#oneaday, Day 136: Massive Pianist

Some more music for you today as it's awfully late and I feel like I've been busy all day today, even though the only thing I achieved in the daytime was to buy two shirts which actually look good on me. Oh, and record these two pieces, of course.

A bit of background on these pieces for those who aren't familiar with them. Final Fantasy has been a big part of my life for many years – at least since Final Fantasy VII came out. I believe I've talked about the fond memories I have associated with this game in the past – the long, hot summer days, the thirty-six hour playing stint which culminated with my friend Woody and I suffering strange hallucinations of items that didn't exist in the game – but the thing that's stuck with me longer than the game itself is its music. FFVII was the first time I really noticed game music as a positive thing and, just to make this even more clichéd, it was One Winged Angel which impressed me the most.

After playing FFVII to death, I tracked down the previous games in the series, which I'd never experienced before, not really knowing what an RPG was before that point. I discovered that they, too, had great music, and not only that, there were piano arrangements available.

After a considerable amount of time searching, I managed to track down some dodgy scans of the piano scores for IV, V and VI. Later, I acquired genuine copies of the VII, VIII and IX books. The arrangements of the pieces are gorgeous – proper piano arrangements in a variety of styles rather than simple transcriptions. I've been playing them ever since and everyone seems to think that they're very "me".

Persona is a bit different. I came to Persona with the third game in the series a year or two back thanks to the Squadron of Shame. We even did a podcast about it. What struck nearly all of us about that series was its peculiarly quirky and enormously Japanese soundtrack. I was very interested to discover earlier this year that both Persona 3 and Persona 4 have piano scores available too. Unfortunately, they're not nearly as well-arranged as the Final Fantasy scores, but they certainly sound good enough – for some pieces at least. The J-hip-hop tracks don't sound particularly good on a piano, so there is no way I am ever playing any of them in public.

Much like Final Fantasy, the Persona games hold a very fond place in my heart. Rather than having memories attached to them, though, I found the stories of both games to be very emotionally resonant. I identified a great deal with many of the characters, as Persona deals a lot with friendships, personal identity and figuring out who you are, both in yourself and in relation to other people. While I can't point a fake gun at my head and summon a mythical beast to do my bidding, I do at least understand what some of the characters have been through, and empathise with others. It's rare that a game is written well enough for that to happen, so both games hold a special place in my heart.

Without further ado, then, here's two more pieces for your delectation. Just like last time, iPhone users can click on the titles to hear the tracks.

*pauses* I wish I'd remembered to upload these tracks before I started writing this. *drums fingers* Tra la la la la…

Aha! They're done. Here. *Enjoy* the *sauce*. And yes, I know there's a couple of bum notes. I was in a hurry. 🙂

The Oath from Final Fantasy VIII

Heaven from Persona 4

#oneaday, Day 134: Busy Days

Hello everyone! Apologies for the late hour. It's been a genuinely busy day today, despite it being a Bank Holiday (or Memorial Day if you want to be all American about it).

My day started with waking up several times, snoozing my alarm and then waking up again. The last snooze inexplicably went on a lot longer than the other ones so I had a minor panic when I woke up the last time, because I actually needed to get up today.

Why? I hear you ask. Well, today was my first performance in public for ages. What? I hear you ask. For those of you who don't know, I've been playing the piano for quite a long time now. Since the age of five, in fact. Which makes it… a long time that I've been playing. I haven't performed in public for quite a while, though, and my friend Sam assures me that he'd never heard me play in public before. I'm convinced otherwise, but he's very insistent on this matter. I know he certainly didn't see the last piano performance I did at university, which was a duet performance with one of the strangest people I've ever had the curious fortune to encounter in my life that was followed with one of the most memorable and terrifyingly inappropriate pub conversations I've ever experienced. Those who know who I'm talking about also know what the conversation was about. Those who don't… well, I feel it would be improper for me to discuss it here. Unless you really want to know, in which case leave me a comment and I'll tell you there.

So today was my first performance in public for ages. We've established that.

What did you play? I hear you ask. Demanding, aren't we? Perhaps you should stop asking so many questions and let me get on with my story because it's entirely possible I might have been about to tell you what I played. In fact, I'm half-tempted to just not tell you now.

Except that would make this blog entry run rather short and not allow me to include the lovely media that I'm about to. So I'll tell you.

A few years back, I discovered the Final Fantasy Piano Collections and managed to acquire most of them. Some of them I have the actual books of. The older ones I managed to track down some scans from the Internet. More recently, I managed to locate some piano scores for the music from Persona 3 and Persona 4. These respective series have some of my favourite music of all time, so I figured a public performance would be a good opportunity to spread the love and let other people know what they're all about. So that's what I did.

The event itself was part of Southampton's "Keys to the City" event, celebrating local arts and the piano in particular. Today's performance took place in the city's art gallery, tucked away on one side of the Civic Centre near the library. I got the impression not many people know about it. But there's a lovely Steinway piano there which has clearly been crying out to be used for some time, so my friend and ex-colleague Stephen McCleery of Retrograde Recordings helped to organise an event to give it a bit of attention.

Here's three of the pieces I performed. I'll be recording the others over the next few days, so there's a few posts ready to go if I'm short of inspiration!

If you're reading this on an iPhone, don't get pissy about the Flash audio players not working. I've been good enough to supply direct links to the files. Just click on the title. I'm good to you people. Not every blog would do that, you know.

Anyway… enjoy. More to come over the next few days.

Main Theme from Persona 4

Prologue from Final Fantasy

Velvet Room from Persona 3

#oneaday, Day 133: Lazy Days

Everyone has lazy days. Days when nothing – nothing – gets done. And sometimes there's not even a reason for getting nothing done. Just pure laziness. Or possibly your body telling your mind that it's quite comfortable where it is, thank you very much, and would it mind awfully if it just sat here and atrophied for a few hours KTHXBAI.

It starts innocently enough. You sit down on the sofa. Perhaps you wanted a quick breather. Perhaps you've just had a phone call that went on for so long that that pacing-around-the-room thing that everyone does with mobile phones got a bit tiresome. Perhaps you were about to watch some TV. The circumstances of how you got to the sofa are about to become completely irrelevant.

At some point during your blissful reverie, something of earth-shattering importance will occur to you. Perhaps there's a letter that you need to post today, or you're running out of toilet paper and the shop is closing early for refurbishment today, or maybe you're out of milk, or perhaps you actually have something useful to get on with. Whatever it is, your mind can't stop thinking about it. A feeling of lurking panic starts to set in. What if you really need to take a dump and there isn't enough toilet paper? There's no-one else in the house so you can't ask anyone else to go and fetch you some. Could you sink as low as using a towel or a newspaper? Or would you want to wash your shitty arse in the shower, like some sort of incontinent old person, only without a nurse to help you with the hideous process? The feeling of panic builds and you almost feel obliged to get up.

But no! Why should you get up? You've been working your arse off all week for little to no gratitude from the people that you work for. So you've earned this little sit down. You shouldn't feel obliged to do anything. So you don't. You say to yourself – possibly out loud – no. You are going to sit here until you're nice and relaxed, or at least until Top Gear has finished. Then and only then you might think about getting up to post that letter.

"But the post goes at 4pm, and it's 3.50 now," says your mind. "If you don't post that letter today, the council are going to charge you eight-hundred and fifty-four pounds for the privilege of another letter asking you where your eight-hundred and fifty-four pounds owed in money that they paid you by mistake actually is." You close your eyes and block out the whingeing and nagging that your own mind is setting about you with. This is your time. Besides, the postman will come again tomorrow, and you can always change the date on the letter to look like you posted it earlier and it actually got lost in the post and then feign ignorance when the council start hammering on your door and bringing the bailiffs round.

You decide to give up trying to be productive and you lean back on the sofa in a more relaxed posture. Perhaps your mouth falls open in an expression of gormless contentment. You stare into space for a little while as the light starts to fade outside and you wonder if you probably should get up and cook something, but you're not sure you can be bothered. You'd phone for pizza, but you don't have any cash, and ordering one with a debit card is always such a hassle because they always phone back and say it hasn't gone through and you think your card's been declined because you've got no money but it's actually them just typing the number in wrong and oh for heaven's sake being by yourself sucks and wouldn't it be much better if you had someone to talk to or cook dinner for? That might get you up off the damn sofa.

There are only two possible outcomes to this scenario once it gets to this point:

The first possibility is that you achieve victory over the soporific powers of the sofa, stand up and get something done. You post your letter, putting it right into the postman's hand just as he is emptying the postbox into his big bag. Then you go and buy toilet paper and milk and order a pizza. Your evening goes swimmingly well, and you collapse into bed satisfied that you have spent your day as productively as you possibly could, with a much-needed break in the middle for a little quiet time and reflection.

And the other possibility is, of course, death.

#oneaday, Day 132: Turnabout Mystery

Sometimes bad things happen. Sometimes these bad things are so bad that they cast you into an abyss so dark, you wonder if you'll see light again; an abyss so deep you doubt you'll ever escape; an abyss you didn't think existed but, as it happened, was opening beneath your feet before your very eyes, drawing you in silently, wordlessly, until the darkness enveloped you.

One such abyss claimed me a short while back. The details are, right now, unimportant. But I was deep in the darkness. I couldn't see light. I couldn't even feel the walls to stumble my way out by touch. I was lost, and fearing for my own salvation.

Sometimes good things happen. Sometimes these good things are so good that they cast a brilliant light into the very darkest places in your life. A light which heals; a light which bonds; a light which gives hope. That hope doesn't have to be a big hope. It can be something as simple as a kind word or a smile with a million unspoken words behind it. Sometimes this light, this hope, comes along and brings light into the darkness. It may not banish it, but it certainly makes the path which must be trodden clearer.

My abyss has been brightened by one such light. The details are, once again, unimportant. The darkness still lingers, waiting to claim me, but the light is there now. The hope to carry on, to endure, to survive. The way ahead, while it may wend and meander into the distance, at least is visible now.

I know not what challenges await me along this newly-lit path, or whether I will be able to stave off the darkness temporarily, or even whether I may leave it behind altogether. But the light, it is there, and it makes me smile a smile that has not been on my face for some time.

And I am grateful. Forever grateful for that light. For without light, there is only darkness. And a man who spends so long in darkness eventually becomes one with the darkness.

That is not the fate I wish upon myself. I follow the light where it leads me, and my journey begins anew.

#oneaday, Day 131: Garden of Dreams

He sat beneath the tree, his trusty little sketchbook open on his knees, the slightly-battered box of pencils by his side. Chewing the end of his pencil absently, he flipped back through the pages, remembering the thoughts which had come to him each time he had put pencil to paper. There was the expression of his anger, the page black with scribblings and scrawlings, words of pain obscured by a frantic, swirling miasma of darkness. And there was the calming scene, the one where he had taken his time and had lapsed almost into a trance, staring at the greenery around him, every leaf its own miniscule effort that no-one would ever see. And there were others, each possessing a memory, some of which had gone through his mind immediately after one another. Calm, to anger, to meditative, to philosophical. Some days there was just one picture. Others there were four.

But today there was a blank page, and he wasn't sure what to draw. He had put the point of the pencil against the page several times, but wasn't sure what he should do. Should he be honest and express himself fully? No-one need ever know; it was his sketchbook after all, and people only ever saw the things he chose to share. But with honesty came responsibility; dealing with the truth; the possibility of shattered dreams.

He shrugged. His dreams had already been shattered several times already, and he was still here. He put his pencil to the paper and began to draw. He wasn't a great artist, which was another reason he didn't share many of his sketches. But the things he drew held personal meaning to him. Every picture a memory, an emotion, words left unsaid.

He closed his eyes and pictured his subject. He wasn't sure he could do it justice, but he wanted to try. He decided to keep his eyes closed for the duration of the drawing, and just let his pencil move naturally. It glided across the paper with a gentle scratching sound – the only accompaniment to the soft breeze which blew across the garden and caressed the skin of his face – and traced around the contours of that which occupied his mind so completely right now.

It had been a curious feeling. Hoping against hope, so used to crushed desires and wretched despair, and then the sudden ray of light. His hope had been fulfilled, at least to some extent. He didn't know what that tiny fulfilled wish would come to, or indeed if anything would come of it. But for now, the fact that for once in his life, a tiny, seemingly-insignificant little wish had been granted – that was enough for him. He needed nothing more, and he knew that while his trials were far from over, he was walking the path he had chosen. Whether it was the correct path or not remained to be seen. But he was walking it, wherever it might lead.

He began to pencil in the details where he thought they should be, eyes still closed, working using only his mind's eye. He knew that the resultant picture would be nonsensical, but in allowing his mind to have free reign on what he produced, he felt free.

He stopped. That was enough. He had done all he could.

He opened his eyes. The tangled mess of scrawl on the paper bore little resemblance to that of which he was thinking. But it was enough. He knew what it meant, and what it was, was honest.

#oneaday, Day 130: Spam Fiction: The Revenge

A while ago, I did this, against the express wishes of one Mr George Kokoris. Tonight I return to the challenge with a twist… I write the in-between bits. I'm going to post four pieces of that bizarre spam you sometimes get that includes extracts of prose. And then I'm going to attempt to link the four of them within the space of approximately one thousand words. With no real care or attention – spur of the moment, first-thing-that-comes-into-the-head stuff. Not quite freewriting. But not quite proper writing, either. An exercise in 1) imagination and 2) deciphering nonsense.

This is a dangerous challenge, I know, that will likely delve into the depths of the nonsensical and surreal. But I have faith that I will emerge from the other side, unscathed and smelling only slightly of processed meat. Here goes.

The original spam extracts will be marked in bold and will be cleaned up slightly so they're, you know, readable. The subject headers of the original messages are "Insatiable redhead. gets her ebaver licked in a very intense way." [sic], "Appelaing redhead atking on a ggiant one ." [sic-er] and "Can we exchange photos before we meet?" and its companion "Can we exchange photos before we meet?". Just in case you were, you know, curious.

Let us begin.

I learned to play on the piano a little. Miss Gray – she plays for gathering twilight. Her face looked thin and wistful, full of youth's ideals and enthusiasm, and a heart full of love.

"That's so! I can be glad of that, can't I?" she cried.

"Well, there will be no difficulty of that kind any longer, Pollyanna, you–"

"Thomas, that will do for this morning. I think. Very good. In the fall you will enter school here, of course."

Well, short as had been Nancy's stay at the house, the two were with; and the other was so bad it fell to pieces just as soon as my mother entered the room. Miss Pollyanna Gray and I were left staring at each other, slightly embarrassed at our previous outburst which thankfully, had not been overheard. My eyes met hers for a moment, and I knew that our time together was at an end, for now at least.

"Come, Thomas," said my mother, taking my hand firmly, much as she would have done when I was but an infant. "It is time for you to meet the gentlemen and ladies of society. Doctor Stone is planning a discussion on Wagner. You would do well to listen to his words, as a student of the arts."

I didn't doubt the fact that it would be interesting, because she said it; but in a man it would have aroused his impatience. Searching analysis of the art of Wagner?

Upright, picking the leg of a chicken with a dignified gesture, Arthur with household matters and, while Margaret put the tea things away, she threshed out since he acquired the beginnings of civilization and he. There were many older ones also in bindings of calf and pigskin, treasure because she said it; but in a man it would have aroused his impatience.

Black paper, and Haddo insisted on posing for him. A little crowd stood in front of them to receive Arthur's order. She was a hard-visaged woman, and not at all what I expected from my mother's past descriptions of Doctor Stone. For starters, I had assumed Doctor Stone to be a man. Apparently my mother had also, from her frequent references to "him", not to mention the name of Arthur, a traditionally masculine nomenclature.

"Pleased to meet you, Doctor Stone," I said, proffering my hand to Arthur.

"Ah! You must be Thomas," she said. "I am Doctor Arthur Stone, Professor of the Fine Arts at this Academy,"

"Pleased to meet you, Doctor Stone," I said again, not quite sure what to say to this half-man, half-woman figure before me.

"So, Thomas," said Haddo, relaxing her pose for a moment to turn and face me. She, too, was a striking woman, somewhat intimidating to behold. "Tell us what you know of Wagner. Arthur here was just about to begin her lecture."

"I know little of Wagner," I replied, shaking off my mothers hand that was still firmly clamped around my wrist. "But I believe that I am able to learn, I hope."

Haddo eyed me suspiciously, then turned to Arthur, whose expression had become frosty.

"I advise you to show me somewhat more zeal.The situation is quite obvious."

Probably we no more than looked at each other.

"In three days will be the coronation."

I sensed the atmosphere in the room had changed. I looked at my mother, whose eyes had suddenly sprung tears in their corners.

"What coronation?" I implored the assembled guests. I had heard no such news of any coronation, and as far as I knew, the King still sat firmly on his throne, as resolute a ruler as he had ever been.

"The coronation," said Arthur in a low voice, slowly removing one of her silk gloves. "The coronation will proceed as planned."

"I don't understand!" I cried. I turned to my mother again, who was weeping openly by now. "I don't understand, Mother!"

"Then perhaps this will clarify matters," said Arthur, removing what I could now see to be an elaborate, feminine hairpiece. Underneath he was a balding gentleman who just happened to be dressed in an expensive-looking lady's frock. He reached down into the plunging cleavage of the dress and pulled out a crown, made of material as black as night. It seemed to suck all trace of joy from the room around it.

I heard the doors of the room crash open behind me, and Pollyanna's voice pierced the tension in the room like a knife.

"Uncle! No!" she cried, throwing herself against him and tackling him to the floor.

"Miss Pollyanna Gray," growled Arthur, "this is not your business."

"I beg to differ," she murmured, picking up the blackened crown, which seemed to be twisted with hate. She span around quickly and when she faced him again I knew she was holding a different object. It was almost imperceptible, but the look of concentration on her face was absolute. I could tell that whatever she was doing was taking every ounce of her mental and physical strength to maintain.

But his eyes and mind were not fooled.

Finally, she realized that his strength was too much for her.

"They destroy you and cripple me. Murgen's dreadful sentries allowed him to pass unchallenged."

To be continued…

[No, I have no idea what any of that meant either. I hope I made your day a little more surreal. I've certainly confused myself.]

#oneaday, Day 129: Projects Procurement Specialist Wanted

Have you tried to get a job recently? It's a massive, huge pain in the arse, and nothing to do with crowbars this time. The reason for it being such a pain in the arse is the sheer amount of bullshit that flies around with job advertisements, as I believe I alluded to in passing yesterday.

The worst bullshit is when you read through a job advertisement and, by the end of it, have no idea what you would actually be doing if you were successful in your application. What on Earth is a "Manager of Quality and Services"? Or a "Projects Procurement Specialist"? Or that old favourite, "Consultant"? Consultant on what? What are you consulted on? "Nothing, I'm just a consultant".

Then there's the job description itself. From the aforementioned "Projects Procurement Specialist" ad:

To provide the engineering department with tactical/strategic procurement support, including supplier identification and selection to meet the Engineering projects cost schedule, quality and delivery requirements.

To act as the liaison between the engineering and purchasing department whilst identifying opportunities to protect the business and to increase gross margins.

To raise and process relevant documentation for supplier selection criteria both technical and commercial and draft and negotiate contracts and purchase orders.

To contribute to continual improvement of processes and relationships at key suppliers and those internal processes affecting supply chain performance.

Now, granted, I am not a Projects Procurement Specialist. I'm not even a Projects Procurement Trainee. But I did do an English degree and can write a bit. And I have no idea what any of those sentences mean. Let's see if we can break them down a bit, shall we?

To provide the engineering department (Okay! Easy so far. I can do this.) with tactical/strategic (Oh, so it's a military job?) procurement support (Procurement of what?) including supplier identification (So… looking people up in the phone book who can send you things?) and selection (…and putting a circle around them) to meet the Engineering projects cost schedule (Cost is an amount of money. It doesn't keep a schedule.), quality (How does cost have a quality?) and delivery requirements (I imagine they want it put in a box and sent to them. Us. Wait, who's getting what delivered now?)

Whew. So some military person is required to get hold of some unspecified products that the Engineering department need, having worked out who can send them to them and for how much? SO WHY DON'T YOU SAY THAT? Let's continue.

To act as the liaison between the engineering and purchasing department (Wait… I thought I was the one "procuring" things?) whilst identifying opportunities to protect the business (Well, you could replace the lock on that door for a start… and you should probably put an alarm on the fridge.) and to increase gross margins (Have you seen those margins recently? They're disgusting, but I think we can do worse. Smear some shit over them or something.)

Okay. I'm getting lost now. Let's carry on…

To raise and process relevant documentation ("Raise and process"? Do you mean "type"? Or "print"? Or perhaps "type then print"?) for supplier selection criteria (Relevant documentation for supplier selection criteria… um… like a checklist or something?) both technical and commercial and draft and negotiate contracts and purchase orders (There are so many "ands" in that sentence I can't even begin to fathom what it actually means. Something to do with contracts and purchase orders. Still no word of what any of these things are actually for.)

I don't think attempting to analyse this is actually making it any clearer to me. In for a penny, in for a pound.

To contribute to continual improvement of processes and relationships at key suppliers (What? You mean "get to know someone"? Or perhaps "set up an account with someone who sends us stuff"?) and those internal processes affecting supply chain performance (Reading this is giving my internal processes a funny bubbly feeling. I think I might need to go and sit on the toilet for a little while. Excuse me.)

So, having come to the end of those statements, I am still completely in the dark as to what a Projects Procurement Specialist actually does. Evidently their specialism is so specialist that anyone who has never procured a project will have absolutely no idea what they are supposed to be doing.

And herein lies my problem. When I look for a job, I tend to try and look for something that I know I can do. But when you're confronted with page after page of bullshit like the above that makes absolutely no sense, it's difficult to work out exactly what jobs you can do. Or indeed would want to do. Being a Projects Procurement Specialist sounds inordinately tedious to me, so I guess I won't be joining that particular team.

But what can I do? If I don't understand half of the job advertisements out there – and it's not through stupidity, I might add, it's through their extremely poor use of language – how can I be expected to find something I'll be good at? I feel trapped in a cycle of doing crappy supply teaching right now, because for all the bullshit there is in education, at least I understand what the words "classroom teacher" mean. They haven't quite taken to calling them "learning facilitators" yet, though I imagine it's only a matter of time.

#oneaday, Day 128: Leveraging the Monetization of Excellence

Dear Businesspersonages of the World,

You don't half talk a load of bollocks. Whether you're sitting around a boardroom table with a cup of petrol masquerading as coffee, standing in front of an overhead projector training people who aren't listening by patronising them (in the English way, not the American way) or writing job advertisements, your language is full of shit that doesn't mean anything. In case you weren't aware, the English language has been around a lot longer than the double-breasted business suit and so was already adequately equipped to allow clear communication between individuals, or even large groups of people, through the media of writing or speaking.

Therefore, I must please ask you to remove the following words from your vocabulary forthwith:

Leverage

Use. USE. You don't "leverage social media applications to crowdsource popular opinion", you "use Facebook to see what people think". I have no idea where this word has come from and I see no reason for its existence other than to keep websites like Mashable in business. I guess people use the word "leverage" to mean "use really hard". But I say again, the simple word "use" has been perfectly well-equipped for this purpose for years. And the word "leverage" has been quite happy with its original meaning of how much, well, leverage you can get on something. Like leverage on a boulder that you're trying to push down a hill. Or leverage on a glued-down tabletop that you're trying to remove. (I don't know why you'd want to do that, but you need leverage to do it.) Leverage is not a verb. So just stop it. Or I will see how much leverage I can get on your arse with this crowbar.

Monetize

I understand that this is the 21st century and everyone wants to communicate as efficiently as possible. Therefore that oh-so-cumbersome three-word phrase "make money from" appears to have been replaced by the much more elegant word "monetize". Was this really necessary? Again I point the finger at Mashable, whose favourite question about websites appears to be "how will they monetize this"? Were I writing an article about, say, Twitter, I would ask the question "how will they make money from this?" It's just as clear. Yes, it uses a couple more words, but it sounds infinitely less pretentious. "Monetize" sounds like something a money robot would do. It's a bit sinister. Imagine the money robot coming into your bedroom in the middle of the night and monetizing you. You'd wake up as a big pile of dollar bills or pounds sterling or the currency of your locality, unless the money robot was made in a different territory in which case it would probably use its own local currency. Which would make it terribly difficult to get anything done. Also, people would want to spend you all the time. So please stop this too. Or I will monetize the violation of your rectal cavity with this crowbar.

Excellence

Mottos used to be inspirational pieces of text, usually in Latin to make people look clever. Here are a few examples:

Natura Artis Magistra (Nature is the Teacher of Art – Amsterdam Zoo)
In Somno Securitas (In Sleep there is Safety – the Association of Anaesthetists of Great Britain and Ireland)
Ex Obscuris Lux (From Darkness, Light – American Association of Ophthalmology)
Vita donum Dei (Life is the Gift of God – Royal College of Midwives)

Here is the motto for Purbrook Park School in Hampshire:

Working Together Towards Excellence

Somewhat less inspirational, I'm sure you'll agree. It implies that the school is, you know, all right, but not what you'd call "excellent". The word "excellence" is constantly used as something to strive for which is never actually attained. Therefore, I suggest that it is actually utterly useless. You may as well put "Working Together Towards Some Of The Children Here Actually Leaving With Some Qualifications And Not Getting Knocked Up And Living On The Dole At The Taxpayers' Expense While Daily Mail Readers Get All Upset And Blame Immigrants For Taking Jobs That You're Too Lazy To Get Anyway Because You Couldn't Be Arsed To Work Hard At School". Although admittedly that's somewhat less snappy.

So please stop using "excellence". Otherwise I will strive for excellence in the infliction of pain in and around your anus with this crowbar.

Self-Starter

You use this an awful lot in job advertisements, don't you? Usually coupled with "confident" and "motivated". What exactly is a self-starter? Can you tell me? Is it someone who can actually tie their own shoelaces? Someone who knows how to boil the kettle and press the button on the toaster so that the coffee and the toast are ready at exactly the same time so you have hot coffee and hot toast instead of boiling hot coffee and dry, cold toast or burnt toast and tepid coffee? Is it someone who runs like those new cars that don't have an ignition key and you just press the button to start them up? Is it a person who doesn't run on clockwork? Because most of us don't run on clockwork, so I'd argue that most of us are self-starters. If we weren't, we'd spend all our time lying in bed wanking, if we could be bothered. So please stop it. Otherwise I will demonstrate how much of a self-starter I am by, without any outside intervention or assistance, performing an amateur colonoscopy using this crowbar and a late-90s Handycam.

Fit for Purpose

No. It's not "not fit for purpose", it "doesn't work". What's wrong with "doesn't work"? I've been using the words "doesn't work" for years. See this old pair of headphones? They don't work. This remote control? It doesn't work. This battered old PC? It doesn't work. It's pretty clear that none of these are working as intended (and that I should probably throw out some of these things that don't work or at least replace the batteries) but I have never once felt the need to describe them as "not fit for purpose". Similarly, the shirt I purchased from Primark who seem to think that XL-size gentlemen are actually more like S-size gentlemen was "too small", not "not fit for purpose". The fact that when you drop a mobile phone onto a concrete floor it tends to shatter into a million tiny pieces doesn't make it "not fit for purpose", it makes you a clumsy idiot who should know when to put your fucking Blackberry away. So please stop using this, otherwise I will show you just how fit for purpose this crowbar is for inserting into businessmen's arses.

There are many other words I could continue this letter with, businesspeople (and don't even get me started on why you use the word "persons" instead of "people") but I have already written over 1100 words on the subject and I imagine that you have some important leveraging to get on with. So please remember what I have said, otherwise I will be paying you a visit with my friend the crowbar. And no amount of ergonomically-designed comfort-leveraging chairs will make sitting down comfortable for quite some time when I've finished with you.

Yours sincerely,

Pete

#oneaday, Day 127: Good Morning, Sleepyhead

Pro-tip: Colouring in things with a mouse is a pain in the arse. Don't start it, because then you'll have to finish it. Good morning! Well, it's nearly 2AM after all. That traditional blogging time, you know.

So I've been by myself for some time now after a long time having someone beside me almost constantly. And the thing that's struck me the most is how one's perception of time changes. Or maybe it's not the perception of time, it's the brain associating certain activities with certain memories and wanting to distance itself from them. Or, to simplify matters, it's about the messed-up sleepytime routine of the lonely man.

Take going to bed. I've found it quite difficult to make myself go to bed at a reasonable hour. I never was particularly good at it at the best of times, but if the occasion demanded it, I could be in bed before midnight. Before 11PM, even. But now? Staying up late isn't particularly unusual. This isn't some attempt to take full advantage of my new-found and not-particularly-enjoyable freedom. It's simply that going to bed means spending time alone in a dark room. Which, as anyone who has ever suffered through depression, stress, or any sort of crisis (all three of which I'm suffering right now) will tell you, is a sure-fire way to get one's brain thinking about things you don't really want to think about. So my body convinces itself that it's not tired and doesn't want to go to bed yet. So I don't. Eventually I will collapse into bed and sleep, but it's only once I really can't go on any longer.

The side-effect to this is, of course, that it's sometimes a bit difficult to wake up in the morning. But not only that. Having grown accustomed to waking up alongside someone else and having that presence there to spur you on to face the day, whatever it might entail, it's a shock to the system to suddenly have to do all that yourself. I can wake up early, sure. But getting out of bed? More difficult. When it feels like there's not much to get up for – and certainly no-one waiting for me to get up – it becomes easy to just lie there staring into space or worse, fall asleep again. This is, of course, enormously impractical and could probably be rectified by going to bed a bit earlier, but because of the aforementioned reasons, that's difficult too. Vicious cycle, you see.

It's not as if I don't keep myself busy, though. If I stay up late, it's not just to stare at a wall or sit there in floods of tears, though both of those have happened at least once recently. No, I find something to do. I find someone to chat to. I write something. I draw something. I play a game. I harass people on Twitter. Anything to avoid having to sit in that dark room trying to get to sleep, failing and hearing that little tap-tap-tap of the unpleasant thoughts come a-knockin' on my brain. It's a distraction, though, not a substitute.

So the moral of this story, then, is don't be alone. It sucks.

#oneaday, Day 126: Oh Summer, You Two-Faced Bitch

It's summer! Apparently, anyway. Definitions tend to vary, but the most commonly-agreed ones appear to be "when it gets a bit hot", "when we have more than two days of sunshine in a row" and "when music festivals start happening". Actually, that last one is only subscribed to by Radio 1, who are absolutely convinced that their festival of dogshit, aka One Big Weekend, marks the beginning of the summer. But then, this is a radio station which repeatedly screams "IT'S THE WEEKEND! IT'S THE WEEKEND! IT'S THE WEEKEND!" regularly after 5pm on a Friday, so it's fairly clear that they have delusions of grandeur regarding who is in charge of declaring when summer and/or the weekend starts.

What was I saying? Summer. Yes. It's been hot for a couple of days. Blue skies, lots of sunshine. What is commonly referred to as "nice weather", to use some classic English understatement. It's the sort of weather that, when you look outside your window, makes you think "I should be out in that". Whether or not you do actually get out in "that" is a matter of your own personal laziness.

Yay! Don't you love summer?

I have mixed feelings about the summer weather. On the one hand, there's no denying that bright sunshine and clear blue skies are a distinctly cheerful sight. At least they are in a country that is traditionally as grey and miserable as England. If you're out in the desert without any water, then bright sunshine and clear blue skies are probably somewhat less comforting, but that's beside the point.

On the other hand, there's the s-word. No, not that one. Sweat. As someone who seems to be able to sweat profusely at the slightest prospect of doing anything, particularly something that makes me uncomfortable, summer isn't a great time to be hit by direct, toasty-hot sunlight if I have anything productive or active to do. I realise this is a somewhat unpleasant image of me that you're building in your head right now, but I just want to put summer in context for those of us who aren't blessed with the ability to always smell of wild lavender blossom and ylang ylang. Or perhaps that's why chavs always wear an almost-visible cloud of aftershave all year round – so when they do sweat no-one notices because they've been knocked out by the scent of fake Tommy Hilfiger stinkystuff.

On another hand (that's three now), sitting out in the sun is nice. If there's a large open natural space to lie down in, it's hugely relaxing to just lie back in the sunshine and doze. I've never falling asleep doing this, largely because falling asleep in an open space in Southampton is pretty much an open invitation to allow people to ensure that you wake up naked, cold and devoid of all your possessions, but it's nice to just chill out. In the heat. Yes, "chill out" is perhaps a stupid phrase to use there.

On the other hand to that (what sort of many-handed monstrosity am I creating here?) there's the whole "sunburn" thing. While it's nice to be hit with radiation from the sun (more than, say, a nuclear explosion, anyway) and be nice and warm while you're out in it, coming in and feeling like someone has set fire to you a little bit isn't so nice, particularly when nothing cold you put on it makes it actually cool down. The more practical among you would probably advise putting on sunscreen. Not a bad idea, except sometimes when you go outside you spend much more time in the sun than you expected you would, so you had neglected to bring any sunscreen with you. Not to mention the fact that you get all goopy and messy. Ugh. Still… goopy and messy… radiation burns and potential cancer… hmm, tough decision. Why, Sun, do you have to be such a cruel mistress? That's like a really hot girl having sex with you and then injecting you with AIDS. Or indeed just giving you AIDS, there doesn't actually need to be any injecting involved, thinking about it. And the sun isn't actually being malicious about it, so it's a poor comparison anyway. Plus I mentioned AIDS, which I remember being pretty taboo to talk about during the late 80s and early 90s because the media thought only gay people and Africans got it, but then we all realised that wasn't true at all and now it's okay to talk about it and everyone quotes that really funny bit in Brass Eye where he asks the person if he's got "good AIDS" or "bad AIDS" and it's really funny and acceptable if politically incorrect. What? Shut up. The sun is both bad and good.

Don't you bloody hate summer? Twat!

On the final hand (which is probably sticking out of its arse by this point) there's the way people dress in summer. Pretty girls in tiny shorts or summer dresses = awesome. Overweight skinhead men in vest tops = less awesome. Skinny chavs with an alarming lack of body hair that makes them look like a Ken doll wandering around with open shirts or no shirts at all = way less awesome. And then there's me, who dresses exactly the same as I do all year round, albeit sometimes without a coat on super-hardcore days.

So in summery (eh, eh, see what I did there? If you hate that pun, you hate fun. Yeah, I went there.), summer's here. I estimate it will last roughly five days, then piss it down with rain, and then it might be back in October, going on past experience. Still, it'll be nice to have at least a few warm, attractive days, as good weather often lightens everyone's moods. And God knows a lot of us need our moods lightening right now!