A pre-emptive rationalisation

In mid-January I get my three essay marks back. A single fail and I am off my Masters program. Anything between 40 – 50 and I get debunked to the humiliating ‘Post-graduate Diploma’. Why I am worried? I am worried because - and please believe me this is all without an ounce of inflated rhetoric - two of the three essays I handed in were the worst I have ever written in three and a half years.

Why am I so confident of this fact? Because I wrote both of them between 8am and 3pm, Friday 8th December 2006. This seven hour period came on the back of a solid fortnight of nocturnal sleeping patterns and a diet of almost nothing but pizza as I foolishly busied myself solely with the first essay. That same evening as I collapsed defeated and exhausted on the sofa, utterly miserable and despondent to everything and everyone, my housemate calculated that I had slept only seven hours in the previous seventy. I was too tired to double-check his arithmetic at the time and cannot recall my exact actions now, but it has a nice ring to it, so I shall stick with it.

The deadline was 3pm on Friday. At 8am that morning, with just one paper complete and not a word written for either of the other two I suffered a panic attack. This has never happened before and it was far from enjoyable. Often I have longed for a ‘romantic’ low point – a point from which life can be fought back from the brink and which makes every following success that extra bit special. Just like in Hollywood. Alas (alack) every low I have ever encountered has (un)fortunately not really been anything of sufficient magnitude to warrant the Rocky theme tune. This was different. I was desperate, I felt sick to my stomach, I was shaking uncontrollably and my breathing was sky high. I was also paralysed; I just sat there in my small concrete tomb and stared at the wall, stunned as to my predicament. I was in what can only be described as clinical shock between 5am and 8am; it was then that I decided to call home. It was embarrassing in the extreme but I was simply too terrified of the fatalistic alternatives that seemed to be making more and more sense and I was afraid that in the state I was in I was unlikely to make a rational decision. It worked. The call home rallied me slightly. I forced my hand to the computer and churned out the first 6,000 words that came out of my tired and weary mind. I knew they were fails but by inputting something into the bureaucratic system it postponed the date those actual words would be spoken by a month. This was the straw I clutched at.

How did I let this happen? How was I facing this horribly unromantic situation? I couldn’t even get angry, I was just sick. I handed in the essays within minutes of the office closing. I have not reread them. I did however glance at a few paragraphs from one of them upon my return from campus that day and despite having written it only two or three hours previously the words were entirely new to me. It was like looking at someone else’s essay. I honestly cannot remember what happened between 8am and 3pm on that day. It was like being drunk and not knowing anything from the night before except for a few smoky snippets of bars and clubs. This was the same, only with essay writing, and without a drop of alcohol in sight.

I feel sick now when I think that my professor will be reading them. My professor who scoffs daily at the work of other professional historians and who bitterly criticises the quality of her fourth year undergraduate class – who are after all, people of my own age and experience. The same professor who also replied to an email I once sent her enquiring as to the class time with a hail of criticism over my grammar and email etiquette. A person who frequently expresses her disgust for my generation’s apparent inability to string a sentence together and who runs the fifth best history department in the UK. Yet despite her hostility I feel I have let her down. I feel I have insulted her and the department. Edinburgh University. Home to Smith, Darwin and Hume. And I handed in such filth. I deserve to fail, and please believe me when I tell you that I am convinced that I shall.


I have only myself to blame. And this is the stupid bit. I think I failed because I have never done so before. I have almost always just ‘done well’, achieved consistently decent grades with the occasionally brilliant one thrown in. And herein lies the problem - I have never deserved anything of the sort. I have said it before I know, but it is utterly true that I barely lifted a finger in nearly three years of undergraduate study and I took this horrific work ethic with me into my Masters program. In my freshman year I realised early on that I simply did not need to do any work. A hurriedly assembled essay the night before was all that was required at Essex to attain reasonable grades. So that is what I did. At Arkansas the workload might have increased but the complexity plummeted and left me connecting dots and filling in the blank words. I have never once faced a real challenge. I did not develop any of the discipline or experience that independent study is supposed to provide you with. University, as far as I am concerned, really is nothing more than three years of watching sitcoms and reading every book you come across except the ones on your reading list.

Perhaps I am trying to blame a wider system for my own failings, but its true! I have never once failed. To do so now, with so much time and money and hope invested into my course – would be incredibly painful. Yet it may also be the most liberating thing to ever happen to me. This is my pre-emptive justification. To fail. To actually realise that I must begin to grow up and actually think about what it is I’m doing may be worth the asking price alone. This could be the best thing that has even happened to me.

This is what I face and this is what I have hanging over me right now. It seems to be tainting everything I see and do over this brief holiday period. I can plan for nothing until I know. I can’t wait for February 10th and Riga. By then I should know the verdict and have ridden out the storm of repercussions. It is then I shall finally be able to look forwards again.

Until then I am in limbo. You will know when I am feeling better. Because when I am my blog shall return to normality and I can share with you all my fired up opinions on Turkish accession to the EU and the injustice of agricultural subsidies. Until then - here’s hoping x

Tyrell

Life is far too short and it seems that only by slowing everything right down is it possible to act fast enough to fit everything in, there is so much that needs to be done within our rolling fragment of time, as our generation approaches the apex of its crest of influence it seems that no matter how much I scream there is no escaping the tidal forces that sap at our souls and drag down our spirits, enforcing a deathly lethargic drive to ambition, there is no time to stop and stare, our minds never close down, locked permanently into a restless state of redeyed standby, and there seems no escape from this social networking static that plagues the mind, of course some prefer to eradicate their virtual fingerprint and go from acespace to nospace (hmph!), and I can sympathise completely, writing this post, with its tragically symbolic grammatical error is striping away my focus and causing pains behind the eyes, when do we get off, when do we get a break from this lighting fast sprint to our lonely ends, it seems too dangerous but to do anything other than face down our destinies for fear of missing a precious competitive second, Adam Smith’s invisible hand compels us to fear one another while religion and liquor prey on the inevitably catastrophic consequences and lead us astray into either bleak bigotry or desolate destruction, but rest assured I set out to set no example or even to excel in explanation, these miserably mistimed words are for my own tireless therapy, not for the casual consideration of a few joyless junkies led astray from the maze of mindless masturbation that retards the erection of man’s most urgent need for a Martin utopia to safeguard our sorry achievements and provide insurance against Christ’s insurrection into the realms of progressive rational inquiry, yet perhaps it is not Smith nor Abraham that constricts our corporeal existence but more the Darwinian designs pretty girls in rich lands attempt to curtail that sets us on this beautifully cheerless journey to extinction, today I believe is the calm centre of the commercial worlds annual consumer storm of ecocide that plunders our prospects and saddens the smiles of our misfortunate offspring, it is also the date given to celebrate a fictional narrative of criminal proportions, yet strangely it still seems a shame to publish this post, and the insult it represents to the English language, on a day such as this, so I beg of you to maintain your mirage of goodwill and refrain from judging my ceaselessly contrived drivel and take pleasure in a day that still sits among the three hundred and sixty five as a genuine break from the norm, so I bid you all, a rather enjoyable day of debauchery and my gift to you is a promise never to blog in such a manner again. Happy December 25th.

Down and out in ... Martlesham

Wha - !? What? But – huh? It’s just – But it can’t – what?

Wow. So this hasn’t happened before – has it? Don’t think so. How horribly horrible. She just – I mean – come on. That’s down right rotten. Blue!? In Blue!! But it looks amazing. And I just – well – she said – she said she didn’t.

But that’s never happened before. Ugh. This is a nasty feeling. Christ I’m feeling something. Bloody hell I’m thawing out! I’ll melt soon and there will be nothing left. Just a sad puddle. Then I’ll dry up in the sun and – agh! No, ok. Think.

A rebuttal? To my glorious self – surely no such thing could happen. Not because I’m all high and mighty – which goes without saying – but because I never allow it to happen. Always on my terms. Never put your neck on the line – don’t risk nothing don’t lose nothing right? Play it safe like. Let good times come to you. But then – the one cheeky time – I just … oh heck.

How do people do it? I know people that make a habit of it. Ahhh. Is this a dangerous spiral? Perhaps when one door closes it is not so much that another opens, but rather that you run kicking and screaming through as many doors as possible in a vain bid to put as much space between you and the original calamity as possible, is that what they mean? Yikes. That is dangerous.

Oh my - self conceived notion of - God. But hang on a sec. It’s me! Surely – and like she’s me too. It’s scary. I was there – I was her. In her shoes. Surely I am a reflection of her future self. The half baked notions of social justice and world economics. The passion for the abstract. The burning sense of righteousness.

Oh no. Now she’s there. Just there. And that’s not me. How horribly horribly horrible.

Now all that is portable is my pain. Fantastic. Bloody Antarctic seabirds with their warm hearts and cold feet. Don’t worry. She never reads this – and everyone else hasn’t got a clue what I’m on about. Ha. Sob. The Blade Runner soundtrack makes excellent backing to a self-imposed soul crushing. I like my depression with a dystopian twist, if I’m going down, you’re all coming with me.

Horrid, absolutely horrid.

When Karic wore leather

During the day I was a bored schoolchild. Invisible in class and tucked away in shady corners during lunch I would sit and observe the destructive effect of sugar and e-numbers on parentless children. Despised by my teacher who believed ritual embarrassment to be the best way to bring me out of my shell. This was in the mid 90’s and by then she should have seen that shock therapy wasn't working with old superpowers, so why did she think it would with me? Bitch.

If only she knew. But her generation could never know.

Because, you see, at night I was reborn. Standing at a full 6ft I would routinely go against my instincts and break the mould. And I was handsomely rewarded for it. With a cyber-punk twist I was offered a choice of Wizard, Archer or Warrior. I opted for the latter. I had broad shoulders, a black leather jumpsuit and big military boots. I also boasted a round and innocent face, wide eyes and long purple hair with a solo strand that fell over the left eye. A look I felt was simply stunning in females. So why not swordsmen?

Seven orange characters would float above my head and fill me with pride. Sometimes I would work myself up into such a fever that I would simply radiate with pure gold. And as I did I became stronger, wiser and more confident. I was in love with my world. The lighting, the music, the challenge, the magic. But in particular I lived for that little chime that used to sound every time you correctly hit the three swing combo and an evil inhabitant of our new world would split in two before me. They had mercilessly butchered the first peaceful settlers and now stood to block our progress. I, as a hired gun of the Alliance of Nations, could not allow this.

It was the brainchild of a team of experts on the other side of the globe, who in a last ditch effort to save their brand name had worked wonders and were squeezing raw energy through a 56K channel in order to animate this cultural melting pot. A utopian vision, which exploded into existence every night, if only in the minds of a million teenagers. But where better for a revolution of our ancestors rules? Every night I would meet my two dear friends. Lucy, a recently heart broken 26-year-old he worked as a computer technician from Cambridge and was a brave and talented warrior, approximately 4ft tall with a white body suit and cute bob cut. Together we would fight back to back against many a horde. Yet we couldn’t stand for long without Montgomery, the trusted keystone of our efforts who doubled as an 18-year-old B&Q employee from Southend. Complete with a jesters hat and a 7ft staff he would rain down immunisation spells and healing charms in a green glittery haze that would work visual poetry with the orange clash of sword against bone. Together we combo’d and double blocked our way through forests, lava, cities and oceans. Nothing we encountered could stop us.

But the vice like grip of First Life eroded our ambitions and with the death of a console came the death of our team. A world bursting with life, energy and enthusiasm spiralled into decline almost as quickly as it had flourished. Millions left to seek their own paths and now the metal walkways of our transporter ships lie empty in orbit around a lonely planet.

In terms of the console MMORPG we really were pioneers. Each of us took something away and each of us left something behind. For a fleeting moment we came together from across the globe to fight man’s common enemy, and I was there, at the forefront of our efforts. Other angels have since taken flight and developed the foundations we once laid and we can all feel some pride in that fact.

The spirit of our community will live on so long as we never stop casting our dreams far and wide into the future.

Monday

If you do not having anything to say, then do not say anything. But alas (alack), regardless of my barren mental state I shall see what happens when fingers meet plastic. It’s Christmas soon. Today I'm being a right Scrooge. As usual it’s tempting to send a ‘Seasons Greetings’ card to every Christian I know, but that would just be downright rotten of me.

In my last post I think I may have mounted my high horse; one derived from my overly sheltered existence, and set about trampling those lucky enough to be labelled the ‘underclass’ by my good self. But, albeit with the unfortunate use of some clumsy words, I think I meant it. I don’t like people that don’t have widely ambitious and totally unrealistic dreams for themselves and for their societies. I honestly do find people that are firmly rooted in reality to be thoroughly boring. But to link university/further education attendance with a sort of ‘creatively delusional’ gene is wrong of me I suppose since I know plenty of horribly dry people that attended university as well as many a creative genius that did not. In fact I feel that the British educational establishment systematically hunts down and destroys the best of the best during high school and allows only the functionally harmless like my good self to advance any higher. But that’s another rant for another time. So I suppose what I was really trying to say in my last post was simply, ‘why isn’t everyone exactly like me?’ I think I will struggle with this mystery for some time to come.

Talking of me, (ha.) they just arrested some feller from Trimley near Felixstowe. Now whether or not he is the man responsible for putting Ipswich firmly in the headlines for the past few weeks is another matter – but I can trace one side of my family back to Trimley for around seven generations (or something similarly depressing). So it’s nice to know I’m from good stock.

Time has been a constant pain recently. Never enough of it is there? Is it a symptom of an advanced consumer society that I spend all my time reading reviews of films, books and interactive entertainment that I shall never have time to actually consume? Some sort of abstract state where I merely consume products about consumption and completely bypass the base product itself. Having said that I did recently purchase the Casino Royale soundtrack. I miss the days of Empire, everything was so simple then, and genocides aside – it did nothing but good.

Last night I was trying to tuck in to one of my professors books ‘Woman in Nazi Germany’. Ugh. It’s actually not a bad read – but the title – come on? It got me fermenting all kinds of crazy ideas in an anti-clerical sort of way that would simultaneously destroy the credentials of the history profession (and therefore spare me from their criticism) and put me on the outside as some sort of modern day Foucault. I still think it can, and needs to be done, but I shall save such modesty for another time.

I’m heading off to Café Nero’s in Ipswich. It’s the one place in that god-forsaken place where you are guaranteed to find cool teachers doing their marking and pretty much every sexually confused teenager in town (you know the ones – the ones with the good dress sense). Plus it’s a ‘book crossing’ zone. I feel at home in such a pretentious place. If you’d care to join.

It turns out this chap that’s been arrested keeps a blog. But I can’t find it. Perhaps his not the murderer at all but its just some elaborate PR stunt to increase the hit rate to his site…

Dry musings

You will have to excuse me over the next few posts as I try to find my feet once again. These past two weeks, in fact these past four months, have left me a little shaken. So I’ll start with last night:

Last night I went down to Essex for the Christmas party, which was pretty good as usual, for some reason they always throw a great Christmas event. I crashed on the floor of a friend of a friend in the towers. Wow. I so wish I had been able to get into those. It’s strange how the direction of your life can rest on administrative lotteries. I ended up in the Quays during my first year, despite marking it down as my least but one choice, and my life really has sort of stemmed right from there. The (admittedly amazing) people I met there and the things we did together have shaped my life entirely. But that first year was also extremely difficult for a number of reasons, not least was its sheer isolation from the rest of the campus. It is surprising what difference a twenty-minute walk over a soul destroying architectural barrier can do to a mans spirits.

If I could go back – roll the dice once more – I would hope to get put in the towers. I know people who had excellent experiences and others who had a pretty miserable time in them, but either way I would have fancied my chances more there then anywhere else. But alas. It was not to be.

Being there really made me want to go back and do it all over again, and strangely, to do it at Essex again. It might not be academically renowned but it is easy to overlook just how communal the campus is and the possibilities this gives arise to. It came as a bit of a shock to see the Essex girls in action again too, people always said it but I never really thought they were much different to anywhere else… I was wrong. Perhaps I’m getting old but a lot of those girls must have been very cold last night.

I also got to witness some great drunken political discussions, I opted to stay out since they are never a great way to make friends – plus there was an American involved. However I like the exchange programs that bring American folk to our shores. In this flat there were no fewer than four of them leaving and it was both heartening and sad to see them say their goodbyes. Two years ago to the day I was doing exactly the same thing at exactly the same party, and it’s not an easy thing to do.

If there was no such thing as life, if the capitalist system did not bind us to a slave like existence of production and consumption and if there was not a social stigma on students and their tax dodging habits and if there was no such thing as parents who take great interest in ensuring you settle down into the life sapping, monotonous death cycle of adult life - I would reenrol in a heart beat. Universities are amazing places that seem to tap and funnel the creative energies of youth. Given that I am desperate to go through the whole process for a second time it continues to astonish me that many people I know have not decided to go. I simply do not understand it for a second. Excuses like “I can’t afford it” or “I don’t enjoy study” or “I don’t want to move away from home” are, unless in exceptional circumstances utterly miserable things to say. Believe it or not anyone can go and if you do more than just read the headlines you would know that Blair, far from making it more difficult, has abolished up front tuition fees. This means any unimaginative, working class, binge drinking, football shirt wearing, maggot can attend university for three years then return to their minimum wage job without ever paying a penny. You only live once and surely you will want to have at least tried to see what university can offer, no? If not then you need to ask yourself the question- “Am I really that boring?”.

Sure it’s not the ‘be all and end all’ and after three years you will immediately feel it was all a bit of an anti-climax. But with time you will come to realise that never did you have so much opportunity as when you did back then. I remember this old British feller in the bar in Vancouver over the summer. Like every drunken old guy everywhere in the world he kept telling us all his stories of lost loves and past glories and how we needed to simply ‘make the most of it’ because we would miss it once its gone. So if we assume regret is a universal constant in human life, this surely means all we can control are the stories we have to tell.

Fortunately I am only twenty-two. And that’s far from to old to have another go at this life business - right?

p.s. My Dad has just gone off to a Christmas party wearing a musical tie.

Hi.
This is me.
Today I failed.
What happens now?