Read All About It

I'd like to put something to you today.

If no-one watched the news, listened to the radio or read the newspaper/glossies, (particularly the red-tops) or aimlessly surfed the web and social networking sites, we'd be much less afraid of life. You wouldn't think every single man over a certain age was a perv/pedo, they wouldn't be afraid of being branded one. You wouldn't be afraid of killer foxes jumping on your children while they sleep, you wouldn't think that immigration is the biggest problem in the UK at the moment. Hell, you might even think it was your's and my individual general selfishness or something out there like that. Sure, there's problems. But the hysterical mob mentality wouldn't exist, and the whipping up of bad blood wouldn't occur so frequently.

Maybe you wouldn't think you had to be a certain shape to be beautiful, whether you're getting pummelled with indications that you need to lose weight, or that you need to be curvy. You'd make an informed decision for yourself if you wanted to change your body, whether it be be with vigorous movement and what you put in your tummy, or with a scalpel a syringe and a general anaesthetic, not a decision based on shiny pictures of airbrushed people who are really just like me and you.

Maybe we'd actually try and find things out about different cultures and countries instead of being fattened on excellently made programmes, spoon-feeding us the angle or slant that the producers had, whatever angle that may be. Why don't we work out our own stance before drinking in someone else's research, jumping on the back of their ideas without knowing enough to truly have our own informed opinion?

Maybe we'd read stuff, like really read stuff, and we'd value knowledge so much more because we'd worked for it, we'd cultivated our brains with it, and it'd stick, not fade with the next wikipedia page.

Maybe we'd talk to people. Audibly. So we can see the light reflected in their eyes and the pores in their skin. Perhaps the world would get a bit quieter if the tap tap tap of the keyboards stopped.

And I'm saying this while at a computer, with the radio on, with Twitter and Facebook running in the background, and I'm aware of the numerous benefits of the media. I'm also aware I am at the risk of sounding like a museli munching, sandal wearing do-gooder complaining in a clichéd way about the Big Bad Media perhaps superficially...but just think about it. Sometimes, take it all off and think with your mind, not with what's forcing it's way in there every day. Imagine the possibilties. Oh wait, you can't, they're endless.

Charidy

There you are walking down the road and you see the flash of a luminous colour of some kind, and you know it's time to cross the road. Or time to put on your I-am-very-important-and-am-doing-very-important-things persona. You're suddenly late and your pace picks up to a pace that would shame road runner. Because we both know what a luminous colour coupled with a Cheshire cat smile means don't we? Fundraisers. Smiley, in-your-face, annoying fundraisers.

If I were to ask the general public of the British Isles what the number one annoyance is on a shopping trip to central wherever, I could hazard a guess at charity fundraisers. Or maybe a close second behind those soul-shredding parking rules.

Why are they talking to you? Why are they disturbing your day? Why don't they get a PROPER JOB? Do they not realise you already give to your own chosen charities? Why is this bucket in your way? Why is this clipboard blocking my way to Superdrug?!?! They're just students wanting an extra buck from the commission. They're just weed-smoking, dreadlock-wielding, baggy-trousered tree-huggers. Life would be so much easier without them.

But then again, a lot of stuff and people would die without them.

Allow that.

Not blogged for a while. Not even during the Election. Communication fail, and I take full responsibility my loves. I generally was in an 'allow that' mentality...

Which brings me to the point. Today, this blog is just an extension of my already extensive thoughts. Imagine if, in many famous instances of world and solar-system events, someone had just said 'ALLOW' or 'ALLOW THAT'. For those not familiar with a bit of 21st century UK pseudo-gangster slang, this means that the said person who uttered this phrase decided that they couldn't be bothered or refused to do a certain task. As opposed to the traditional meaning of 'to allow' as in letting something happen. Still don't get it? Urban Dictionary definition. Now think of you favourite(or most hated) famous figures, and now imagine them saying 'allow that' while they are on the cusp of a world-changing event....

Here's some I made earlier.

1. Imagine if Power Rangers had said 'Allow that'

2. Imagine if Frodo had said 'Allow that bruv I gotta pick some carrots in the shire'

3. Imagine if Romeo was just like 'Allow Juliet innit'

4. Imagine if Obi-Wan decided to allow it and become a bartender

5. Imagine if Hitler was just like 'you know what, allow this'

6. Imagine if Doctor Who decided that his extensive time travel needed to be allowed

7. Imagine if Bella allowed Edward

8.Imagine if Michael Jackson ran away to the circus, therefore 'allowing' his budding music career.

9. Imagine if Martin Luther King 'llowed it.

10. Imagine if The Devil decided that waging his war against The Good needed to be allowed

11. Imagine if Steve Jobs was just like 'Nahhhh allow this, I'ma make doorknobs'

12. Imagine if Obama decided he was gonna shoot some hoops and allow the whole politics lark.

13. Imagine if Osama Bin Laden allowed it and became a docile sheep herder instead

14. Imagine if Superman made the decision to allow. Jeeeeez.

15. Imagine...if John Lennon allowed Imagining

etc etc etc etc etc

I could go on and on and on...but I have to revise. I think we can learn 1 thing from this relatively pointless blog. If you wanna do something good...don't allow...if you wanna do something bad...ALLOW IT.

Stop TALKING!

Okay, so here we are, in the thick of a heated word-joust on a controversial topic. Abortion. Euthanasia. Religion. Capitalism. War. Eastenders. And you are battling it out for your point of view (which is obviously, right. Clearly), armed to the hilt with quick quips, wordy monologues and sneaky counter-arguments. There is no way you are backing down, oh HELL no, it ain't over 'till the fat lady sings. Or dies. So it's motormouth central. Sentences clash loudly in the air like a scene in Star Wars. Interruption after interruption after interjection disguised with a 'polite' sorrytointerrupt or yougonoyougonogoaheadokay. You have the Answer! you have the Truth! You have the Solution! Everyone else should know about it. In fact you couldn't be more right.



Shut up.



Yes you. Shut up. In the words of Fergie, shut up, just shut up, shut up. Put a cork in it. Why are you talking? You should realize in is not particularly intelligent to storm in all guns blazing. Why? In case you hadn't noticed, everyone else thinks they are just as right as you, my love. They think their arguments are better than yours. They think you're talking poo. So the more you talk, the more 'poo' they think they are getting bombarded with. And nobody likes to be showered in poo-poo, even if you think yours really smells like roses. Try this for size. Listen to what they have to say. Sure. their point of view is highly tedious but lets be clear on one thing. Your point of view sounds exactly as silly from where they're standing. Close your too-eager mouth and prick up your ears. Try to see things from their point of view-you may disagree whole-heartedly, but try to figure out why they might hold these preposterous views that may even offend you. Think about why it offends yo. See how far you can agree with what they are saying. Don't interrupt. Don't interject. When you finally do speak, tell them what you agree on. And then say very little. There is no point trying to convince them of your infallible point of view. Say what you need to say in as little words as possible-if they want to know more they'll ask. You'll look alot more intelligent and well-balanced this way, think about it. And after lending an ear, you will be. Do do us all a favour and shut up. That includes you Almaz.

Well...this is awkward

That, there above you ^^^^, is an Awkward Silence. ( Wikipedia, Urban Dictionary ). And in our beautiful Britain, in all its apparent invisibility yet utter density, it is as common as an emo in eyeliner. On average, someone living in this country will experience 2 of these a day, which adds up to 730 times a year!* Crikey.

People just don't like silence when in company with each other. It sticks to the skin, make you squirm and what's more you can't shake its effects even once said silence is frantically filled. (BAD IDEA TO TRY TO FILL IT AS I WILL STRESS OVER AND OVER AGAIN)

Like when you see an accquaintance from a while back (you know, the ones you would refer to as your 'friend' back in school, when really you only spoke five times for the whole seven years?).You exchange niceties, howareyouwhatareyoudoningatthemomentOhhhthatsniceYeahI'm okayjustatuniit'sgoingreallywellthanks. And then there it is, in all it soundless glory. And all you can say is bettergetgoingyeahnicetoseeyou. Awkwaarrrddd.

Or perhaps when you get picked on in class, or lecture. Oh, [insert name] what are your thoughts on this?, that kinda thing. Your face grows hot, you rack your brain thinking of a viable get-out clause, but to no avail. You could hear an atom drop. There it is again.

You drop a clanger. The atmosphere turns practically minus-decibels.

Terrible date. Silence you'd need a chainsaw to hack through.

Bad joke.No sound.


So, I suggest we, as British Subjects of the Crown (or otherwise, but you live here) EMBRACE the silence. There's nothing wrong with it! You don't have to fill it! Bask in it, I mean, it's only silence, right? I know, I know, it's not very nice when you've run out of things to say, but I tell you the truth, it is worse to try to break the vice-hold with an equally(if not moreso) cringe-worthy cough, throat-clearance or quip.



Next time you are confronted by a barrage of nothingness when you tell a bad joke or try to force a conversation with someone you don't know very well, just shut up. Smile. Yeah, it will take a while to get over the cringe-factor, but you'll get there time after time. It takes adjusting. Just.Don't.Try.To.Fill.It.



And just one more thing. DON'T GO ROUND CREATING THEM! These are the surefire ways of doing just that:

• Asking someone something if you don't really care what the answer is, you just want to look pleasant.
• Starting conversations just to be polite
• Being too fakely overenthusiastic when approaching a mundane conversation-it only amplifies the silence when it inevitable appears.

Silences will appear though. But learn to love them, they don't have to be a threat to your comfort. Learn to be comfortable with other human beings without having to be doing or saying something...And as stressed before Don't.Try.To.Fill.Them. It will only make it worse. I promise.Trust me on this one.

*made up statistic.

Valentines Day

Valentines Day.

Oh shut up you filthy naysayers! 'It's all too commercial, it's not real love, it's just a money maker for companies, it's more trouble than it's worth, I show love every day of the year blah blah boring blah'.

It's all been heard before. It's as boring as watching a sponge dry in the rainforest. I put it to you that Valentines Day is what you make it. And what could be wrong about a day designated to love, as an example to how every day should be?

I bet you kill-joys don't even know the reason for the expression of love and all things close. Well here it is. Paraphrased by yours truly.

It's 270 AD, and the matrimonial bond has been absolutely outlawed by old Claudius II, the then emperor of Rome, because he reckoned married men made crap soldiers. Boooo. He also outlawed Christianity, and while some of y'all may think that this was actually quite a good idea, he did it because he wanted to be worshipped as the one supreme God. Great. 270AD Rome sounds like a great place to live. Then our hero, Valentine turns up. And in my mind, he looks a bit like Dr. Valentine from Holby City. Goooood times.

He was the Bishop of Interramna, and he thought the decrees of Rome were wrong, plain wrong. He put it forward that everyone should be able to be free with their love-of God and to marry. So what to do? I hear you whisper in impatient anticipation. He performed the most romantic covert operation the other side of Romeo and Juliet. He secretly married couples, risking life and limb, for love.

The thing is, it turned out it wasn't as covert as he would have liked. He was caught and brought before old Claudius. Claudius saw something in our hero, and tried to persuade him to renounce his Christianity and worship the Roman Gods i.e Him. Well, this didn't work out as such, and Valentine did not budge. Now the Emporer could have just killed him, right? Hung him, maybe. Cut off his head. Sad, but relatively humane. No, no, nope. Valentine gets sentenced to a gruesome 3 part execution. Beating, stoning, then decapitation. Valentine died on February 14th, 270 A.D.

While languishing in his dank dark prison cell in Rome awaiting his imminent death, poor Valentine fell in love with the jailers daughter, the blind Asterius. Apparently, during Valentine's stay, her sight was restored. But that isn't the touching bit for me. Valentine, before he went to his gruesome death sent her a last, farewell note, and ended it 'From your Valentine'

Ahhhhh. They need to make a film out of that.

So, when you see crude cards, explicitly outllining acts of copulation, or see blatent money-grabbing tactics from your local Tesco, think about what Valentines day is really about. It's what you make it, not what someone else makes it. So don't complain about the commercialism and the mainstream filth, and use this as an excuse for your love protest, don't turn up your nose in a decidedly snobby fashion. Even if you feel you must celebrate on another day if the atmosphere sickens you too much, do it. And if you don't have a valentine, look for people who need love as they don't seem to be getting any. Give St. Valentine something more to be proud of, give him more meaning in his death. And hey, you might just enjoy it.

The Battle Of the Cringe on the 14.43 to Waterloo.

So, there I was, sitting quietly, minding my own business ( as is customary on an English train ) , when the flute I was carrying dropped to the floor. Now this would be absolutlely fine in normal circumstances. Mildly embarassing perhaps, but not soul-destroying. I thought that maybe I could just pick it up, smile awkwardly at mock-concerened fellow passengers and be on my way to Waterloo. WRONG

Man:(in a slippery, overtly concerened tone, Western African accent) Are you...Okay?

Terror strikes me like a big, heavy, metal pole. I dont immediatly look up, as I am so crestenfallen. I know what this means. It means the onset of an ongoing saga of Cringe. I need to end this. And I need to end this now Me: (in a short, coldly cooperative tone) Yup. And that should have been the end of it, or I hoped it would be. I hoped that this would somehow prevent my comfortableness being systematically destroyed. I was wrong, again. I open my book and stare at the pages as if they had the meaning of life and the universe etched across them in gold leafed calligraphy, eyes as round as saucers, a look of concentration so fierce only a foolish dunce would disturb me. But I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my head like a sniper's dot. And in my periphial vision, I can deduce that this repellent man is thinking of another way to form contact.

Man:(with a carefully crafted 'I-have-rehearsed-this-in-my-head' tone) Do you know..where Woking is?

WHAT. He could have at least come up with a better conversation point than that little gem, like perhaps the state of the economy in Luxemborg or opium production in Afghanistan. I look up at my opponent in this Battle of the Cringe. His beady eues peer at me and his slug-like lips twich repuslively. I know where this is going. And I am pathetically powerless.

Me:(in a robotic, purposefully unattractive manner) We. are.on.a.train.that.stops.in.Woking.

I snap my head back frantically, and bury my nose further into the spine of my book. I contrort my body into the most closed body language I can fathom and press muself firmly against the window, the furthest I can get away from this horrible little man. He leans over the gangway awkwardly, still staring at me, still thinking of things to say ( I can hear the cogs turn in his head), oblivious to my hints. I want to cry.

Man: Do you live Portsmouth?

Me: No

*AWKWARD SILENCE*

Man:Where do you live?
Me: East London
Man:(Dangerous raise in excitement to his voice) So do I!

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

My brain screams in anguish. This thing could not possibly go further, or more quickly downhill if it has a 28 tonne tugboat tied to it and said hill was a cliff. I take to practically ingesting the poor Charlie Brooker book.

Man: My name is Olaf
Me: (nods slowly, every movement of head is enhanced tenfold and slowed down to bullet-time)

*SILENCE*

I sit there in silence. Maybe he had finally got the hint that I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a toilet brush than carry on talking to His Creepyness. Time slows down drenched in stodgy Cringe. Neither of us move, suddenly paralysed by the thick atmosphere. I indulge in an inner smile, sure that finally, victory is mine.

Olaf: What is your name?

*FAIL*

Me: (Visibly crushed) Almaz :(

*SILENCE*

I whip out my phone and start tweeting furiously in a way that suggests 'I now must not be disturbed under any circumtances on pain of death but driving this phone into your temple.' Then all of a sudden, an unfortunately familiar voice breaks the silence of my cringeful excruciation.

Olaf-the-complete-dimwit: Can I take you out to dinner

Huh? Cringe Central and the 14.43 to Waterloo!! Is this guy SERIOUS?Oh my days, oh my life. But deep down, I knew this was where we would end up, right in this very spot. I just could not bring myself to believe it. I can feel the collective click of ears pricking up all over the carriage.


Me: (so very firmly, a look of disbelief scrawled onto my face by my scrambling brain) No.
Olaf-the-birdbrain: Why?

No-frickin'-way.

Me: I don't want to
Olaf-the-fisheyed-fool: Why?
Me: Just don't
Olaf-the-detestable-little-man: Why?
Me:(more and more aghast) I don't want to see...anyone!

*SILENCE*

Now I am AN-GER-Y. How DARE he? I turn back to my book, blood boiling hotly, superman style lasers burning through the 'gold gilded book of the meaning of life anf the universe'. I tweet even more furiously. How DARE this CRETIN make me cringe, so? I giggle manically in my head. He is responsible for my imminent insanity, I am sure of it and he will pay. I snap my head up only just avoiding paralysis.

Olaf-the-twit: I can come to your house and pick you up if this is the problem.
Me: (practically roaring/spluttering hysterically, utter manic confusiong racking my little frame) I ASSURE YOU THAT IS NOT THE PROBLEM!!!

*SILENCE*

Olaf-the-absolute-dirk: Can I have your number?

Lost the will to laugh. Lost the will to love. Lost the will to live.

Me: (Like a world-weary sea captain who has lost all h is crew and can only sigh due to utter dejection)NOOooo
Olaf: Facebook
Me: Don't have it
Olaf: Email
Me: No
Olaf-two-brain-cell: Why?
Me: Because they are mine to keep.

Olaf-the-idiot actually look annoyed with ME. All ican do is languish sullenly, waves of cringe walking over me like the waters of the Lake Distict. Why me, God? Why me. But wait! Olaf is not leaning over the aisle like a fool! Has my ordeal ceased at alst? I begin to read my book again, actually able to enjoy it without little eyes crawing all over me. 5 minutes pass. Ten. OUT OF THE WOODS!!!! Bur wait. Actually, wait.

Olaf: I feel bad now. I feel bad now.

Unbelievable.

Me: Don't feel bad, you tried.

I crack a smile. It really is over. The storm is over. The Cringe subsides. The battle is won, And the next thing I know we are stopping at beautiful, glorious Woking. And though I still have my battle scars, dealt but the mighty hands of Olaf, directly administering Cringe. I wear them proudly. And women out there-I know you do too ;)