkets get quieter and the festive atmosphere fades away, like a balloon that's slowly losing air, deflating unnoticed in the corner. For others, its like being suspended in mid-air, waiting for the year to end. So here I am, waiting for 2011 to end, the year that kicked me in my little (and metaphorical) armadillo nuts and then beat me senseless.

I just want this damn year to end but I realise there's still a lot of loose ends to tie up before I can bid 2011 farewell. This week has been spent visiting family and having a pretty good time. Such a good time I feel like Christmas went by too fast. Believe me, no one is more shocked than I am that I actually had an awesome Christmas. But New Year's has always been a big deal for me. It's about new beginnings and an insight into the coming year. Last year, I spent New Year's eve in the most romantic embrace, out in the frosty night on Westminster Bridge with my wonderful boyfriend. We watched the most amazing fireworks display I have ever seen, held hands and hoped for better chances in 2011. It is funny how through everything that's happened he remains the one constant in my day-to-day life, never changing, ever perfect.

I think most people would agree if you over plan New Year's it always ends in disappointment. I recall one year when we went to great lengths to have a party that ended with everyone looking round at each other going, “Is it midnight now? Yeah, its now! Yeah, yeah? Happy New Year!... ???” Of course others have been more than memorable. 2010 began in Cyprus with a lavish dinner at a friends house, followed by a lot of drinks, dancing on chairs and conga-lining to the village people.

I have always been a firm believer that Christmas is for family and New Year's is for friends. In a further break from tradition, this New Year's will be spent with a mix of both. Normally at this point I would come up with some New Year's resolutions, but that will only raise expectations of the coming year. And its not that I'm particularly bad at keeping them, but I'd rather concentrate on what I have a acquired this year and take that with me into 2011 instead of ignoring the lessons learned, only to hit pitfalls in my 'new self' or 'new regime'. So here are the things I have learned in 2011:

1. No matter how far apart you grow, it's extraordinary how your family appears when you need them most.
2. If you panic, no one can understand your hyperventilating squeaks.
3. Nurture your self-confidence, it's a priceless possession.
4. Don't ever lie to yourself. Its a massive waste of time, and you're clearly not dumb enough to believe yourself.
5. Stand up for yourself – Its much easier than being unhappy in the long run.
6. Be honest with those you love – They know you well enough to know when you're lying.
7. Take solace in the things that make you truly happy – but don't eat too much of them/it/those or you'll feel sick.
8. Death is just another part of life. The most important thing you can do is continue to live.
9. Listen to Wolfmother, they fucking rock.

2011 will always be the year I lost my dad no matter how I spin it. But that's not all it needs to be about. There were good memories made in 2011, important lessons learned and I'll always keep laughing.. I make no apologies for it, it is just my nature. There's a New Years resolution for everyone:

1. Laugh more. Its very very very good for you...

Above: The Laughing Christmas Armadillo...

"I see the New Moon Rising..."

Oooooh... I love this song...

'Tis the season to be a foodie...

'Tis the season to be a foodie...

I have always been, and always will be a keen cook. And at Christmas I love to cook (and eat) more than any other time of the year. Not because Christmas dinner has all that many good memories. When I was growing up I rarely got to spend Christmas with my parents. And when I got older everything running up to Christmas was always wonderful, but Christmas Day itself was spent listening to my dad snoring while we ate in front of the telly. It really is down to the shallow fact that I love all the components of a Christmas dinner but rarely do I allow myself to eat them all together. I'm a one protein, one carb, loadsa veg kinda girl.. often in large quantities, but nevertheless in those proportions. So the idea of two, or sometimes three kinds of meat, plus potatoes and all the rest is an annual treat. I'm also very stingy with the butter most days, but not at Christmas. For the next few days I shall place all thoughts responsible for arousing guilt in a little box and bury them some where behind my appetite because its ok to do so at Christmas.

Its also the time of year when my mum excels herself. Using my grandmother's recipe she makes the world's greatest turkey. Slow cooked and stuffed with sausage meat and almonds, nothing dries out. My mum has always been an experimental cook and as every scientist will tell you, some experiments work and some do not. But when she gets it right, boy-o-boy does she get it right.

Then there's the snacking. I love me some mince pies, chocolate boxes and those little cheesy fish. It's also the time of year to consume as many crackers as you possibly can. And smoked salmon. When I was younger we used to buy it by the shed load because of a friend who frequented Billingsgate Market and always found it cheap. This year, with a fairly inferior grade, I'm making Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon for breakfast. Weird you might think, but it has become tradition in my house to have Christmas dinner in the evening because it was the one day a year my exhausted parents could have a proper lie-in at home.

So what's on the menu for our post-Queen's Speech Fest-a-thon?

Mum's Turkey ; Inc. Almond and pork stuffing and rashers of bacon

Hit and miss 'Crispy' roast potatoes

Jamie Oliver inspired root veg mash

Yorkshire puddings and/or pancakes

Gravy

Boiled (but not over done) red cabbage

Some sprouts in a little bowel for my mum. Next to her plate. For her consumption. And her's alone. While we have to listen to her make 'mmmmmm' noises and emphasise the word 'Gorgeous' over and over again before telling us how good they are for us.


And a Panettone bread and butter pudding for dessert, so light and fluffy its enough to piss off even the most liberal euro-sceptic.

But the best bit of any Christmas dinner is the left-overs. There is nothing quite like a cold turkey sandwich with stuffing and chutney... I can't wait for Boxing Day.

P.s. You may have noticed a lack of religious sentiment in my Christmas posts. Whenever Jesus may have been born be it 25/12/00 or earlier that year, he deserves my respect as an important historical figure, philosopher and revolutionary. However, as an agnostic I feel no spiritual connection to Christmas. I was Christened and raised Greek Orthodox, and much like my enormous thighs and the over-whelming need to gossip, it is still a part of my cultural identity. Growing up in the UK has also lent a hand to the forming of said identity, perpetuating the tradition further. And besides, in multicultural Britain you don't have to be Christian to celebrate Christmas. The pagans have always partied this time of year long before Christianity was established. Its a time to be happy, share that joy with others and shun the dark winter blues. I'll eat, drink and be merry with those who do believe (and those who don't) that Jesus was born to a virgin in a stable on the 25^th December and attempt to keep my borderline Atheist thoughts to myself, before people decide to have a No-Armadillo, as opposed to a No-God, Christmas... Until New Year... I promise... As if Christmas isn't a heathen holiday any how, the first 500 words of this 'Christmas' post have been about food for 'The Birthday Boy's' sake! … Wait, that doesn't count... Yeah, doesn't count until Saturday morning... let's say. Don't really have any logic behind that, but there you go. I may or may not be going to hell. I'm not really at liberty to say...

Super 8 , Super smart

All is forgiven for Lost's appalling decent into part lazy, part insane story telling, as J.J. Abrams brings us what might be the most underrated film of the year.

Super 8, set in the late 1970s, is the story of a group of friends making movies on Super 8 film (available before the days of digital recording for you young folks), in a quiet American town called Lillian. They accidentally record an incident that leads to a series of strange events and the perfect back drop for their zombie movie. I'm reluctant to share too much of the story in this review for as one critic aptly put it, “It’s one of those movies that is best consumed on an empty stomach. The less you know about it, the better... Its meant to be experienced” (Kevin Carr – 7(m)Pictures). But I can't review much with talking about the several sub-plots, that regardless of the harsh criticism, I believe, draw you into the story's believability. Without the human element, that of the lead character losing his mother and how that ties in with some of the other characters, the film would have simply been a vessel to carry a handful of explosions and some loud crashing noises. You need to care about the characters, and believe in them, for this film to work. Its risky casting a bunch of unknown kids in Hollywood nowadays, but if their good enough actors, it all worth it, at least from a artistic perspective.

And they rise to the challenge in the most wonderful way. Many who didn't like this film despised the characters, claiming that they are like every group of kids you've ever seen before. Yes there is a fat kid, but to call him the token fat kid is a little unfair seeing as unlike most 'fat kids' in Hollywood films, he's a much more rounded character (no pun intended). He is smart, driven and dominant whereas characters like 'Chunk' from the Goonies are portrayed as dumb, distracted and always eating.

All the kids do a brilliant job in this film. Joel Courtney who plays 'Joe Lamb' (the lead) has the most amazing expression filled eyes and Elle Fanning, Dakota's 13 year old sister, brings an almost adult understanding to a child's role in some of the more emotional scenes in the film. But for me, its the crazy bomb expert played by 15 year old Ryan Lee who steals the show for me, particularly in the closing scenes that roll over the credits, which were worth hanging back for. Comedy is even derived from his when he's not speaking, in the form of the adults' concern for his 'extracurricular' activities which include making cherry bombs.

Almost immediately after I started researching for this review I realised two things. The first is that the average IMDb user really didn't like this film, whereas most professional critics praised it, in some cases for the same reasons. The second realisation was probably that I was 20 years too young to be reviewing this film. Allow me to explain. 2010's big film Toy Story 3 was not made for babies born in the noughties, but for those of us that were born in the 80s who remember the original and yearn to be the little carefree kid who cheered for Woody or Buzz. I was seven year's old for most of 1995 when Toy Story came out. That's right, 1995! With similar effect, Super 8 was made for those babies of the sixties and seventies who remember making home movies on what is now 'old school' technology. And that is Super 8's most defining and important element. Most people who gave it bad reviews couldn't see it for what it was. A classic piece of nostalgia.

So, why am I bothering to review it. Well, look no further than another of 2011's critically acclaimed films for the answer; Midnight in Paris. Many in this age of post-modernism suffer from an ailment I first came across during my last year of university when studying the flow of culture through globalisation. In his essay on 'Disjuncture and Difference in the Global Cultural Economy' Arun Appadurai tallks of 'Nostalgia without memory' . He is referring to how people from one corner of the globe can be nostalgic for a cultural legacy, not only from an entirely different part of the world, but also a completely different time in history. In the case of Midnight in Paris, Owen Wilson's character, having grown up in America some 40 years later, yearns to have lived in Paris during the 1920s – calling it the greatest time to be alive. And I myself, yearn for the 1960s and 1970s. Although location is key to the nostalgia in some cases, whether it be New York, or California, or my native London, makes little difference to me provided that I found myself in the right place when music and politics fused to create the most amazing time to be young and hedonistic. Or so it seems to me. And for that reason I can appreciate Super 8 for its great appeal to nostalgia. J.J. Abrams admits to wanting to make, I guess, a love letter to his younger self and his friends who, like the group of friends in this film, wanted to make movies. I can imagine them hoping for similar scenario to have occurred in their own ordinary suburban town.

This piece almost evolved into a review of Super 8 reviews, so polarised was the reaction to this film. I think most people didn't realise what genre this film fit into and that's why many who went onto IMDb to lambaste it were so disappointed by what they were presented with in the cinema. This is not a remake of ET, or the Goonies, or a love child of the two. Nor is it in the same genre as the, quite honestly pointless, Cloverfield. Its about relationships between parents and children, between friends and its about imagination and 'Production Value'. The kids asked for production value and they certainly got it.

I could sit here and nitpick on plot holes, continuity errors, anachronisms, CGI and its similarities with other films, but hell I just enjoyed it too damn much to care. I guess I'm a sucker for a slice of nostalgia from an age before the digital era, before my time. I don't doubt this project was more personal than anything else, but it deserved to do better at the box office and it deserves to be honoured for what it was; A celebration of childhood imagination, that longs for a place in reality.

Twitter: Which one are you?

What kind of Tweeter are you?

Express your most insightful thoughts to the world in 140 characters or less. Some of us politics students can only dream of a world where social scientists would be so kind as to be that succinct. That said, in the brief time that Twitter has caught and held my attention I have found it some what difficult to condense a thought into 140 characters without havin 2 make sum serious compromises 2 my spellin n grama, a task that is in no way natural to me on account of my time spent in the long-winded world of social science. Why use 140 characters when 140 million will do? Because its fun I hear you cry! Here's my take on the weird and wonderful people who flock to the phenomenon that is twitter.

The Nympho Tweeter

This tweeter is prolific and not afraid to show it. Often these users will log on through their mobile phones, tweeting their every thought, move and traumatic event. Quantity rather than quality is often the angle with this bunch.

E.g. So now Im @ the station waitin 4 my train. Got a mag & sum crisps from the shop. Yay

The Gluttonous Tweeter

Often a direct descendent of the Nympho Tweeter who perhaps has run out of things to say. This tweeter is seemingly always eating, posting details of their every meal and even posting pictures of everything from their gourmet burger at the local gastro pub to their failed attempts at a chocolate soufflé.

E.g. 4 lunch Im havin a BLT sarnie on brown from Greggs n a red Ribena. Dont no 2 get pasty 2

The Comedy Hash-Tag Tweeter

This is the kind of Tweeter that I one day may aspire to be. Not prolific enough to be annoying, and certainly witty enough to be worth a read, the Comedy Hash-Tag Tweeter will tweet anecdotes from their day, or interesting thoughts and insert a hash-tag with a comic twist.

Eg. I just realised I can fit 34 grapes into my mouth at once. #slutty

The Trendy Tweeter

The tweeter will observe what the current trends are on twitter and then proceed to tell everyone who or what is trending, often to their disbelief or disgust, and include them in the post thus continuing the trend. This particular tweeter baffles me. The activity is not dissimilar to the real life scenario created by stock market speculation, without the often horrific consequences, though still just as systemically inevitable and pointless.

E.g. OMG *insert z-list celeb here* is trending. Why the hell is #*aforementioned z-list celeb* trending!! Uhggh!!

The Retweeter A.k.a The Distribution Tweeter

Pretty self explanatory... They use Twitter for the soul purpose of spreading or re-tweeting what someone else has already said, seemingly unable to make a similar remark in 140 characters or less. Although, they often re-tweet interesting links when they fancy.

E.g. RT wat Thatotherguy656 said

The Spam-Twitter Tweeter

Most of what is on the internet is not actually porn as many believe but spam. In actual fact, spam is a tech term for advertising. The real life equivalent of junk mail. Often falls under two sub-categories.

The Ordinary Spam-Twitter Tweeter – People using twitter to spread phishing scams and advertising club nights, home-made jewellery and just about anything else you can possibly imagine. Ordinary people circulating spam will be reported and possibly banned from Twitter.

The Celeb Spam-Twitter Tweeter – Celebrities using Twitter to promote their new book, CD, tour, film and anything else you can possibly imagine. Alan Sugar is a frequent offender on my homepage. Celebrities circulating spam will make lots of money and be adored by Twitter.

E.g. Club Getyourtitsandlegsout.Sat.Cheap drinks.Presentin DJ MydaddyboughtmeamixingdeckandBeatsheadphonesforxmas

E.g. Buy my book u nonces! NOW! *Amazon link*

BTW - I hope you all enjoyed my play on words dedicated to every ones' favourite surprise meat breakfast treat. It's there for you in good times and nuclear fallout alike.

The Silent Tweeter

Doesn't actually do much tweeting at all but simply uses Twitter to keep tabs on celebrities. Often these are obsessive individuals. May lead to actually physical stalking, which I am obligated to state could lead to prosecution in the United Kingdom.

The Ex-Facebooker Tweeter

People who moved on to using Twitter when they found themselves constantly updating their status and not doing much else. #MarkZuckerburgisdissapointedinyou

The Everything-But Tweeter

This tweeter will often be the amalgamation of many kinds of tweeters – Retweeting, spamming, answering to tweets, silently stalking etc... However, regardless of the mix they all have one thing in common. They never tweet any original tweets of their own, but will agree to do 'everything-but', thus keeping their Twitterginity intact – arguably.

The Complicated Tweeter

How would I describe my relationship with Twitter? It's Complicated. I'm a bit of commitment-phobe and I don't want Twitter to get its hopes up. Besides, I might just stay with facebook for now until google plus' chlamydia clears up.

E.g. I'm really starting to understand this Twitter business #lies

So tell me, what kind of Tweeter are you then?

The Smell of Pine and Tangerine Peelings

    2005 in its entirety, was a year of amazing highs and deeply painful lows for me, not unlike 2011. It was year I came home from secondary school in Cyprus and my first full-on Christmas season in the UK for six long years. I had forgotten just what a special time it could be.

On the 5^th December 2005 at approximately 10am I stumbled out of my childhood bedroom and onto the landing. There, in the freezing cold, was the most overwhelming smell. So overwhelming that I forgot I could see my own breath, that I was bare foot and that I really needed to go to the bathroom. Heavy in the air was the smell of pine trees on a cold and clear winters day. I took and deep breath and thought to myself, “I really am home.”

I walked down the stairs and into our shop's store room to find a forest of 7ft tall pine trees taking up all the available space bar a small path that lead to the front door. I felt like Gretel following little breadcrumbs of Chrismassiness all the way into the green grocers. If you're ever going to be a green grocers daughter, Christmas is the time to be one. The shop itself was full of every kind of seasonal loveliness you could possibly want. Fresh tangerines, lychees, chestnuts... and Brussels sprouts, if you're into that kinda thing. But it wasn't just what we sold, it was the presents that people brought. Some brought store bought chocolates, biscuits and cakes. And the sheer delight when people would bring in things they'd made with our produce. Everything from home-made mince pies and shortbread, to ginger beer, hot sauce and home-made preserves, jams and chutneys. One chutney in particular made headlines in our household – beetroot and apple – that went so well with my mother's left over turkey we didn't want it to run out.

And the atmosphere. People had a different air about them at Christmas. They carried themselves a little differently. Many people were looking forward to seeing their families, lots of the students were happy to be going home and most people were just happy to know they were in for a few days off. They would gleefully come in, huge smiles on their faces, sweeping up as much as they could to take with them when they went off to see their mum in Italy, or their grandparents up North, or their mates in Cardiff or where ever they were off to.

Old friends would appear, back in London to visit the urban souls they'd left behind, with a story to tell, and probably some other delicious treats! And the Christmas cards would flock in like homing pigeons perching themselves on every available surface until my mother would proudly get out the string and hang them along the ceiling.

But the best part about Christmas at the Olive Shop was delivering the Christmas trees with my father. Kitted out in my winter cardigan, scarf, hat and finger-less gloves to protect us not only from the cold but the vicious pine needles, we would pack up the old Volvo and head out with an address in our pockets and 10ft fir hanging out the back, or poking through the front. You learn two things while delivering Christmas trees in London. The first is that, where ever there is space to put a front door around here you can bet they'll be one. It won't be obvious at first, the address you've been given will be of no use and you'll make the neighbours dead nervous faffing about outside their windows, especially in your vagrants get up. But eventually you will find it... Or as on several occasions, not. Thank the dear sweet genius that invented the mobile phone! In fact, this trouble with road numbers and hidden front doors is the reason I first started helping my dad with the trees way back when mobile phones were for bankers and the cast of Ab Fab. The second thing you learn, you learn the first time you ever deliver a tree to a family home. There is nothing quite as special as seeing a little kids face light up when you walk into their living room with their Christmas tree. And nothing warms your Humbug heart quite as much as when they shyly muster a thank you and as soon as your back is turned start screaming, “Father Christmas is COMING and he's getting me a BIKE!!!” It made going out into that bitter cold worth it I can tell you.

Alas, this year there's no pine smell, no tangerines, no smiling customers or zealous little kids. But this article is not about despair but rather a tribute to all the people who made those Christmases worth having. Although this year will be a tough one, I don't doubt they'll be many more wonderful Christmases to come, but those while the shop was open were something extraordinary and they will be missed and oh so fondly remembered, just as the smell of pine and tangerine peelings will. And, of course, my dear old dad who always loved to play Father Christmas in plain clothes. 

Merry Christmas Dad, I'm sorry I was such a pain in the arse sometimes.

When I Grow Up

This morning something amazing happened. Ok it wasn't that amazing I just wanted your attention – but please don't go. I have serious self-esteem issues. I understand the irony of this exchange given that at the moment I have a confirmed audience of one, and you my sweetest only log on every few months. Two, if my long-suffering boyfriend feels compelled to stop me from whining about whether he's seen my new entry or not. Blogging is a lonely life if you haven't got the guts to tell anyone about it. The link to it is buried at the bottom of my info page on Facebook... this is the extent to which I have faith in myself.

So you can imagine how excited I am today to have achieved something many people have achieved, a telephone interview and it isn't even that big a deal... except it kind of is because there are a million 'young people' as the media call us when were not smashing stuff up, or protesting about something, currently unemployed. Lots of them graduates. Most of them worried about their future. Most of them abandoned at the point they need their government most. Most of them very, very confused.

You'd be confused too if all your bloody life an endless parade of people – all kinds of people – teacher people, parent people, family people, old people, and even young people from way back when - I guess then they would have just been 'less old people', the very people you have now become, would ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I wanted to be loads of stuff when I grew up. At first I wanted to own a pet shop because I liked animals. Then someone convinced me the legal paperwork would be too much to handle. So then I thought about becoming a vet. As one thoughtful friend of the family explained, I could still be around animals but I would be helping them rather than exploiting them for gain. The vet thing didn't last long, which to be fair was a stroke of luck on my part. After years of studying and hard work, at what point would I have realised that not only do I find biology tedious as a school subject, I'm more of a physics girl myself, but that when it comes to real blood, even a little cut on someone ELSE'S finger can bring on symptoms of vertigo?

I soon decided I wanted to be a detective. Less Jane Tennison of Prime Suspect fame, more a Sherlock Holmes sans pipe and penis, with a note book and magnifying glass in hand.

When I was about nine I started taking my future career seriously, after all, people were starting to make serious faces when they'd ask me the question with the ever evolving answer. Evolution had brought us to chef. Seemed obvious. My parents ran a green grocers, I'd been cooking since I was old enough to prop a chair against the kitchen counter, I loved eating. People had their harsh opinions about this one too. Some said I'd grow even fatter than I already was if I got into cooking – which I can tell you is bullshit. In the short time I have spent in the catering industry, its a workout and a half I can tell you. Other's said I was too clever to become a chef – as if my so called 'increased intelligence' was going to somehow affect my future career. It takes many years to work out that no amount of clever is ever going make up for lack of experience in any job.

It wasn't until I was 13-14 that others decided to inform me of my true talent; writing. “Be a writer,” my teachers said, “You're bloody good at it!” Well, they didn't said it quite like that but you get me. And pretty soon I realised they may have had a point. I enjoyed it. It came so naturally to me. And it made sense given my Sherlock Holmes days when all I did was collect information. Journalism seemed like such a perfect way to spend my life.

Of course, once again, I couldn't please everyone. My grandmother burst into a nervous shake as she told me that being a journalist was dangerous. At 82 my dear old gran thought that all journalists were war correspondents. She was also concerned I'd never be home to take care of my home and my husband. A concern my father also put to me when I was 15. One minute you're a normal teenager day dreaming about boys and trying pass exams, just sitting in a car telling your dad how much you'd love to study at university in England, the next you've suddenly got a house that needs cleaning, a husband that needs pampering and a few hundred kids to feed Funnily enough, Housewife has never been high on my list of careers. In my life it fits nicer in the hobbies category, of the 'when I feel like it' persuasion.

Journalism, probably stuck the longest and regardless of what else I do with my life it will remain an important part of who I am. My teacher's were disappointed when I told them I was off to study politics and economics but the truth is that everyone had put me off. At the time there seemed to be a billion kids my age going off to uni to do Media Studies, a degree scorned by many. I thought doing something theoretical might give me an edge and I could save journalism training for later. Of course while at uni I became such a nervous wreck I almost stopped writing all together. To this day my hard-drive is a cemetery of half written articles and barely started novellas I'm just too sentimental to delete. While I was at uni and I should have been getting experience and making contacts, I let my chances slip through my fingers. I thought that whatever had once driven me to write had gotten away from me. And then one day last year I watched Postcards, a documentary about Chuck Palahniuk, the man who originally inspired me, and many others, to write. He had some sound advice during an interview. He said, “You don't sit on the toilet if you don't need to shit, you go eat something.” So that's what I did, I went off, ate up life and produced, well, this blog... which is perhaps the reason I am reluctant to attract any attention to it.

In the meantime, I need a means to live and as most writers will tell you blogging don't pay much, especially if no one reads it. My soon to be interview is for a paid graduates scheme in a logistics company – not exactly my dream job but it could just be the right place for me at the moment. That's really all we can hope for. All those people who asked me that question, that question I felt I needed to answer, didn't realise the expectations they helped to build. They never though their innocent question could cause such worry, self-doubt and sorrow.

My generation grew up thinking we could be whatever we wanted and the truth is, for a lot of us, it feels like its all about compromise and in some cases the complete abandonment of our childhood dreams. For many the problem is political. The government doesn't have much sympathy for higher education courses if the recent cuts are anything to go by. And the increase in university fees and marketisation of education affects everyone, even people who have been to university already. Soon enough degrees will not be judged by content but rather by how much they cost. The future jobs fund seems to have no future in mind for anyone and EMA has been abandoned forcing many bright children from poorer backgrounds into employment at 16, increasing their chances of being exploited by their future employers – if they find a job at all that is. Its no wonder that so many people are prepared to protest, by any means, for a better future.

For others circumstance also plays a major roll in their disappointment – losing loved ones, ill-timed moves and troubled personal relationships. And sometimes it's lack of good advice or the reluctance recognise it when it is offered. Sometimes its just writers block.

But then again my mum would say we haven't quite grown up yet. Maybe I'll get another chance. My best advice to anyone is not be disheartened by the metaphorical bell that tolls for all of us. I don't mean to go Anarchist on your arses but it is quite fitting. Demand the Impossible! Its early days for us 'young people'. We don't have to admit defeat.

Go on, ask me that infamous question again... When I grow up I want to be a writer surrounded by rapturous laughter all day, everyday. So, what do you want to be when you grow up?

Twilight: Innocent Bullshit or Invading Parasite

Can I has my MTV Movie Awards Back?

I get it I'm no longer a teenager. No, no, I really do get that but here's the trouble. I love the films where I get to hear Jonah Hill ask people about his weiner, see Seth Rogan get high, and watch Jason Biggs lovingly fuck a pie – no rhyme intended (honest). And I'm afraid the truth is I'll never grow out of it. And I adored the MTV Awards that honoured my guilty pleasures and celebrated clever people who helped make 'Films for Friends'.You can't watch an Oscar winner in a room with six or seven other people. You need a film that requires a short attention span, provokes laughter rather than tears and is quotable so that the next time your having dinner at your friend's house you can turn to them and say, “Not at the table Carlos”, burst into fits of laughter and make adults present think you're an alien species. Face it, Jason Segal's penis is never going to win an Oscar, neither will Ken Jeong's penis, or Ben Stiller's penis... But you bet your penis they can win a MTV Movie Award!

Well not lately...

Which brings me to the demise of MTV, specifically, but not limited to its Movie Awards that were once such an important part of my adolescence, and one night even saved a dear friendship of mine... MTV, as a mate of mine recently pointed out, used to play Music Videos. Now it plays a never ending number of cringe-worthy, barrel-scraping, vomit inducing, cretin breeding reality shows. Which in effect has rendered the channel unwatchable in my opinion... But to make matters worse my beloved Movie Awards have been high jacked by the worst kind of tat I could ever have imagined – The Twilight Saga.

The latest phenomenon to bask in 'middle of the road crapness', Twilight, is the tale of a young girl who, after starting a new life in the Pacific North West, falls in love with a vampire who is on a knife edge about whether to be with her, or eat her. The films are based on a series of novels by Stephenie Meyer: Mormon, Conservative and all round sexist nutbag.

Watched out of curiosity, I didn't know all that much about Twilight when I watched the first film. Within minutes of watching I began to develop an ill feeling that was eventually confirmed sometime after Bella and Edward had 'fallen' so madly 'in love'. I felt like I'd missed something.

Often dialogue can seem silly when taken out of context. Observe some gems courtesy of IMDb:

1.Edward Cullen: And so the lion fell in love with the lamb.
Isabella Swan: What a stupid lamb.
Edward Cullen: What a sick, masochistic lion.

(Oh please...)

2.Edward Cullen: I don't have the strength to stay away from you any more.
Isabella Swan: Then don't.

(Who says that...)

3. Edward Cullen: I hate you for making me want you so much.

(Tosser...)

Individual snippets of dodgy dialogue string together in this film to provide hours of unending cringe worthy inane babble that somehow feels forced and contrived, and at times so unnecessary it makes a mockery of story-telling. The saccharine lines build one upon the other. Sometimes I wonder whether the acting actually fails the dialogue. But that’s really like posing the chicken/egg issue. The scene in which she researches and confronts him about being a vampire just seemed so unnecessary to begin with, but to then drag it out and allow the actors to give the most awful performances of the film was just painful to watch.

Much like the dialogue, so many of the scenes felt strung together with no flow to them what so ever. Many of them could have come from completely different films. The slow, droning beginning, the irrelevance of the base ball game, and the sudden quick paced fight just didn’t click into place with each other. On the subject of the baseball scene, it seemed clear, more than at any other time in the film, that director Catherine Hardwicke was indeed an amateur when it comes to directing. The scene is played over a lively track, Muse’s Supermassive Black Hole, however the action on screen is not fast paced enough to fit the rhythm of the song and there’s dialogue running over it at times which is odd. There's no choreography what so ever. Poor use of what would have been a fantastic soundtrack.

The plot and the dialogue failed to such an extent that in every scene the screen writer took it upon themselves to just keep hammering it home to you that the ‘love-struck’ couple shouldn’t be together, when to be honest you probably came to that conclusion without having to be told. He is a blood sucking vampire after all. Bella, appears so emotionless throughout the film, and it is hard to even believe that she could fall in love. Regardless of the heart throb status of Edward, played by the conventionally attractive Robert Pattinson, she just doesn’t look all that in love with him. Her lingering looks of love would look more at home in the final shot of a blackmail scene in some horrendous American soap opera.

At what point are we supposed to think they’ve fallen in love anyway? At the beginning of the film if she’s not looking like a vacant doll she’s angry, or frowning, or screwing her face up.

The film is without a doubt one of the most abysmal and patronising pieces of cinema I have seen in some years. Its greatest moment, the action-packed fight scene towards the end of the film, seemed out of place and lacking a climax. In fact the entire film lacked any kind of climax. Quite fitting for a film where chastity seems to be the underlying subliminal message being pumped into teenage minds. At the end I laid back in my seat dissatisfied and angry with myself for even daring to ignore my instincts and watch a film I had already assumed would be awful. The only thing to amuse me during the film was its poor execution, and the appearance of a stuffed armadillo that was subject to continuity errors in the classroom scene some where in the first half of the film.

Even more irritating than the actual film was the hype around it. It seemed like most critics were frightened to say what they were really thinking, in many cases avoiding the obviously awful directing. Some critics even praised it, with ‘heat’ sighting the only bad thing about it was the fact that the fight scene didn’t seem relevant to the rest of the plot. Really, 'heat'? Most scenes weren't relevant to the plot... The Telegraph almost sings its praises, justifying its thin plot because it appeals massively to teenage girls. It is after all a romance more than a supernatural drama as such. Is this what appeals to teenage girls? Being patronised and made to feel self-conscious about their sexuality, their relationships and ultimately misguide them on the role a 'boyfriend' plays in their life.

The only thing that people who love this film seem to tell me is that its, and I quote, “Sweet”, “Cute” and “Robert Pattinson is sooo hot”. There’s no substance. It’s an awful film trying to take itself seriously, and I find that insulting. The books have obviously made a huge impact but to be honest, I really don't want to even go there. I would never have picked the books off a shelf at a book shop because I'm usually in the adults section anyhow. I did however sit through Twilight. I'd like a refund on my two hours. I won't even sit through the other films for the purposes of this article. Hey, life's short people!

I would also like a refund on the last 3 MTV Movie Awards that have been sodden with Twilight's actors, preview clips and worst of all, gong winners. In almost every category they win, and with what logic? I know its not Kristen Stewart's acting ability, or screen presence... Even fans of the book have expressed their hatred for her with as much venom as myself. Excrable is a word that often comes up. And I get it, Pattinson is good-looking, and Lautner has a six-pack – who in hollywood doesn't? Is it the story? The lame arse, forced, overworked love story? The importance of not being single? The importance of fearing your sexuality because if you have sex your partner will actually kill you and eat you? No drugs, no real violence, no swearing???? What kind of fucking MTV is that????

I'm just... I'm angry... I'm not going to change the world's opinion. But now that Breaking Hymen... I mean Bella... Sorry, I mean Dawn... Poor Dawn... She wasn't in the first film so I don't know how bad the actress that plays her is, so I will sympathise with her coming of age which I assume will be forced, and end with her getting pregnant and leading a miserable existence but one where hope, and further gravy train sequels, will continue to live on.. Any way! Now that the final film has come out, I will, when unprompted, stop informing the world of how shit and over hyped it is, if please, please, please, pretty please... Can I has back my MTV Movie Awards???

P.s: As of two nights ago, i.e. after I had finished the article and it was awaiting editing, I was just looking at my facebook feed when the following status turned up:

“Just back from seeing Breaking Dawn Part 1.”

PART ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There's another fucking part. So no MTV Awards back until 2014??? Still, its not all bad. Last night I had a peak at this years Scream Awards hosted by Spike TV... I think I might be sliding on over to the dark side of Geek...

The Smoking Debate: Arse and Ash

Arse and Ash

I read an interesting article in the Guardian that was published yesterday about the smoking ban. New legislation is allowing its grip to further grow and mutate until, as one concerned reader put it, they will eventually begin censoring the internet! First of all, the internet is already censored in many places around the world – please don't bring in the irrelevance of your fears that one day Facebook won't be free into this. Also, people have lived for millennia without the internet and still managed to launch revolutions if that's your concern. And second of all, lots of other pieces of legislation affect our civil liberties but you rarely hear people talk about those rights that have been taken away over a couple of pints at the local put, unless there happens to be a group of us left 'extremists' in there. Smoking seems to touch a nerve like nothing I've ever known.

The new legislation is calling for a ban on smoking in cars where children are present, which people speculate will lead to a complete ban on smoking in privately owned cars. The government has already stopped people from doing lots of things in their cars; making phone calls, texting, drinking alcohol, and from what I understand, lewd behaviour. No one seems to have trouble with these laws – except those that break them obviously, but the general consensus seems to be that these activities can kill on the road. From the debate that carried on at the end of the article, people keep regurgitating the idea that regardless of empirical statistics that suggest smoking, and indeed second hand smoking can kill, there is not hard evidence to suggest that smoking imposes enough of a risk to enforce this breach of civil liberty. I'm sure that lots of people use their phone illegally in cars, drink and text – in fact I've seen people do all those things while driving – and never get caught, never kill anyone, never even come close to causing an accident. But it doesn't make it ok for them to do those things in the eyes of the law, nor the public's. So again, why is smoking any different?

Smokers feel they are under attack. They feel as though the non-smoking world is on their case about it every second of every day. The trouble with smoking is that even most casual smokers eventually go hardcore at some point in their lives. I know plenty of people who can have a couple of drinks and stop. I don't know quite as many people who smoke a couple of cigarettes once or twice a week and not think about smoking the rest of the time.

Well here's the ugly truth, when I was growing up in the nineties everywhere I went there were people smoking. In restaurants, on planes, on transport and my parents were both smokers. My father, at his peak, smoked 80 strong cigarettes a day around me. In fact I don't have many childhood memories where he's wasn't holding a cigarette... Just a few weeks before he passed away earlier this year from CAD (Coronary Artery Disease) he told me that he couldn't muster a 5 minute bath without lighting up while he was soaking. A man that addicted doesn't care about the discomfort and damage that they are inflicting upon their children, let alone anyone else.

I have met considerate smokers – I live with one – and I can't accuse them all of being ignorant but that doesn't change the many people I've encountered over the years who have become so frustrated with everyone else's right to breathable air that they have gone on the offensive at every non-smoker who only wishes for them to refrain from smoking until we've finished our dinner, which incidentally wasn't served with a side of arse-ash smell...

People trying to be 'helpful' have tried to find alternatives to the ban in cars while children are present. My favourite appeared in the main article itself, suggesting that people 'open a window'. He was cut down to size almost immediately by someone making the point that driving on the motorway with the windows down is impractical for obvious reasons. One alternative I can think of is to grant a child the legal right to request that a cigarette be extinguished in their presence. But what parent suffering from nicotine withdrawal will listen to a child? And what child would make a formal complaint against their parents for harming them in a way they can't entirely understand yet.

The biggest problem is that smokers feel this chastisement will continue until smoking is banned from all walks of life. The truth is I think the buck needs to stop in peoples houses. I know lots of people who won't smoke in their own home anyhow, and not just because they have children. Some people smoke but are aware that they are damaging their furniture, stinking up their house and yellowing their walls. That said, I live with a smoker and I don't mind him smoking in the house, if only because the cigarettes he smokes aren't that strong and the thought of him walking in and out of the house constantly is more annoying than putting up with the smoke his roll-ups give off. Sometimes, when a lively conversation is cut short – or I'm left in a restaurant or a bar alone – or someone misses a song we could have shared together – I briefly wish that the smoking ban had never be put in place. And then I remember the smoke, the smell, my eyes and lips stinging and the one time someone burnt my nail polish narrowly missing the skin on my thumb...

And sometimes I feel like it shouldn't stop there... this last year I have had to dodge being burnt by countless cigarettes held by people standing in office door ways, coughed my through clouds of smoke created by people standing at bus stops, put up with people puffing away while I dine al fresco and been attacked by streams of ash and smoke trailing behind people walking in front of me. In fact I even had to change my route home from work to avoid the gauntlet of Smoker Alley outside Farringdon tube.

Perhaps its your right to damage your lungs, stain your teeth and smell like a bonfired pile of arse, just as it is my right not to witness, or smell, or inhale it. The politics of a subject like smoking are clear to see. Politics is organic, and it grows and is shaped by those who are granted power. A law can be instated and it can just as easily be removed. This has happened many times in our two-party system but the truth is, no one is backtracking when it comes to smoking legislation I'm afraid – My advice is get on the winning side, or indeed stay on it, because this is one fight smokers are going to lose.

Misery loves company... not always...

Some months ago I was faced with a dilemma that, to be fair, I never thought I would have to face. What do you do when there has been a death in the family and you have just started a blog that needs feeding? Quite honestly I wasn’t in the mood to write short stories or funny anecdotes. When you’re angry, and sad, and worried, the humour that manifests itself inside your mind is dark and unpleasant. Black comedy, borne of tragedy, seeks to soothe the soul when it’s hurting - but this time I chose my privacy instead.

For the most part I’m still not entirely comfortable now, seven months on, sharing what has happened in my life here. And on facebook I choose not to talk about it and carry on as if everything is normal, but it can’t be. Still I don’t want to let things fall by the wayside so I’ll keep posting from now on. I’m feeling much better than I was. I feel like I have more direction and hope for the future. They'll be not only stories from my school days but other more sober (pun tended) tales from my days at university.

Apologies of a Teenager in Cyprus

Larry the starfish guy

There was a place that was just for us. That’s important. That place, that special place. It doesn’t matter who you are, when you’re a teenager you need one. Five days a week you go to school. You pretend to care about your future, or not. You listen in class, or not. You do your homework or you play video games. You conform or you rebel. For five days a week. But Friday night you are no longer a student. If only for the next 48 hours you are yourself. You are on your time. You make your own labels. You can be whatever you want to be until Monday morning when you are once again an upstanding student or a trouble maker. And you have your place where you can be yourself. The little slip road in Larnaca that brought together Savino, Stone Age, Lounge and Indigo was ours. Our place.

 It was a quiet weekend and there wasn’t much to do. Rachel stayed at mine, keeping me company for yet another night while my grandparents began adjusting to life in their new apartment. Hungry and uninspired by what could be delivered to us we headed out. After dinner we walked to Indigo for a few drinks. We weren’t sure who we’d bump into there but someone was always around. The beer began to flow and it wasn’t long before the word shots had come up. No one drinks shots unless they want to get completely and utterly wasted. You can’t enjoy a beverage that barely spends any time in your mouth. You don’t want to savour the flavour. You probably don’t like the flavour but its Friday night and you want the week to blur away. Your inhibitions start to fade and you can’t help but dance. People’s voices become muffled and all you can think about is your next drink. You have to keep mixing them or the buzz will wear off. You don’t want anything to wake you from your drunken haze, your little world. In your place.

The lights begin to swirl and your movements become more fluid. Everything feels weightless.

And then it hits you. You’ve drunk too much and you’re either going to be sick or fall asleep. Either way you’re going to fuck up everyone’s night. It’s never good when someone throws up. People suddenly don’t want to drink anymore. Their caring instinct takes over and they sober up immediately. Even if they’re still drunk they manage to act like they’re not. They feel the need to get this poor person some water. Maybe a hug. Everyone’s seen that sad image when girls hold each other’s hair off their face and rub their back to ease the wrenching. That’s always comforting and they know it. They want to be there for their friend in need. It’s a sure fire way to end someone’s night, to arouse their need to tend to you. And if you fall asleep you are also allocated a baby sitter to keep an eye on you.

So, I did the only thing I could. I excused myself and asked Rachel if she wanted to go for a walk. This is normally part of an unwritten code that depending on what is going on can mean several things. It can mean, “Someone here is irritating me and I want to bitch to you about it.” It can also mean, “I’m really into this guy and I need to get some mints.” Or it can mean, “I’m bored and need to get out of the smoke and noise.” Or in this case, “I’m drunk and desperately need some fresh air.” You know who your best friend is when they leave a good time to see to it that you’re not on your own.

We took a walk around to another one of our places. The far side of the fort, where the waves lapped against the side of the aged building. There were plenty of places to sit and it had become of somewhere of multiple uses. Young lovers used it as a nook to spend time losing their virginity and start rumours at school. Young drinkers such as myself took advantage of this concealed wall to drink cheap off licence booze and lark about. Tourists sat sunburnt and reflective of their time in Cyprus with ice cream or fishing rods. That night our worlds would collide in this one spot. Stumbling, still dizzy we walked around to the back of the fort. Barely able to lift my head up I stared bemused at the bright lights protruding from the floor. A new feature at the time, the lights would no longer work in a few months. Allegedly someone drunkenly cracked one of the lights in and then decided to pee into it. I thought that was unnecessary. I mean, the sea was right there. Maybe it was a physics experiment. I don’t know.

After I had gotten my all out of staring at the light I turned my attention over to Rachel who had been talking with some late night fishermen. They sounded American. I smiled and pretended I was listening. My mind wondered around as chit chat carried on in the back ground until I spotted something that could hold my attention. Lying on the edge of the path way before the foot or so drop into the sea was a little gray star. Without hesitation I picked it up. It was hard and cold. As I examined it with eager curiosity I could feel wet sand between my fingers. “That’s a starfish you know?” The American explained with a chuckle. The ‘be silent and they won’t notice you’re hammered’ approach had not worked. But they were nice enough to explain that it appeared lifeless until it was returned to the water where it would resurrect itself. “Can I keep it?” I asked not quite realising just how crazy I sounded. They laughed. I don’t even know if that was an answer but I walked away happy with my prize. I was going to carry him in my pocket until I got home and then I’d set up a tank for my new friend.

Rachel and I walked back to Indigo to find the others but it was getting late and they had gone home. We decided, having not had enough, to sit outside and have one last drink. I took our new company out of my pocket. I already knew I’d never forget that night. I had the widest grin on my face. Already in my head I was imagining my pet starfish and the fantastic tale of how he came into my life on that routine Friday night.

“I’m going to call him Larry.”

“Why Larry?”

“It suits him, don’t you think?” I said, beaming with pride.

 Still fascinated by him, I began twirling him around in my hands. I smoothed away most of the damp sand and ran my fingers along the little grooves on his body. I couldn’t wait until I woke up the next morning to see him with sober eyes. The first time I had ever seen a real starfish and I was going to bring him back to life.

Just as my thoughts had gotten ahead of me, I started to feel something cold creeping across my hands. Instinct took over and in a fit of panic I heard a crunch. You do often react when you’re drunk. But more often than not that reaction tends to be the wrong one. Refocusing my unsure eyes I became certain. My new friend had died in my hands. I had broken off one of his legs. I was overcome with shock at what I had done. I was holding him one minute, sure to make him a home where he could be comfortable and live under the sea once more. The next he had been maimed by my own hand. As dreams of our happy future together faded I was overcome with grief. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. Stinging, alcohol induced tears began to fall down my cheeks and onto Larry, still in my hands, now more lifeless than ever. To this day I don’t know whether it was my tears or something that oozed out of Larry but I could feel it dripping down my hand. Disgusted and wondering why the hell I was holding a dead starfish, I snapped out of my drunken stupor. My eyes dried up and all thoughts of Larry vacated my mind. I dropped him into the nearest ash tray and Rachel followed my lead in walking away as quickly as possible. On the way home a strange thought came to mind, one that I would look back on for years to come. “Rachel, I wonder what the waitress who found Larry must be thinking?”

Graduation

My apologies that this is not a real entry. Tomorrow morning I finally get my Bachelors degree after all this time. I have to wake up early and something doesn't feel right. I'm not as excited as I should be just nervous and wondering why I agreed to put myself through it.
Any ways - sneak peak at tomorrows story:
Bored with nothing to do, two young girls venture out for a night on the town only to have it end in murder...

Apologies of a Teenager in Cyprus

These short stories are an apology to my liver and any one else who may have been damaged by the events that took place on the Island of Cyprus during the early years of this millennium, including my parents, grandparents, future offspring, starfish, friends and another vital organs or body parts.
Please note that whilst partially auto-biographical these stories are subject to artistic licence and any characters that bare description to real-life people are simply an accident - Not really, its all true... or is it?

Turning 17

When you’re growing up away from your parents there are many things you hope never happen to you. When you are growing up away from your parents in an odd country like Cyprus there are many things that must never happen to you, and it’s funny how plans borne of the greatest ideas can lead to, in hindsight, ones that are flawed at best. Andrei Brechkovsky, a close friend of mine, was celebrating his 17^th birthday. Its a cliché to say the Russians like a drink but Mr Brechkovsky liked a drink. Two drinks. Thirty. And proposed for this most historic of birthdays, seventeen being the year you are allowed to drive a motorbike and claim your freedom, a 24 hour party in the park Drink-a-thon.

Rachel and I got there fairly early given the time frame, cracked open a beer at one in the afternoon and watched on as the birthday boy dowsed himself in alcohol. We watched him tear the wrapping paper off of booze and cigarettes, stationary and an elephant dung paper weight. Standard gifts you give each other when you’re a teenager. We sang and danced and learned all about Russian folk music.

Drinking so heavily in the middle of the day is something that most adults tend to avoid. And that’s because they know something teenagers don’t. It’s almost a right of passage on the fateful day that you learn your lesson. Not only can your liver not process alcohol as quickly so you get drunker, but beer, famous for not taking its time to travel through the human body, hurries itself along faster in the daytime. Frantically we looked for a toilet but the only ones in the park were closed. So in one moment of complete desperation we picked our trees. It was only Rachel’s luck that she picked the perfect cover from the main path. A large towering tree, hollow in the middle. She emerged relived and proud only to discover that behind the ideal tree of her choice was a house and as luck would have it the occupants were home. Something that to this day I have never let her forget.

As it got darker the evening carried on and more people came to wish our dear friend the happiest of birthdays.  A group of us sat down in a circle to prepare for the drinking games I had brought along. Jake spent the most ridiculously lengthy time slaughtering a half a dozen lemons and wasting most of them in the process, deeming them not up to his bar tending standards. We opened a bottle of tequila I had been saving for such an occasion. Brought from Chile by a friend of my father’s, it was a rare tequila, laced with chillies. Several shots in I wandered aimlessly over to the wall of the locked amphitheatre in the park and stared over through some fencing, like you do. It took me sometime to focus but I could see blue lights. Like a messenger in distress I circulated through the crowd warning them that I had seen moving lights. No one listened. In all fairness my credibility was lacking. Convinced that I was drunk and hallucinating everyone went on enjoying the party. So I assumed everything must have been fine and continued doing my thing.

I don’t know quite how much time had passed, or how the others had finally been alerted to the news but, ever so subtlety, a party goer approached our group. We were lying on our backs watching the stars blur into each other across the sky. “Run.” No particular tone. No emotion. No panic. Just “Run.”

Christina, Rachel and myself followed Mark thinking he would clue us in to what was going on, certain that a man so calm must know what he’s doing. Jake, who in a fit of panic completely forgot about his girlfriend Christina, took off in the opposite direction with one of Andrei’s other friends, Ivan. In my drunken panic, my underage mind thought of nothing but reliving myself of any evidence that we had been drinking. It hadn’t occurred to me that I smelt like an American sorority girl on spring break. I threw the tequila into the bushes but pushed the drinking games to the bottom of my bag, unable to part with them. We ran as quickly as we could through the park towards the main road. Half way along we stopped to regroup. Some of the others had caught up and Christina had gotten a broken phone call from Jake. Out of the dark green grass we saw a figure in the distance. We turned off our torches and stood frozen.

When you’re 16 years old and you think your going to be arrested the first thing that comes to mind is how your parents will react. When you’re 16 years old, about to be arrested and your parents are in another country, you wonder how your guardian grandparents will react. It’s hard to say how two Cypriots in their early 80’s with specific ideas about how a young lady should present herself, would react to their 16 year old granddaughter being arrested at 10:30 in the evening for drinking in a public park. They were going to kill me. And then they were going to call my father. And then I’d be on the first plane back to England. And then he would kill me. Shaking in my flip flops, my mind searched for answers. I needed a game plan. There were so many choices. Should I tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth? Should I lie? Would I get caught lying? If I got caught lying would it make the situation worse? If I told the truth would I be ridiculed by my peers for not at least trying to lie? Great! Panic and peer pressure. What a wonderful combination. I could feel my brain dancing the same way my bladder had been dancing that afternoon.

The figure in the distance got closer. It turned out to be Jake. Huffing and puffing with a huge grin on his face he emerged from the darkness and I had never been happier to see his face. The story he told was shocking. He had seen things you couldn’t imagine. In the wilderness he learnt of the harsh world we were living in and he had emerged a free man and more enlightened than he could have ever wished to be. Well, sort of, I exaggerate. He managed to get away. Ivan and him had been stopped and searched. Once they had realised that Jake was in fact Cypriot they became more interested in the other young lad. They barely looked into his bag but decided to take Ivan in for questioning. Jake saw an opportunity and snuck off.

As angry as we were about the whole situation it seemed like the police were moving in a different direction and nothing was going to happen to us that night. We weren’t going to stick around and find out. We sat in the bakery outside the park and watched the squad cars that had been looking for us drive home to their bitter, ignored wives.

Andrei’s night turned out to be quite different. He returned to the scene of the party to cover up his bike. Still with no actual licence or insurance he couldn’t afford to have it identified. On his way back the police stopped him and he was taken in as well. In his bag the police discovered some pills. Andrei suffers from hay fever as well as several other allergies. But the police kept them just in case. He had birthday presents on him too. A carton of cigarettes. The police kept them too. He was underage and they’d fetch a pretty buck at the next police auction, if the officers didn’t smoke them themselves. And a suspicious brown clump of soil and hay preserved in a bulb of thick glass. The arresting officer turned his harsh eyes towards the boy and asked brutally, “What is this?” And Andrei, truthfully and honestly turned to the man who had ruined his birthday and replied, “Shit. It’s shit.” For reasons that cannot be explained they kept the shit and all.