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...