My 21st: A collection of others memories

21, or 20+1 if you are part of some university societies which prohibit the full term of 21, is a birthday that is awaited with anticipation, excitement and my case dread.

It is the last hoorah before becoming an 'official' adult and is usually treated like the last attempt to get the individual in question as drunk as possible before they become old and mature.

16 is the first birthday that is met with some sort of hype but usually is just a pizza with friends.

18 is the first formal introduction to alcohol and is celebrated with a fair amount of alcohol and usually jager bombs.

21, however, is treated like a punishment, usually induced with whatever the most mind-numbing liquid is available at the location. It is for everyone, apart from the birthday boy/girl, an incredible night. A test of the human endurance. A viewing of how a person can breakdown in a mess of their own insides and how their mind can come out with their dinner after the 8th tequila shot.

This, apparently, is my story.

Note: from henceforth, all the following stories are from what I have been told by those who were present. My mind ceases to remember any events from that fateful night.

7pm: I was sat down on the sofa of my living room at uni by two fellow occupants of the same house; they shan't be regarded as friends anymore but enemies. Looking around at my dirty and frankly vile living room, they both entered with two 1.5 litre bottles of lambrini. Each bottle was then taped to my hands and they said I had 1 hour two consume both bottles. Every minute I am late would result in a shot of vodka. I accepted this fate, not that I had much choice, and began to chug the yellowy greeny piss coloured liquid to much dissatisfaction. Apparently I was quoted in saying that lambrini has a 'flavour that expresses the chav, yet isn't quite acceptable for a student; a Jeremy Kyle beverage'. Unfortunately I was incapable of consuming both within the hour and rather embarrassingly only finished off 1 and half litres of the stuff. As a forfeit I thus had 2 shots of vodka and then left for the pub.

8pm: A pint was bought for me. We sat down and consumed our drinks casually and respectfully.

8:15pm: Another pint was bought for me. It is placed next to my current beverage and due to the 'double parking' rule I am forced to consume one in full.

8:30: Another pint was bought for me and thus the same consumption happened again.

9pm: Once again another pint was bought but fortunately not much was left of the previous. The half emptied glass was finished off. I was then told to make my way to the bar for something called a 'Party Auschwitz', a grossly inappropriate name but somehow is justifiable in its definition.

*Party Auschwitz: One gas chamber and one liquid cocaine.
*Gas chamber: one flaming sambuca shot and the inhaling of the gas which is subsequently captured for your consumption.
*Liquid Cocaine: a shot of unknown and mysterious mixture of spirits to which has to be consumed. Straight after, a line of this liquid then has to be snorted via the nasal cavity.

9:30pm: Another pint and two shots of tequila. One shot was a 'suicide shot'.
*Suicide shot: Snort a line of salt. Neck the tequila. Squeeze lemon juice onto ones eyeball.

Note: I was quoted in saying after the suicide shot 'I feel like Stevie Wonder'. A disgusting and vile phrase to which I feel very embarrassed for saying.

According to my friends my 'banter was flowing after a few bevs'.

9:30- 10:30: Pints are necked and shots are consumed.

11pm: Another house occupant, again not to be regarded as friend anymore, went to the bar and purchased me two shots of 'the strongest shot they had'. Both shots were indeed swallowed and things then went bad.

Grabbing an empty pint glass I then proceeded to fill it with my dinner from 4 hours prior. A second, third and fourth pint glass was also filled, making sure to place the pint glasses on the floor as I grabbed a fresh one. On the fifth glass I filled it and to the mispleasure of everyone, dropped it. An array of food and alcohol scattered across the floor to which I apparently then added to from my own mouth. An applause was given and a few 'for fu**' sake Matt'.

11:15pm: Asleep on my rather irritated girlfriends shoulder.

11:30pm: I state to my other half that I want to go home. She agrees that it is appropriate for me to get some rest.

11:30pm- 12am: My girlfriend carries me home to which I apparently injured her back with my slightly generous size. Out of her pain she asked if we could rest to which I denied and out of her anger let go of me to which resulted in me falling into a flower bed to which I checked the next day to make sure it wasn't too badly violate. It wasn't that bad. I, and this what I am told from my girlfriend, then barked at a couple's dog to which the dog did not bark back but I did recieve a funny glare from them.

12:05am: I am undressed, put into bed and fall into a deep and unwakeable sleep.

All in all I'd say it was a successful 21st birthday.

*To anyone who might be reading this who I should highly respect or be wary of their opinions on me, it won't happen again. At least not wantingly.

Year 3: Half done and still no relief

Year 3 of university is the year of the unknown. It is the peculiar stage in a student's life whereby they begin to realise that the hard work is seriously about to kick in. That the midweek boozing sessions are a thing of myth and legend and that dribbling in and out of consciousness during lectures are simply not allowed anymore. Every minute counts and that means prioritising time for work and not intoxication.

On the 7th of December 2015 at approximately 8pm I submitted my final piece of work for the semester, thus shutting the curtains on my first term of third year. My shoulders began to relax and beer freely went down my gullet without a feeling of guilt being attached to it. However, it has been less than 24 hours since this liberating and wonderful experience and I am beginning to come back to the reality that though half of this torrid year is complete, 80% of the work is still ahead of me.



D.I.S.S.E.R.T.A.T.I.O.N


That word.

It sits on the horizon of the new year like a dog turd on the pavement. Obvious. Misplaced. Vile. Yet something that will eventually be trodden on at some point. It is this what worries me the most about my next 4-5 months, to be walking around with something revolting attached to each one of my steps. A something that will have to be scraped of with a stick and with this giving out that most unpleasant smell; shit, shit, and more shit.

My first semester of third year has been one that has been controllable... just.

The biggest difference between my previous years of uni and my third is that there is a lingering waft of guilt that follows any passing of time not spent on reading, writing or planning. That if I were to give myself a break from glaring at a book of heavy, complex and often confusing words,  I am slowly but surely tying a noose around my neck. A neck and a life that can be only saved by one thing.

Responsibility.

Responsibility is the biggest problem of the third year student.

We are, mostly, approaching 21 years of age.

This means that we are well and truly distanced away from the blissfully ignorant days of 18 and that  now we are well informed and aware of what laziness causes.

In my case it will cause a thin, lackluster, and embarrassing dissertation.

A dissertation to which will have a massive influence on my final classification.

A classification that will determine what job I get after university.

To summarise, a number that could either make three years and thousands of pounds of debt worth it, or could slit my throat, break my legs and throw me into the ocean with nothing but a brick to keep me afloat.

It just sucks that even though I have worked harder this term than ever before I know it was, in essence, a prep for the storm. A storm that will begin in mid-January and continue for months until I am nothing but a pool of liquid exhaustion, desperate for a little reassurance that it was all worth it.

Feedback; the hate-filled necessity

I understand that nothing is perfect. 

I also understand that the only way of improving as a writer is through trial and error, failure and most importantly, receiving, appreciating and digesting constructive criticism. 

However, after getting feedback on a piece of university coursework this week, specifically a screenwriting treatment, I find myself feeling frustrated and slightly deflated at being awarded a lower mark than I expected.

What I got was a low 2:1 grade and though I appreciate that in hindsight this is a good mark, I still feel extremely frustrated that something I put everything into, and felt very proud of, was put down.

Never do I submit a piece of work, whether it be university work or not, without being absolutely sure that it is my absolute best. This means that every time I click the liberating but terrifying 'submit' icon, I feel quietly confident that a good mark is to be given back in return for my hard work. 

What I am beginning to find, however, is that the more serious I become about being a writer, the harder I am finding it to take criticism without feeling that it is personal. This is regardless of the fact that A- I find it easy to give feedback to others without it feeling like I am being personal, and B- understanding that never a piece of work, especially creative, is perfect and not in need of improvement. 

Yet as I write this and read over the comments that blights my work, I read each syllable as a dig at my creativity and skill level. 

I almost feel like saying, 'How dare you write this? I wrote it. I created it and to me it is worthy of praise and nothing else'. I feel like an overprotective father defending his child despite knowing that they most probably did do something wrong.

Please don't think for one instance think that I am being big headed as I'm really, really not. I am my own biggest critic and there have been many times I have written, re-written and eventually destroyed my own work out of self-hatred. Many evenings have been spent self-imploding after re-reading my work and coming to the rather abrupt conclusion that I am not to write Shakespeare in one sitting. 

It's a vile and common experience which I am starting to ride rather than fight.

I want to write and be immensely proud of what I have done and scream out my genius to the world.

And I guess this is why this feedback hurts a lot. 

It took me night after night to eventually come up with the plotline and characters that I submitted. And for someone to come along and question the 'world' that I created feels incredibly hard to take.

What I want to know is whether there are tips for taking feedback? Usually, like I said, I am very good at taking it and very thankful to those who give it to me. But on the occasion that you get comments you don't agree with, do you stay stubborn in your own belief that the comments are wrong or do you open the door to their comments and reluctantly allow them to alter your work?

To be honest, I already know the answer but I felt a blog post was the only sort of 'therapy' I had to subsidise the heart-aching reading of the 'feedback'.

Paris attacks; a considered viewpoint

I have wanted to do a post about the awful, shocking and heartbreaking events that occurred in Paris for a little while now. But to be honest, I felt no right to comment on it when it was still so raw to so many.

Why?

Well I guess people say the wrong things when they are angry or upset and I wanted to take it in fully before publishing an opinion on the matter. With subjects such as these, you have to be so wary of others viewpoints and have to, regrettably, respect them. To simply state that we should 'pray for Paris' the day or week after because it is 'just the right thing to do' is both pointless and relatively soft if it lacks any real meaning. We are all human beings after all and we all wish that the events on Friday the 13th had never happened. At least have a bit of substance behind what you say.

I will though admit to changing my profile picture so that it had the French flag on it, a trend that exploded on Facebook after the events. This was simply because of how much I loved the use of it as a symbol. How the flag of a nation ravaged by now two attacks from Islamist ignorance was transformed into a global symbol of hope, resistance and defiance against hatred, bitterness and evil in its purest form. And the way La Marseillaise was the track to this symbol was simply sublime.

I do, however, think we are so obsessed with voicing out our anger and frustration immediately after tragedies that we forget about what we are saying. That naively and subconsciously we use language in a way that to some might seem passionate and motivational but really is just desperate and in some ways worthless.

Now some of you will be thinking 'ahh here we go, English student telling us how to speak properly' and I would totally think the same if I were you.

Sydney Opera House emblazoned with the French Flag

But after reading many posts, articles and columns across the internet in the initial aftermath of the Paris attacks, they all seemed to be hate-filled and fear-fueling.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly the intention of the bastards who think it is appropriate to kill and slaughter in the name of religion. A religion that is followed by many lovely, friendly and wonderful people that I have had the pleasure in meeting.

I cannot be arsed to try and argue why Islam is not a bad religion and why muslims are normal thinking individuals. Mainly because those who will agree with me would already have known this and secondly, and more importantly, that you cannot educate the ignorant by shouting words at them.

Those who hate muslims or are considered to be 'islamophobic' are simply the victims of incomprehension and not had the opportunity to become friends or at least associates with a follower of Islam. It is only then that they will realise that they are exactly the same people as christians, sikhs, hindus, buddhists, atheists etc. All that is different is that they believe in a different god and different ideology. They still wish to say hello and have a chat, crack a joke or be happy. Funnily enough I have not sat down with a muslim and had them shout at me the ins-and-outs of sharia law and why I should hala meat. I'm sure there are those who do do this but I also have atheists who tell me I shouldn't drink and should lose weight. What's the difference?

I guess what I'm trying to say is that we should acknowledge that things are far from perfect but it's like that all over the world. Drought and famine ravages some countries. Disease plagues others. The western world's cancer is extremism.

What we can't do is add stupidity and disgust against individuals. We have more control than those born into poverty and disease. Let us, at least, consider what we say before we say it and try to educate the ignorant before we implode against each other.

The search for a graduate job begins!

It is finally upon me. The exciting and terrifying process which has been on the horizon ever since my first week of freshers year. A week that now feels as close to me as the day I was born.

The searching for graduate jobs and the tediously worked on applications that goes with it.

It sickens me to think that in a years time I will have said goodbye to university and that it will be drifting away from my present time like christmas day to a child on boxing day.

Yet, it also fills me with an enormous thrill. That I could actually come out of uni with a degree in a subject I love and have a job I actually want. 

But you're probably asking; what is the job that I want?

Well...

It is no secret to those who know me that my aim, my plan, my life goal is to become a writer.

Writer in what field?

Well... (again)

I am not entirely sure. At the moment it is between a playwright, screenwriter or a novelist. Maybe all three if I hit a bit momentum. But at the moment, as I am learning to write all three of them, I will wait until I know the ins and outs of all these styles and then pick whichever I am best at. That's on the premise that I am 'best' at one of these. I could eventually be awful at all three and end up reading a lot, ripping up the books at the end exclaiming why can't I be as successful as Stephen King, Dan Brown, Ian McEwan etc..?

But for the time being I am looking into a more certified path of work.

Namely in editing or publishing... or both.

My ideology behind this is if I want to be a writer long term, would could be better for me than learning how to be publishable in the first place? Also, to be able to work with language in this sort of way would be near enough a dream job for me anyways.

Yet as I sit down writing this and feel increasingly impatient that I haven't heard a reply from my first application sent just three hours ago, I begin to realise that though there are hundreds of graduate jobs out there, not many are truly for me.

The world of business and finance is a huge one and seemingly seems to be what engulfs the job market. Not surprising when you really think about it but the sheer scale of dominance it has is truly demoralising.

For example, I spent two hours searching through websites with an eagle eye trying to sieve out the publishing jobs from the marketing, sales, admin, HR and other dry jobs to which I have no interest in whatsoever. And how many did I find?

1.

I found one job that was perfect for me.

An assistant editor at a publishing house in London- I won't name the publishers as you might apply for it and that wouldn't be useful to me.

So with more enthusiasm and excitement than a fat kid in mcdonalds, I tailored my CV, wrote a cover letter and sent off my application. Note: the deadline was Friday so I didn't want to hang about.

Clicking send filled me with such an overwhelming sense of excitement and fear that I had to make myself a brew and take a breather.

I just couldn't believe that someone was going to hopefully read my CV and make a yes or no decision into whether to put me through to the next process. A single person who could either make my day, week, month and year with one click or just place me back in the pit of graduate job websites with not so much as a smile to get me out of.

It's the untold horror of third year in all honesty.

Exams? Coursework? Dissertation? Naa, all of these are under my control. Finding a job? That's going to be up to someone else's judgement.

So if any of you know a grad job for next summer in publishing or editing, give me a hand, shout, break or anything else that you can muster up. That way I will be able to focus on my studies and get a good degree in the first place. A degree I have paid a fair amount for. A degree I would quite like to be able to pay off and use at some point.

The drunk friend.

Every group of friends has that one guy who on every night out, trip to the pub or 'just a couple' session forgets about all the rules and limits of alcohol consumption. Who allows so much booze to fly down their gullets that they physically cannot take another sip without the risk of draining all of their internal organs out of every possible exit. The guy that borderlines being called a full on, fully committed and proud alcoholic.

And here, in the wonderfully awful city of Coventry whereby I study, that is no exception.

In the photo above I present to you our residential vodkaholic. Our boozer cruiser. The hangover master. Aaron Reay.

Now most people reading this might be confused into why I'm writing this in the first place and to be honest I'm not sure either. 

It might be because it's past midnight on a Saturday and I'm bored or the fact that I am genuinely astounded at the level of drinking this man can do, or at least try. Either way it is something worth writing and reading about.

Aaron Reay.

He's the type of guy who usually won't say much. Never be a problem to anyone. But will always, and I emphasis the word always, find the time to come out and socialise with his mates if it involves some sort of mind altering beverage. This is when the usually tame Dr Jekyll will turn into the unpredictable but completely hilarious Mr Hyde, or Reay in this sense. 

To prove my point I will give a very brief summary of last nights antics, which turned out to be one of the more peculiar nights drinking we had had at our favourite pit of pints and shots.

We go to the same pub every Friday of every week of every month. It's cheap, it's cosy and it's where we look forward to being from Monday morning to Friday afternoon. It's where we are in our element and for a certain individual, where he is in his natural habitat. 

Usually we'll leave at around eight pm and make our way to the boozer to get our regular seats. However, on this night a certain someone wished to start early and began guzzling a £2.50 bottle of syrup flavoured wine about an hour before we set off. 

'Aaron what you doing that for?'

>Between gulps of wine< 'Why not? I want to get FACKED up!'

This sentence has been uttered before and every time it leaves his hairy face there is the same evaluation. That no sentence has ever been stated before which has so much truth and certainty to it. If he says he is going to 'get FACKED up', it is indeed what he will do. 

And he did. 

Two hours in I looked across towards the oaf to find him staring at the table, as if he was confused to what it was for. 

'Aaron, you OK mate?'

His head rose and his eyeballs locked onto mine, one at one moment and the other catching up a second later. His face was pink, his cheeks low and he clocked over in his head the question asked. 

'Yes, I'm getting another drink.' < he then finished off his still half full double vodka and lemonade, stood up, stumbled, farted, and wandered to the bar like a pilgrim on his way to the holy grail. He then returned to the same spot he was at before, pity and desperation dripping off him with every stare. 

He stayed like this for a little while and it didn't take long before we wished to test him, to see whether he was capable of continuing or not. 

'Aaron, stick both you feet behind your head!'

This might seems like an utterly bizarre request but with Aaron it is not. He is by far the most flexible person I have met, which is even stranger considering he's a lad of larger proportions, and he has many of times stuck his feet behind his head to prove his flexibility.

Aaron looked up to see a line of faces staring at him, or to him a constant moving wave of heads all with grins and expressions of hope that he would attempt the task.

'OK' was his reply and this answered the first question; is he really really drunk?- Yes, he most certainly is to do this in the middle of a pub.

He then lifted his left leg and with ease and placed his left foot behind his head. 

He then lifted his right leg and began to swerve from left to right like he was on a boat. 

About half way up he needed assistance and we made sure he had the sufficient balance to complete the task. That's the type of friends we are.

Then, to our amazement his right leg, albeit with it being accompanied with another arse burp, suppased his chin and his right foot was behind his head with his left. 

We all felt slightly disappointed that he was able to complete this task as we realised he was perhaps not as drunk as we first hoped. This is not to say we rely on his state of drunkenness to determine the quality of the night, that would be silly... but it does help.

With a sigh we all got back to consuming our pints and chatting away, leaving Aaron locked in the position above. And it didn't take long before the inevitable happened. 

With a giggle, an 'oh fuck' and another arse whisper, his body came crashing down onto the table with such a thud we all felt a level on concern for his wellbeing. But this was not needed because after we all said our 'are you ok's?' we were greeted but his face, smiling like the cheshire cat and full of joy saying 'yes'. We then all let out a sigh of relief. Not that he was OK but because we were correct in our initial predictions. That our vodka champion was, in fact, absolutely battered. 

Third year of uni; the rumours are true!

As I finish up week four of my third and final year of university, I sit down in my room at university reading academia, craving for the Friday night to come sooner than ever before. The Friday night whereby I sit with my housemates and drink infinite pints of £2 crappy beer like zombies all brain-fried and and in need of some reassurance that it's all going to be OK.

As I went through first and second year, I became increasingly aware of the moans and groans of the third years, claiming that we didn't know how good we had it. And to be honest, I didn't take much notice of it. I carried on throughout those two years working at around 80% effort (maybe 70% in first year) and carried on enjoying the mid-week boozing and the relatively controllable workload.

But now as I write this post, I sit at a desk inundated with books that I have read numerous chapters of. Piles of paper with scribbles and notes on. And even a 'to-do list' to make sure I don't steer off track from my studies.

To be frank, it all sucks! There is a level of responsibility upon my shoulders which I have never had to endure before and it is exhausting.

• The endless reading I am having to find and do for my dissertation.
• The planning of my screenwriting, linguistic and career-planning coursework. 
• The searching for graduate jobs. 
• The writing of the novel I am working on.- Strictly not related to third year but work nonetheless.

Myself in a better time

It's relentless!

I can hardly fathom that I have been at university for over two years and that I am finally the 'old student'. The student who I would laugh at in first and second year and almost pity, knowing I had it so much better than them. But somehow, after some sort of hazy dream of drinking and partying, I have woken up to the harsh reality that I am about to complete the most important year of my life. 

I have the pressure that now, in my final year of education, I could possibly make or break my future career. And that if I were to muck it up, there would be thousands of pounds of tuition fees hanging around my like a neverending, always potent fart.

Everything just seems to be in context now and the bareness of my future is so close that it excites me and terrifies me in the sort of way a rollercoaster does. I know it will be worth the effort but there is still a chance I'm going to vomit all over myself in the process. 

Just finding it funny how I once did a post about wishing to be a fresher once more but now, as I look around at the books, notes and endless words, I realise how far off my wish was. Now I beg to be one.

The issue with the Creative Writing class: A student's perspective

Now into my third year of university as a student of  English and Creative Writing, I am beginning to see a slightly concerning trend in my creative writing modules.

I love creative writing and do it constantly. I love the idea of creating worlds and characters and blasting them onto a piece of paper into a beautiful form that can cause sadness, anger, fear, laughter, love or all of them put together. But as a young and still very fresh and naive writer, I look to all of those more experienced than me with a student's eye, whether they wish to teach me or not, to try and improve myself as a craftsman of the written word.

And as I sit going over my notes from my workshop today, a screenplay workshop for all interested, I begin to find that they are almost identical to the mental notes I took from the required reading, suggested and supplied by the university.

I am very fortunate that my university, Coventry University, supplies me with the books to keep. That they didn't say, 'here's a list of what we recommend, dig into your pockets and buy them'.

No, as part of a 'promise' they have they supplied me with all the 'essential books' to read, write in, cry over, tear up or simply leave to collect dust on the bookshelf. All other recommended books are available in the university library to which are obviously free to take out.

And though they are extremely useful, I am beginning question whether the classes are really adding to this knowledge or just regurgitating the words that myself and obviously the lecturers have already read.

For instance, in today's workshop the lecturer was going on about structure and the first step of writing a screenplay. And as I sat and listened, I had a peculiar sense of deja vu.

So, as the naturally vocal student that I am, I said to lecturer, a lovely man by the way, 'ahh as is told by Syd Field in the reading we were given for this week'.

He replied with 'yes, exactly that' for which left me somewhat irritated. At what point does this happen to be a class and not an echo of another man's teaching? I understand that there is a point of explaining the reading for those who may not have understood it or even read it but come on! We are university students in our final year of study. We wish to be stretched and worked, not painted over in the same knowledge that we had read just a day prior.

What I want from a creative writing class is how to use description in the very practical sense. How to get over the obstacles of converting our minds from writing prose to writing actions- this being in the context of the workshop for screenwriting. I want to know how to finish a piece of work and get it out there by someone who has experience of doing it. The lecturer in question is an experienced and professional screenwriter who has so much knowledge that I look at him with envy. This means I want his teachings, not someone else's. I want the blood of the man who is warm in front of me, not the the words of a man that I have already read.

Reading Syd Field's 'Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting' is excellent for this module and it will be read in my own time so that it aids my understanding of what the teacher is saying. What I then want is something extra. Something I believe I am entitled to with myself paying thousands of pounds in tuition fees.

I could give an entire lists of books that I have been given and all of them could be an entire creative writing course for a fraction of the price. All it would require was two eyes, a motivation to improve your skills and a lot practice. (If you wish for me to do another blog with these books and a little description of each one, I would be more than happy to do so; just ask!)

But, regardless of all of this, don't think that my three years of university have been wasted. The feedback I have received from coursework has been vital in reviewing my own work. Moreover, the books and articles that they have given me would not have been found if I was doing this by myself. I just sometimes question whether there could be more done.

Am I right or am I just being a little precious and ungrateful for the teaching I have received?

Alien (1979): A review

Yup, it has taken me 20 years to finally watch one of the most well-known films of the last century but this isn't through purposeful rejection.

To be honest sci-fi films aren't always to my fancy and I usually tend to avoid them unless through exceptional recommendation but with this being a required watch due to a university module on screenplay writing, I thought I'd better give it a watch and see what it was all about.

Here's what I thought of the 1979 classic:

Note, I watched with a 'writer's eye', meaning I looked at it with the words of Syd Field ringing in my ears. Secondly, I watched it with the knowledge that the film was 36 years old and special effects etc. were going to be of a low quality.

Plot:

It's standard, basic and relatively straight forward.

Act 1- A group of scientists are alone and vulnerable in the middle of space.

-A mysterious message leads them to divert their own mission and investigate.

Act 2- The investigation goes wrong and an unknown life form finds itself on board and develops into a killing machine.

- Majority of the film has the character trying to kill the alien in the maze of the ship's tunnels and corridors. Explosions, screams and flashing lights all included.

Act 2 into Act 3- All die apart from one (two if you include the cat) who then kills the alien and gets away, leaving behind a huge explosion and all previous scenery as fragments of dust, floating around in the abyss of space

Follows the three act structure pretty nicely don't you think?

Yet, though it might seem like I am ridiculing the movie as a whole, I wish to do the contrary.

The scene in which the eggs are found and the hatchling flings itself onto the unexpecting investigator; surprising and exciting.

The scene in which the poor man's stomach explodes in an even more surprising rebirth of the initial hatchling; grotesque, macabre and brilliantly original.

The picking off of characters, all by gruesome and horrible deaths; expected and satisfying.

The climax of the exploding ship and the escape of the exhausted and heroic woman, all alone apart from the company of a cat; full of sympathy and relief. However, as a hater of cats, also quite irritating.

Return of the Alien; in my eyes unexpected and refreshing.

Alien finally dies for good; just in time before it got irritating.

All in all, a bloody well structured film which follows a simple and linear plot. Easy to follow but relentless with its entertainment. A film to remember and admire with its use of plot and structure.

Characters:

You have the masculine leader of the ship. A calm and brave man who looks rough on the edges and willing to give his team responsibilities and trust them to do their job. Obviously had to die trying to confront the alien with a flamethrower.

The idiot, who in fact is not an idiot but dies in an idiotic fashion trying to save the cat, a cat that riled me from this point onwards in the film.

The weak and cowardly woman who wishes to leave as soon as the alien kills. Goes onto die in the same fashion, screaming and crying as the alien devours her.

The black man, full of character and likeable from the off. Though the cliche of black men in films is that they die off soon, this one does not. He loses his cool after too many of his colleagues have died, dies in an attempt to kill the alien but does so in a too heated fashion.

The two brits. Obviously one was going to be a robot because a robot so intelligent had to have a british accent. A robot that dies in a decapitation after becoming the villain and the reason the alien got on board in the first place. Who doesn't love a villain with a british accent? And the second who leads the initial investigation and gets mauled by the first birth of the alien. Goes onto die in spectacular fashion with his abdomen exploding in an exceptional scream and the alien first showing itself as its new and deadlier form. Only brits get the best deaths.

And finally the hero, a female of course. Who through careful judgement and bravery, the thought process that only a female could have, somehow avoids the same fate as all the others and survives while making sure the cat comes to... bloody cat.

A list of characters that covers all personalities; always a good addition to a film. Covers all bases if you will.

Overall review:

Like I said before, it does everything right. All the aspects of a good film are in this. Suspense, surprise, gore to a perfect level, fear, excitement and arguably the most important , resolution. The only criticism I could have of this film is that it perhaps comes across as too straightforward and perhaps does not convey enough emotion. I like films which stimulate a bit of sadness in me and throw me off. Films like Saving Private Ryan and The Green Mile always get me in terms of leaving on a sad but happy note at the same time. Interstellar and Inception (my two favourite films) leave me in awe of cinema and bewildered how any writer can be that original and exceptional in their writing.

Alien, however, did not. I felt quite relieved it was over if I'm being honest.

However, saying that, in terms of what and how a film should be in terms of structure and plot, this is perhaps right at the top.

A film to be admired and respected to the highest level.

Story to Screenplay?

Sitting back on a Sunday night and thinking about the mountains of university work I have to trawl through this semester, one certain piece stands out. Not because of its size or perhaps even difficulty in the technical sense of the word but the sheer unknowing of what or how to do it.

A screenplay.

I have gone through university having to write short stories, poetry and even literature for children but the idea of writing a treatment and the first 10 pages of a potential screenplay fills me dread. And here's why.

I know how to communicate plot and character through words. That's obvious isn't it?

But the idea that I have to 'show' it by literally telling the reader what is happening seems bizarre. It feels mechanical and technical, stiff and strict. And what I am beginning to contemplate is whether to take my, so far, rather brief plan of what the plot is to be and first turn it into a short story.

This isn't to say that I would plan to write a short story worthy of publishing in any sense of the word. But something that I can write with the ease and freedom that I have done so many times before and potentially draw out the characters and plot the way I know how.

That way, in my eyes at least, I can read over it and know the characters a little before it comes to writing them as moving and potentially real life beings.

Would this be a good idea or would it perhaps take away what the point of the task was?

Would creating a short story restrict me to see the screenplay as a long, moving and orchestrated piece of art?

All advice would be highly appreciated!

The end of the beginning- Novel update #3

Who would have thought it but somehow we have churned out a prologue and five chapters, all mounting to a word count of around 20,000! This means that after just a few months, we have completed a quarter of the novel and we are now able to reflect on the project as whole.

Just a few days ago I was sat down at my university household and I looked at the 32 pages in front of me with pride and surprise. However, on taking a sip of tea I began to feel a sense of dread as I realised I had to read it all. This is not to say that the thought of reading was a painful exercise. Not at all.

No, I felt dread in spending a good hour reading to discover that what I had read was a load crap.

But to my absolute relief, it wasn't.

It flowed, it developed as a plot, characters were clear and most importantly, it felt like something you could find in any book you'd buy from Waterstones.

Granted, it did have the odd grammatical error and the odd wrong use of punctuation but this was to be expected. In fact, I was surprised at how little the errors occurred.

And now, as I write this, I sit with the chapter 6 plan next to me, looking just as exciting as the others have done, having spoken to Ross last night about our ideas to go forward.

He, Ross, felt much the same to me in regards to how it is progressing and we both agreed to keep on as we have done. Feedback he had received from outside readers was promising and he enjoyed reading the feedback I had received from a former student from Coventry University that I had sent to him.

It just seems that at the age of 20 I have smashed out 20,000 words to which I can be ecstatically happy with and can say is from my own hard work. Moreover, consistently produce a piece of prose which continues with the same writing style and does not disjoint itself throughout.

So many times have I written something which loses itself halfway through and change in terms of style and levels of description etc. It might just be that now, by doing this project, I can say I have developed a style and actually call myself a 'writer'.

But before I get so caught up on what has been done, in the here and now it's just a matter of continuing with what I have done so far and before I know it, I will have a complete novel in front of me.

(ALSO, if anyone wishes to read it and give further feedback, it is possible. Just ask me on here or email me on mjdj99@hotmail.co.uk with the subject header READER)

Paying 5p for a bag?!

Yesterday  I had the wonderful task of making my first weekly food shop on returning to university. My mother's previous supplies had finally run out and I understood I had to make the frankly tedious and infuriating trip to Iceland, the home of 89p pizzas and £1.50 curries.

On arriving I felt a gush of relief as I saw that the supermarket was not filled with its usual customers, the type of people I can only describe as on the waiting list for the show Jeremy Kyle.

Taking a basket in hand, I proceeded in making the most of the £15 in my wallet.

Pizzas, curries, chicken, milk, eggs... you name it. All the bare necessities for the student chef. I even pushed the boat out with a packet of nectarines! (6 for £1 if you're wondering.)

On arriving at the till I was welcomed by a lovely woman who asked how I was. I simply replied with a warm 'thank you, yourself?' and she genuinely seemed surprised I hadn't said 'f-ing this' or 'f-ing that'. I believe this is the usual language of the Coventry locals when asked if they are doing OK.

As she began to move my precious cargo over the till she then looked at me and stated if I wanted a bag, to which I replied with an obvious, 'yes'.

She then cocked her head a little and uttered the words in cautious kindness, 'you know you have to pay 5p for them, right?'

I again nodded back and said, 'yes, that's fine'.

The look of shock that overcame her tired and bland face was simply incredible. She looked at me as if I was Jesus Christ himself and that I had offered her wealth and fortune.

This, if I'm being honest, was a little shocking and not at all what I had expected. So, as the naturally curious being I am, I enquired to why she was so shocked.

This was a mistake.

A barrage of stories came at me like a tidal wave of pain and hurt, begging for sympathy from myself and probably a hug.

Stories of arguments, confrontations and even one man walking out with his shopping in his pockets and under his coat came at me in relentless speed. All because people felt disgusted at paying 5p for a sodding bag!

I nodded and smiled then shook my head and frowned and simply didn't know what to say.

I had read, for what I believed was, the satirical comments on social media and gathered it was just people looking for a cheap laugh.

But now, as I write this, I have become aware that some people are genuinely offended at the prospect of paying for a bag! The same people who would probably be happy to pay £3 for a pint or £60 on a handbag but horrified at the prospect of paying 5p for a plastic bag!

I couldn't believe it and once the poor lady had finished, red eyed and had a gleaming brow of fury provoked sweat, she pittered out the words, 'would you like a bag-for-life?'

I felt almost obliged to buy all the bags-for-life in the world just so she could give them to people for free and not have to deal with the torment she had done. And I very nearly did until she told me the price of them.

75p!

I pitied her but not that much. 5p is one thing but 75p? Come on love, don't take the piss!

Singing God save the Queen at a Polish wedding...

People might be getting a little bored of my endless tweets and posts about my trips to Poland but never have I actually written about them. So, after just getting back from the heaviest 'drinking' session of Poland as of yet, I thought it would be a good idea to share a story of my most recent trip to the land of builders and plumbers.

Vodka

Yup, the rumours are true. They drink bloody liters of the stuff and if were not for the national salary being low, I think it would be used instead of milk in cereal, water in coffee and probably be what fills the swimming pools.

An example of this can be seen when I went to a Polish wedding last Saturday.

An HOUR before the actual ceremony started we had made a 'gate' of balloons to stop the bride and groom from leaving their house. I thought it was all a bit funny until I realised that for them to get past they had to give us two bottles of vodka. They kindly obliged to the tradition and gave us the bottles. I then politely followed tradition and had two shots of the stuff.

After the ceremony, which was a bizarre experience with myself not understanding a word of it, we made our way to the reception in a nearby hotel.

It looked rather similar to an English wedding apart from the food and music being played and what occupied every table. To every three tables was a bucket of ice with two bottles of vodka in it. This most likely added up to 30 bottles(ish).

As we sat down and all necessary announcements were made we had our first shot. About 15 minutes later we then had our second. 20 minutes later we had our third, all of which being poured by myself, apparently its traditional for the youngest lad to pour but I have a suspicion they just wanted to stay seated.

*I should also add that when a bottle finished a new one was put in the bucket, free of course and NEVER did they run out.*

Soon after the first drink the first hot meal came out and we ate and drank, then drank again, then ate again then drank again...

This pattern carried on for at least an hour before the food was eaten and dancing was to begin.

Now dancing in Poland is quite specific in that they have a certain style. Luckily with it being so simple that Stephen Hawking could probably do it, I got up and got involved, my head awash with booze.

I danced with my girlfriend, my girlfriends mother and a few others who wanted some English loving then sat back down where more drinking endured.

I suspect that by this point I had swallowed half a litre of the liquid and was beginning to feel a little weary. However, opposite me was my father in-law who simply raised his shot glass and said 'drink', one of the ten words he knows in English, and whether it was out of pride or fear, I did.

The hours then rolled by, some dancing, some talking and some swallowing the firewater.

At around 12am though, something quite embarrassing happened.

The bride and groom sat down on some chairs in the middle of the dance floor and the DJ began rambling on about something. My girlfriend then whispered in my ear, 'take the bride's shoe and you can win vodka'. Usually I would say f-off! But with my head filled with dizziness and heart filled with dutch courage, I proceeded in taking off the bride's shoe.

It was all very simple and about five minutes later I went out again to receive my prize. The DJ then started talking to me in Polish. I simply replied with 'nie mowie po Polsko', which translates to 'I speak no Polish'. Everyone then started laughing as they realised the English boy could say something in their language. I smiled, mostly out of embarrassment and waited.

The DJ seemed to not realise that I still spoke no Polish and he carried on rambling in all that I could describe as gibberish.

My girlfriend then came out and translated.

Apparently the DJ had asked me if I wanted one or two bottles of vodka. I obviously said two and again awaited my prize, standing with the bride's shoe in my hand and EVERYONE staring at me in amazement.

What followed was something I did not expect.

It turned out that for me to get something I had to give something. This meaning sing something in English.

With myself being rather intoxicated I panicked not knowing what to sing and bless these people with my voice. I had no idea of any song I could sing and thus began singing the only thing I could remember the words to.

'HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!'

Yup, I sung happy birthday with a crimson face and stutter but luckily everyone else seemed to know it and joined in, making my red cheeks go back to their usual colour.

Once I finished I felt a sense of relief knowing that the nightmare ordeal was over.

It wasn't.

Weronika then told me that I had won one bottle of vodka but for me to win the second I had to sing a second song.

I contemplated taking the one bottle and leaving with my head held high but quickly thought 'fu#k it, I want two'.

Full of motivation and alcohol I begin to scream out 'God Save The Queen' hoping someone would join me again.

Turns out Polish people don't know this one and I sang alone, feeling like a right tit. However, when I finished I received a warm applause and cheer and finally the two bottles.

I sat back down, whipped back another shot and stared at my two bottles, feeling as if I had never earnt a drink as much as this. It was a strange feeling but a good one, knowing that when I drunk the vodka, I would remember how I got it.

Now the two bottles sit on my windowsill, looking ready for when I return to uni, reflecting the experience I had. An experience that was most certainly different and daunting but one I loved and respected, even if I can't remember most of it.


Oh and the bride got her shoe back...

Wishing I was fresher once more!

In about a month's time I shall be heading back to the Costa Del Cov and starting my third year of university. It is unbelievable to think that I am now at my final year and that two years of uni life are now behind me. But as I reflect on what has happened in the last two years and look ahead to what is to be a hard working third year, something quite prominent comes to mind.

I want to be a fresher again!

With my younger brother being accepted into university, I am finding myself going through a sort of deja vu phase. The applying for accommodation, the fears of making mates, the joining of numerous facebook pages about freshers week; all reminds me of myself two years ago. But what I never anticipated was how amazing first year was going to be. And I don't think it is until now that I fully realise how amazing it really was.

I have to admit my nerves were very low. I had become quite bored of my surroundings and was craving some sort of new experience. Something that put me out of my comfort zone but also allowed me to enjoy the independence. I wanted to get drunk, play rugby and just not give a shit about anything too serious. And I did!

Fresh faced as fresehers

I was lucky enough to make mates extremely quickly at uni. In fact, within 20 minutes of moving in I bumped into some lanky twat from Manchester who was trying to meet someone who was on my floor. This lanky twat is still living with me as I go into third year. Myself, the Manc and a lass from Barnsley all then ventured out onto our first night of freshers with myself not understanding much of what they were saying.

The Manc and I pretending to pull

What followed was a blurry fortnight of endless drinking and hungover lectures. The three of us became good mates as we tried to take Coventry by storm and along the way we assembled a group of about 10 who all lived in the same Halls, the majority of us still being best mates to this day.

The rest of the year continued in this fashion apart from going out 2-3 times a week instead of 7. I also joined the university rugby union team and this took a majority of my time, either by training or playing or getting ridiculously paralytic at socials. I was in my eyes, living the dream.

However, within about a month or so, the first coursework deadline came up...

It hit hard amongst the group that we were actually at uni for a reason; to get a degree.

Quickly everyone got their heads down and cracked on. For me, my first essay was entitled 'Discuss to what extent Carr's style of delivery reflects the features discussed in the chapter on humour in Thorne's Book Masting Advanced English language.' 

The formality of the title made my bowels move in an unnatural way and I dreaded the thought of writing an academic essay. It required me to learn a new format of writing, a new approach to researching articles to support my argument and the worst of all, CU Harvard Referencing! <I won't explain this, it will either bore you or terrify you but in essence, it is as about fun as having to witness your genitalia being removed.

I worked extremely hard on this and just about got a first in it. However, what we all then realised was that first year didn't go towards our degree and all we needed to do was pass, this being an achievable 40%. We then went into every essay slightly more lighthearted and knew that we didn't need to be too concerned with it. This is certainly not the case anymore.

Work has taken absolute priority over everything else and it means that sometimes I do need to say 'sorry guys, can't come out. Got work to do'. Granted this is rare but I worry that this is to become the norm when I'm in third year. 

I miss the days of being able to think of when we could next get drunk and not whether I have done enough work for the day. I miss the relaxing nature of going to lecturers, knowing you didn't need to give absolute focus in them to know what's going on. I miss thinking, 'I've got two more years of uni left!' But most of all I miss being a fresher in general. I want to be reckless in my actions and free of any care of judgement upon me. I guess now all I can do is look at the freshers of 2015 with envy and hatred, knowing the little shits won't appreciate the position they are in.

So far so good!- Novel update #2

With chapter three having been just sent off for reading and re-drafting, I thought it would be a good time to reflect on how the whole process is going now we have gotten through the first few chapters.

The baby steps have now been taken and we are finally beginning to jog. 

That is probably the best way I can describe it without trying to sound annoyingly articulate and cliche. Myself and the individual who I am writing for, his name being Ross for future reference, have gotten a bit of rhythm now. We seem to have found a good middle ground on how we are going to go about writing this novel and set ourselves a little plan.

Every two weeks I send him a chapter for which he would have given me a plan for. He then reads over it, highlights bits he likes and dislikes and tells me what he wants changing, sometimes this is over email or text, sometimes it is over the phone. We then niggle away at the finer details of the chapter until we both are happy with it. Then the whole process happens again.

I have to admit that when it came to chapter one I had a level of pessimism about it, a pessimism I was then told was not needed. It wasn't so much I thought Ross was going to rip me apart with criticism but more if I was actually able to write something of a decent quality consistently over a few thousand words. Hearing that I could was a massive lift and meant going into chapter two I had a higher level confidence than I did before.

The feedback from chapter two was again very good. He said that 'out of all you have done so far, I am happy with 97% of it, the rest are just little things on my part'. Now for the more irritating few out there, 97% could be deemed as a 3% loss, these being the type who get an A in a GCSE and cry about not getting an A*. I was the type however who was quite happy with a B which meant on hearing this news it left me feeling ecstatic. Mainly because it meant I wasn't crap but also that I had given Ross what he wanted, a man who has put a lot of faith and time into me.

Now that chapter three has been completed, the longest and toughest one yet with it standing at over 5000 words, I await the feedback with an element of excitement, looking forward to seeing how it can be improved. Furthermore, I am even beginning to think that this novel is starting to take shape and look like a real project.

So as I await his reply on my work I feel happy with the progress so far and truly feel like a writer with his work going in the right direction. 97% right in my case.

What if uni hadn't happened?

It's late, I have an eight hour shift tomorrow and I am hovering over my laptop like some confused monkey trying to write down the correct words in a sort of correct order.

Why?

Well it seems to be that at this desolate hour every night, I find myself thinking about a lot of things and it has occurred to me that I usually don't write these thoughts down, something I have been told to do. This being by my Creative Writing lecturer at uni, not a therapist. And not like a diary for that matter before people claim I have a little notebook with all my deepest secrets in.  

Tonight I have stumbled upon a particular thought that has become more and more prominent over the last twelve months; the future. 

On reflecting back on two amazing years at university I have realised something rather important, that I have actually learnt something. And before you go, 'Ah yeah, funny that, being at uni and all...', not all of it was what I was expecting to have done as an enthusiastic fresher two years ago. Of course I have learnt about literary realism, the stylistic analysis of language and other peculiar sounding topics you don't care about. But all these are relatively minor in comparison to one thing. That I am now at an age where I have a clearer understanding of what I want to do in life. The clearest idea that I have ever had in fact. And this is not necessarily because of what my degree has taught me, though it has influenced it greatly, but through maturity and interaction through others from all over the place. I have begun to understand that there is so much out there. That the safe and rhythmic life of back home is just a grain of sand that, frankly, is boring and plain. I now realise home is great but not the greatest and that the wetherspoons pub I find myself in often is quite simply, shit.

The security of back home was something I always loved and still do. But now I feel that I'm actually ready to go out into the real world and make something of myself, after one more of year of reckless drinking at uni that is.

What I want to do specifically in terms of career... I am not sure. But I do know that I want to be a writer. Preferably a novelist making millions, selling my stories to film and living the high life. If that doesn't work out then I will be happy to just write the odd novel, hopefully get published and become a name a few know and like.

It just all seems to me that I have only just properly come to this conclusion. That it is after two years of living in a city miles from home, meeting people from all over the place that has helped me come to this decision. A decision that I was expected to have some sort of inkling of at the age of 16 or 18. An idea that is worrying to think I would not have had if I hadn't gone to uni or got in, I would perhaps never have know what I wanted to do.

Bit of food for thought when you think about the millions of others who could have possibly missed that time in their life whereby they get a real idea of what they want in life. I'm not sure if that makes me lucky, mature or just someone who has made a decision about their life. All I know is that for the first time in my life, I am absolutely grateful for the experiences I have had that lead me to this point now.

Pretty deep I guess.

Some serious writing commences- Novel update #1

Now that the prologue and chapter one have been completed, I had the idea of keeping a sort of diary, a blogdate if you will, of how the novel is progressing. This is for the reasons that I can share with those of you who are reading this in how it is going and also that I can sit back and reflect on my work in pride, though I am  merely 5,000 words in with 75,000 to go...

I have to admit that the prospect of writing something as gargantuous as a novel was first of all exciting. To be able to hold an actual book of some density and say I DID THIS! was the immediate appeal. The idea of creating a story for someone to read, characters to divulge into and provide a revolutionary book of deep meaning and purpose,yada yada yada... that was nice but not all too important at the time.

It was not until I began writing chapter one that nerves began to kick in like a kick in the bollocks. Both painful and unnecessary.




Chapter 1 is done!(ish).

The first draft of chapter 1 is done. It has been sent off to the guy who's given me the opportunity to do this for his feedback and redrafting. Though this is not to say that it was as easy as sitting down and typing away.

To summarise...

700 words in I restarted. 300 words into the second attempt I thought it was all crap and deleted it. On the third attempt I followed the pattern of a novel of the same genre and it off started much better. Then everything started to go inside out, inside in, outside in and outside out,

Tense began to confuse me, words began to confuse and life became a big disappointing piece of shit when I realised that writing something like this was not going to come out of me like air. Every word I typed seemed wrong. My description felt cheap and cliche. The way I hit the keys on the keyboard felt wrong. And all this in the first chapter!

I felt demotivated and stupid. As if I shouldn't have taken on this project. But I laboured on and eventually finished it.

I was happier with it than I imagined. It started to read like a novel and something a little greater than my previously thought skill level. So before I started to question what I had done, I gave it a quick once over for spelling etc and deemed it was ready to send. Happy with my resilience and first breakdown recovery.

When it came to clicking to send, I was terrified and hesitant. More than sending off any piece of coursework I have done at university where things such as a plagiarism, failure, embarrassment or some other life threatening result could occur. And even though I knew I was sending it to someone who would give me quality feedback and do it in such a manner that I wouldn't collapse emotionally and destroy every piece of creative work I have ever done, I still felt an air of pessimism as it came up with 'Sent'.

Almost immediately he replied saying that he would get round to reading it in the next couple of days when he found some time and that he was greatly looking forward to it.

I was happy with this, knowing I could rest my mind from the novel for a couple days and focus on doing nothing.

However, to my surprise, two hours later he emailed me again.

His name popped up on my phone and a sense of dread filled me, not knowing why he felt the need to email me again.

Thinking the worst, I read on.

'Matt. Couldn't resist it and had to read it tonight. My first impression - I love it! Really well done.'

I cannot begin to describe the relief felt and looking back, I did not have any particular reason to be really worried. I had sent him my best work and with all my effort put into it. But I always prepared myself for the worst so that anything above this would lift me into a cloud of complete ecstasy.

I was and am still on that cloud.

My writing style was correct. My understanding of what he wanted was bang on. My added story fillers worked. Everything was spot on.

I now am awaiting for his feedback, which he promised would be minor, so that I can alter it to final copy. Then within the next couple of days I will begin chapter two. A chapter I am now far more confident about approaching.

 So to conclude I have finally taken the first major step. Now it's time for me to learn to jog.

The difference between a student bar and a Spoons pub.

Being home from uni is great. Home cooked food, your own bed, seeing your family, no bills or rent to worry about, internet that works... the list is endless. But one thing that changes significantly is the social life.

Uni seems to be its own little world. It doesn't conform to the usual day-to-day rhythms of life. Sleeping patterns are disjointed and a complete myth. A healthy diet is restricted to those who have a budget that can afford a weekly intake of fresh fruit and vegetables. The uni household will very rarely have an internet speed above 2mbps, ours was actually recorded at 0.4 at one point. Alcohol seems to be cheaper than water and the student bar becomes a second home. Just a blurry pit of booze infused dreams and alcohol driven confessions of opinions or happenings in life which should never be brought to surface. I will admit to being the one guy of the group who is particularly partial to exclaiming a particular emotion towards another individual. This it not to say I regret it.

Back home, or in my case at least, the most common place for a piss up is the local Wetherspoons pub, 'The Oxted Inn'. It provides cheap beers, cheap food and a relatively comfortable setting. However, there are significant differences between getting pissed up at a student bar and getting trollied at a spoons.

The student bar is described in a previous blog but if you have not read it, and why wouldn't you have?!, here is a very brief outline. It is cheap and it is the only point of the week a student is actually content with life.

The Wetherspoons (or spoons as it is commonly referred as) is in itself a different level of pub. The theme of cheap booze still follows as with the student bar but with it comes 'non-students'. Most of them are fine. They are usual people with usual lives working usual jobs with a usual view on life. Some, however, are not.

For example...

You have the 'lone ranger'. This is the person who simply sits by himself with a pint and makes no act of humanly function. He (and it usually is a he) simply sits with one hand on his pint, his other resting on the bar and stares aimlessly into the abyss of the predictable furnishings of a spoons pub. He only moves to take a sip of alcohol or to purchase another. This is it. You don't pity the Lone Ranger because you know he is content with life. Not happy, not sad, just content.

There is the 'self-communicator'. This individual is similar to the Lone Ranger in that he or she (usually he) is sat by himself with an alcoholic beverage. Yet this remarkable being is able to give himself such wonderful company. He will stare at his pint muttering to himself before shouting a word or phrase out in a reply to his muttering. This goes on for hours and provides a humorous but slightly concerning watch. He will have no concern over anyone else in the pub but himself. He will firmly believe that his conversation is quite alright and that no others input is needed. I should add that this person is normally a raging alcoholic and doesn't begin his chattering until he is a few pints down the line.

Now the groups you get are normally pretty universal in any spoons pub. You have the work colleagues, self-explanatory.

You have the students who are either studying closely or back from studying having a catch-up with others whilst on uni break.

You have the teens.  The teens are those who have just turned the legal age for alcoholic consumption and think they are the kings of banter and booze and have all the knowledge into getting wavy; I absolutely detest this word by the way but some people think it is in fact an appropriate term for getting drunk.

You have the alcoholics. They are usually in at opening and long gone before the evenings comes about. Strength in numbers seems to be their motto as they are always in a group of 3-7.

There is the 'family'. This is normally an innocent family who have come in a little too late to get a bite to eat and the parents watch on in horror as the pub floods with people ready to get drunk ASAP. They try to continue normal conversation but it is usually hopeless. They just urge their innocent and perfect kids to eat up so they can leave the abomination they find themselves in before shaking their heads as they leave.

Perhaps the most irritating group is what I like to call 'The Wankers'. The wankers are those with a ridiculous haircut and a dress sense which consists of tight jeans, Nike Roshes and some fancy designer top that they have grossly overpaid for. They are often laughing at other groups so that they can inflict they superiority over the pub. They think they are god's gift to women and thus a complete wanker. They spend their nights either discussing how amazing a lads holiday was four years ago or what female they have recently had sexual relations with.

This mixture of people is not usually seen in a student bar, everyone is there after a week at uni and just wants to get drunk. At a spoons the motives for drinking are completely varied. That is not to say either are better or worse. I love both the student bar and the Spoons. But the biggest difference is that I hope to be only in the spoons during my 20s. Any later and I might become the Lone Ranger or worse, the Self-communicator.

Writing a novel?

Well then...

I will try to make this as brief as possible.

About a month ago I received an email through university about an opportunity to help assist writing a novel. It was incredibly brief and asked for a bit of information about myself, some of my influences and what I thought about the opportunity.

The person who sent the email, Ross, then replied with thanks for the email and gave a bit of information about himself and the project. The novel would be his ideas, plot, characters etc. with myself having the freedom to write in my own style and have my name on the book. Percentage of profits were discussed but obviously that is not for you to know. Money is not the motivation for this at all but let's face it... it sweetens it a little. If the first novel were to go as well as we hope, it would then go on to be trilogy and then on to film.

A couple of emails later, he asked for a small passage of some of my work. I sent him a small piece from a Short Story Coursework assignment I recently did. He found it of a good enough quality to then send me through to the next stage of selection. This was for myself to write out 2 out of 3 scene descriptions he had sent me. One was a car crash, one was a fight scene and the last an emotional dilemma. I did the emotional and car crash scenes. I was lucky enough to have some amazing support from some friends at uni and they gave my work a look over for spelling mistakes and some opinions before I sent it off.

Nervously I waited for a few days for a reply and a few days later he did.

He said that he found my work engaging, saw great potential in me and wanted to work with me if I was interested in committing. I waited a day or two to reply, didn't want to seem too keen, and said yes. He then asked for a day and a phone number to have a chat.

We have since then had a chat and planned out everything. He gave a brief overview of the plot and it all appealed to me immensely. He has sent me some books through the post for me to read from the same genre as our novel will be to have an idea of how it is usually written.

The aim is that in 12 months we will have crafted and perfected a novel that will be published. I do understand the difficulty in getting published, I'm not that naive. But hearing about the connections he has and having two minds work on a novel instead of one, it all seems very promising.

I have beaten others across the country to this opportunity and extremely excited to say that I will be writing a novel!

Writer's Block!

It's late. Like far too late for someone who has to be up early and pack for the tedious routine of moving back home from uni. However, after two heavy nights of drinking and this resulting in late wake-ups, my body clock has decided to give up on me. 

I thought that this would be a good time to write. The silence of the house, the nostalgia that fills me as I think of my second year at uni, the issues of other things, it all feels rather inspiring. I have my Word document up as I read over a short story I did a few days ago and begin to hate myself for writing something dreary and static. With every word that I felt myself to be a genius with, another layer of disappointment mounts up at how wrong I was. Writing has always been something I have had some interest in but only in the last few months have I actually tried to sustain a constant flow of creative works.

It is now that I have hit that elusive and immovable wall. Writer's block.

I have tried writing something new but found that it is more useful spilling my anger out onto my blog. It feels that with every word that goes down, a new fragment of frustration goes down with it. When I am 'in the zone' I actually write with a positive and excited attitude. Now I am just spitting words out of a dry mouth, hoping they will elude the bland nature that sticks to them and actually create something interesting. 

My hope was wasted.

I am now reading over a shrinking paragraph. Each re-read cuts another 5 or 6 words until it is a lonely sentence. So far I have mustered up 'Darkness had placed his hand over the city that night. Without a trace of sympathy he latched himself onto every surface and sucked out the colour like a leech. Slowly the buildings and roads merged into one hole and the man with a box for a home fell into it.' 

To me it just feels like a cliche, boring and amateur lump of turd that I was sceptical putting on my blog in the first place. I can safely say this is the most frustrated I have been whilst writing. I know I am naive 20 years of age and will have to accept that these moments will happen again and again but I would really appreciate some advice.

The beginning of the end?

The craziness of the last few days in Baltimore, USA, has made me seriously think if the recurring riots are to become larger, more common and more violent.

Firstly, I am not going to claim that riots are a good thing and I am not going to state that they are unjustified. I do not wish to offend anyone who feels passionately about this subject and I am merely expressing an opinion on what is going on.

On Monday 27th of April there was a funeral for Freddie Gray, a 25 year old black man who died in police custody. What has followed from this are protests in Baltimore. These protests then developed into violent riots. These riots are protests against the law enforcement's handling of black Americans and what they believe to be racist acts. Again, I am not completely informed on this matter and only taking my information from news websites.

Now as a British citizens we are only given information from British broadcasters. This means that the information might be filtered or altered in some way. However, as a human it is incredible to watch what is happening over there. The videos of looting, fighting and conflicts between law enforcement and African-Americans are terrifying. When you look at these videos you can't help to compare them to something out of some apocalyptic film not a democratic nation of the west.

Riots are awful regardless of their motive. The destroying and burning of buildings, the looting of shops and beating up of pedestrians is completely wrong. However, what these rioters are doing is getting the publicity they crave.

Peaceful protests are always the correct way to express an opinion. However, do you honestly think the world would be looking upon Baltimore and the corruption that seems to curse America if they simply walked down a street holding a few banners? Are riots a violent and inhumane act or an explosion of frustration at the result of being patient for so long?

There is obviously a huge issue in regards of police treatment of ethnic minorities in America and there are statistics that support this. What concerns me is whether this issue is genuinely being addressed or just forgotten about until another riot happens.

America seems to only pay attention to itself when it starts imploding. We saw it before when Ferguson was declared in a state of emergency. Now it is happening in Baltimore and you can guarantee it will happen again.

What I question is if this will get sorted or just get worse and worse?

Just imagine the riots we see in the news erupting to national level. The worlds biggest superpower will literally fall to pieces. A country that prides itself on equality, democracy and the 'American Dream' will become a land of civil war. I understand this is incredibly far-fetched and a little ridiculous but it does concern me how violent a nation can come after being sparked by one particular death. If there is a building of frustration amongst American ethnic-minorities, when will it eventually surface? There seems to be so much pain in America that is hidden to the rest of the world that it makes you question how free this 'land of the free' is?