Not another Je Suis...

This morning I woke up feeling relatively worried about the day. I had a script to redraft, a recording of the script to do with no actors to do the acting, dissertation work to do, a 9am lecture, and a literature workshop which was going to be relatively difficult to get through without being wrong at some point.

But at around 8:30am, every a worry I had, every concern or stress I felt lingering in my stomach evaporated into nothing as a wave of dread, fear and sadness put my my worries into context.

At 8:30am I saw the news that Brussels had been attacked by terrorists. NOT by refugees but spineless, cowardly, delusional terrorists. It left me feeling deflated that it had happened again and that so many people's lives had been ripped apart, simply because they were living their everyday routine.

Yet again, the first words on many people's lips are of hatred and revenge, fury and death.

People seem to forget that at the heart of this people have died. That human beings wanting to get on a plane or a train have been murdered and that now, even as you read this, families are still unaware if their loved ones are coming home or not. Mums, dads, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, and wives will be at home, frantically trying to get hold of someone that they believe might have been affected by or near the attacks. Yet they can't get through so they excruciatingly wait to get a phone call from them. A wait that could last an eternity.

Today give sympathy, revenge and hatred can wait for tomorrow.

Katie Hopkins tweeted earlier today that it was the country's allowance of refugees that had caused the attacks.

Regardless of what you think of the columnist and personality, this was a bitter, ignorant and insensitive remark. Branding all refugees under this huge deadly brush will not help solve the problem. It will simply push readers to forget that refugees are forced out of their home nation because of conflict. Terrorist are not the same as refugees. Terrorists are bastards who go out their way to instil fear and death amongst the world. Refugees are victims of death and fear.

Closing the borders to refugees and migrants won't stop terrorists blowing up airports. To be honest, I don't know what can be done to stop their ignorant hate. All I know is that throwing at hate at them will be putting fuel onto the fire.

My feelings right now are not of hate but simply of sadness.

If you wish to blame the events on something, blame it on the INDIVIDUALS.

I've said it a million bloody times that extremism is not acted out by muslims or refugees but of INDIVIDUALS who wish to spill blood.

Whether it's in the name of Allah, God, the Pope or the fucking Tooth Fairy, don't be so naive to blame a single entity. Killing is not a natural, humane action that the human being wishes to do in order to make a point. If it was none of us would be alive now.

If you are to do anything right now, don't go out of your way to tarnish everyone under the same brush.

Recognise that though they might claim to act out of religion, they are motivated by a delusional, brain-washing ideology, thrown upon vulnerable uneducated individuals.

Feel sympathy now, save hatred for tomorrow.

Appreciating the necessity of not caring.

Throughout your younger years of life you truly obsess over the opinions over others. You wish to fulfil a certain criteria that perhaps makes you acceptable within school or a community.

But what I'm learning at the age of 21 is that who really cares about what others think?

I know, I know!

This sounds like the corny kind of post that an American hipster might post about living life how you want and not conforming to the restraints of society.

But hear me out.... or don't if you are beyond my opinion and point of view.

Writing.

For those of you who are not aware, writing is what I love to do and want to do as I get older.

What form?

Well any form really. I'm currently finishing up a novel of 80,000 words which I'm co-writing. I've written a short play. I've adapted this into a radio drama. I've written numerous short stories. I've written the first act of my own feature film screenplay. I've written well over 25 newspaper columns for the Croydon Advertiser paper expressing views about Crystal Palace FC. And blogs, if you weren't aware.

So yeah, I've been pretty busy and attempted to communicate through different 'arts' of writing.

But for me to actually post them out on social media and state 'I like writing!' took a while.

I was concerned about others thoughts about it.

A guy that likes to write? That's a bit gay isn't it? (Note: I'm not using gay as a term I deem acceptable, it's just one I've heard used about the idea of writing.)

Well if you think it's 'gay', and I know some of you reading this would have automatically thought this, then that's fine. But you are so, so wrong to think so.

It was only when I hit around 20-21 that I started to not be bothered about whether people knew I liked to express my thoughts through words, whether it be creative or not.

*Bloody hell, this is starting sound like a 'coming out' post. Kind of ironic ey?

There's a level of maturity that you get when begin to finish up uni- yeah even me!

There's the sort of understanding that regardless of what people say or think or do, just do whatever you like to do and not care about what others think about it.

In fact, when I've posted short stories on Facebook or Twitter etc. I've had people message me saying they really liked it. People I didn't even think would have read it. And to me, a guy who simply writes with the hope just one person reads it, let alone likes it, this is so uplifting.

So what am I trying to get at?

I guess to those of you who might wish to write, paint, sing, dance, shout, cry or whatever; just do it and let people know you're doing it.

People will think that it's odd or strange at first but you will find people who genuinely get what you mean.

If you are truly bothered about what people think then ask yourself why.

There's far bigger things to worry about then whether some dick who you never talk to anyway thinks it's strange.

Do that then all sorts of pressure will be released.

The bleak outlook of post-uni; a contradiction of a previous post.

I'm going to be honest with you, my previous blog post about being excited about leaving uni might have been a little too soon. As I approach the final few weeks of university I begin to feel an odd sense of being completely lost.

That when the curtain falls on three years of life dedicated to studying I will be placed in the raw, unforgiving terrain of reality. 

It feels as if university has been the safety net for me for the last five years of my life and that when that goes, even though  I will have a degree printed onto my CV, it will be just a few words expressing that I am educated in the subject of English. That really, I will be put into a world that I have quite a lack understanding of.

Why such a bleak outlook?

Well I've always felt quite confident that once university finishes I will have a job, a career, a direction. Yet I type this after months of job applications and still nothing has come my way and I'm about to be placed in a situation that I hate. 

A situation which lacks security, both financially and metaphorically. 

I'm not saying that money is why I'm typing this but I've always prided myself of being rather good with money and that no matter the situation I will have some sort of fund to fall back on.

And though I still have some sort of cushion, I'm horrified at the thought I'm having to look for money as if it were water in a desert. 

There's a common feeling amongst students that money is there and that it's a precious 'thing', like a living being that if you use it too much you will be guilty of murder and well and truly fucked. 

Now before people get all judgemental and say 'Matt, there's jobs out there' or 'you're not the first person to face failure or search for a job' or the really irritating one 'just do what you want, man. Be happy and live', consider this. 

You've been a student for three, maybe four years. You have friends back home who have solid jobs. They can afford rent without the needing of a student loan. They know that if a laptop breaks, a shoe gets a hole in it or even they have a week they can do something to sort it out. You, the student finishing uni, however, don't have that ability. No, you might have to simply go without a computer. You will just have to endure soggy feet. You might, even after a horrific week, might not be able to have a pint to drown the sorrows. 

For me money is a terrifying prospect. 

I cannot stand the thought that there is no line between how much is enough to live on comfortably or not. That from now on there is a constant struggle to get more money or outdo yourself. 

Like, how much should I be earning once I find a job?

I have friends saying that £20,000 per year is not enough for a uni graduate. On the other hand I have friends who have worked their arses off for 3 years just to get to that salary. I have friends who have jobs lined up paying £30,000 and I have friends who know they will have something to fall back on if all else fails. 

Me?

Well I don't really know. I've applied for at least 20 jobs in the last few months, all graduate roles and more will be applied for in the coming weeks. How many have I heard back from? Approximately 4, maybe 5 because for some reason it's OK for employers to not let you know if you've been unsuccessful. I'm lingering in some sort of balancing act, not being sure whether to jump onto one oppurtunity or wait for something better. At the moment I'm just taking up every chance I can get. 

At the moment though, there is a vile feeling that come mid-summer I could be still searching for a job, still questioning whether I really know what I'm doing.

Maybe it's arrogance that I'm demanding a job that I actually want and requires something from my degree. Or maybe it's the student's right to be that stubborn. A student who's worked hard for the job he/she desires, or at least a position that leads to that.

Don't be anti-immigration and not pay attention to the EU referendum!

It's funny really that those who know very little about certain fields tend to be the loudest. That regardless of their education, social understanding or even age, they can convey an opinion that is usually exaggerated or outright wrong. But there seems to be a lot less of it at the moment with regards to the rather important topic of the EU, from the everyday citizen that is. The media, however, are going all out on highlighting the MPs who have a 'big say' and the pros or cons of leaving the European Union.

When the two Paris attacks took place social media exploded with views and opinions which were usually hurtful, wrong or out of place. When the Lee Rigby attack happened there were outcries of the danger of Islam. When Adam Johnson pleaded guilty of one count of sexual activity with a 15 year old and one count of grooming the UK went crazy over the professional footballer's disgusting crimes.

But with something as important and defining as the upcoming EU Referendum, people seem to be pretty quiet.

Why?

Because it seems that people are only bothered in having a go at others rather than discussing something as vital as whether we stay or leave in the EU, or is that too dreary to discuss? I hate how those who claim we are bombarded with immigrants will not take the time to do a little reading and find out how we could sort these issues out, even though we are not bombarded with immigrants and refugees. I hate the only reason people would vote for leaving would be because of border control. I hate how some claim that we'd be 'fine by ourselves' when they don't know what that even entails. Bust most of all I hate blatant ignorance over the whole matter.

I've chatted many times with friends at uni about whether leaving the EU or not would be beneficial. Not in some sort of open fire, pipe smoking, 'Hmm yar, yar' sort of way but just in general chit chat. None of us know the proper ins and outs of the consequences of what it would mean to leave or stay but it's nice to think that we are at least respecting it as a major step in the UK's history.

Granted the EU is a topic that is filled with endless questions and answers but surely it should be something people should be taking more seriously?

I'm not pro Brexit and I'm not pro staying in either.

To be honest, I'm not sure what I am but that's merely because I'm still weighing up both sides. If you aren't aware of the sides then it might help to do a google search and do a bit of reading.

If you genuinely don't care then that's fine too.

I have absolutely no issues on whether someone doesn't give a toss into whether we go or not. But if you are someone who moans about issues that could be solved by either staying in or leaving the EU then don't bother moaning if you aren't going to educate yourself.

Do that first and then maybe you can put a little more substance to your naive, irritating and pathetic argument.

What it's like writing a novel at 21.

This blog post has been created to serve two purposes.

1. To give a bit of an insight into what it's been like writing something as large and complex as a novel at the tender age of 21. An age in the writing world that means I am practically a foetus.
2.  Gives me the perfect excuse to take a break from uni and novel work as I trudge through it in the university library.

So...

For the majority of those who know me, you will know that since May last year I have been writing a novel for someone else. A ghostwriter if you so wish. However, I have far more of an active role in plot and actual communication of plot than the conventional ghostwriter. I am in essence the 'chief writer' of a project that will end up with a fully working, hopefully publishable novel.

If you are a writer or a reader you will understand that a novel is not a small thing. It is a large, sometimes extremely complex work of prose that has not only taken an enormous amount of imagination but a mind boggling amount of time too.

As a writer, I like to consider myself one anyways, the novel is the most difficult thing to get absolutely right- this is debatable however. In my eyes the novel is the forefront of writing and the most influential weapon in a writer's arsenal to show intelligence, talent and skill. Nothing requires more grit, determination, blood, sweat and tears than a 70,000+ worded piece with every word being considered.

So what's it like to write one at the age of 21?

Well some of you reading this might think, what's the difference between writing a novel at 21 or 61?

A fair question but one that has a rather basic answer.

Lack of experience. This being in both reading and writing.

Of course I've read plenty of novels but unfortunately I have not had the same amount of time to read as many as a 61 year old. To be a successful writer you need to have a read a vast amount of books to both appreciate the good stuff and be aware of the bad stuff.

Another point is that a 61 year old has had the time to write a considerably higher amount of work than myself.

I've written short stories, blog posts, a script, part of a screenplay etc. But this amounts to nothing if I have not written a gargantuan amount. The ONLY way of improving as a writer is by writing. Simple as that.

So when I went into this project I certainly felt an air of pessimism around me, as if the world was quietly reminding me that I am not quite ready for something as large as this, especially as I am in third year of university too- a bleak and rather vile period of life at times.

But as I finish up chapter 14/20 and the end comes into sight over the horizon, I feel quite pleased at how it has gone.

Obviously I am aware that there is fair amount to go but I am very pleased with how it has gone so far.

The biggest thing I've learned is that it IS possible to write something this large. All it takes is a little perseverance and a lot of patience.

There have been times when I've sent my work off to get reviewed by the 'rights owner' and he has come back and said in polite terms that it is not what he wants.

Now you could argue that if he didn't get what he wanted then he should have done it himself but you need to respect that he is the one who is demanding a level of quality and is only pushing you to get better.

The biggest and by far the best thing I have learnt is how to accept feedback and apply it. There is nothing worse than reading over the comments of your own work and finding out they didn't in fact think it was the work of genius that you thought it was. As soon as you learn that and even become able to critique your own work, you take a big step into becoming a better writer

Patience is another skill I've learned, or a virtue if you like.

Re-reading the same chapter 7-10 times is dreary, frustrating and takes you one step closer to absolute madness. But of course it is necessary. Without doing this you never iron out the spelling mistakes, plot errors or cumbersome passages of text. It is painful and does make you question whether you can actually do it but trust me, do it and you feel great for it. Don't and you might as well draw a big cock over your work.

I will, most likely, never read the novel from beginning to end, if it ever gets published that is. Simply because I don't think I could read something I wrote without feeling slightly embarrassed. The same way watching a video of yourself makes you cringe. This isn't to say that I don't think the novel will be a compelling read. Of course it will be. I've just read it about 300 times by the time it's finished. But to open and maybe read a passage every here or there would be quite a nice activity. Just because it will remind me of the pain and torture it was to create it but at the same time the pleasure and pride it was to do so too.

Petitions: Hear me out and read it first!

Well...

Granted it's been a while since I expressed an opinion, revealed a drunken story or made some other statement which is usually invalid to most people's views or understandings, but I'm back.

Why haven't I posted anything for over a month?

Because I haven't had anything to write about. I've been in a sort of idea desert. I've tried to find stuff to write about but nothing really stood out and I thought it would better to not write anything at all rather than to write something not worth reading. That way I don't waste time writing it and you don't waste time reading it.

So!

What is this fantastic, revolutionary and inspiring topic I have picked to divulge your minds and alter your philosophical output?

Petitions.


Yeah, petitions.

I have built up all of this to talk about sodding petitions but don't despair, click the small x on your screen or press the lock screen on your phone because I actually, I think, have a point.

When I was a kid petitions were the weapons of door-to-door campaigners. They were the little pieces of paper on a clipboard that usually asked for a signature so that the new road wasn't built near your cute little town and thus give you a bit of extra traffic.

Now, however, they seem to be the only way people wish to 'get back' at the government.

Nowadays I can't go onto Facebook without being bombarded with petitions asking for this or that.

The most popular one I saw recently was the 'Block Donald J Trump from UK entry', and this got me thinking.

Donald Trump is, to be polite with my description, a bit of a tosser. I don't particularly think he is a wise or even balanced individual but he is somehow running for the presidency of the US of A, and with strong support too!

This lead to some idiot wishing to create a petition to ban the billionaire barnet disaster from entering the UK.

This is to state that the UK public would BAN the next possible President of the United States.

Trump's a dick but my god! You can't just ban a man from entering the country because you don't like him or his views!

If the world acted like that most people wouldn't get anywhere!

What's even more worrying is that, on last count, the petition has received 579, 077 signatures!

That means that the House of  Commons HAS to debate it.

What a waste of time in the Government's already busy schedule.

Now before people get on my back and state that we have to have some way of raising issues to parliament, hold your horses!

I get it, we need them. They are very important and necessary but leave them for important issues like the NHS, welfare etc.

After looking at the most popular petitions I am genuinely confused.

The second most popular petition is

Stop all immigration and close the UK borders until ISIS is defeated.

THIS! is second to the Trump one. This petition is stating EXACTLY what Trump wants in the USA but people don't want him here? Ridiculous.

There's a few more on immigration and asylum seekers and predictably one on making cannabis legal, another stupid thing to raise in government. There's bigger issues than whether you can buy a bit of green in your local newsagents.

What I think people need to realise is that petitions are actually quite serious things. Only sign a petition if you really feel passionate about it. Otherwise you're just going to waste time in parliament. What's more, use them rarely so there use is more prominent. Don't just make a petition because you had a bad McFlurry and want more smarties in it.

Think about this way. If you get hundreds of Valentines cards every year you won't pay much attention to them. If you just get the one, you might want to read it with a little more care and consider what is being said.

Uni's been great but I can't wait for it be over!

Hmm...

A blog post that two years ago, as I returned to university for my second semester of first year, I would have never thought I'd be writing.

Why?

Because two years ago I was returning to alcohol and rugby, pubs and clubs, late nights and not so necessary mornings. It was a time of easy living and relatively stress-free work. I knew that first year didn't count towards anything and I was part of that, regrettably I should add, common group amongst first years who lived upon the philosophy of '40%'- this being the percentage to which was and is needed to pass.


It was the best year of my life and I thought that nothing, ever, could top it. I made friends who I still live with now. I played university rugby, which was something I had always wanted to do. I was studying a course I loved. I met my current girlfriend. And most of all, I got ridiculously drunk most of the time without much of a care for funds, my student loan or in some cases, my own physical well being (sorry mum).

But now, as I begin preparing for my return to Coventry on Friday, I sit thinking that I am now a little tired of eating food which is cheaper than water itself and drinking beer which tastes like an alcoholic's urine.

I'm tired of walking through Coventry city centre and looking at shops and thinking of a time I could actually buy something for myself. I'm tired of walking past certain restaurants and thinking, 'that'd be nice but I've got a £1 pizza at home which takes priority'. I'm tired of sitting in libraries and being part of groups of students all of whom are looking at a piece of coursework thinking, 'right, what do we do now?'

I appreciate that working life is dire, and to be fair it does look awful. But I have gotten to a peculiar stage whereby I almost look upon those on a career path and wish I was them, even if they wake up at times I used to get in after a messy Tuesday night.

It's not really the money that is the main motivation of this envy but the thought that they are on a path of progression.

As a third year student about to tackle the worst 3 months of my whole university career, I feel that I have drawn out almost everything that university has to give. This doesn't mean that I just know how to study language in depths most won't believe to be real, let alone necessary, or read something you might have also read and say 'ahh, but did you know it means something completely different?', only for you to look at me and stick a friendly middle finger up and say, 'don't care'. It's that I know how to budget now... well sort of. It's that I know how to prioritise work over the pub... sometimes. I even know how to communicate with estate agents who are incredibly dreary and frustrating to deal with without hanging up and deciding to purchase a cardboard box and a sleeping bag.

It's been great and I am eternally grateful to the university for accepting me after I received dreadful, and I mean dreadful, A Levels. However, I feel that I am ready to finish that thing called uni and actually get a career and get on with life.

I'll probably regret this post in a years time but I think most students in their third year will agree that we're ready for THAT next step and ready to say goodbye to the best three years we've ever had.

Don't miss this in films!

Everybody, no matter how old or how young, watches movies.

However, since my interest in screenwriting has sky-rocketed, I have noticed that there is so much to see in a film that usually is missed or simply has not attention paid to it.

So I thought that it would be useful to maybe highlight one point that I think is grossly missed when watching films. Maybe it is because I consider myself a writer that I am biased to this point but trust me, it is worth noting.

Dialogue. 

Pretty obvious isn't it?

I'm sure many of you, or few of you, who are reading this are thinking, 'I'm not deaf, I do listen to the dialogue.'

Granted, that is a fair point but ever since I have started writing screenplays I have noticed that there is such a incredible art to good on-screen dialogue.

Listen to what the characters exactly say. Consider why they say it and what purpose it has when they say it. Do that and a new world opens up.

Take Quentin Tarantino's film 'Pulp Fiction' for example.

If you haven't seen it then you are part of a small and rather unfortunate group to which have not had the pleasure of watching one of the greatest films of all time.

It is filled with some of the most brilliant conversations you'll ever hear and so much of it gives so much story to the characters in such small sentences.

Here's an example and one of the most quoted scenes from the film. The famous 'Royale with cheese' scene.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uYSt8K8VP6k

Get it?

It isn't filled with large, victorian sounding, sophisticated words.
The conversation isn't even about anything particularly important, unless you are a McDonald's fan who is en route to Paris.

It is simple, witty and a writing masterclass.

So much of their relationship is revealed in this early scene and you quickly get that these two are comfortable with each other, even though they deal with very serious people. It doesn't tell you that they are good friends, it shows it. Anyone who has ever come close to a creative writing class will understand that the most important rule in writing is showing, not telling.

It could so easily be missed by looking at your phone or wondering where all the popcorn has gone as your belly begins to protrude.

Don't miss these little gems. No amount of popcorn is worth that, surely?

Another film that is filled with exquisite dialogue, and perhaps my favourite ever film, is Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. If you haven't seen it, watch it and divulge in the brilliant relationship of the two protagonists. It is old and I know that puts a lot of people off but christ! There's a reason people say, 'they don't make'em like they used to'.

When watching a film listen to every little detail and critique it. You can tell a lot about a film not by the explosive special effects or the amount of money spent on it but by what they simply say and the way they say it (but that is usually the work of the actor and not the writer). No good writer puts something down unless it is absolutely necessary.

Are you a victim of this crime? If so then redeem yourself by watching a 'good' film, not a film about superheroes or some shitty action movie, and focus on what's being said. Trust me, it'll be worth it.

*A brief list of good films to watch:

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid- 1969
Pulp Fiction- 1994
Strangers on a Train- 1951
Chinatown- 1974
It's a Wonderful Life 1946
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest 1975
Shawshank Redemption- 1994

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.