Every Blog Has Its Day
Summary: This site has moved to www.starsite.me.uk However this blog will remain for historical reasons and also as a third 'backup' of my blogs. This site was officially abandoned at 6:52pm on the 10th July, 2005.After two loyal years of service I am bidding a fond farewell to Blogger, who have been my generous hosts since the very inception of Starsite. Predating this blog were many previous websites, most of nominal value, but I can say hand on heart that this one is the one that has given me the most pleasure and is easily the most rewarding. I will take you on a brief history lesson before getting onto the fundamentals of why I have chosen to relocate and how this affects the site. Starsite began on a whim: it was the start of a very long summer, and I soon realised that besides watching television and going for long runs not much else would fill my day. Those were the days when summers were lazy and workless, where each day would be met with a wide-eyed relish for new opportunities and novel undertakings. Taking the Tete approach to curing boredom, I started experimenting with a new activity each day. After trials with sewing, kayaking and crocodile wrestling I came to the swift conclusion that a long-term engagement would be necessary as the above all involved some sort of financial outlay, and I was adamant that I would not get a job. Looking back, they were the best days of my life, and I know now that I will not reach such a state of perpetual and unending ease until well into my retirement years. I had resisted the Blogger craze that had worked its way round my social clique for some time, citing reasons of inability to maintain the site as principle excuse, but without the boundary of time I soon realised that I, indeed, could afford to spend a half hour each day updating a journal. The reason, then, to begin blogging came out the precise vice I warn against- blogging out of boredom. But as the posts began to mount in number I soon realised that there were uncountable reasons as to why I'd decided to blog, only that boredom was the trigger. The inaugural post was a humourful piece about disliking midgets; a subject matter that only came to me as a way of handling my dislike, at the time, for a certain midget. The theme of blogging as catharsim has been prevalent ever since, as recently as the "changing seasons" blog. I am, and have always been, unashamed to pour my personal feelings onto this site (in a watered-down manner: I'm not out to cause personal offence) often using humour as a barrier to getting 'too personal.' The subject matter would routinely shift from serious to humour, as my mood dictated, and the posts were as jumbled and unrelated to each other as I wanted. Afterall I was creating a journal, not a novel, so the posts never stuck to any format. They could be long, short, deep, shallow, pointless or meaningful as to how I felt at the given moment. The great thing about creating your own blog is that I could create my own rules, and mould the site to my liking. All this had been very well until recently. As any blog ages it matures or develops accordingly along with the writer, and I have found myself writing better and in a more regimented style than the early days, with a more regular blogging frequency and recognisable writing style. One of the reasons to keep a blog was to entertain others, or to allow a portal into my personal life and in a way to help organise my life in a way that only self-reflection can do (writing as reflection). Yet as the site grew, its subject matter became distanced and cluttered, and entirely irretrievable to outsiders seeking to know or read an aspect of my life. When I had a hit counter installed several months ago that logged web searches it dawned on me how specific people were being. If someone searched for "Loughborough University" they would find a singular post regarding their search term. After which, what were they to do? What would I do if I wanted to find posts about, say, drinking games? The long and short of it is that Blogger archives for date only. And while this was sufficient when the site was small, it has been a severe hindrance since. So I needed a solution to my problem, because I didn't want people coming to my site and seeing ten unrelated posts and then clicking elsewhere because what they wanted to read is hidden amongst reams of other posts in ambiguously-titled archives. I tried to implement an "all posts" drop-down menu, but I soon learned that Blogger restricts this function to only ten. The reasons for this are beyond me, but I was repeatedly reassured that there was no way to increase the post title printout beyond ten. Very, very annoying. So I stuck with a "recent posts" drop-down menu, which is pretty unhelpful when they are all present on the homepage already, but it was marginally better than nothing. Furthermore I tend to title my posts as cryptically as possible like a good film maker ("Jaws," "Ocean’s Eleven," "The Ring"- doesn't say much about the film now, does it?), and this works to a degree if you know what to expect. Sorting a website by post titles works if you are reviewing things, but it is not so helpful when you are writing a personal weblog. Titling a post about University "then there was one" does little to help the reader, so I had to find a solution to this conundrum too. After much searching, to cut a long story short, I found the answer. While I could just buy a domain and code my own website off the back of my own knowledge, I would struggle a lot with the more complex aspects of php like initiating an archive system or coding my own statistics. Being as busy as I am, I do not have the time to recode my own website and learn to program-in complex equations to calculate the number of words the site has as well (something I like to know and Blogger handily tells you in the profile... if it hadn't been frozen for the last 8 months). Eventually, and with much trialling, I found the perfect solution. It is called Wordpress and bridges the gap between myself and super-knowledgeable geek. What it does is allows you to essentially take control of everything about your website, but gives you the tools to "plugin" parts that are very complicated to code like word-counting algorithms. Being a blog-like interface, Wordpress allows you to manage your site by date (archives), blog titles, blog excerpts, category... you name it. It makes the whole process more dynamic and functional for both the blogger and the reader, and the advantages are too numerous to count especially for larger websites. The possibilities are endless. I can now password-protect posts if I so choose, I can allow people to upload photos or videos to my site, I can manipulate and print posts in a beautiful array under whatever terms I so desire, I can alter every last part of the site now and finally be free of the disadvantages that working with a program for the masses like 'Bugger' affords. While the basic premise may seem unexciting, maybe even a little tedious, to you, I have decided to look at this site from the viewpoint of someone who's never been before. The "about me" section is now much more accessible to someone frantically clicking around hyperspace. Within ten seconds people know who I am, what I look like, interesting facts about me and who this site appeals to. The top banner image is a glorious, and beautiful, panoramic taken from the Hubble space telescope of deep space with a giant cosmic cloud obscuring sparking stars representing countless galaxies that we dare dream to imagine. As an artistic image, it is open to interpretation; you can take it as you like, but whatever you take from it you cannot escape its overwhelming beauty. Underneath that (currently, although this is all subject to change) are the archives (self-explanatory), the categories for people interested in certain aspects of the site and some brief statistics to spell out the relative size and worth of the site. There may be more to come in the future, but for the time being this is enough as a bare-bones start. The meaty flesh can be added later, but new features will only be added if they are necessary and add some worth to the site. I've put a lot of thought and work into this new site, enough, I feel, to do justice to the 200,000 words I have currently written. As an on-going project, I needed to break away from the limitations of Blogger to continue in a way that I could be content with. Incidentally, I chose a ".me.uk" domain above a ".com" because the "me" refers to personal websites (typically blogs, as it so turns out) and "uk" evidently refers to my rough geographical location. And as "starsite" was free, I decided to snap it up at less than the price of a pint for two whole years. Not free, I'll give you that Blogger, but at 2-3 pence a week, close enough. Other notable changes outwith the whole framework and site navigation changes include an unfortunate culling of Beefy's posts. After less than fifteen posts, I do not feel that his posts add anything really to the site now unlike they did back in those days, where his infrequent blogging was a welcome break from my tireless posting. Announcement posts, on the whole, have joined the cull along with other irrelevant 'news' posts such as Scottish Boozing alterations, Google rankings and so on. If you miss them so much, which I sincerely doubt you do, they are on and will continue to be available to read on the old star-site.blogspot.com account, including all of Beefy's posts. It will be left as a freeze-frame of old, for those who stumble on it and also for historical reasons. There are still some remnants of Blogger hidden in the posts on this new website, such as the infuriating substitution of "?" for "?," but these will all be ironed out in due course. The comments have all been brought over too as I feel they are all relevant and some posts tweaked somewhat, but on the whole it's a faithful copy of the old site. Embarrassing, untrue, shameful and petty posts all stay, because Starsite has never been about rewriting the past or holding back on strong opinion, although having said that future posts may be locked if the content is deemed too offensive for certain audiences. It saves a lot of ill feeling, as I have found out once too often when someone like me has a long-standing blog and uses it to voice an honest and forthright opinion that is read by the post’s target audience or individual. I hope I have managed to communicate to you the importance of updating this blog to cope with the new demands being placed on a site so large. With over 200,000 words spread across 220 posts I can't rely on people, or even myself, to carefully trudge through the archives to find articles that are relevant or read-worthy to the reader. Hopefully now the site is a more accessible, dynamic and pleasurable experience for old readers, new readers, and those merely passing by on their mad rush through cyberspace.
A New Starsite
Close your eyes. Actually don't, read this first and then close them.
Imagine a new starsite, one that embraces a new way to blog. A way so new and innovative that Blogger hasn't yet managed to simplify it enough so the masses can enjoy it. Imagine a system so seemingly easy but horrendously complicated to code: a site that simplifies everything that it is to blog, and turns the entire system on its head.
Imagine a system where all your most hated limitations of Blogger are torn away and you are suddenly handed reign of a powerful mechanism that lets you do what you want, how you want. What would you do with such a power? That is the enviable decision I have been faced with.
Sadly, Blogger and this site's template (which I built with my own two hands) must both be rejected after two years of loyal service. Cast away are the long nights waiting for Blogger to finally update their service, and gone are the annoyances associated with being a Blogger user. I'd love to tell you more but you will soon see, and when you do you will be astonished and want it yourself. Imagine having the framework to create a dynamic, professional website but with minimum effort.
I don't simply want to convert, this site's layout and limitations have been a burden to me for a long time now. I decided that if I was going to do this, I would do it properly. That means recoding the site from the ground up, editing every single blog (for reasons you will learn when the new Starsite is finally unvieled), and learning to work with an entirely more flexible and accommodating interface.
What you will see is a new wave of blog, brought to the present. This site will look completely different and will be far more interactive and proactive than you ever imagined. Starsite will finally break from being yet another blog to a site of distinction. Using my half-decade of internet coding knowledge I will finally construct a website worthy of the content which Starsite is blessed with.
Close your eyes and imagine it. Let your mind soar, as I am.
Pilsner Intellectual
You know your finances are in a bad state when you find yourself drinking fucking German Pilsner from Lidl.
To be fair though, I did bring this short-lived but no less intense debt upon myself when I signed the copy of the V50 that made the car I recently bought legally mine. So cry me a river.
What you should know is that I'm one of those paranoid money-conscious students who view the zero on his bank statement as a forced admission of failure, and the overdraft as a desperate pity-ridden state of being that only the most hugely inept, disorganised moron finds themselves in. As I view it, if you are given a fat loan or bursary at the start of University and you exceed your needs, finding yourself in abject poverty, you deserve all the fucking Pilsner you can drink (if you can even afford it, such is the gross stupidity of some financially-retarded students).
I mean how hard is it to balance the books at University? You pay rent and perhaps tuition fees (Scottish students don't, which makes their situation even simpler), you budget for food, and you spare some cash for socialisation. That is all. Yet, for some dullards, who strive to find a single brain cell that functions in their cognitively impaired cerebrum, this is all way too much to take in. So they inevitably phone home and the hot tears streak down their poor, dispirited cheeks as they blubber feint murmurs and sob uncontrollably, lips quivering, literally begging for a financial lifesaver from their forgiving elders. Some students simply can't get by without Daddy and Mommy's intervention, and my heart bleeds for them.
No, it burns. It burns an acidic loathing.
My sister is one such student, and we will call her Geraldine, for clarity's sake. Geraldine constantly phones home, playing the "poor-me-I'm-a-student" card that has been her top trump for nigh on four years now. The waterworks come out and she plays the trodden pettle routine, a play so full of self-pity it could well be rescripted as a Shakespearean tragedy and acted with all the authenticity of the late Laurence Olivier. If I pick up the phone on the other line I swear I can hear the sweet harmony of a concert violinist. Eventually, and without a shred of indignity, my compromising parents deposit a nondescript sum of money into her account with verbal pats on the back of "ma pauve Mimi! Bien sur je te donneras l'argent!"*
It's known as the common student bail-out, or the "pity call home." Or for some students, like my older sister, the "impervious greet," where "greet" is that wonderful Scottish slang for crying and impervious refers to the shameless lack of inhibition when playing the waterworks act for the dozenth time in a circannual span. I'm sure she is not the only person to leech off her parents years after her twentieth birthday but I'm sure that, somewhere, someone has created a word for it. When I discover it, I will brand her as such.
It annoys me in several ways because it should be pauve Mimi drinking fucking Pilsner, and not me. Yet while hers is a blundering, transparently avoidable scenario mine is a calculated and meticulously planned operation that has a clear starting and endpoint. While I am in serious debt for the coming two months after this short spell I will be back in the black, thus I have to live like a pauper until financial security. That's forward planning, for the simple-minded students reading this who don't understand the logic of living within your means.
I have it all planned down even to the smallest pennies of loose change I spend on charitable donations, such is the anality of my money-conscious being. During the months of August and September all I need to earn is five hundred pounds, which equates to a mere fourteen days of working. I can surmount that minor sum in just over two weeks, and indeed have done in the past. That leaves between five and six weeks of earnings that are spent on whatever the hell I want, after covering my entire expenses on one summer's working. If you've been keeping up, I can earn upwards of nine-hundred pounds in those five short weeks, without any financial help from my already burdened parents.
It's called hard work. You should try it some time.
You can have it all if you work for it, and I'm starting to realise this. You can have the dream house, the car, the lifestyle and all the associated perks belonging to the umbrella term "being successful." All it takes is a little hard work, but if you're willing to put the hours in, it can all be yours. Regardless of whether you start with nothing or start with an inheritance you can live beyond your means with a little smart planning and acceptance to break your back a little in the process. Some day, you will be able to sit back and look at it all and think "I earned this."
It's the most immensely satisfying feeling in the world. I don't have it all, I don't claim to either, but I'm working towards living a life of honest dignity and living comfortably. I may not have it now, in fact, I don't, but some day I will be able to look back at all this and appreciate the initiative taken to working hard and instilling good practices at an early age. Everyone comes to a point where they realise they must work hard to succeed, but we all come to that understanding in our own way.
For some, achievement is a short-term advancement. They leave school at an early age after exerting themselves on a dominance hierarchy (bullying types), get a low-wage job or apprenticeship, rule the roost in their local town centre, buy a cheap car on credit and never grow up until late into their twenties. Some stay in education beyond their thirties, believing that quality of life is judged by material wealth and knowledge. For some it comes without effort, for others it comes naturally, and others still are given it. Yet however you choose to define success, everyone has their own standards by which they measure themselves by.
I think, personally, that quality of life is they key measure to defining my own personal success. It encompasses holistic and materialistic poles, and more often than not these two factors intertwine inseparably. I value independence, a holistic and non-qualitative measure, but I can achieve this by living away from home (paying rent- materialistic) and transporting myself (formerly trains and bus, but now by car). I value family, and some day I will have my own family to share holistic qualities like love and materialistic qualities like possessions. I value self-perception, which is why I conduct myself in a dignifying and representative manner of who I am. That last point is also, I suspect, a key factor as to why I started this blog; it is why I use a traceable name, and why all my friends know the address. It is also why my parents don't know the website address, because it is not an aspect of my self-perception that I believe they should have access to.
Using my standards of success, and perhaps the wider issue of being (now we're getting deep!), I tend to measure myself against others using similar standards, not realising that everyone lives in their own personal universe that doesn't necessarily correlate to mine. I see my elder sister as being limited in money-management skills, reducing herself to having to play-act a heart-rending victim of the harsh, unforgiving student lifestyle. Yet perhaps she values her skills of manipulation, and if she does, then is it any of my business how her finances are faring? It is a thorny issue, and you can choose whether or not her pitiful pleas are applaudable or deplorable for yourself, but I think that so long as a comparison can be made I reserve the right to feel lesser or higher than the person I compare myself to accordingly. We do not develop equally, so let's not pretend we do. And if you think that you're different because you "don't care what other people think or do" then why don't you just kill yourself right now, you self-denying fool.
Only people who truly believe they are not agents onto this world commit suicide, and you may as well follow suit if you think you are following the ride without a competitive or comparing fibre in your body.
It's been a powerful journey, people, and I'm glad I managed to put across my point in as eloquent a manner as I can muster. I'm pretty sure it's this German ale that's making me so confrontational and honest, but if it is, I guess I'll drink some more. I may look down on people at times, or categorise them unfairly or perhaps even harshly, but if you think you are any different then you are deluding yourself. The difference between you and I is that I can admit to myself that I classify others, and feel humble or saddened accordingly, including the range of emotions between. I feel neutral towards some, seething dislike towards others and open-jawed admiration for others; think not that financial situation is the be-all classification, it just occurred to me as I re-calculated my financial debts like the good overdraft-terrified student that I am.
I'm sure there are lots of aspects you dislike or disagree about my being, which would coincide with thousands of others (perhaps you dislike meat eaters? Or athletes?), in which case I implore you to begin your own blog. Only by writing your feelings down can you truly start to realise the enormity of the complexity of your human psyche and further the path of enlightenment**.
To self-quote (perhaps the most pompous thing anyone can ever do): I drink piss-tasting German Pilsner now, but only so that I may drink champagne in the future.
*Obviously only my mother repeats this well-versed line, which translates as "my poor Geraldine! Of course I will give you the money!"
** Do not misconstrue this is as some fifth-dimensional astral state of mind or some other bollocks theory to transcending another plane. Enlightenment, in this case, refers to intellectual insight, a.k.a getting to know oneself, so please do not confuse with some status-heightening quest for spirituality. We are all becoming enlightened, with every reflective thought we have.
Insane In The Brain
People who don't get sarcasm
Now I know the internet isn't the easiest medium to detect sarcasm with; in fact, it can be bloody difficult at times. For this reason the sarcasm smiley should always be at your immediate disposal, or if you've left home without it, a healthy sprinkling of italics should be applied liberally to the sarcastic text. Some people simply don't get sarcasm or extreme case formulations due to their hideously gullible nature, and some are just so trusting that they believe what they want to believe.
The internet also has another significant drawback in that it is a breeding ground for crackpot weirdoes to spread their wild propaganda and theories, sometimes traversing the line between the outcasts and socialites. By nature the internet can be as passive as you like it: you can be an anonymous entity jumping between chat rooms or you can choose to furnish your online persona with a picture. Besides this, there really isn't much else to separate you out from anyone else. If you want to break communications with someone, you close the window. And you'll never be able to trace them. Given this level of anonymity, there is no shortage of socially inept people trying to reach out to find the < 0.001% of people who also find The Hitchhiker's Guide interesting, or those who believe that mobile phones are a Government conspiracy to fit us all with tracking devices.
They're mostly harmless people, on the whole, and every now and again one will reach out and grab your hand on the mouse from behind the screen and try to suck you into their world, filling your head with mindless drivel concerning their entirely implausible theories. Just such an event happened to me this morning.
It was perhaps my fault for attempting humour on my msn profile. Under the "interests" section I put "I spend most of my free time in a darkened room listening to babies screaming on loop." It's probably not what you'd expect on someone's profile, but it raised a few chuckles in me none the less (I have a dark sense of humour at times). This comment lay dormant for some time until this morning, when I got a brief email from a girl who read my profile.
If it wasn't for her msn pic I might have mistaken her for a fairly normal person. I've said this time and time again- you just 'know' about people the first time you see them. There is so, so much you can deduce and infer from someone upon first sight, whether someone is a chav or a doctor, you just know by looking at their face. And for the most part this is correct, and I could show you photos of a doctor's face and a chav's face and you would know which is which. Similarly, I can tell a fruitcake from a sumptuous, curvaceous carrot cake, if you follow that analogy. You will also when I decide to show you this picture.
So I clicked the link and braced myself for the worst. She suggested we "chat," which I'm tempted to do just to see what nonsense flows from her mouth. The curiosity is starting to get the better of me, you know. Of all the websites she could have put as her personal homepage, guess which one she chose. Was it the BBC website? Or, perhaps, was it a personal blog? Oh no, let me show you:
Ever wanted to know what actually happened on 9/11? Well, now you can! How typical, a nutter who opines on 9/11 disbelieving the official line (far too much X-files late at night, methinks). So yeah... there's your 9/11 right there. Wacko.
I'm now going to test you on your ability to pick out a nutter from a perfectly sane individual. This will prove beyond all reasonable doubt that we all have the amazing innate power of pigeonholing the insane. For fairness, I have pitted a control person who is of equal attractiveness and clearly not pulling an overtly "sane" pose. It's the fairest I could make it without it being obvious.
Q: Which of the below are completely, and utterly, insane, to the point where they find listening to screaming babies in darkened rooms a mutual and perfectly acceptable past time?
 You must choose, regardless of how closely matched they seem |
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Answer: B.
Changing Seasons
 Posing is not a hobby- it's a way of life |
Summer is finally here, so rack me up and toast me brown: it's loungin' time. Exams in this weather are only an incidental pest, one that goes away with a quick swat of the wrist and a casual dumping of textbooks. It's so easy to forget what's happening in the wider world at times like this. If I was more artistically gifted, I would formalise this feeling as a delightful poem. As I am not, I will attempt to convey it as prose. Today I sweltered and roasted under the sun's unforgiving rays a million miles away from strife, responsibility and duty. Basking on Lawrence's cozy couch, relocated to the garden, with only the sweet sounds of GnR wafting over from the uninhabited room, I was in paradise. As I bronzed alone in the tranquil garden I perused lecture notes as and when I saw fit, periodically sipping from my ice-chilled bitter lemon. The secluded garden lent itself a cloistered appeal, as if I had somehow found myself a deserted island to call my own with no outside interference, save the peaceful chittering of a swallow nesting utop a fence post. I was free to be my own man, to make my own decisions, to fill my day as I pleased; but despite all this, I moved not once from the couch. The sun's glorious rays held me prisoner to the heat, as I succumbed to its exotic charm and wiled away the hours in front of its warming gaze. Truly, I was a king among men. In my mind, anyway. All semester I'd never felt this relaxed, self-satisfied or content for any prolonged period of time that didn't involve alcohol. As depressing as that sounds I think I might have hit the nail on the head. There are few people I know here who are spontaneous (they tend to live on campus), and those who are tend to be nighttime acquaintances (none of whom I live with, as it turns out). As a result daytimes tend to be pretty enclosed affairs, where it is nearly impossible to persuade anyone to do something that hasn't been pre-arranged a week in advance. Even trying to get someone to go into town is a laborious Herculean effort, the excuses of which range from the ridiculous to the sublime. Any naive intention of ordering a group takeaway is quashed with thunderous silence, as the meek excuses slowly filter in. As for night times, I don't go even go there anymore. Unless I'm asking Juan to do something, even anything, you name it, it will be dismissed with unabated resilience. "Erm, well, you see, I've got coursework to do" sums up one half of the household while "I'll see if Tom/Jibba/James/Omar are going and then decide" covers the other half. It gets to the point where you stop asking. So how refreshing it was to do something that I wanted to do with no backlash to follow, no stubborn refusal or reliance to expect. Lying under that wonderfully ablazed sunlight it was all about me, satisfying my humanistic desires with no care or concern for anyone else. It was as relaxed as I've been for a long time, it was like a great letting-go. A massive two-fingers up to shit English weather, a furious wanker sign to exams, and a whole range of expletives to the nay-sayers who, as the name suggests, make saying "no" a life habit in pursuit of wasting away the best years of their lives indoors. From behind tinted glasses the house stood peacefully in front of me, occupants two. How nice it was to get out of that room, to get away from those four walls and to submerge myself in the beauty of nature. As clouds lazily patrolled the evening sky I found myself sitting in reflection, thinking about how far away I was from the other side of my dual life. When working in the sweaty running shop, on my feet for eight hours a day, I dream about days like this, sitting in the sun listening to music without a care in the world. I imagined what it would be like if Dabby, Tete, Beefy, Tommy and Tom lived here. How would things be different? It's hard to imagine really. I don't think I could find a more agreeable set of housemates than the ones I have now; if there are disputes, they are negligible. I can study and train without any hassles and the ambience is always, without exception, positive and fun. I think the only real change would be the social life aspect, with the five listed above I think I'd find myself in a tighter-knit clique and going to the cinema, the pub, or wherever as a group more often than with surrogates. We'd probably do more as a group in general, from shopping, to playing drinking games, to going to concerts. Apart from that, I doubt much would be different at all. I'd still be sitting on that couch under the sun, but perhaps with more people around me, that's all. I'd still be sipping bitter lemon on the rocks in one hand with a book of notes in the other, I'd still be tanning to the same degree and I'd still be chilling out. Nothing beats living away from home. Nothing. It is an incomparable experience, yet one that has to be put in a jar and left behind during the vacation months as I migrate north to Scotland. Being down here I have no parents to answer to, I have no long hours to work selling shoes (it's as exciting as it sounds), I have no lectures, I have a fantastic training group like I do at home but I have the independence I need so much. There is a different quality of life here that I would not swap for anything, but at times I do miss the way it is back home. Maybe it's just the people up north but the people I've befriended are more spontaneous and susceptible to suggestion. You never know exactly what you could be doing at any given night, and I love that. Even if it's just to chat at the pub, to shoot pool or to go round to someone's house there's more of a willingness to take that tantalising first step out the front door without all the stipulations. Basking in the sun my mind wandered to Easter, Christmas and the summer before that. There were crazy nights, some outrageous banter, and spontaneity the likes of which haven't been repeated for some time. There was weed smoking at a ned's house at 4am, there were 6am drinking game deciders, there were wheel spins on Balnagask golf course, there were birthdays at the Moorings, there were many gnomes rehoused, there were 6 mile treks from Tarves to Ellon in torrential rain, there were urinations in Shell's food supply cupboard, there were chases from campus police, there were giant penises constructed from Beefy's pebble driveway, and there were mornings where I awoke with a new wardrobe courtesy of the Exodus clientele, along with a slew of memories too evocative to ever be successfully transcribed to ink. On reflection, perhaps I have all the peace and tranquillity down here I need to succeed at University. Lazy summer days these may be, but as far as night times go, they pale in significance to the antics guaranteed this upcoming summer. And if any of the lads tell me they have coursework to do this summer and won't come out I will burn an effigy of them, erect it on their lawn, and file it under "capade." Right now I am recharging my batteries in preparation for a long and eventful summer. As the photo below hopefully conveys, I am looking towards the future out from the frosty landscape of now.  The Seasons- has there ever been a better metaphor for change? |
The Poulet Dance
 The bottom two shots show the professional Poulet Dancer, Tete, show the apprentice, Dabby, just how a real Poulet pecks and squawks |
The Poulet Dance is a time honoured tradition held in the highest regard amongst the chicken-headed tribe of outer Bartholl, which only happens during very rare occasions of vodka inebriation. Adopting the role of anthropologist, I was stunned to witness the Poulet Dance in full flow during a particularly lengthy drinking game for the first time at the remote region of Bartholl. It is reputed to be a mating ritual, used to entice a potential mate into the coup, but these reports are as yet unsubstantiated. I intend to visit Amy to discover if the power of the Dance seduced her into the nest in a forthcoming study scheduled this fall. Lately I've been privaledged enough to gain exclusive access to the Tete's abode in Glasgow to study in stunned awe his ridiculous ways. The Poulet Dance is likened to a lycanthrope's physical changes during a full moon; without provokation, Tete spontaneously rises from his seat and for a full minute, like an epileptic suffers a seizure, he is powerless to resist the Dance. However for the Poulet Dance to commence, it seems necessary for the animal to have consumed copious amounts of alcohol. After which, I bargain with the Tete to coaxe a response: Star: Okay, if the coin says tails I will take a triple shot, and so will Dabby. Dabby: What?! Star: Shut up. And if it says Tetes (heads), then you have to do the Poulet Dance.... for a full minute. Tete: A full minute?! Dabby: Hey, we're risking a triple shot here dude, be reasonable. Tete: [Ponders] Star: [Shakes shot glass teasingly] Tete: Okay, fine. Whatever man, you're fucked up. It's a gamble, to be sure, but I'd gladly chance a triple dose of vileness for even a fleeting view of the magical Poulet Dance. Tete doesn't dish them out for free though, you have to earn the right to view his trance-like Dance. But believe me, it will be very best minute of your life.
The Quiz
I have invented a massively cool new game entitled simply "The Quiz."
The Quiz was devised primarily as a drinking game but it can, just like Cleudo and Dominos before it, be altered to not involve drink. Here's the 10 easy steps to Quiz fun:
- If you don't already own a copy of msn messenger 7 download it now for free
- Click on msn music to open the music download service
- Appoint a Quiz Master
- The Quiz Master pours five shots out into separate glasses, of any combination of spirits he chooses
- All players must be faced away from the screen
- The Quiz Master types in the name of any album he chooses and clicks the "30s preview" for five songs to queue them up
- The snippets will now play in order, the challenge for the players is to guess the title of the song before their opponent does
- The clips last only thirty seconds so if no one guesses the song within the time no one is owed a shot
- Count how many each player won and for each song guessed correctly they choose a shot to issue, in order of the games won
- Once the shots have been consumed the Quiz Master is changed and the cycle repeated until each player has had one turn as the Master
Like all good drinking games there is a tactical element in the choice of album: if you choose an easy album, like Queen Greatest hits, then your opponents will share the five shots for certain. However if you pick a niche album, like Nelly Furtado, then a player like Dabby could capitalise and make his opponent take all five shots with his insider knowledge. Or you could go for the mixed bag approach and pick Now That's What I Call Music 40 and test out knowledge of their disco classics, the opportunities are limited only by your imagination. Now to find one person with a knowledge of hip hop and someone who doesn't...
What Is Wrong With Psychology
I've tried so hard, really I have, to take a mild interest in my coursework but I'm finding myself more and more disinterested in the meagre goings on of the psychologist's world. Physicists have the laws of the universe at their beckoning, playing a substantial role in sending rockets into outer space, something that is immensely fascinating with far-reaching implications both physically and metaphorically. Chemists have the power of the atom under their thumb, with the claim to be being able to blow up our entire planet several times over by applying their elemental discoveries. Engineers have incredible monuments that testify their greatness, from Canary Wharf, to the Golden Gates suspension bridge, to the very first who engineered great monuments such as the pyramids and the Great Wall that still stand to this day. In every science, from biology to anthropology, there is a myriad of great discoveries and inventions that typify the science and make exploring it a humbling experience. Great men have emerged from each of these sciences, great writers and thinkers have emerged, and with them the highest accomplishments known to man.
Even the smallest finding can make all the difference; where would we be without the light bulb for example? Where would we be without the realisation that fossils can be used as fuel? Where, I ask you, would we be without the ability to preseve food? To fly? To cure and heal our bodies? The world is an extraordinary place quantified by an incredible race, the greatest of whom make all the difference and shape our very landscape and climate. Look around you- everything you see is likely to have been discovered, invented and then manufactured by man. Not nature- man. We mould this world to our will, and only humans are capable of changing the world to any significant effect.
So where do psychologists come into this?
The answer? They don't. And here's why:
Psychology is a relatively 'young science,' that is to say it has only been around for the best part of a century and is barely even a science if you get into the fundamentals of it all. The distinction between psychology and philosophy lies solely in the notion that psychology is a testable study (thus making it a science), and conforms to a Newtonian paradigm of experimentation. The trouble is, humans aren't exactly the easiest subject matter to experiment with as no two humans are ever the same. While biologists can get around this little inconvenience (because our innards are pretty much made of the same things, just assorted differently) it is a massively confounding situation for psychologists who desperately want to create a science where laws apply to everyone from every culture but simply can't, because people differ so radically in their thoughts and behaviours. So to start with we have a science that is pretty much screwed from the start, vainly trying to apply accepted scientific measures to unearth phenomena that they know won't apply to the majority of subjects. And this isn't the half of why psychology is such a stunted science.
The only way to make a significant finding is to assume that there will be errors along the way, the confidence interval of which is assumed to be over 95% at the alpha level. What that means is that for a given population, say students, for every twenty experiments you do that are insignificant and are caused purely by chance one will turn up with a significant result. In order to keep the funding coming, psychologists need to discover things. So they mess with the results, they retest, they remove outliers, they screw with the data and omit classes of people and then finally, at the end of all this, they apply a mathematical test they know will shine a favourable light on their results. So from one in twenty being down to pure chance you can lower that figure drastically after all the screwing about and you will soon discover that it is no coincidence that all psychological papers you see have significant results. You don't get funding by reporting insignificant or worthless tests, it just doesn't work that way. Instead of creating a hypothesis and trying to disprove it, they go about searching for any complimentary evidence and for each one they find they throw it in the final results section. The doggedness in pursuing a worthless hypothesis by this manner would astound you, as you flick through the journals and- slap face- all the results compliment the starting hypothesis!
If you've been keeping up you'll duly note that when psychologists test something, it generally works out, and when it doesn't the hypothesis is tweaked and the results transformed so that bingo, it's all significant. The journals might then go on to print it in a year's time; they won't if your experiment doesn't say anything. They make "box models" of theories, which is about the biggest farce I can think of. As soon as any contradictory evidence comes along they append another box to the diagram to take it into account and et voila! the model is unquestionable again. Until more evidence comes up and another box is added, and so on until the next paradigm shift. This method is always self-correcting, so that a box model is always assumed to be truly and indefinitely correct even if it was never right in the first place. Yet despite all of this, it isn't why I think the study of psychology is such a pointless exercise.
I take it none of you have ever actually read a psychology paper? If not, I need to place a prelude to my vituperative tirade so that this can be given in its rightful context. The purpose of a psychological paper is not to further enhance the field of psychology, but rather with the aim for it to be eventually published. Like a car dealer only does a car up enough so that it will run for a couple of thousand miles so it is with psychology; if a paper cannot be published, it is of no use to the department or the people who awarded the grant for the study to be undergone in the first place. The majority of studies are never published, and those that are can wait up to two years before it is finally printed. Those marked "for immediate publication" tend to be published around a year after submission, and the majority that will be published are sent back to be altered at least once but possibly two times as well before being shown in an academic journal. The process is long and marred with red tape, and only a select few actually make it, putting further pressure on the academics to make sure their study levels up and delivers an important finding.
The definition of "an important finding" in psychology is:
An imp.ort.ant find·ing, n.
1. At item that has been discovered that is of merit.
2. In psychology: A pointless fragment of non-information that applies to only a majority of Caucasian participants and has no real-world value.
The studies that are bandied about in lectures as being "all-important!" and having "serious overtones" are, in actual fact, run-of-the-mill phenomena that don't describe anything of productive value. I strain to think of a single finding in psychology that has any serious calibre to change our lives, and even then the only thing that the layman associates with psychology, Freudian psychoanalysis, has been proven to be as effective as having no consultation at all. In fact, chemistry has a better track record of curing mentally ill patients than psychology does. Do you want to know the "fascinating" discoveries that I can confidently masturbate to at night? Did you know that short-term memory may or may not be stored acoustically? Did you know that young infants perhaps have no understanding of object permanence? Or did you know that it is harder to recall words when you repeat "the" between them? Have I just enriched your life?
Of course I haven't. I haven't told you anything of worth, I've just told you shite that doesn't change your life or mine and is of questionable scientific integrity. Imagine having to learn each of those points, and then learn who did the study, and at what date, what the historical context was and how it can be used in further study. This is my life. Welcome to it.
Psychology is, like most university subjects besides Art, multi-faceted. We also get the pleasure of being immersed in the wonderful world of statistics, qualitative analysis and, forgive me if I blow my load recounting this, the role biology plays on the mind of rats! Yes, rats! Rats are the accepted norm for psychological study, despite having a brain size several hundreds of percent smaller than ours, being antisocial (in retrospect, a lot like chavs! Haha!) and without opposable thumbs the psychologists are convinced that these obtuse rodents can represent a real alternative to human testing. Biologically, I am inclined to agree, but putting a rat in a fucking Skinner box does little to teach us of the intricacies of the complex human psyche and unless you're a behaviourist, you are probably agreeing with me right now.
There's a nice module I'm doing entitled "Qualitative Design and Analysis" which is about as close to 'real' psychology as you're likely to get. It's a largely discredited study, again with little real-world application, whereby you analyse how people say things and why. It's interesting but at the end of the day I am compelled to take a step back and think "what's the point of all this?" Sure I know how people are saying things, and why, but what larger good will this do mankind? I'm at a loss to answer that question, as with every other facet of psychology I can think of. As fun as it is actually being allowed to analyse what people say, the only time you get to analyse things in psychology despite the misconceptions, there really isn't much point to it at all.
Furthermore, I get really agitated at the attitude of the department here. I'm assured this isn't just a Loughborough psychology issue but this is prevalent in all psychology courses. If you study psychology you will wince when you read this: CITATION.
Citation is what killed originality. Citation, that loathsome word, is the initiation into the higher ranks of respect in the small, insignificant world of the would-be psychologist. Citation is the process whereby academics are "quoted" (I use the word loosely because I don't want to get into fine details) with studies that back up a statement. You cannot, like a philosopher can, make a statement without quantifying it. You can't say "most people like being happy" without having a rigorous scientific experiment to prove this and seeing as you can't single-handedly prove everything, you need to rely on others to help you. If you write "most people like being happy (Bradford et al., 1977)" then it is acceptable, any other way and it is not. This is just how it is with psychology. The lists of citations on most journals are the benchmark to which the study is judged by; if you can prove you have done your research, by systematically writing down each person's study as mentioned in your experimental write-up, then you are on the path to acceptance in the psychological world. At a rough estimate 90% of a scientific journal is balls-licking of other people's work, with very little scope to pen your own opinions and thoughts. You have to do this or your article will not be published. Is this theme of duty sinking in yet? If you're especially perceptive, you'll have noticed that paradigms must progress from previous opinion.
You cannot, and I repeat cannot, state a radically different opinion. Not ever. You can't cite anything that hasn't been inferred before, so all work is stifled by the perverse need to bring in previous work. There are exceptions, but on the whole you cannot make a marked difference unless you are a very well established and respected psychologist in the field. Psychologists don't just 'burst on the scene' with exciting ideas, they emerge over time and even then, as I've argued, their findings are stale and largely irrelevant to anything of any worth. There is just so much wrong with the way this science is conducted and executed that I am disillusioned to the point of rejecting it completely.
The findings are so insignificant, so worthless and so inconsequential that I struggle to find any non-financial incentive to undertake it as a vocation. To make any impact on psychology would involve playing the game, citing the countless other arbitrary studies, and crossing your fingers hoping that the journals take kindly to your non-conformist ideas (which, of course, they wouldn't). It's a pathetic state of affairs, and I pity the man who attempts to garner a self-fulfilling job in the field of psychology. Look at the greater picture; you're but a small brick in a wall that is founded on bad principles and serves no purpose other than to occupy the time of the builders. The psychologist makes money, of course, but is played for the fool. They are stifled by infrastructure, common objectives, policy and purpose; the psychologist is the eternal citator and must accept his place as being nothing more than the lapdog of the journals. They cannot form their own identity for they must conform. They will do whatever is necessary to be published, by skewing results, populations, or engaging in meaningless material.
For you, the psychologist, I pity. I pity the misguided people who attempt to etch out a living from this most microscopic of endeavours; for them, it is a hollow and pitiful existence. For me, it is a laborious burden, but at least one that I can deshackle after graduation.
Other sciences have great monuments, feats, achievements and prestige attached to them. They have great influence and impact on the world, since the dawn of manhood to the present day. What does psychology have to say for itself? Not a lot. And you can take that from someone who doesn't have any financial, moral or societal obligations.
Star What?
It's not often you get to hear the other side of the argument against Star Wars, so I find it refreshing that a newspaper as renown as The Guardian has managed to magically sprout balls and do just that. Star Wars is, in my view, mildly entertaining but seriously over-valued and rated considerably higher than it ever should have been. Lord of the Rings, it is not. Despite this, I'm going to see it on thursday with Bran and company, mostly as a social event and not because I simply have to be amongst the first to see it and I won't be dressed in a Storm Trooper outfit with plastic "lightsabre" (ahem). Bran ordered these tickets about a month ago and still blocks his ears and sings "la la la I can't hear you!" when a trailer or news article comes on the television about the much hyped Episode Three; what a dorky little midget he is!
If you fancy a dose of comedy check out the 40 reasons why Star Wars sucks as written by an intelligent qualified journalist, and not some spotty-faced opinionated teen whose grasp of English hasn't developed since primary school and whose principle argument is simply "CUZ I SAID SO."
A quick snippet:
10) The thing Yoda does
The font of all wisdom, the teachers' teacher, is Yoda, a big eared, green skinned, 900-year-old elf. A problem with the English language has he. Plonking platitudes he generally utters. Spot this in case we, an amusing quirk he has been given. Sentences he chops in half! Then back together puts! The way round wrong! "The Force I sense in you," says he. "Teach you more, I can." Later, himself he excels: "Hard to see the Dark Side is." It was impossible to imagine a more irritating character - but Lucas managed it (see 27).
Comedy!
BUSTED!!
I am a freaking genius!
As a practicing super-sleuth I routinely go on wild goose chases that lead me into the unknown in the hope of unearthing a juicy secret at the end of the search. To do this I gather clues like any self-respecting detective and piece them together like an elaborate jigsaw manufactured by Tomy. I knew that putting a discreet site counter on my page would give me a third eye to watch over the search engine activity like a hawk.
Most of the search results are pointless and don’t reveal much, typed in by idiots who want lewd pictures of naked sisters and suchlike. Yet sometimes, on those rare occasions where something eyebrow-raising does take my notice, it can be the first clue towards a treasure trove of fascinating secrets. Today, I encountered such a result.
Remember Katie, my course mate who barely ever shows up to lectures? Well, today I managed to unearth a delectable find using my amazing powers of clicking links and checking birthdays. Browsing the referral links I managed to uncover this little beauty:
 The untrained eye sees a useless list of links: a sleuth sees a complex tapestry of clues |
There were many searches above and below it; one for “lecking pussy” (whatever “lecking” means), “things that damages a singers voice” (for those who don’t know but are curious) and “ellon sucks” (is that a question or a statement?). Sifting these out I clicked, purely by chance, the link result derived from the input “lufbra blog.” To my surprise Starsite came up fifth on the list, which seems relatively well-established and a result that I’m pleased with. However before closing the window a link caught my eye, a link that intrigued me. The accompanying text stated: ”... BLOG STYLE. CALENDAR. PAGE: 1 2 ... I do Psych at Lufbra! I know, everyoneseems to do Psych at the mo! biggrin Start term again on 4th Oct-wehey!”Were it not for the word “psych” I might have been tempted to just ignore the result and continue with my everyday browsing. The words “psych” and “Lufbra” just begged a quick glance, even if it were only to see someone who’d left the Uni about ten years ago but whose page has somehow stayed in Google ranking limbo, wandering the web like a soul stuck in purgatory. Without further ado, I clicked the link. Clearly the site was created by a punk-styled vixen called “Brogan” who had created the blog using the suicidegirl mold that resembles Deadjournal if anything. The site clearly caters for the deviant-minded promiscuous girls of Britain who are itching for a medium to express their gothic sexual activities, at least this is the impression of someone who has spent the last five minutes browsing the website. Clicking control-F I searched for “Lufbra” and there, hidden amongst the trawls of comments was the snippet of text that caught Google’s meta robots and indexed the page under the relevant keywords. Intent on checking out the poster’s profile, I continued with feverish anticipation. What I saw astonished me. In the top-left hand corner of the page I was amazed, and taken aback in equal measure, to see before my very eyes a very sultry looking Katie pseudonym “Innocence!”  Of all the remarkable coincidences this one floored me, as my eyes greedily gorged the textual feast laid out in front of me. As a suicide girl, “Innocence” is implored to open up about risqué material under the suicidegirl anonymity guise; clearly something a gentleman would ignore, but not I. This was Grade A gossip, as I devoured the information and tried to get into the sections marked off-limits to non-members. What I saw you too can also see, by simply typing this link into your address bar: http://suicidegirls.com/members/Innocence. Isn’t she pretty? There isn’t too much there of embarrassing qualities, but I do know that my good friend Katie lost her virginity at the tender age of 16 and she loves it doggy style. This admittedly doesn’t say much, I mean we all like it doggy and losing your virginity at 16 isn’t something I’m about to contact the national press about. But still, it’s a wonderful find and surely something that a voyeuristic student pal like myself should never be privy to. I might consider becoming a member of the suicidegirl family, if only to see exactly what these no doubt dodgy and slightly erotic pictures of Katie look like :D I use the word “suicidegirl family,” but if this is the case then surely that makes me no better than the pervert who found his way to Starsite by typing in the highly societally-inappropriate “posed erotically sister.” So maybe I won’t take a peek at the lascivious pictures… Or then again…
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