I had reached 2nd stage for a training contract in January this month but today received an email telling me I’d not made it to the 3rd. Which is a shame because that was the last application I had on the fire. It looks like I shall be repaying my student debt at Birds Eye.
I have suffered through a month of sobriety, 18 hour days at the library and no fruit or fresh vegetables. I am suffering burnout - not because this is a gargantuan effort, I’m aware Lawyers have to do thrice as hard work. I am suffering burnout because at least the Lawyers in question get paid to do this.
I have had an exam every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday for February. This Tuesday I finish.
Kate Bush thought it a wise idea to use Pi as the lyrics to a song.
I spent three years and 48 agonising hours waiting for this news. People who trot this out day in day out are dicks, but I think we’re all allowed to use it once, so here we goes.
As of 5:00pm Friday 8th June 2007, My new name is:
Mr Daniel William Patrick Cooper L.L.B. (Hons) Esq.
It’s an odd sensation, being (albeit tangentially) within the news rather than merely viewing it, but Wednesday night I was called by Gary, a friend with deep connections to the Labour party; asking if I wanted to go to London on Friday. Frankly I wasn’t in the mood to talk, I was cramming for my Law of Evidence revision and tried to hastily end the conversation, but politeness and curiosity wanted more; it turns out that the nations accountant, Prudence the Presbyterian was announcing her coming out, and would it be possible for us to go up as groupies?
I had promised myself that I’d stop staying in each night like a boring old (young) fart and experience some new things (apropos of which, I’m going skiing for the first time in a few weeks) and this had a strong whiff of the historical to it, so why not, eh? ‘Smart casual’ he said, so when my exam had ended (and I’d had three pints of Guinness) I tried to work out what the hell that meant.
I woke up at 6:45am, (Handy benefit of living literally across from the train station) showered, shaved and realised that it was 7:10, the train was leaving at 7:17, and despite being across the street, I was still stark naked, hungry, thirsty and groggy from sleep. Then the phone rang.
Stumbling shambolically into the station, thrusting my diary, a bottle of water and my now battered copy of I, Claudius into my satchel, I collapsed onto the tickets desk and asked for a ‘single return’ to London. The corpulent woman behind the plexiglass gormlessly stared at me, waiting for the lardy posh-voiced fool to discover his mistake.
Leaping over the barrier I collapse into a rear-facing seat (The Judas’ had taken the front facing ones there and back) and steal Gary’s copy of the Guardian as they pour forensically over the ‘Blair Years’ insert. I’m doing my best to be funny whilst tired and not hurl over the increasingly crowded carriage.
We arrive at 9ish at Charing Cross, the press-conference starting at 10:00 at the Imagination Gallery behind Tottenham Court Road. Knowing the area well but having never heard of the place, we walked from Charing cross past Centrepoint and back and forth along Tottenham Court Road, because Gary had omitted to remember where we were going. At breakneck pace, we found the side-street, and walked into a large police presence, a small gathered mass and some media. Scarily, we strode confidently past the police, and after a security check at the door (Yes, I do look like my drivers licence, but no, that isn’t plastic explosive, it’s suntan lotion) the party faithful (as we would be portraying today) were ushered into what most of the papers described Nuremburg inside a Victorian prison. I can see where they were going, the open five story space held two massive banners, one with a flag-shaped swirl, and the near orgasmic faces of multiethnic children, one a simple white affair with ‘Gordon Brown for Britain’, I’m sure someone at Taaschen would wet themselves if they could see it.
Bad coffee and awkward mingling (Gary being an upandup, mingled with the best of them, several of us hunched into a corner) before being wafted past with the greatest plate of Hors d’eurvres ever. The world’s smallest bacon roll, in a coarse French (or Chibatta) bread, the size of a postage stamp yet enormously tasty. I threw one down me (still no Breakfast, remember) and necked the sour coffee and a biscotti (I should come to these things more often) and we were ushered to the other end of this great hall, where a string cordon penned off the media. As we tried not to look rattled since we were the barrier in between the media throng and the rest of the faithful, fanboyishly we spotted Nick Robinson, Jon Snow and others, trying to get shots of them in our backgrounds without drawing their satirical ire and a caustic mention in the following day’s press.
As we chatted amongst ourselves and met a nice chap from the Fabian society, several more Labour youths, a painfully thin, silver haired chap in a beige flashing mac, which flapped around his body, salaciously (perhaps predatory is a better phrase) beckoned over the nearest person in earshot, that of Steve, but before he could get a soundbyte, a man in a suit came over and told him to back down, giving us a stern look that meant that in no uncertain terms could we speak to the journalists, even if it was to stare in awe at Nick Robinson and ask him how he felt about being so popular that he was being parodied on Dead Ringers et al. (Turns out that our predatory journalist was the Financial Times’ Matthew Engel, and the incident would form a large part of his story here . We were told to make sure that we were ready for 10:00, but at 10:05 I jogged through the throng to ask for the bathroom – up one flight of stairs and behind some double doors, whilst there I noticed that the Gallery is less a gallery, more an industrial design studio for blue chip companies, wondering what relevance that had to the first post-New Labour prime minister.
When I returned, two of our female cohorts were dragged off by a press secretary, who required them to ‘balance a photo’ they were doing. We waited around, a little longer than expected, when suddenly we were given the nod. It was time to celebrate, for he had arrived.
Of course I make this sound as if it was excessively stage-managed, the truth is that the whole event was under-managed, if anything. Had Cam’ron done similar, I’m sure everyone would have been handed out Blackberries which beeped when he was within 15 feet, at which point you would have to bow down and start praying in the general direction of Smythson’s of Bond Street.
Obviously the papers describe this bit better than I do, the young labourites exploded into applause as their soon to be new leader conducted a walking tour, taking a little extra care than expected to speak to the students, some of whom had listened to the instructions of ‘dressing casually, this thing hasn’t been planned or staged, so be natural’ and others making us feel all to underdressed.
When it was our turn (Handshake #1), myself and the person to my immediate left (a pun, surely?) responded ‘Law’ to the question ‘So what are you Studying?’ and with that, his head swiftly moved on to greener pastures. I sense that after the last 28 years working with a Barrister at law for a friend, boss and enemy, we weren’t going to be winning any of Prudence’s Hearts and Minds.
After the tour had ended, we were thrown upstairs, all the time I was wishing I hadn’t been so damn modest and polite and not taken a second bacon roll. My rumbling stomach remained unsated as were told to fill the outside seats of each of the rows in the top area of the Gallery, a roof balcony which had been converted using a similar canvas as on the Millennium dome, all steel wire, canvas and glass. As we sat down as edge fillers, directly in the line of sight of the cameras, we enjoyed the cool breeze from the open French windows and watched the secret service bods wander around (I wonder if those are as similarly talented as the ones at HQ, or if you have to be especially clever / stupid to be asked to take a bullet for a head of state). Then more party faithful were ushered in to the seating area, before the Journalists were pushed at the back (Look! There’s Michael Crick!). Then arrived Gordon and whump, we applauded.
Having been an avid fan of the E Network during the first year we had Sky, I was aware at how awful photographers can be, pushing, shoving and punching their competition out of the way in order to get the best shot, so whilst Gordon delivered his speech I spent most of the time watching out of the corner of my eye the running battle between the UK’s Stars in Your Eyes, Stavros winner 1989 – 1994, the hairest man you will ever see (and BO to match) and a thin looking man who seemed to be far too aristocratic for such a lowly job, working for Getty images (How did I know? The logo was all over his lens). I spent some of it imagining them all getting down the stairs and tripping each other over as the first one to an internet terminal / blackberry would win the £1000 prize, leaving the rest in the dust.
As the speech and questions ended (Which Prudence handled with aplomb, delivering a two hander of pre-written soundbyte first, personal answer second, never before have I seen a politican end his scripted avoidance of the truth, only to come back with a direct statement). Again we got to see the various cool cabal of journos, accompanied by much head creaking to get the best view of John Snow. That’s two Channel 4 news peeps I’ve been in the same room as now, it’s just Krishnan Guru-Murphy left and I have the set (Sod Sarah Smith, who the hell watches anything before the Daily Show on More 4?)
The heat was appalling, the security people had closed the French doors before Prudence had arrived, and I was slowly evaporating there. Gah.
As we left, we were given the nod to stand and ovate once again (Actually not something that was needed really, he did a good show and deserved some praise, but the Journos suggested we had treated him like a messianic figure. I know I wans’t, merely delivering credit where it’s due.), and he came down to shake all of the specially placed student’s hands (Handshake #2) and depart, whilst we all tried to squeeze out whilst a mini riot between photographers had broken out. Of course as we exited, we were accosted by someone from ‘The World at One’ from Radio 4, asking us for questions on Brown. Despite a zealous trend and a want to be in the spotlight, when a microphone was pointed in my face my brain shut down, I was pleasantly surprised that what came out of my mouth not only made it to air but also wasn’t utter gibberish.
As we left we were handed a copy of the speech by a stunning girl I forget the name of, and exited the building. We walked out into a wide media parapet (cameras and photogs lined up ready for the exit of Prudence) and sheepishly inched past them, wondering if we were slow enough, we’d wind up on the live coverage in a slow news second. We tucked ourselves behind the cameras in order to see the exit, our part over.
Or so it seemed, as we discussed what went on, a chap from the Guardian came over and asked us for our thoughts. Three of us provided quotes, none of which wound up in the paper proper, but I suppose you have to try. I received a text message telling me I had been visible on News 24 during the broadcast, which was cool, and I’d receive one at Midnight that night telling me I’d been on Newsnight too.
As we spoke to the Guardian journalist, Gary received a phone call. ‘Where are we? We’re behind the media parapet!’. Whoever was on the other side of the phone spoke in hurried tones, pleading with us to get back inside. We edged past the policeman, hoping confidence and brazenness would avoid a showdown, and walked past the photographers and cameras we’d edged barely minutes before, and walked into a side door.
I hasten to add here, that by this point, the outside of the Gallery’s driveway was surrounded by public and media. Walking across this meant that every eye was on us. Which didn’t bode well for what was to come. We went into the door on the left of the main entrance were greeted by a handler, who told us that our part was certainly not over, and that after we had dropped our bags off, we were to exit the front entrance (as casually as nothing had happened, hopefully the cameramen and assorted media types had the memories of Goldfish) and line up on the way from the Door to the car (an Audi, how tasteless). I was second in line and was told that when I got an elbow to the kidney, begin to clap.
Prudence came close to the door, elbow was made, I began to clap. Prudence dashed back to speak to someone else. Clap had to be ‘transformed’ into a way of me keeping my hands warm during the chill. In the middle of a bright summers day with the sun beating down on us.
Second time, happens again, this time I have to disguise it with the pretence of a trapped nerve. I’m an awful mime and am fooling no-one. I’m aware that because I am only following orders, I feel morally content, but am aware that as the man in front of all of the cameras, all eyes are on the clapping moron.
That, I am sure, is a metaphor for Politics in general.
Third time, Prudence does emerge, but is met with initially lacklustre clapping because everyone expects a false start, but he and his wife emerges, (Handshake #3) and after a short ‘Good luck’ and a thousand cameras on us, he does the round.
Many things are going through my head. I’ve had three (not one, not two but THREE) chances to speak to the next man to run the country and yet at no point did I ask him any of the things I wanted to. It’s the scene in Taxi driver where he’s about to kill the Senator, but something stops him. At every turn, ‘Give us a job!’ , ‘Hey, why don’t you repeal the Liz Longhurst law?’. ‘Stop fucking up the legal services!’, ‘ID Cards are flawed’ ‘Why don’t you sort out the NHS properly’ and ‘OI! STOP PERSECUTING FAT PEOPLE AS IF WE ARE THE SOLE PARIAH OF SOCIETY’S ILLS’ were on the tip of my tongue, and something stopped me as it had done clipping my local MP with my wing mirror during a driving lesson because he had voted for Tuition Fees, the bastard.
We went back inside to a handshake from Jack Straw and a short chat, before we were on our way to find some food, I didn’t know about anyone else, but I was close to vomiting across several important politicians for the entire morning. As we walked down toward Leicester Square, a hari Krishna followed us (the general throng, not us specifically) banging his tiny cymbals between his fingers every three seconds (I can’t remember what they are properly called but I remember being told to use them ad nauseum in GCSE music) and as we were walking, the sun blotting out my eyesight, a tall man with glasses blotted out the view long enough for me to realise I’d just walked past Danny Boyle. Meeting Prudence was nothing to walking past the man who had directed two of the best films of the last decade. Because I’m aware that this was London, you have to be slightly more restrained, because these people are living breathing people who have jobs (BRILLIANT ONES!) and put their trousers on, one leg at a time. So I didn’t chase after him and offer him a blow job for Sunshine, (2001 for the 2001 generation, if you’ve not seen it, you are missing out), but I couldn’t restrain myself from exploding ‘Fucking hell! That was Danny Boyle!’.
Interestingly, this theory was proved true when my Girlfriend who was in London the next day saw Stephen Fry at Borough Market and get very irritated at a couple who wished to speak to him, and it’s good practice for when I move there next year. Don’t talk to celebs.
We got the train back, and fatigue began to weigh down upon us all, very little food and the early start (lest I not tell you, I had a hangover in the morning as well) and so I collapsed into the train seat and lolled about until we got back home.
Posted on the March 27th, 2007 under University by Dan
I only ever write here now to procrastinate. I’m currently avoiding an essay on how trusts law is gender biased toward women. You heard me right – I’m writing a feminist piece, Lord have mercy upon me.
Last week our seminar leader warned that the professor setting the exam I had yesterday would engage in his usual practice of trick questions. It’s nothing new, I think he earnt his tenure purely by punishing 3rd years, but at least it made you think. I hadn’t expected to do well but after a whole weekend of revision, I thought I’d be bullish, and depending on the result (natch) I don’t think I did too badly. At least 15 of the 33, I knew, and at least 7 more were common sense.
The problem came with the subtle questions. Let’s see if you’d get this.
11. A Witness is to be treated as Hostile if:
a) They are Aggressive to counsel
b) They refuse to answer questions truthfully when asked
c) They are mentally ill
d) They are Children
e) They are not present
Now, for brevity’s sake, the answer is either a) or b). But which?
Well. Here’s what we mean when we say trick questions. I was on guard. So I thought this one through. Over and over.
Lawyers will tell you that in court, you have pre-trial testimony, interviews, confessions et al, so if ‘Bob’ has said once or twice before, especially if you ask him that ‘Chippie is a drug dealer’ – you call him to the stand. He stands there, and when you say ‘Tell us about Chippie’ he goes ‘Chippie is a lovely person’.
Now, either between the time you spoke to Bob and he made his statement, he has either been bullied by Chippie to retract his statement (c.f s116 Criminal Justice Act ’03), he’s senile (Something in the Youth Justice and Criminal Evidence Act) or he’s deliberately being a shit. If he refuses to change his testimony, then you have on your hands a Hostile witness.
Knowing this, you’d answer B, right?
Well. Let me stop you there, because in Greenough v Eccles – a leading case on witnesses, a witness is stated to be treated as hostile when there is ‘Manifest Antipathy’ toward counsel. What’s the difference, between Manifest Antipathy and Aggression, especially for a Professor who takes pride in trick questions.
So, you answer A, because we have Caselaw versus a practice point, yes?
No. It’s B, it has to be, because the witnesses hostility is based upon the inconsistency of their testimony, and not upon them spouting epithets at the bloke in the wig. This is the sort of question you come across quite frequently in Law, it’s very easy to be caught out, and this is why I think a lot of Law students have massive superiority complexes. At least the ones I’ve seen.
Lemme give you another one, for you to puzzle out yourself.
16. Parties’ counsel are the only two people who can cross examine in court.
a) Yes
b) No
c) No – The Judge can cross examine also
d) Yes - Art. 6 of the ECHR
e) Sometimes
Here’s a prisoner’s dilemma to help you answer this.
1. A judge ‘throwing his hat into the ring and descending’ into a Case (Nice Metaphor, Alf) is grounds for appeal. A Judge cannot cross-examine a party ever.
2. R v Cameron - a Judge Cross-examines a party, and it’s upheld.
Posted on the February 14th, 2007 under University by Dan
An academic of mine this week posted a synopsis for his essay that we could puzzle over before we get our marks back on Friday. For those who didn’t take an essay-intensive subject, this is effectivley being given a vague idea of the answer before you find out if you were right or not. The only problem is that these buggers are usually vague enough to make you believe that you’ve either written the greatest thing since sliced bread or you are a drooling idiot who daubs canvas with feculence and throws it at a mob of schoolchildren. We don’t get our marks back for this particular assessment back until Friday, and all I can say is that having read the synopsis, I’m actually thinking I’m not going to fail, it’ll just be some sort of punishment mark for only using the marking academic’s own theses. Oh yes. I am that stupid …
As I hurtle ever closer to May 2nd and the first of four exams which will determine my fate and the structural integrity of my private parts, I am gripped with exam-based stress. Trying to cram an entire year’s worth of law (and for one subject, 2000 years or so of legal academia) into my tiny, alcohol addled brain, is beginning to take it’s toll.
Mind you, I’m trying to avoid, perhaps more successfully than in the past, the urge to redesign the site. Those who are new to my site will not be as familar with the redesign cycle that comes mere weeks before final exams as I desperatley try to distract myself from the stresses of learning.
Still, I’m in good spirits, despite having a head as muzzy as an enormous fog filled bathtub and hands that refuse to remain still. So let’s talk about webdesign!
One of things I’ve decided with this design, because we know it is as inevitable as the fact that I’m in love with French Maid TV and the Channel 102 podcast (Which is currently putting out three of it’s best works - Puppet Rapist has become better every episode, Cakey! the Cake from Outer Space is fantastic and the more we say about 28 Day Slater the better - check them out!) I need to design. Which, for a man without talent, is fantastic.
Where was I? Oh yes. Decided with this design, that I should look at the iconography of my website. Or at least, that’s what I’ve been doing today. You see, for me, I cannot in one word sum up everything that I would like to talk about online. If you go through my archives on Livejournal and beforehand, you’ll see I spend a lot of it talking about how I love television, why I really want a mac, why I love being drunk and having friends and whinging like a sodomite about how crap university is. It’s not necessarily the best attraction I can provide for coming. So, why not a logo? A slogan? An ideal which could sum up how … (interesting?)… (entertaining?)… how, Ing, Planeteleven can be. Still. I went ahead all those years ago and bought an unweildy domain name that bears no relation to my life. I also have no cause to change it. So, iconography. I was looking for one thing that would sum me up in one go. A new visual shorthand for me, and I’ll be buggered. I can’t find one.
I had a thought about what I look like. Perhaps aside from the mullet, the clothes and my poorly angled teeth, the only defining feature that could be pared down to a bare symbol could have been my glasses. So, the pen and HSBC envelope came out, and before long, I was sketching glasses logos that would have made the Two Ronnies envious.
Bin.
So, I thought about a little sketch of a fat bloke in a brown jacket. (Or what I always look like). Except it looked like a rather too detailed profile of Mr. Creosote.
Bin. Bin Bin Bin Bin. Several, free HSBC envelopes and handouts from school have been disposed with a variety of poorness. I am still no wiser.
So, I ask you, the general throng. Those who know me through this ol’ happy machine, what, in your opinion, (Apart from an enormous whinging vagina) would effectlivley sum me up, within a single piece of iconography within and around which to design v17 of my bloody website.
So where have I been, you ask yourselves in your numerous one-ness?
Well, because it’s “That time of the year again†– I’m currently trying to headbutt my way down the usual 14,000 words worth of work to do by the end of the Term. Ideally, I’d have nothing but those to do, but the usual rigmarole of seminar work and lectures mean that these are technically “extra curricularâ€.
But it occurred to me that I’ve been whinging, when really, I’ve never had it so good. I’m cooking nice food (More on that later), I’m doing a good degree at a (moderately) good University, and I’m clement. For however this period lasts for, enjoy it. So, no more whinges. Just positivity and commentary for a while. I’ve even softened to Amelle Berrabah’s weird face.
But onto other things I’d like to talk to you about.
Second Life
So, if a woman from New York can make more money renting real estate in a MMORPG* than in, you know. New York (SAY WHA?) then something’s up. So I signed up for it. I’m totally unsure how to describe it. I’m totally unfamiliar with the kind of thing it is**. It was processing about as slow as the elderly engaged in sexing, as Lee Ermey likes to say****. Until I turned it down until it looked like the “Maze†screensaver on Windows 95. But there you go. What’s amazing about it is that it’s essentially empty. It’s very much like wandering around a post-apocalyptic city, everything’s wonderfully created (By the users, I might add) including a working TARDIS which was fantastic, and an entire USS Defiant, modelled from the inside and out, which was at the local Science Fiction museum. The problem is, is that I’ve seen, on my wanderings, about 10 people. Which kinda makes me feel odd. Why, if it is such a success, is it not TEEMING with people? It is very much a desolate kind of place. Addictive, I’ve had to restrain myself from re-entering the game quite frequently but I cannot fathom why. Maybe it’s just the places I’m going, but it was kinda advertised as a new “social networking†jobbie, and no bastard’s there.
I [heart] Sainsburys
Every week, I find a new CD in there which is only £2 or £3, including some really embarrassing ones (*OneTouch*, and this week, the Soundtrack to Carol Reed’s Oliver!. A musical I had to learn by heart when I went to try to become a “proper thespian†back when they were scouting for gormless faced blonde haired boys. (Yes, I looked like Mark Lester when I was 10. Don’t mock me). That, and their awesome steak offers, which leads me to….
I [Heart] Gordon Ramsey
Yesterday we watched More4’s “The F Word†marathon. The show, the first food show not featuring an emaciated Scottish woman humiliating fat people that I find entertaining, taught two girls how to cook a perfect steak yesterday, so I’m giving it a go as well. Butter, Seasoning, Sauces, the work. Proper chef’s style. That and some Mushroom CousCous. Mmmmm. Even judging it by the hardness of my own (double) chin. Mmmm.
I [Do not chuffing heart Microsoft Word]
Which won’t open if you click on the icon any more. If you do, it just shuts down afterward – if you open it by opening a file, then fine. Bam. It stays open. Oddness.
I [Chuffing Heart] Half Life 2.
Matthew, that wonderful man who is clean and industrious and is not a dirty Mexican, returned from reading week, Half Life 2 clutched to his breast. I played the first game, and enjoyed it, but not to the point where I would drool senselessly over it. I’ll be honest, it was just Doom, but scarier. However, Half Life 2, besides being unbelievably fucking scary, when not fighting head crabs, or corpses which attack you like a mauling lion, (i.e. the bits when you’re fighting humans) are fantastic! No other game I know of allows for scenes where you can just crash into the outpost’s foundations of the bad guys, and watch as they tumble into the river beneath you. It’s extraordinarily linear, but just the wideness of the game makes up for it. It makes me jealous for Windows users that Valve haven’t bothered to port it to the Mac and me all the more interested in if an Intel mac can run Half Life 2 natively***. May be worth a new iBook just for that.
*Odds on, at least one person will tell me it is unequivocally not a MMO.
** Yeah… Yeah… Harvey Birdman.
*** As in “on Windows†numbnuts.
**** “You climb obstacles like old people fuck!†– Classic.
Postscript. Matthew had mistagged “Boards of Canada†with the similarly named “British Sea Power’s album cover. Blame himâ€.
[EDIT - This descends into ranting very, very quickly. Avoid if sensitive]
As any law student will know, January to March is the period in which the deadlines close for Application forms for Vacation placements. I’m not sure how many Law-y people I have reading this, so for the uninitiated, I’ll explain;
Unlike jobs in CS and Medicine etc, Law doesn’t offer an educational placement, you leave University, you get a job. This procedure, because Law is a) expensive and b) Highly Competitive is to create a two year cycle, which then allows companies to have the candidates begging for jobs years before they’re needed, and creating a source of cheap labour in the process.
At the start of your second year, you are essentially required to have poodled about in a couple of law firms, running errands, making the tea, fellating the senior partners when they can’t get out to their “Oaten’s*”. etc. By then, you’ll be ready to move onto the big leagues - city law firms. You go through a rigorous (By which I mean “Patently ridiculous”) application process, sometimes going as far as psychometric testing, just to work in your summer break for two weeks, making the tea, felllating the senior solicitor** you’ve been seconded to. This fortnight of “Work Experience” is the same as when you did your GCSE’s. If they like you, and you work hard, and don’t use your teeth too much, then bam. They can offer you a job. If not, then you are cast, victoriania style, to the gutter, left for the hunting dogs.
The problem is, is that Summer is when a lot of the Poorer (read-Working Class) students earn the money to live through the year. Taking two or three weeks off earning nothing, and having to live in London is a financial slog, and all that time, you’re losing money that should be feeding you. The system is deliberatley exclusionary and discriminate, because those of us*** who don’t have “Daddies” who buy us ponies and pay for us to go on holiday and pay for their life at university**** are disadvantaged, unless we live in an inner-city.
The further catch, is that local firms don’t have the money or the inclination to pay for LPC fees, so unless you want to be forking out £9k of your own money for a postgraduate course, plus money for food, water and shelter, you need to be placed somewhere well, where they like you.
Which really is taking the piss, don’t you think?
* I feel dirty for making a pun.
** Okay, i don’t know if any fellatio goes on. I bet it does, and no-one lets me in on it.
*** Resentful bit starts here, kiddies
**** Sadly, that’s not a joke. I know more than a couple of what I shall call “Posh Mealticket Spazzes”
Well, it’s been a couple of days, and in those days I’ve been working. Hard. I’m a normal functioning member of society, and there’s no one who can say otherwise. Fact.
Two major things have been on my mind, and two others, which I’m going to list.
The first is that I’ve spent day after day after day in the Library. This has never, (I do mean Never) ever happened. I hate libraries, and all that they stand for, mostly because I enjoy listening to music, answering the odd phone call, listening to iTunes as I work and farting and eating as I type. But I’ve bitten the bullet, and am forcing myself into the chamber of torture, almost daily, for the last two weeks. I don’t see this stopping either, mostly because I’ve got 3 pieces of work due in, in a fortnight, and I’m rather slowly getting down the pile of work. It’s weird, because only once did I do such extensive research, and it was looking up a Sebastian Payne tome from the short loan (Having to navigate the short loan collection was made far nicer by the lady who explained all the stuff I didn’t know despite being a 1st year in his 3rd term at campus). It’s a bit of a scary thought, but the downside to all of this is that my lecture attendance is worse than when I got bored of Legal Process, Critical Intro and Obs 2 in the final term last year and stopped going. I’m now faced with a hell of a catching up session in the Christmas holiday.
So yeah, the library! It’s odd, because I’ve been given some sort of magical skill whereby I find a textbook that appears to not have been taken from the shelf in about a decade, pull the dust from it’s pages, and on the open page, find all of the answers I was looking for, in a nice list. Which is nifty to say the least. I’m worried that this “Work Ethic†that I have developed can only get stronger. I’m worried that I’ll sit in the library for the remaining two weeks (Which isn’t a bad idea, natch) and never go home. FCS, I even packed myself a LUNCHBOX today. This is all wrong. When I’m putting effort into things, I might fail. When I was just cheesing it about like I knew everything at least then I had something to blame.
So yes, there’s that, and the fact that had Big Lens been sold, it would have already sold out!. The first issues were mass distributed on Monday evening, and by Tuesday morning, they were no more. The remaining issues I’m going to distribute about Campus tomorrow (Assuming Joe brings me the big box of them) and It’s fantastic to think that this is something I’ve put my name to, for the first time, and it’s popular!.
I never told people this, but I ran for the position of Film Editor for KRED in my first year, and when I was voted out for a girl who stood there and just looked vacant, I really didn’t want to get involved with Journalism on campus anymore (And didn’t, for a year), it was only when I realised that BL was a huge hole into which no-one was walking did I jump, and judging from the initial success, I’m essentially vindicated.
I should put here that really, Big Lens and KRED’s film section are very different things. When I took the helm of BL, my first worry was that I didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes regarding having two publications discussing film. We had to justify our existence and not make ourselves redundant, which is why Big Lens doesn’t have anything time-dependant. Reviews, news, that sort of guff. A monthly paper can do that a little better than a termly rag. So Big Lens is Sight & Sound. But A5. I think that was the single most important shift in terms of the text, I can only take credit for one other decision, and that was making it A5. I figured that since the A4 glossy edition at 1000 copies was going to eat up all of Kent Film’s budget last year (It did, hence why there was only run last year) that by halving both of those figures, we could pump out 4 times the amount. (We’re putting out three, one a term, because Prontaprint charged us 20% more than expected) but still.
I’m concerned though that I may have come off as a bit of a prick when I went to see Lianna, who is the Editor of KRED (And a 2nd year law student, law students are taking over, you know) , and I was trying to just say that I was happy it came off, and I was looking for her opinion, and I merely asked if she had seen any other copies around in Mungos (Campus bar) when I was speaking to her, and as I glanced over, there was a whole pile of KRED’s, and I’m sure she took from that I was “Nyah-ing†as mine had all gone and hers were still sat there. Still, I don’t know her well enough to re-explain the point, so I may just have to look like a prick.
The .pdf for Big Lens will go online in a couple of days, once those people who have seen it in print get it (And so I can find the Kentfilmsoc.com password on the slip of paper on my “paper pile†which now stretches at least a foot high now that I’ve filed the rest away to access the ftp), and then you can see it.
What else has been taking my fancy of late? Oh yeah. I’m ill. Now I avoid talking about “Stress†because I think It’s one of those made up things that namby-pamby people whinge about in our new touchy-feely society. I’m conservative like that, but I really do think that my poor mental health over the last few days (Look at me, I’m blogging, and it only took me six years to tell the world I was depressed, which must be a record) because I’m tense! I really am. Well, not so much now, but that’s because I’ve essentially devoted myself to a life of hermitage in front of Moses and in the library, finishing these three essays to a standard I may deem to call “Effort-givenâ€. I’ve also not slept, or hadn’t, until last night. Last three nights; I squeezed in a “couple†of hours and no more. Which sucked balls, then I overslept from about 4 am until Lunchtime, and I realised that I had to cut something from my workload. So I cut everything! Either way, I’ve got a cough, for which I’ve been mainlining Benylin, and to soothe the pain, I started sucking the Tunes & Lockets. Back came the thrush. (Best. sentence. Ever.) and I have a weird lumpy bumpy rash on my left arm, which is killing me. (It’s not Meningitis. I’ve glassed that thing so much it should have been magnified off my arm by now). Now there’s a story you really wanted to know more about.
I’ve also been trying (Albeit Unsuccessfully) the Peter Jackson diet. Or a bit of it. The man himself – “instead of getting hungry and getting a hamburger, I got a yoghurtâ€. Which I’m doing, bar those times when I run to the shop down the road and grab some Flaming Hot monster munch because they’re not hardcore enough to get the beef ones (And I did her stock-checking for her a month ago so she’d go and get some!). I’ve got a stack of Sainsbury’s & Ski Yoghurts. Current Fave is Sainsbury’s Be Good To Yourself Black cherry, whilst Ski tastes a bit like slurping grit in crème form. Still. It’s healthy, eh?
Back later with a .pdf and some other amusing story that takes up 3 A4 pages in Word.
I’ve just come back from Euan (Big Lens’ Art Editor)’s house where we put the final touches (proofreading, organising etc) into the first Big Lens of the year. It’s pretty spectacular. I really do have one of those “good feelings” (Cue theme from The Towering Inferno ) that this will be Big Lens’ year, but I suppose that’s a far far longer story, and really can wait until I’ve been charge for a while and I’m raking in multiples of milllion english pounds from my piddly little society magazine.
Still. It shall be shuffled off to the printers on Tuesday now (Damn my Saturday being eaten away by the Grays Inn trip) and the pdf will go online once it’s been stapled by whomever I recruit and deposit a pile in the Campus Shop.
Then you’ll see how awesome it is, weep, shall you. Weep.
