Mock My Week

The Biggest Loser: me

2011-01-25T07:09:00.000-08:00

Something strange happened last night, I can only say I must have been sleepwalking hungry, after a rather early night.

Alas, The Biggest Loser (Mondays, 9pm), ITV1's recently primetime-promoted and jazzed up weight loss war against the fatty sprang up on the television and didn't cease to disappear for quite a while longer.

Think X Factor, but beefed up, literally. There's no live audience yet, but I expect that'll come in series 3 with a host of famous ex-lards worth at least one billion dollars:
"He's sold a trillion weight loss DVDs in Japan, and NOW he's here live in the studio to perform his latest WORKOUT to Celine Dion's MY HEART WILL GO ON."
Yes, we're talking about a sinking ship - the Beached Whale routine will come "ON NEXT WEEK'S SHOW", from another famous suctioned celeb.
At this stage I'm imagining the voice of David Lamb from Come Dine With Me, although, maybe that's a tad too ironic.

They're already half way there with the set, sort of - predictably oversized scales coinciding with a 'dazzingly' studio, which, coincidentally looks like it's been stolen from the Dancing On Ice ring. I imagine the dynamic structure was used as a task for the contestants to lose weight:

"GET ON THE ICE AND PULL THAT -123°C BACKDROP TO STUDIO 4." Because, after all, it's an ITV reality show, and it's got to be EPIC.

And well much like the singing talent show, I was expecting 'heart rendering' stories, but there's always next week: "Last summer, I collapsed on my dog, and he had to have heart surgery (visuals cut to image of dog with bandage around head)."

It's not long before we are reminded of the seriousness of the situation with a Clint Eastwood line, sorry, I mean quote straight from the heart :
“My life’s at stake here. If I leave here I’m a dead man walking”, says one male contestant as overweight viewers around the country panic about how they will survive without being on this show.

And then there's fitness guru to the people 'Davina Macall' presenting, and looking particularly concerned. Not because she's worried, but because her eyebrows appear to be plucked for a Star Trek audition. Think Spock, adressing his Enterprise crewmates after an expedition to earth and a miguided day trip to McDonalds.

Davina seems caring, at first, when asking one contestant, probably called Jan, to choose whether her or her friend leave the 'competition' after losing the least weight:
"Are you alright?" Davina says.....approx 3 second wait..."You've got ten minutes."

Primetime, it's a brutal world - whether you've had a gastric band fitted in Cuba or not.

The main problem with the show is 'The Biggest Loser' title and the repetition of the words regularly during the show. I'm sure the producers high fived with joy when they came up with such a pun. Yes, someone will lose the most weight, but surely there's that niggling bit of doubt in the winner's head about their cool factor (0).
They are, after all, The Biggest Loser.

Because for these contestants it's rather unlikley Simon will be on the phone with a 5 mill record deal, or OK! with their first photo shoot. They could join the post Christmas DVD fitness money-makers, but they'll have to fend of Davina for that market.

Gap YAAAH: A response to David Mitchell

2011-01-12T08:04:00.000-08:00

A good gap year can be completely worthwhile, but David Mitchell's 'Beneath Borders Campaign' (as I'm naming it), in the Guardian, could mean as far as we get is the local Caravan site.

I remember my gap year or ‘yah’ before university as challenging and fulfilling in many ways. I don’t, however, remember thinking my carefully budgeted trip abroad "gadding around" like I was on some sort of passing visit with the royal family – me playing the role of a privileged Prince waving patronisingly at poor Ugandan children.

My travelling experience was far more involved, and very different from David Mitchell’s generalised view of a year out - it certainly didn’t turn me into a fantasist as he suggests, although I don’t think there’s anything wrong with dreaming.

If anything, my 5 months abroad gave me a clearer view of what lies outside of my small Essex town, and in a global economy where countries are becoming increasingly intertwined, knowing more of the “unreal world” I’d say is ever more important. Even if you are just eating Chop Suey in Beijing - I didn't, by the way.

A couple of my parent’s friends did suggest I may not return; that I could end up dreadlocked to my knees in Zambia and with skin so tanned I’d look like a homeless Crocodile Dundee. This coincides with the presumption A Level students are not ready to make significant decisions, and yet they’re often, shrewdly, grasping for that bit of freedom before being hoiked onto the next level of education, or a career ladder they're not sure about.

Before the 'jet setting' began, I worked full time for four months in a department store. I folded towels, and advised, badly, on bed sheets in the Home section. Home was in-fact where I wanted to be most of the time because it wasn’t a particularly riveting experience, but it was necessary.

I mean, Daddy sometimes gave me a lift to work, but he was never going to help me sponsor some underprivileged orphan from Kazakhstan. I had mum for that.

But seriously, it wasn’t a normal thing amongst my friends to go on a tropical travelling extravaganza, and it’s a shame that according to David Mitchell, the tuition fees increase means the year out before university will become a thing for "super rich kids". David, it’s sad you feel this is a “good outcome” – I’m sorry you ended up on some unsatisfactory InterRailing fun-faire to 'Bore-deaux', but for some of us it was a completely worthwhile experience.

I trekked through the jungle tracking ancient Mayan ruins and worked on a rainforest conservation project in Belize, and then took a month’s Spanish course in Guatemala.
It sounds cliché and a tad hooray henry but it wasn't - it was really quite eye opening. Who knows if I’ll ever be able to do anything like that again.

You’re right David, I never saw peccary (horned pigs), dodgy Guatemalan salesman, or worryingly sized rats during my three years at Bournemouth University, but if I had, I’d have been prepared. Yes, we had a few wandering addicts by my halls from the nearby homeless centre but nothing like the slums in India – I didn’t go there either.

When you’ve taken the opportunity to see more than what’s on your doorstep it’s that initiative which broadens the mind. The will to have an experience out of your comfort zone - I gained an independence which made me wholly more confident and helped me hugely at university, from the lecture hall to the union nightclub. I didn’t change the world, but I’m sure some people do.

David Mitchell is looking down at those who have thoroughly enjoyed themselves during a year out, and for taking a leap into the unknown.

It’s this sneering which makes him the snob, calling us the "vociferous" type for flinging ourselves full force into foreign cultures and enjoying every minute of it (maybe not the diarrhoea and vomitting).

And David, I didn’t buy ethnic ponchos or beaded bracelets, I brought back a hankering for black bean soup along with an aggressively coloured hammock, which, by the way, I still use.

When you’re young, who cares, you’ve got the rest of your life to be serious, I’m just annoyed the tuition fees rise means so many won't be able to afford the same leap into the unknown.

The Big Smoke, aka The Real World

2010-07-25T04:32:00.000-07:00

(Photo: J.A. Alcaide)

Sorry for the new-post delay but I've been living a rather jam-packed lifestyle during my interesting transition from student to real person, with, hopefully, generating prospects.

After I finished my dissertation, and allowed a few days to say goodbye to my fellow confused friends, I headed up slightly North like I was off on holiday (but never coming back).
Essentially, you could say I have moved to London, but that would be completely misleading and a blatant lie - this would be because what I am, in a rather large nutshell, is a squatter: of the fairly legal kind.
Every morning when my brother opens his bedroom door he will find a strange man lying on a mattress in the corrider. This man is me.

There are, however, many perks about working in the city, and these are as follows:

Number 1 - Forget about going to a fancy spa (I never have), you can get a sauna of the fainting variety on the Victoria Line. It's all the rage to look like you've been for a run in the Sahara before arriving at work.

Number 2 - Lots of people where perfume/aftershave - students can't afford this luxury generally- sometimes this is a good smell but sometimes it's like having a bag of dried fruit slapped in your face, repeatedly.

Number 3 - Tourists always seem happy (why wouldn't they...they're on holiday!)- although they also seem to walk insanely slow and trap you as you attempt to pass them.

Number 4 - Lots of London workers lunch in expensive outlets- I have been trying to make my own sandwiches to save money, but a) they go off in the heat b) I make them and then leave them behind accidentally.

Number 5 - Everyone thinks they're a celebrity - what I mean by this is, particularly in the area near where I am doing my internship in central London, a considerable amount of people wear sunglasses, which is normal when there is sun. But, when you're on a tube, with not the best lighting, there is still a large amount looking like they're hiding from the paparazzi.

Number 6 - For all these things it's actually a lot of fun (I'm not sure my brother agrees).

The Narnia of Essex

2010-04-29T10:14:00.000-07:00

- STA World Traveller Internship update

It's been a busy few days, to say the very least.

I've had possibly less sleep than Jack Bauer and I've been almost as action-packed, although, off course, a little less dangerous.
Last weekend I ran around my home town in Essex much like an inadequate athlete, with a tripod, and the odd mate, to film my STA final video - I am now in the top ten of this crazy internship competition and it's getting very exciting.

As I filmed my video I had people chanting at me from the street as I attempted to down a local oyster - truth be told there were two, and I threw the first one up, of which I went to put in the bin, but managed, somehow, to drop on the floor. And much like Britain's Got Talent people cheered, and jeered, from all around, like a mob - I should point out a nice one. Furthermore, it was rather strange being clapped when I finally popped the local seafood 'treat' down, but I guess I can say it's an accomplishment and at least it stayed down.

I also cut my foot rather badly getting into the boat in one of the last shots, and the saltwater made the cut look like I had been the victim of GFH (grievous foot harm), in-fact I believe it was damaged on an oyster on the muddy beach, which was probably intent on getting revenge on the death of it's family member eaten/thrown up earlier on. This foot-related damage, by the way, was painful.

Further to this, I acquainted myself with many a local I didn't know: Bruce, "I like anything with speed in it", is a highlight for me. I literally flagged him down off the water, and he later said I could come out sailing with him anytime: legend. He has sailing videos of him losing "man overboard" on youtube apparently!
I also tested many a local ale as part of my Essex exploration, and for free: what a good surprise that turned out to be.

And well, I think I should explain my Narnia theme: basically I live in a cupboard in my student house, and often a casual guest in my home refers to my pad as the boiler room. It's not that bad, but people often don't realise this 'place' is actually my accommodation. More precisely one individual once looked into my room and said it was like opening the door to Narnia, hence my exploration of this idea in my hometown, because Burnham is essentially the Narnia of Essex, and not necessarily something people may expect to find from a county with a generally unfavorable image.

So anyway, here's my final video and if you like what you see, you may well not, vote for me here (thanks):

If you would like to purchase one of the modeled shell suits, the local charity shop in the above featured town is a fantastic place to grab a one-piece - I tried to film inside this second-hand haven but I was not allowed.

Right, must dash, I've got a meeting with the devil/dissertation, and I currently have very little to discuss.

My first time on skis

2010-04-15T10:52:00.001-07:00

30/03/2010 (It's been a busy few weeks)

This will be explained:

Last weekend, on the rainy Saturday, a 'good' friend of mine informed me he was going to test out his new skis on the dry slope just a short drive away from where we study in Bournemouth.

After telling me his plans, he enthusiastically suggested that I join him on skis, which now seems a rather spontaneously naive idea considering I had never tried out this activity before, and he has a dark sense of humour.

Granted I've snowboarded for a while now, but like Luke Skywalker, I've been trying to resist the dark side of the piste planet, but the mate in question, David Row, or for this event, Darth Vader, thought it was the best idea he had had in along time.

Now I know why.

As we arrived at the slope in the pouring rain I came to the realisation that I am neither a fan of these rather steep, hard slopes, or that it was the best idea for me to test them out; having never skied before. Dave, however, was less concerned:

"You will be absolutely fine," he said, "I'll give you all the tips you need."

Too be fair his motivational skills did have me believing I was going to become some sort of downhill Olympic champion (Bode Miller in-fact if you watch the video further down) - off course this did not happen.

The turning point I think was when we queued up to pay for the ski gear and the lady at the desk asked: "Tick here to confirm you are a competent skier and you can manage to get up and down the slope without any problems."

With Dave digging in my back like some sort of bank robber I ticked, my hand slightly shaking at the thought of signing away my dignity.

Then, after putting my skis on I waddled much like a constipated penguin along to the mid-way point of the hard slope, again being willed on by Darth/Dave. As I reached the precipice of my downhill adventure, I turned around to Darth for the vital advice I needed to begin my skiing career and make it down the slope safely. But Dave was smiling rather weirdly, clearly holding back chuckles from his grimacing face, and as I pestered him for pointers he proceeded to push me along; nearer and nearer to the slope.

"You're going to be good at this," he had announced as we left the safe compounds of the centre. I was less confident.

In no uncertain terms I assured him this wasn't going to be a success in less he gave me some clearer instructions.

Before I knew it I was 'blasting' down the track like Usain Bolt, but with no idea how to stop, and although I can't deny the extreme adrenaline rush I felt, shooting through the yellow inflatable piste barriers into the children's sledging area on just my second run was not a highlight.

As I looked up Dave was on the floor - no, unfortunately he hadn't fallen over, he was in hysterics.

"Now go to the top," he attempted to shout through increased laughter.

I knew what he had in mind and I was going to prove him wrong. So I bravely tackled the button lift and hitched right to the top of the slope; a place, which for first-timers, is a bit like a sweet shop for the overweight - you shouldn't be there. And I knew it.

But I was on a one-way mission to master these two obstacles attached to my feet - forget the beginner bandwagon, like 50 Cent, I wanted to pimp that piste.

So I launched myself off the top, rather apprehensively, and I began to 'ski' down.

In an effort not to look too amateur I decided to straight-line the piste area, which, consequently, did not go down particularly well with the instructor at the bottom.

As I reached the man in the official jacket he told me rather sternly that should I do that again I would not be allowed back.

In my mind I'd made rather good work of a bad situation, however I did then decide to call it a day.

I went up to Dave smiling, and then winded him in the stomach with a ski pole - we are still good friends but next time I'm getting an instructor.

In-fact we're going on the university ski trip soon and I've suggested he try out snowboarding for the first-time, because as we all know, revenge is sweet.

For proof of this event here is this video...my face may confirm the fact we had been out the night before:

Wish You Were Here

2010-03-22T04:34:00.000-07:00

There are many situations in every day life where I would prefer to shy away from selling myself like an Ebay item; the all-eyes-on-me factor is an element I find closely linked with the "I'm fantastic", boobs-out, gun-show, from reality show wannabes.

But for the STA World Traveller Internshi p I have recently applied for (the videos are in the posts below), although the application involved broadcasting myself, the prize was something hugely worthwhile; to travel the world for three months. This would include filming, taking photos, and blogging about such exotic experiences.

Think Judith Charmers on Wish You Were Here, but more far-flung, and hopefully slightly more manly.

Therefore my ambitions to suceed have meant I have had to step out of my comfort zone and attempt to 'charm' the judges through the visual medium. Please don't laugh yet.

Part of the competition means asking for people to vote for me, which at times has seemed a bit like a Miss/Mr World competition - at one point I felt like adding in world peace as an extra incentive for my prospective voters.

But HOW have I campaigned? Well, let me take you on a little journey via my trusty Facebook account.

Here is it how it all began: after I uploaded my video a few of my friends took on the campaign immediately - one of my housemates I believe would be a good asset to Gordon Brown right now:

Then I took on the baton:

As you can see, much like Clairol, I tried the nice and easy option - slowly, slowly, catchy monkey.

Then to avoid repetition I publicised the longer interview with the rather hilarious Austrian girl to try and lure my unsuspecting YouTube savvy friends back to my STA page.

At this point, fearful in the knowledge that my Facebook counterparts may have begun to bore of my situation, I tried to up my game and be a little more inventive:

Perhaps more recently I have become a tad desperate:

Before you get too concerned, I would suggest 80% of my friends have a good sense of humour.

Now, today is the last day of first-round voting, so I've decided to go back to the old-skool and keep things rather simple, therefore hoping those who have been in bed for the past couple of weeks will now wake up to my call.

I can only hope.

If you want you can still vote.

What a poor rhyme, I apologise.

"English people are weird": Yes, I'd agree with that

2010-03-13T09:56:00.000-08:00

I present you more footage from my STA World Traveller Internship application (my full video is in the post further down and it'd be nice if you voted for me here).

Below is an extended interview with the hilarious Austrian girl.

Here's her take on us English, and more:

By the way, I know it's bad that I did not initially spot the seafront/Vienna error - we all get things wrong in the heat of the moment!

Welcome to my world

2010-03-12T04:52:00.000-08:00

Here is my rather random entry into the STA World Traveller Internship.

If you think I'm alright then perhaps you could vote for me here

(no registration required). Thanks.

Student of the week: Anisha Ale

2010-03-09T06:07:00.000-08:00

Many people in life experience misfortunes; unfortunate circumstances which can often be shoved enthusiastically under the carpet, like a dead person.

However, when you have friends with mouths similar to an erupting Mount Etna it is not always the case - keeping a fantastic secret is a bit like being in Harry Potter, you need a wand to shut someone's mouth.

In this case I'm glad there are no magic sticks available as this story is one to be shared among friends.

Meet Anisha Ale, who I, like many of my friends had forgotten was actually born in Nepal, a culturally interesting fact which only came to light very recently when she was forced to take some sort of British 'exam' to renew her passport.

Like a Christmas present, this golden piece of information should of been kept under wraps, but her good 'friend' Rachael Edwards, the key to the forbidden fruit, wanted to catch Santa Claus coming down the chimney - she informed many of our circle of mates that Anisha had gotten herself into a minor situation.

A foreign one.

The exam, which came as quite a surprise to us all, was apparently multiple choice, so it was quite a shock when I was told Anisha had apparently "failed" it, according to her housemate Rachael.

Anisha had actually passed. Her housemate had lied, but it was worth it.

Too be fair Anisha is more British than most of us - for example, I would suggest that most of my housemates, including myself, would struggle to sing all the words to the national anthem:

"God save our gracious Queen. Long live our noble Queen. God save our Queen. Blah, blah, blah, bahdey blah........God save our Queen"

So I wouldn't say we were exactly patriotically fluent. The heart is there though.

This did not stop the 'Petition to stop Anisha Ale getting deported' Facebook group - all in good faith.

And the latest passport renewal process is the 'ceremony' later this month, where she has to meet with the Bournemouth Major and sing the national anthem; a fact which is being celebrated by many a student who knows her well.

Not only for Anisha, but for all of her mates, it is going to be a momentous occasion.

I would say we are putting the event on the same scale as the Olympics, and are wholly encouraging her to carry a burning torch - to set the place alight.

As well as all this, as one of the very privileged invitees I've strongly suggested she wear my head cam I use for skiing. Therefore to capture, first-hand, the experiences of such a bizarre ceremony.

Mock My Week wishes Anisha Ale luck, and hopes she will now become a prominent feature on this blog.

Valentine's Day Massacre - almost

2010-02-14T15:33:00.000-08:00

Me and three of my rather bitter single mates distracted our minds from looming deadlines on this Clinton's making-money-day by getting out of our cold house (heating = debt increase) and visiting one of Dorset's scenic spots near our university.

The photos below at Lulworth Cove show how things got a little out of hand with the 'ten second timer' in conjunction with the 'multiple-shot' function on my camera. Leaping into the visual rather too over enthusiastically I nearly caused us all to spontaneously tombstone into the water below - this, the flamboyant description of Anya (below), but I would say this is a major overreaction.

I was simply having a good time - forgetting about my slow-moving dissertation.

Off course, I have since apologised, and would like to clarify Anya is my friend.

Happy/unsuspecting.

Is it a giant bird?

No.

Is it a drunk walker?

No.

It's me, and my best friend, Cliff Edge.

Sorry, but Anya you do jump easily.

Alan Titchmarch? No, my fellow students, I'm afraid not

2010-02-13T07:50:00.000-08:00

From this:

To this:

(in a number of easy steps - not including the wine)

The average student prides themselves with being able to skimp and save, and spend as little on food as they can. It's essentially a competition:

"Have you seen the deal on at the corner shop, it's two for one on those curries in a can," said one university friend.

"Ah, but it's buy three meals in a bag and get two free at the Golden supermarket," another announced in reply.

Unfortunately, when those buying into these 'amazing' deals start looking like living corpses it becomes apparent you cannot live off these bargains every night of the week.

At this point, I should immediately point out that the grow-your-own method is unlikely to take off in the student market or end such health-reducing buys.

But let me take you back to a jumble sale at the end of last year and a very Ground Force moment when I was temporarily misled by the idea.

One of my friends, Oliver Robinson, a Del Boy from Leicestershire, started talking to the wide-eyed-hippy-glasses-wearing-owner of a chili plant stall. Suddenly charmed by growing his own hot crops, Oliver persuaded me and two other mates to also buy into this soil hobby of the plant pot kind.

I can't say I wasn't taken in by this drug dealer of the plant world; the stall owner said we could call him at anytime - like Childline for the vegetable community. I did double check the shape of the leaves - I wasn't going to turn my house into a cannabis cavern.

Basically, it was like having a plant agony aunt, but in a more manly sense of the phrase, and we could cook curries and have the hot part fresh, and for free.

So it began quite well, a Facebook group was even set up to track the progress of our plants, because we were in-fact quite competitive about the future size of our chilies.

Unfortunately the novelty soon wore off; my housemate's ambitious compost was thrown out the back door and his plant was knocked off the windowcill during a house party.

He called foul play, but my own had been caught in a minor apocalypse - left behind my oversized curtain next to the radiator on a number of cold nights.

Don't do this at home:

The 'chili' specimen:

What they look like now:

As you can see, the chili plants have been literally obliterated. I say 'chili' with caution, because after growing one green specimen, shown above, I found it to have no seeds inside or carry any form of heat.

I believe that the plants were actually of the boring green pepper kind.

Good riddance.

...........

All this talk of grow-your-own reminds me of a project I filmed last year - look out for the moldy beetroot and rotting carrot:

Growth in Grow Your Own from Harry Harris on Vimeo.

No to the BNP at Universities

2010-02-05T10:08:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the serious tone today, but the decision to cancel the Multiculturalism debate at Durham University involving two bozos from the BNP has got to be the right decision.

How the University ever thought it beneficial to invite BNP MEP National Front lover Andrew Brons (MP for Yorkshire and Humber), and Chris "I don't hate Hitler" Beverley (BNP councillor in Leeds) is beyond me.

What inspirational men.

I don't see how either of these 'politicians' could give valuable points within a debate on a multi-ethnic community.

The Durham University Society had also invited political commentator Kulveer Ranger, and Conservative MP Edward Leigh, but cancelled the whole thing because of proposed violent protests and intimidation to staff and students.

It'll be interesting to see where this one goes with this Freedom of Speech Facebook Group by Durham students.

I'm all for Freedom of Speech, but not when the speech comes from people who have the previous history of these men.

Nick Griffin on the BBC was an interesting way of opening up the debate and hearing the opinions of politicians and the public, but allowing BNP members to speak at a university, on an election year, sounds like part of a campaign. No thank you.

I'm just glad my University, down South, has so far stayed clear of this fascist flop of a political party.

How to be a Matrix-styled news presenter

2010-01-30T05:33:00.000-08:00

As a journalism student soon to be graduating from university perhaps I should forget the studying and start watching Matrix films for style tips - it's a tempting option. Here's Charlie Brooker with his very sarcastic TV news masterclass:

The scene where Brooker walks towards the camera like 'he's gliding through the

fucking Matrix' could well have been conjured up from this clip, as Neo

and Trinity sweep through the 'lobby'. I imagine they are talking about

the problems of gun crime.

In addition to this quirky film reference, journalists, like Matrix characters,

can also react with action in the face of unfortunate situations.

Blue Wednesday

2010-01-21T03:58:00.000-08:00

So it was student-saving time on 'cheap Wednesdays' at the cinema yesterday, and there's that dramatic looking post-apocalyptic film out, The Road, which seems to be marketed as action-orientated, as well as slightly heart warming.

I'm no Bruce-Willis-styley obsessive but the trailer really is barking up a rather exotic tree.

The speedy montages and drastic boom-boom-boom sound effects in the clip below suggest the film is a high octane thriller, when in-fact it's very downbeat, apart from the odd occasion when the father and son are being chased by man-eating gangs - a full blown cannibalistic element which sees missing legs and scarily hungry humans; completely stepped over in the fast-paced 'Day After Tommorrow' themed promo.

The editor of this trailer deserves an Oscar for The Most Revved Up Trailer In Comparison To The Real Film. Catchy eh. Have a watch:

The Road from postadsgroup on Vimeo.

In the actual film version I, and my housemates watched, there is also no explanation as to why the world is in such a diabolical state, but the trailer will have you believing there is 'one event'. An event which clearly got lost on the films passage to British shores - the first few climate change style scenes are not in the film.

If you want a slightly more accurate depiction of the film's dark themes check out this rather disturbing clip.

One other point, and this is my final criticism, is the severe amount of product placement in The Road, well noted here.

The film is, however, far from rubbish, it's actually quite depressingly moving, but it's just not what you might expect by a long way. And you might want to grab a beer after, or whatever cheers you up - I'm not an alcoholic.

Filming drama - Man down

2010-01-18T08:54:00.000-08:00

After practicing shorthand today I needed something to cheer me up, so I looked through clips of my fox hunting documentary - I'll post the video soon!

If you haven't read the blog about my filming escapades in Shropshire you won't know that my quickly trained cameraman, David 'Rural' Row, loves the ground:

Warning: Brief shock expletives

Camerman accident from Harry Harris on Vimeo.

Are you a MUGG?

2010-01-17T09:21:00.000-08:00

As I have stated before I am no Vogue wannabe; fashion is far from my forte, you've seen the Christmas jumper - although I do try to dress more hip than David Dickinson, as well as taking advice from my good friend and style guru Jun Chan. But there is a certain recent clothing development around my university which is, to say the least, troubling me.

This is the noticeably rapid rise in the male student wearing the UGG boot, which I have currently nicknamed the MUGG:

Man-wearing-UGG(s).

It's bad enough when I see an attractive girl and then my eyes find themselves at these sheepskin shovels, but now it's clear the average man also thinks it's cool to boot up just because we've had a bit of snow and they want a bit of Australia down below.

I am, off-course, originally from Essex, and I'm really hoping this is not a craze which started there, although I should admit it was the location of a few primary sightings.

In the county's defence it did take quite a brunt of the snow, and I have seen scatterings of MUGGs in other places, like here in Dorset and in East London.

The Sun has also pointed out a few famous men who are following the MUGG trend - it's not on.

On your Birthday you get.....to dodge avalanches.

2010-01-14T04:10:00.001-08:00

My birthday took place last Saturday, and as the standard student what was I doing?

A) Eating lot's of cake

B) Partying - including house party or nightclub.

C) Watching Jeremy Kyle - I find this program mind-numbing.

D) Climbing a mountain

In a completely unpredictable bizarre twist, the answer is C, although I did eat lots of chocolate cake later on, and I've since been out with friends.

But on this particular weekend I turned into some sort of Sylvester Stallone Cliffhanger character, but slightly less extreme with more snow.

Hiking up a mountain in Chamonix, France, with a snowboard on my back and weird snowshoes on my feet - to help conquer the thick powder.

My brother text me saying he was jealous, I told him I felt like I should be raising money for charity.

In-fact this off-piste 'expedition', which I like to call it, was for an article I'm going to write for In the Snow magazine, and consisted of following experienced guides off the beaten-white-track.

Perhaps I should have done more exercise before this press trip - my heavy breathing suggested I was having some sort of breakdown.

Too be fair I'm not that unfit but I have that unfortunate gasp when partaking in exercise,

and it became apparent many of the other journalists were very athletic.

Think desert marathon/ ironman. Then think of my experience - a short run down the park, and the occasional treadmill battle, although I can actually snowboard.

I trailed on: "I'm fine", I said, as my leg sunk hip-deep into the white stuff and I struggled to pull it out.

At one point, when the mountain became particularly flat, I crawled - very dramatic I know.

There was also the odd bit of drama, trekking at about 2000 metres, the guide got knocked over in a petite avalanche.

"You're going to remember this birthday" I was told. Yes, if I live to survive it, I muttered.

We did eventually ski down through the clouds, which was eventful because objects would appear immediately in your eyeline or on you. Trees suddenly became scary obstacles, making for an edge-of-your-seat experience right to the bottom.

After the rather successful three days I was, to say the least, a little tired and looked forward to a peaceful nap on the flight home.

Someone above had something else planned, my plane cancelled amidst a snow covered Europe and a partial baggage strike at Geneva Airport causing scenes like something out of those chaotic airline reality shows.

Followed was a minor scrum for bags, but I can thankfully say I now have mine - after a small tussle with a large Frenchman. Apparently the bag I was tugging was his, well it turns out we have the same bag.

After all the palaver, two days later, I did make it home. Sorry if this is an anti-climax.

Major blog faux paux

2010-01-14T04:09:00.001-08:00

In the blog below I really did shoot myself in the foot with a grenade launcher - by mentioning my parents are on Facebook.

Alas, it's too late to go back on this, as they have now been found and added by a mischievous friend or two.

I can only learn.

Resistance is not futile: Saying No to parental Facebook friend requests

2009-12-30T07:10:00.000-08:00

At a Christmas party last week involving family and friends, there was a particular incident which highlighted the hawk-like hazards of parents on Facebook.

During a festive conversation with my friend's mum, which was absolutely fine, she asked me to accept her friend request on the social network - so she could carry on 'keeping track'.

"I just like to know what you guys are up to," she said cheerily.

At this point I didn't really know what to say - had she added me and I ignored, or was that still to come?

I use this foreboding because I will not be accepting any requests from my friend's parents.

Social networking is definitely no longer just associated with the youth, many a mum or dad, including my parents are on it.

Their online requests were ignored - we are on friendly terms, just not on Facebook.

It's true, I could put them on a limited profile but what's the point; it's like having Sky but only being able to access the regular channels.

You've got something to hide I hear you saying.

Well actually there's a few shots of me at halloween dressed as a man-eating shark, but as far as I can think there's nothing particularly illegal - I'm just not that bad ass.

Another problem is tampering, more harshly know as Facebook-rape, and this happens in my student house on a frequent basis.

One day, you're feeling quite relaxed; you leave yourself logged in by accident and vacate your computer. Then along comes a fellow housemate.

Before you know it you're a transexual nun working at a brothel - not that there's anything wrong with that.

Your 'friend' will have gone to town on your account, telling everyone you are sad or pregnant, or it's your birthday - when it's not.

The subject of pregnancy is actually very relevant, because recently, out of nowhere, my female housemate announced she was expecting via her Facebook status.

An hour later, she received a varied mix of comments on her wall:

There were congratulations:

"Wow, fantastic. I had no idea, you hid that well."

And confusion:

"Who the hell's the father?"

Her mum, who had somehow spotted it, also rang to say she was driving down - this was quickly rectified.

Sly friends will also try to add your parents in order to cause a world of embarrassment; inviting them to groups superficiously created about you.

'Amy is partaking in the London Marathon - please sponsor me.'

Unfortunately Amy was not.

So far I have kept my parent's Facebook accounts secret.

I prefer for most aspects of my social life to be followed by the friends involved, but if it's in my parents interest, such as a photo of a mate falling into a christmas tree wearing 3D sunglasses, I will let them know.

But I don't want to be monitored like social CCTV - even if this is vigorously denied.

"I'm not interested in what you get up to all the time," announced my mum.

Sorry, but I just have this image of her scanning through my 'Last day of term' gallery like an FBI agent.

It's far from Carnage but I don't want to feel like a papped celebrity.

"Harry Harris buys microwaveable meals."

Not that I do this on the last day of term, or I take photos when I'm buying food, but my mum hopes I cook without the aid of the microwave - I do, most of the time.

The latest progress involves me telling my parents a story over the phone from university which they already knew about. They may have seen photos on a friends account, but it's mainly due to the fact my brother has given in to certain corners of the web-savvy parental community, and he's clearly not the only one.

To be fair my mum and dad are not obsessed, more intrigued - I probably would be, but that doesn't change my stance.

The lure of seeing what your children are up to in their social lives must be undeniable, particularly, I imagine, if they are sixteen and won't tell you anything, but I resent the need for parents to see my life in a Big Brother-esque slow motion.

*You have a friend recommendation:

Jane Jones: you know Jane through Jenny (her daughter).

IGNORE.

And for Christmas my brother got me...

2009-12-28T09:17:00.001-08:00

A christmas jumper. Not the 3D cinema glasses.

This is no trendy fashion blog.

I am a student in-need of clothes.

The festive jumper was bought by my brother, Toby, who now has a job in London (some money), and who said at time of unwrapping:

"I didn't think you would like it."

This is a typical sibling encounter - meant with the best intentions. And, as you can see at a recent Christmas party, I'm actually a big fan of the yuletide themed warmer.

However, Toby did not purchase my eyewear shown above, in-fact, these were borrowed from a screening of the epic 'Avator' in 3D - their sheer bizarreness really does entertain, but apparently they are actually all the rage.

It's like being at the cinema all day long, except it's real and everything is 3D anyway - my friends were a tad surprised to try them on and find I had not been experiencing weird and wonderful visuals.

Although the jumper gets the most original gift prize, the award for 'Christmas Announcement of the Year' goes to grandma, who announced during lunch on Friday she was converting to Buddhism.

I must admit there is not an abundant of Buddhist temples in rural Essex, although perhaps I'm being closed minded.

Essex does...The Alpes

2009-12-19T05:47:00.000-08:00

After a short trip to London on Thursday night, I arrived home in Essex on Friday feeling as though I'd stepped through the secret door to Narnia, bar the evil woman on sleigh.

My rural town had become Lapland overnight, without Rudolph or Santa's grotto. Although with so much unexpected snow some of my mates took a more modern approach to the white weather:

DIY Ski resort:

Snowboard at the ready...

Apparently the local park, with a noticeable hill, turned into a slope for a thriving

snow-riding hot-spot, but with no chair lifts obviously.

Pubs in the town reportedly welcomed in many of the day's athletes for Apres-ski.

The red light district - of the petrol gage community

2009-12-16T13:19:00.000-08:00

Now back from University for Christmas I'm using the car I share with my brother a significant amount more.

An element of this usage is the petrol gage: the red light isn't new to me, as a far from wealthy student, we frequent quite a lot.

There's the protocol meet and greet.

I'll say hi.

And, now and again, there'll will be a knowing goodbye. I say knowing because we know I'll be back, a bit like Arnold Schwarzenegger, on crystal meth.

I should also admit, that in this situation, my friend Rupert has prior offences in this area, which I probably should of learnt from - as was mentioned in the 'Scotland' blog.

Rupert also has the same car as me - I would say we are unlucky, although my car is gold, a bit like this one, so he would probably say it's just me who is unlucky.

Normally this is fine - I often casually hit up the petrol station soon after the primary colour blings up.

But today the red light came, and unfortunately never went.

This led to extreme stress.

The story goes: this morning as I got ready for work, I decided to borrow my dad's jacket in an effort to look suave, however right here was the key error.

I had not realised that during the removal of my wallet from one jacket, to the other, my debit card fell out.

At the time I was happy as larry, but who knew what had just happened.

This week I have been freelancing for a radio station, and today this meant driving to a far flung location in my home county.

So to Frinton I went, which was fine - who would sneer at a little investigative trip to the seaside.

For much of the time my petrol was above 1/4, which was a great rarity, but as I carried on my journey, suddenly, out of nowhere, I touched upon my old friend on the petrol bar, red light.

No problem, I thought.

But oh, as I reached into my shoddy wallet, the problem was quickly realised.

This was not a short drive to my village shop, this was quite an epic road trip around Essex.

My card a long lost traveller, and I, a tramp with a car.

Had my money outlet been stolen, or perhaps I'd dropped it buying my exotic wrap at lunch.

But hence, either way I had no money to pay for petrol - a nightmare sprung to mind.

At this point I said several unkind things to myself.

I thought about ringing my brother, who was working in London, and then, my friends, who are all still at university.

Wonderful.

So, after making it back to work safely, I then had to get home.

I began at 30 mph for a long period of time, sometimes venturing to a cautious 50 on the dual carriageway. Later I ventured back down to 30 mph as I neared the home straight. Very cautious you may think, but I live in a place where there are many trees. It's rural.

But, I made it.

My car stumbled into the parking space, making a weird clunking noise. I think there are now strained relations between me and my colourful petrol gage.

Tomorrow I shall challenge my car to the nearest petrol station, which, is not that near.

Who knows if I'll make it.

Paparazzi Proof: Duncan, my briefly adopted horse

2009-12-13T05:03:00.001-08:00

In case you thought the tales of my fox hunting documentary all seemed a tad preposterous here is some proof. Above you can see me on Duncan, interviewing a huntswoman.

I guess in reference to the photo, you could say, that for all you know, on the horse is Jon Bon Jovi and down beside him is Celine Dion.

I can only assure you it is not, and in-fact, myself, balancing mic and reins, on horseback for the first time since the beginning of adolescence.

The actual incident, involving a rather complicated interview on Duncan is noted here.

The CIA of the countryside

2009-12-01T11:53:00.001-08:00

There was a freeze-frame moment as an animal activist sat warmly in my car and asked:

"Do you like running?"

I was polite, it was clearly one of those questions requiring a reciprocal answer, and I replied:

"Yea, I used to run quite a lot."

I should admit the colour of my trainers suggests I run in gleaming white snow.

At least I own a pair.

Anyway, I followed a Landrover from Southampton train station, not sure which hunt we were going to.

It also came to light that many of these other activists sitting in the car ahead, otherwise know as hunt saboteurs, were dressed in a severe amount of camouflage regalia.

I was wearing an anorak, though I did have wellies in the boot. My mate James Tegerdine was attired in his usual skinny jeans and plimsoles - still muddy from falling over in the New Forest.

We arrived in Reading, I was more than surprised, I thought we were going to the New Forest.

Either way it was to be an interesting day.

Mid-forest, middle of nowhere, and these covert countryside operatives began communicating via walkie-talkie.

It was like Spooks had got lost down a country lane.

However the hunt sabs were trying to find a particular hunt - I was really half hoping they wouldn't be able to locate them for fear of the unexpected.

By the way I was filming this for my fox hunting documentary, I'm not an animal activist dogger don't worry.

Before I knew it we were running, for hours, on what seemed to be some sort of cross country marathon. Now I could see why my animal activist guide had asked me about this fast footed sport.

There was some commotion.

Hounds howling, hunters horning, saboteurs running and me severely confused.

If you can picture an albino sheep in the Serengetti, this was me on a hunt saboteur.

It was like the BBC's Countryfile mixed with top gear, on foot.

I can't say it was particularly fulfilling; the saboteurs were friendly types with good intentions but when the sound of a possible fox in trouble aroused, a sense of chaos arose, with whips swiped at the ground and inventive sounds out of their mouths.

Not extreme swearing, more dog whisperer - they were trying to distract the hounds from lunch.

When the day had ended and the hunt went home, I gave my animal activist a lift back, it was about an hour and a half drive, and James, my mate, suggested a famous fast food chain as a well-timed stop off - we were really hungry.

Unfortunately we forgot our passenger was a vegan.

Horses can be temperamental animals: meet Duncan

2009-11-29T15:08:00.001-08:00

The day had arrived for me to do something very Rolf Harris. I was to be completing a crucial piece of filming and this rather ambitiously involved a horse.

His name was Duncan and I would like to say we are now friends, but this rather large brown horse appeared less than impressed as I donned his back - dressed in a hunt jacket and carrying a horn and whip - only to try and get into the perspective of the master huntsman - don't be too critical yet.

Anyway I was to interview an ex-master of the hunt at a riding school, on Duncan the ex-carriage horse, with a large mic in hand.

This was a complicated procedure I must admit.

It may be surprising to hear I have been on a horse before, back in my early teens I was quite the trotter, but unfortunately when adolescence hit it all became a bit painful if you get my drift.

I told the lady, Sarah, whilst aboard Duncan:

"Imagine I'm the master of the hunt!"

"I'm trying," she replied.

I thought I was doing an adequate job, apparently not.

"What should I be doing now?"

Sarah explained various procedures and then I attempted to interview her about the trials and tribulations of this 'sport'.

Luckily my friend, Daniel Thomas, camerman for the hour, had 'worked on a farm for 5 years', and this was his explanation for not falling over like many of my other helpers. But Dan is from Somerset after all.

Duncan, my horse, was less forgiving, often suddenly reaching his head down to the grass like it was Christmas time on the ground. This caused me to jolt several times during the interview and appear slightly out of control.

At the end, I suggested I ride off into the distance, and this did seem to all involved quite a lot to ask.

Sarah laughed, I soon saw why. Duncan was a little stubborn - he simply would not go faster than approximately 2MPH.

My final words caught on camera were:

"Come on Duncan, let's go." And then a shout out for advice:

"How DO you get this horse to trot?"

All very tame.

Wanted: Camera-crew with stable footing

2009-11-24T10:59:00.000-08:00

I would like to place an advertisement for an unfazed cameraman/woman and this is why:

On my second 'fox' hunt today for my countryside related documentary another mate came to help me out: meet James Tegerdine.

Dressed in plimsolls and skinny jeans - he didn't really know what he was getting himself into. We got lost in The New Forest, (Hampshire) my gold car in the middle of nowhere amongst a sea of fast paced Land Rovers.

Then when we arrived on location, a tad late, I suggested we run to make sure I didn't miss my interviewee.

Enthusiastically James ran, but when I turned around he was not at eye level. He was somewhere else: the ground.

My helpful friend had hit the mud hard, head to toe, like he had done an impressive star jump but face down - the brown stuff visible from his black trousers up to his blue jacket.

We did make the interview:

"Hi, I'm Harry, this is my mate James, he has just fallen over in the mud, as you can see."

I'm not sure who else will help me after this incident.

When my gold car misled some fox hunting hounds

2009-11-22T11:42:00.000-08:00

A lot of people have uplifting songs which remind them of a momentous day in their lives.

For the eventful weekend just gone 'I get knocked down (but I get up again)' by Chumbawamba springs to mind.

But when we talk about 'getting up' I should input a new line of lyrics involving 'falling down again'.

This event refers to my trip to rural Shopshire, and the subject of ground refers to the muddy, soily kind. It may not have been an inspirational occasion like skydiving or getting married, but I was going to attempt to follow a fox hunt for the first time and in an impartial manner.

If you are suddenly imagining me competently horse jumping or hooting at hounds you're barking up the wrong path.

This type of activity was all new to me.

In-fact, following this hunt, was all in aid of my rather farfetched documentary for my journalism studies.

Think Louis Theroux, but more haphazard. And with a much smaller budget.

As we all know, fox hunting is a contentious issue, and rural Shropshire became a key location for my filming. But who could I convince to come on a four hour trip to help me - who lives near by this tree invested location?

My good mate David Row that's who - you may know him from previous blogs.

Dave might not have been informed the full scale of what he was getting into.

He may have been led to believe he was going for a jolly in the countryside.

Strong winds, torrential rain and a fast paced hunt put that to bed.

Obviously these were part of two key elements not in my control: the weather and a pack of hectic hounds.

We arrived at Dave's house late on friday night- his brother thought we burglars.

Carrying two metal suitcases which hold the filming equipment can make you look a tad dodgy. It had been mentioned that carrying these silver suitcases I envisaged a CIA agent, or a drug dealer. I wish they did have wads of cash in them, but not from selling loads of drugs, obviously.

Also for some unknown reason Dave thought the hunt 'meet' was at a pub.

I assure you I did not know 'The Mount' was a secluded farm in one of Shropshire's smallest villages.

"A pub around here! I don't think so," a horseriding lady laughed as I wound down the window of my gold Peugoet 306. Yes, I am from Essex.

Although I was keen to keep this on the down low.

Anyway we arrived at the farm on Saturday morning armed with a pair of wellies.

However these large boots borrowed from the Row family materialised to be a tad too large.

I won't lie, I waddled into the farm conveying a serious constipation problem.

But I was in a cup 'half-full' mood - plus Dave gave me some encouragement, although he hadn't put on his wellies.

Arriving on the farm was an intimidating procedure, although a friendly women offered me a concoction involving alcohol. It shouldn't be described as punch - I was drinking it like Ribena - easing a swarm of migrating Borneo butterflies in my stomach.

Before we knew it I had interviewed a prolific hunter, and the horses, and hounds, were off.

We ran to the car - Dave didn't make it as quickly as possible - he fell flat on his face, in the mud.

It wasn't the best start I think he would agree but he gamely carried on, slightly fazed.

Anyway we arrived in my gold automobile and drove off in pursuit, but before I knew what was going on we were back on foot, running off-road. Some older ladies suggested as we took flight that we looked a bit like 'antis' (animal activists). I don't know if it was prejudice against my car or the fact we were running with a camera at the ready.

Then, we were lost - if I was to compare it to a gym we were the ones falling off the treadmill.

My nightmare the previous night suggested a fox would start circling us for protection.

Luckily this never happened, but it was never far from my thoughts.

The wind whipped our faces and the rain soaked our clothes. Dave looked like a literal Rain Man. His facial expressions also suggested he wasn't overly enjoying himself as we slipped over on several occasions in the country mud. I thought this is where he was at home. I think that's where he wanted to be.

Quad bikes flew fast - they didn't offer us a lift - I'm not sure why.

Deflated, we headed back to my car to search via road.

Now I should probably mention we'd been informed not to get too close to the hunt as we risked distracting the hounds and ruining the event.

I thought it was unlikely we would even find the hunt.

Following this 'sport' seemed like finding an unknown location. You need GPS.

But, as we drove up a small road in the middle of nowhere, with no sign of horse nor hound, something suddenly arrived very close in our eye span.

The pack of hounds, and the prolific hunter.

This was not great.

The hounds started to run at my car - I became their fox - to be fair, my car is a similar colour.

I panicked, and Top gear suddenly came into my mind as I asked Dave:

"What the bloody hell should we do now?"

I put the car into reverse, which went well until I went off road- into some tree branches.

We found a gap and sheepishly parked up, unsure of what negative impact we had had on this hunt.

A bit later.

Filming was again bravely attempted as horses were seen on a nearby field - I say bravely because it was unclear whether we were still viewed favorably, not helped as I fell down a small mound amongst an array of competent horse riders.

They had probably assumed I was of the experienced country variety, this view may have then changed. The wellies may have prevented this but I had taken them off to drive.

As I pointed a camera upwards and filmed a horseman he asked: "What ARE you doing?"

At this point I really did ask myself this question and wasn't sure of the answer.

How had I got myself in this situation - problematic weather and unpredictable animals.

So I'm doing it all over again on Tuesday.

I'm not sure Dave wants to help me.

My first trip to Scotland, spontaneous bobsleighing, and being ill, all at the same time

2009-11-18T09:18:00.000-08:00

Often, when you are most looking forward to doing something a poisoned fruit falls down and hits you on the head.

Like when Adam and Eve found all that delicious food but couldn't eat it, I had a similarly exciting prospect but a sudden hurdle appeared.

Although my obstacle was less religious I fully intended to overcome it.

The fruit in my case was a trip to Edinburgh, and the obstacle, man-flu.

In one morning I was sweatier than spending 3 days on a Dubai beach and had an oversized frog in my throat on pro plus - jumping up and down like a record breaking pole vaulter.

There was no way, however, I was going to let this illness prohibit the fun of my first trip to Scotland to attend BUDS, the university dry ski slope championships.

We had a small, but poor (not pants but little money) ski team and we needed all the morale we could get: I was intending on being a pivotal part of the enthusiasm involved.

As every student will tell you, when the signs of being ill arrive, buy anything with the word orange in it.

I bought a pack of oranges so big that every time I opened my cupboard they fell on my face - forget energy drinks, this kept me on the ball.

I also purchased orange juice and began drinking it out of shot glasses.

As well as this, there's the key question when ill: "Should I be drinking alcohol?"

"Just drink vodka and orange juice," I have been told.

Literally, it's a vitamin C hell hole.

I am now an orange.

Anyway, more stocked up than my local grocer, and more high on Lemsip than Amy Winehouse, I jet setted off to Edinburgh via a cheap airline with my good mate David Row - he became my guide, he's been before.

Other occupants on this trip involved my housemate Rupert and 5 others who had gone by a random mixture of train and car. You could call us gypsies.

There were concerns, I should admit, that Rupert's rather old Peugeot 306 wouldn't make the 8 hour journey, but in-fact he later experienced more of a man-made problem- more on that later.

Anyway after a rather bumpy landing me and Dave strolled to the taxi rank and requested the caravan park where we were to stay.

I hadn't actually known we were to be partaking in caravan club until this point, but had been quite the Eurocamper on family holidays so was prepared for any eventuality.

Me and Dave jumped in a taxi, I, completely confused about the driver's dialect, but Dave's cousin lived in Scotland so he volunteered to be my translator.

As we arrived at the caravan site it became apparent we would be staying in the five star section of these movable hotels: the mobile home.

How we had managed this I am still unsure. I think Rupert has been building up his Caravan Club points.

But as we checked in there were clearly people missing from what I will call our 'crew'.

Unfortunately, the scheduled group meet had been hit by it's own hurdle, and Rupert's car appeared to be no Colin Jackson.

"Where's Rupert and Jenna (competing skier)?" I asked inquisitively, worried.

Ben, a fellow traveling member of our crew:

"Well, Rupert's car broke down in the middle of no where."

Concerning news.

In-fact the truth had been minorly twisted here, what had actually occurred was that my good housemate Rupert had been seeing the sites of Edinburgh whilst driving around on the red light for a whole HOUR and a half.

Rupert's petrol had been, and gone.

After a combination of bad map reading and a sat-nav malfunction they became a group of vulnerable English in Scotland's own Wolf Creek.

Like the film, a random man gave them a lift, but to a petrol station and he did not kill them.

The event

I will bullet-point our time at the ski slope with a number of significant incidents, little of which, I'm happy to say, involve my self.

I was pretty much Lethal Weapon in terms of not getting hurt, mainly.

One) Ben, one of our snowboarders, was riding the rails.

He experienced some success, but there was also a broken finger and a thumb.

Two) Another of our competitors wore a fat suite. We later found her at the bottom of the

piste - before we knew it we were taking her to the medical room. I will not name her due to health and safety form fears. Although she is not in a wheelchair.

Three) Jenna missed her skiing slot after 'the breakdown', the car that is, she's not in a mental asylum. She then had to pretend to be a boy and race in their category, partly successfully, partly not.

Clearly it was an overwhelming competitive success.

I often divert people to this video, where everyone looks awesome - apart from the rather foreboding girl on crutches at the beginning:

BUDS 2009 from BUSC Events on Vimeo.

The last minute episode

Without knowing it, I was to partake in my own competition.

There I was at the top, happily watching the last of the boarders on the big jump, when I saw lost friends walking up the edge of the dry ski slope - it was Rupert and co.

At this point as I tried to attract their attention by waving, a dramatic moment took place. But it was no epiphany.

It involved me competing in my very own bobsleigh run.

It had been raining all day, and alas, I had stepped forward on to a piece of particularly slippery material to the side of the slope.

On my back, olympic styley, I shot past a friend quicker than Usain Bolt on a sledge.

Passers-by were probably surprised that there was a new event at this years BUDS.

Others may have thought I had done this for a laugh.

I was doing neither.

The Next Day

I went to the campsite toilets and then strolled casually back to the mobile home- very normal.

Our temporary accommodation was not particularly tidy - a nuclear bomb had hit it in the night. But between my trip to the toilets and walking back a miraculous clean up had taken place.

The kitchen had also moved to the lounge. Strange.

I also had new mobile home roommate - 20 years older and five feet taller than Dave.

This, in-fact was not my mobile home. It was the last main episode of the trip.

Now back in my room, I'm still ill, with an orange segment in my mouth.

Think, over enthusiastic hockey player.

Restoring calma, without luck

2009-11-11T10:46:00.001-08:00

In life there are good days and bad days.

Today I would describe as unsuccessful.

Two rather disruptive episodes happened.

Number one:

During a shorthand class today, with I would say about 20 of my fellow journalism students were present, I experienced something quite spontaneous. And unpleasant.

If the subject of writing in cryptic codes is not painful enough, mid-way through a sentence, I found myself somewhere totally unexpected: the floor, under a desk I once slouched upon.

How had I got myself here I questioned my brain.

As I sat on the carpet confused, laughing could be heard from above.

I then realised what had taken place as I turned around to see the chair I once sat on.

It had clearly given up hope and looked at me in horror as I stared at one of it's legs, bending in completely the wrong direction and snapped from the tip. It was like I was the two-ton man who had dared to sit on it.

"I must of put on a few pounds", I announced as I clambered upwards.

At this point there was a general feeling of humiliation, and there was more of that to round off my day.

Number 2:

After the above incident perhaps calma needed to be restored, although I do normally think that stuff is codswallop.

Anyway, as I strolled through university, I saw a small woman struggling with an oversized trolly. The piece of equipment had been caught on the rut between two doors.

But these were no ordinary doors, these were those of the electronic, unpredictable kind.

If you can forsee what happened next you are sharper than I am.

Midday through lifting the trolley over the ruts on the ground, something came at me.

On my face was the automatic door.

These doors do not come from the side, but straight at you.

Unfortunately this particular one had clearly had enough of being open and I became the food to it's closing mouth.

As I bumped my head, I heard laughing.

I looked out of the doors towards approximately five people off my course.

Dissertation distractions - Pimp your own farm: Why I shall not be joining Farmville.

2009-11-10T13:44:00.000-08:00

The sudden increase in workload at university is reminding me I am in third year and I do have to put finger to keyboard and eye to book. So far, however, I have put finger to keyboard and ended up on youtube, and well my eye has been on a book, but so has my face.

A book is a fantastic pillow.

Regrettably my university associates have found another addictive distraction to keep their gaze from the slightly important dissertation, and well they are desperately trying to get me to join the club. The virtual agricultural club that is: say hello to Farmville.

It's allotments, but for young people on Red Bull.

Now, I may normally live in a rural area of England, I may have ventured once or twice on a farm. I think I once went strawberry picking aged about 5. I have sat in the garden, and even mowed the lawn.

But, clearly I am no Farmer. More Farm shop.

This new game on Facebook allows unsuspecting users to start up a virtual farm.

My housemates inform me you can grow and harvest peppers and crops.

For all I care you could learn to herd buffalo.

It's just another distraction to make the library seem even more meaningless.

I imagine hours go by, the books are piled up behind your laptop, but all that has happened is your combine harvester has broken down, or your sheep have come down with mumps.

You are in your very own Farm Brother, and I will not be a contestant.

I can't deny the pressure hasn't been building, three of my housemates are apart of it, and I feel like I've lost them to a drug induced ghetto, but with cows, not heroin.

Their rehab is their tractor, their joy is their new born lambs. All completely animated, but clearly more addictive, ironically, than a roast dinner. In-fact I have heard people starving for hours because they feared their sunflowers would perish.

Too add to this, I now worry about leaving my computer anywhere, for the fear I may leave myself 'logged on' and therefore open to being 'signed up'.

I have to say this has already happened.

I was horrified.

It was just past midday at university, work was being attempted, but I had been a bit generous with my soft drink consumption during my time at the computer.

I needed the toilet, and generally this shouldn't of been a problem.

Without thinking, I took a casual stroll to the nearest cubicle. About a 2 minute walk.

When I strolled back I continued with relevant work. But then something happened.

On my 'minimised' Facebook I had received a notification. Someone had added me as a fellow farmer on Farmville. But I didn't have Farmville.

Panic.

All of sudden I realised my 'Farmville friends', mainly a housemate named Matt, had carefully orchestrated a campaign to stop me from ever leaving this virtual frenzie, by signing me up whilst I was relieving myself.

Help.

I managed, after some effort, to work out how to leave the application.

They see this as just the beginning. And everywhere, people are talking about their crops, there lost animals, their successful wheat yield.

And it gets worse, students I know have purposely not gone out to socialise in favor of this computer zoo.

On a night out, friends have disappeared, only to find them staring at their fields of gold at 3am.

This very night I sit next to people I know farming. They are talking about helping black sheep by adopting them - I feel like the French resistance, but obviously less significant.

Annie Mac and the trail of my lost wallet, with Zane Lowe, a rubbish Sherlock Holmes

2009-11-02T13:04:00.000-08:00

There has been an ongoing saga involving a certain missing wallet of mine, and unfortunately it's current location is still swirling around my head like a lost cockroach.

It has led me on a rather epic treasure trail. Where the hell the gold is I'm still yet to find out.

Here is the tale

Let me take you back to March 13th earlier this year, what were you doing that night?

As a freelance student journalist I had organised to interview Radio1 DJ Annie Mac for a music website.

It was a hectic night, we were meant to meet beforehand but before I knew it she was spinning the decks. By then I had given up my dictaphone for a lager, or several.

Did you see me enter the nightclub in Bournemouth that night?

All of a sudden it was at least 3am and Annie's strolling off the stage to leave.

She passes me, and looks like she's seen a troll as I try to grab her attention.

But as I say my alliterated name, she remembers. Oh yeeeea, there are some perks to having a name straight out of the top ten worst nursery rhymes. Thanks mum.

Anyway, before I knew it, we are sitting in a car. People on the outside are looking at me weird, one throws up. He's not drunk, just jealous.

Were you outside when I got into a black car on March 13th?

All of a sudden I'm in the back of this small black automobile and Annie's in the front with her driver. In a slight haze, with my ears ringing, I complete the interview.

It may be nearly 4am but I did not attempt to sing in this interview as I have done in the past, nor did I make nervous jokes or fall asleep (I have never done that).

I would like to say I was the epitome of the three CCC's:

Cool, calm, comatosed.

In fact I was actually quite professional.

However as Annie was driven off I suddenly realised I had lost my precious wonga holder: my wallet. Initially, I thought I had left it in the club, I searched and questioned. But nothing.

Did you see my concerned face that fateful night?

A few weeks later

After an email here and an email there it turns out Annie's driver had found my wallet in his car after coming back from a holiday.

Cheers mate, not all of us could afford a trip to Cyprus. I could barely scrape enough money together for a bacon bap.

Ok so that's a minor exaggeration and granted it was MY fault.

But at least I would now get my wallet back.

I didn't.

Nothing.

It may have had a small something to do with the the way I emailed Annie saying I'd give her some money if it cost her to send me my wallet.

What MAY have caused a tiny bit of suspicion (false) was a slightly badly worded sentence whereby I might of mentioned I'd pay for any postage cost if she gave me her bank details so that I could transfer the money.

I have tried to make this sound less bad, and me, less like a good-for-nothing scammer.

I realised my error as soon as I had pressed send, and then proceeded with an apology email.

Most likely this was deemed unsuccessful.

My leather folder long gone, and I, taking on more loans than Michael Jackson (when he was alive).

A bit later

SIX whole months later, I now have a new wallet. I may wave it in your face if I see you because I have it, it's mine and I haven't thus far left it anywhere other than my own car.

But there's a pride issue at steak and unbeknown to me it seems a little trip from another Radio1 DJ, Zane Lowe, may have brought this out of me in full-force.

You may have already imagined the forthcoming events.

This has become known as typical Harry Harris. The event was as followed:

I had an interview organised with Mr Lowe, the last question may have involved a fellow female, curly haired DJ, and a black, leather wallet.

It was like the last question on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and I truly was ready for the prize.

But an anti-climax thus took place, Lowe became uncontactable and the interview ceased to happen. I had lost all hope.

The night was drawing to a close, although as I tumbled out of the student union nightclub in Bournemouth there was Dan Brown ready and waiting to solve my own Da Vinci code.

But I wasn't going to say anything to Mr. Lowe. No, no, no, it had gone past that, there was too much pride at risk.

A few of my fellow night goers had a slightly different idea.

Rupert, a housemate of mine: "Go on Harry, go on, go and ask him where's your wallet. Do it. He probably hangs out with Annie all the time"

There was more of this talk from other such friends.

In a rather tispy state, after giving up any hope of an interview, I waddled over to Mr. Lowe standing by his car.

As cool as a large cucumber I announced:

"Yooo Mr. Lowe."

Silence.

"How, is, it going?"

A murmur.

"Do you know.... Annie Mac?"

Zane: "Yes, why?"

Harry Harris: "She stole my wallet. (off course this we know is not strictly true)

...But it's a long story you probably don't want to know."

Apparently he did. It's all slightly hazy, but I apparently recounted the whole adventure.

Mr. Lowe then replied in words such as these: "I'm going to turn into Sherlock Holmes and investigate what happened to your wallet."

What a revelation! This was getting better than Murder She Wrote and there was no bodged manslaughter involved.

I was asked to write my email address on a post-it note using a permanent marker.

This, by the way isn't easy. Though I'm sure he definitely wasn't trying to fob me off.

What was happening here was progress.

Why then, I have still not received contact from any of the previously mentioned people I am dumbfounded.

Crimewatch beckons.

The joys of being a healthy student

2009-10-22T04:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning:

After the binge of freshers week (I'm now a third year but still) I have decided to go on a minor health drive.

This so far has involved:
1. Buying bananas - However, rather predictably they have gone off before I have eaten them.
2. Running up and down the stairs - whenever I need something from a different floor, like a sandwich.

3. Drinking less of the strong stuff.
4. Riding from my house to university - on a bike, not horse, although still surprisingly dangerous.

I'm living in a different house this year in the centre of Bournemouth, but I didn't realise the initial treacherous bike route from my new abode.
My housemate had assuringly told me the route was a 'piece of cake'. However this was far from an Angel Delight.
More a Black Pudding.
I went out the back door, helmet on - I got hit by a car last year (on my bike, broken wrist etc) - and it started to rain. Hooray.

I entered through the back gate and cycled down a flat path. This is easy, I thought.
Then some steps appeared; I could handle these, but it was only 9.30am so I got off my bike and carried it down.
There's no need to be too adventurous yet.

But then, staring down at me was Bournemouth's Mount Kilimanjaro; a steep slope with less build up than a bad Death Metal record.
It just goes straight up. I need time to aclimatise, get into my stride, even change into an easier gear. The latter being the most vital.
The gear issue was the main problem surrounding my predicament - I was still in an enthusiastically steep gear from the previous day. This was going to be quite a climb.

In a positive move, I attempted to quickly get on my bike and change the gear to a lower one; I wobbled from side to side, trying to keep balance. Unsuccessfully, I put my feet back on the ground. I'm Ok though, I can do this: I didn't go out last night.

It was time to give it another go but it was hard seeing through the drizzle: I leapt on the pedals anyway, but my body went from one side to the other again, but this time more dramatically- a bit like a child who's parent has taken off the stabilisers without telling them.

As I tried to keep balance whilst getting into an easier gear something very unfortunate arose, or flew rather.

A FLY on some sort of suicide mission careered at high-speed into my left eye.

If you can imagine, you're walking down this hill, and you see a 'cyclist' who looks like he is on the peak of an 'A' class drug, raving on his bike, with one eye feeling the full affects of this chemical infusion. Squinting constantly with one hand appearing to punch his face (eye).

Unfortunately the nightmare continued; I had managed to get into a lower gear, but I had one hand trying to pull the fly out of my eye.
The bike was going right then left. Two hands had kept me on the bike. But, well, one...

Then, out of no where I was in a bush. Imagine thorns. This was no bed of roses.

I pulled myself out, smiling to passer-by's - they may have not see the incident.

I then walked the rest of the way up.

Tomorrow the hill will be conquered, on bike.

X-Factor is now showing at my Student Union bar: they can forget about my custom.

2009-10-18T15:59:00.000-07:00

As a student the weekend normally means staying in; five days consisting of probably little work and much play (freshers?) have taken their toll, stag do’s from up north have arrived by the mini-bus load and the clubs hike up their prices for those unsuspecting people who work full-time- blimey imagine what that’s like?

Unfortunately being in a student house on a Saturday or Sunday may involve a word beginning with X and ending in Factor. I can’t quite bring myself to say the complete name because it's all consuming; it blasts in your face, screams in your ears and spreads all over Facebook.

That guy can’t sing, she’s really common, he’s got a wooden leg etc.

Have you seen the news? There’s probably something quite important going on, like an earthquake. But wait, one of the judges is crying. My heart bleeds, they could be in their villa in Mauritius.

It really is a whole world of trollop. But typically when you’re in a house of at least four people, one reprobate wants to watch it. Personally, I’d rather stab myself in the eye, or one of the contestants. Sometimes I can’t decide.

The problem this year in particular is that the program’s head has grown the size of an abnormally large hot air balloon.

The lights flash like a techno rave, the commentators voice reminds me of the evil Saw man, and the audience is unbearable – imagine the man at the front telling them to cheer louder: he must be on acid.

Everything about it now screams American. Why? Because they want to send the winner over there and makes loads of wonga. In less they’re old. Or fat.

One thing that is particularly irritating is when they bring back old contestants who are now ‘successful’: “100 millions albums, 20,000 sell out tours and now fantastic at miming.” You get the drift. Well, what they don’t mention is what happens to the less lucky ones, who for some reason were not cool enough to make the dosh and were therefore quickly dropped by their label.

They really should bring them back. Here’s the ones who you voted for and didn’t make it:

“Hi, remember me, Steve err, what’s my surname, I can’t remember. Ah, Brookstein. Well I’m now singing in The Kings Arms, west Woolwich. The guys at the pub love me. I often get requests for Leona Lewis.”

Just to verify, said persons name in quote had to be looked up on Wikipedia in order to find their full name. And in case you’re interested he has actually been appearing in a musical called Our House. Sounds a hoot.

Second contestant:

“Hi my names Michelle McManus and well the industry is really image….”

Dermot: “Move on love you’ve on the wrong show. It’s a dog eat dog world.”

Anyway there’s still probably about ten treacherous weeks of the spectacle left.

That’s a lot of Saturdays out on the town, although note-to-self: apparently they've started showing the show at my Student Union bar so that's one to avoid. And well on Sunday, maybe I’ll lock myself in my room, apparently that’s really fun.

PART 2: Revenge

Simon Cowell, for Christmas, you get a bag of coal.

"Simon, I've got some disturbing news, you're no longer the big dog, the X-Factor single is at........number two."

S.C: "WHAT, WHAT, WHAT's at number one?"

Adviser: "It's a....metal song sir."

S.C: "A METAL SONG, but the kids love Miley Cyrus."

Adviser: "It appears the listeners are a little angry, they are raging against you, sir."

This is the Facebook campaign to get Rage Against The Machine to number 1 this Christmas.

(http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2228594104)

I mean could you imagine:

The top 40 Christmas chart countdown which everyone has forgotten:

"At number two, it's, IT's, the X-Factor single, which means, children, erm, turn your speakers up for.......... Killing In The Name."

Oh the joy that would bring to my ears.

It's the most seasonal song since Mr Blobby, but a whole lot more meaningful.

This by the way is not an epiphany, but, I will now be praying to Jesus this Christmas that Rage Against The Machine beats the X-Factor to Christmas number one.

Literally, if you are listening God, turn your spawn on Mr Cowell and ruin his yuletide X-Factor X-mas monopoly.

It would be the surprise present for such a song to hit the number one spot next Sunday - the coal in Simon Cowell's stocking.

I mean they even played the rock tune at our student nightclub last night, after Rhianna - what a mix up.

And finally what an amazing way to broadcast the tune, through the mouths of Cowell's puppets:

"Enjoy her! She's a perk"...What lecturers should probably keep to themselves.

2009-09-23T09:33:00.000-07:00

"Enjoy her! She's a perk."

Surprisingly these 'wise' words, were not thrown about between 50 Cent and Snoop Dog, at a P-Diddy party, nor at The Playboy Mansion.

They are in-fact spoken by an academic. Not about a company car, but about university students, of the female variety.

"...girls fantasise," he says, referring to students in America who go after 'the campus sports star'.

But here:

"On an English campus, academics can be heroes."

Sorry?

The slogan of a certain T.V advert springs to mind: "Those who can. Teach," but after this publication it may not just be those that 'can' teach but some who will 'try, try, try' in-order to have more luck with the ladies. That is, the intellectual kind.

Remember, The Sun's readers have their page 3's but the more sophisticated of the educational world apparently hit the lecture hall for their hot-tottie; where looking out upon all those eager-to-learn young ladies is basically the same as a lap-dancing club......

This boys and girls, is Terence Kealey, Vice-Chancellor of Buckingham University speaking:

"Yup, I'm afraid so. As in Stringfellows, you should look but not touch."

Sorry, but generally, those at the front-row are of the dreary dictaphone type (vast generalisation). I mean you need the binoculars to hit the female hierachy of the back seats.

But these are "normal girls" he's talking about, and old Terence seems an expert on the female species. Perhaps a bit of a 'lad' in his hay-day (put a pair of thick-rimmed glasses on him now and he's look like a posh Harry Hill)

His words:

"Normal girls - more interested in abs than in labs, more interested in pecs than specs, more interested in triceps than tripos - will abjure their lecturers for the company of their peers..."

Sorry to interrupt Sir Terrence, but are you trying to talk hip; it's generally quite 'normal' for us young to 'hang' out with each other. Maybe you should watch skins, it's not revolutionary.

Wait it gets better:

"....but nonetheless, most male lecturers know that, most years, there will be a girl in class who flashes her admiration and who asks for advice on her essay. What to do?"

GIVE HER A 2:2. Remember not every male, or female, university pupil has the pick of the bunch. Leave some for us, Terence, you stud.

The man definitely seems to have an educational fantasy, but surely ladies don't dream over Derek the biology academic, or Henry the History hob-knob.

Do they?

Although it is true on my own course there is a Politics teacher the girls talk of - he's probably got a lot of money.

And, if your dad's a teacher, shield your eyes:

"She doesn't yet know that you are only Casaubon to her Dorothea, Howard Kirk to her Felicity Phee (he's showing his age here I think, no idea who these people are), and she will flaunt her curves. Which you should admire daily to spice up your sex, nightly, with the wife."

Is he joking? It's hilarious either way.

The question really is: what will the students be thinking as he addresses them for a speech?

..."Is he looking at me Sandra? No Debbie, I think he's eyeing up the librarian reps on the front row."

Looks like the mere male students, such as myself, will need to up our game.

*Mr Kealey has responded to criticism of his article on Lust here.

Blowing up love bombs! Political News turns very Harry Potter

2009-09-21T08:55:00.000-07:00

Political news headlines are almost as confusing as the people trying to lead our country.

Here's a tongue-in-cheek take on recent news involving all things MP-orientated.

Randomly, here's a selection of new Harry Potter film titles.

In-fact they are political news headlines -for the realistic version of events click the link under the story summary:

The Guardian

'Nick Clegg must blow up David Cameron's love Bombs'

The favourite to lead the country after 2010 is such a charmer: David Cameron's been using nuclear love potions to woo Nick Clegg's high-flying wife. Very fantastical. Actually, it must be that he's using a nuclear love potion to woo Lib Dem supporters.

'Lib Dems spurn Cameron's olive branch'

What? Cameron's been growing an olive tree to save money in the recession and now he's offering it out to Lib Dems. And they don't want any olives? Ungrateful pips the point.

I think the Lib Dems will find it's very hard to get an allotment these days and grow-your-own is all the rage. Maybe an olive tree's a bit too posh for the them, I did hear Clegg was more into his cactus.

The Independent:

'Tories fail the 'under a bus' test'

Blimey, has it got that desperate!? They're power-possessed, they really are. There's no need to start sacrificing MPS in order to steal headlines. Has George Osborne ever even got on a bus before?

The term 'under a bus' also summons up an action sequence image of which is all a tad James Bond, therefore too cool: this is politics.

Now to Timesonline:

'Government warned of quango bungling last year'

This is very worrying. It's taken Labour too long to highlight how this ancient rural tribe of Quangos have been invading bungalows across the country. Lock up your one-floor houses; quangos maybe in for the chop, but for now, it's all talk.

BBC News Website:

'Osborne: Brown misled MPs on spending'

Misled? This is not North Korea George. Go have a look at Iran and then stop using this word so casually.

The story is actually in relation to an accusation of lying leveled at Gordon Brown:

Finally, on a rather unusual headline, there's something very worrying reported at Timesonline:

'Jack Straw calls for heroin on the NHS'

Surely not.

Everyone will be walking around completely, and utterly out of it.

"Sorry Doctor I'm feeling a bit lazy, got any ecstasy?"

Let's just hope these MP's don't go private and start claiming for it on their expenses.

So the laws on assisted suicide could be changed...well, well...

2009-09-21T08:49:00.000-07:00

In light of recent news that assisted suicide guidelines could be changed, here is piece I wrote earlier this year on the subject. It evolves around an interview with Dr Nitschke, otherwise know as Dr Death, who toured Britian giving suicide talks. There is also opposing comment from his former colleague Dr Micheal Irwin, as well as from a Chaplin in an area which Nitschke visited for it's 'older demographic'. [Photo]Dr Nitschke, dubbed 'Dr Death' by British media.

Dr Philip Nitschke, dubbed Dr. Death by British media.

Thirteen Years ago in the Northern territory of Australia a legal and lethal voluntary injection was administered to end the life of a terminally ill patient. This was carried out by Dr Philip Nitschke, the first doctor in the world to administer a doctor assisted suicide within the law. Under the Terminally Act of the Northern territory four more people voluntarily died, but a year later, in 1997, it was made illegal.

“We saw the benefits to our society when those laws were in place," Dr Nitschke said after his recent euthanasia ‘promotion’ tour of Britain. In fact considering the media circus surrounding his visit it was surprisingly easy to contact him, and his openness, such as stating the reason for going to Bournemouth is because of it’s elderly population, is perhaps his downfall.

With a strong Australian accent, “G’Day” starts our conversation, Nitschke, dubbed ‘Dr Death’ by the British media, was born in the rural south of his home country. His quite radical views, however, are far from the traditional values associated with outback folk.

“I would like to see legislation which will allow people under strict conditions, if satisfied by strict criteria, to get help to obtain a lawful end of life,” he states in a defiant, uncompromising tone.

The Australian physician runs the pro-euthanasia organization Exit International, and promotes a drug sold legally in Mexico, called Nembutal, and an “exit hood” which can be filled with a lethal amount of helium.

This open approach to suicidal methods has also left him in a wake of criticism. Dr Nitschke’s former colleague, Dr Michael Irwin, former Chairman of the Voluntary Euthanasia society, spoke from Cranleigh, Surrey where he still campaigns for right-to-die causes. In the past, Dr Irwin insists they were “good friends,” but now Irwin accuses Nitschke of being “totally irresponsible.” When asked about the Australian’s tour of his home country, the doctor who now campaigns for Friends at the End attacked the easy-access style of the meetings.

“He says the information is for people who are over 50, or are seriously ill, but the information he provides, like where to get Nembutal, and also this awful process of helium gas and exit hoods, could be so easily abused.“

The former Medicial Chairman of the United Nations launched a global campaign in the 1990s with Nitschke to legalise doctor assisted-suicide for terminally ill patients. Today, they are not on speaking terms, although Dr Irwin still takes patients on trips to Switzerland and has strong pro-euthanasia beliefs.

“Where there is a mentally competent adult involved who has either a terminal illness or who is very severely disabled, in those situations I think it is essential that people have the option of a quicker exit by means of voluntary euthanasia or doctor-assisted suicide.”

But, he added, in a stern, lower voice, there could be severe problems if methods promoted by Dr Nitschke are used for the incorrect reasons.

"The wrong person, someone that’s just very depressed or someone who wants to bump of their Alzheimer’s wife might get hold of this Nembutal and use it in a discreet way."

In Bournemouth, where Dr Nitschke visited just over two weeks ago, the seaside resort renowned for it’s retired population, saw a media furore more in line with the arrival of a major pop star.

At the meeting, held in the Britain’s only gay naturist hotel, Nitschke says it was “hard to say” how many people were there but it was between “50 and 100”, a broad estimate, he claims, due to the large amount of media representation. But clearly there’s an audience who want to hear what he has to say. Perhaps, however, one of the reasons there was resentment in the town, was because Dr Nitschke announced his visit was due to the “demographic,” referring to the high number of elderly residents, but, the Australian physician raises his voice at the suggestion of ‘targeting.’ In his defence, with the business plan of an Apprentice contestant, he states it would be “silly” to provide a service where people don’t want it.

The business side of the tour is what concerns Sharon Hartwell, a female chaplin in the costal town, who looks confused in her multi-faith chaplinancy in Poole as she initially overlooks her religious stance.

“I think the danger is he has some kind of financial interest in it and whenever there’s some kind of external interest, other than the exact good for a person, you’ve got to be slightly suspect.”

The religious objection is clear, euthanasia involves the help of someone else to die and the church is against this, but Mrs Hartwell was clearly intrigued.

“I didn’t go. I nearly went to it,” she says after a long hesitation, and with a frowned brow. A brief silence ensues as she looks towards her window and the farm animals in the field behind, and then, she leans forward.

"It’s a bit like putting your cat or dog down isn’t it. The other argument is that it’s quite fine to put your cat or dog down but why can’t we put people down, and if you’re a Christian I would say people are different to animals because we’ve got hopes, fears, and aspirations, whereas animals just live in the moment.”

The Chaplin describes her brother-in-law who tried to commit suicide but was caught, and is now “happy” with two children and a wife, hence the reiteration of her belief that ‘we only know how we are feeling at the moment and we don’t know what it’s going to be like in the future.’ As Mrs Hartwell continues, she shuffles uncomfortably in her swivel chair, continuing to highlight the “anxiety” and “guilt” involved when a person helps someone else die, and this, she says, is why God is there to make these hard life and death decisions for us. The bible says we are made in the image of god and therefore we are creative and are able to do all sorts of things. In contrast, the non-Christian, atheist belief, comes from a tradition where there is no God and there is no after life. After discussing this, Hartwell sits up and announces: “Who cares, who are you accountable to. Why does it matter? It all depends on you’re ethical point of view.“

Dr Nitshke said in response to the religious objection, including several highly strung negative comments from local priests around Britain, that he didn’t have a problem with people sharing different beliefs but they shouldn’t impose them on others.

“I wouldn’t want someone who has got a different moral and ethical system in place to the one I adhere to, to come along and tell me I can’t have what I want. They can do what they wish but they should let me.”

Strictly Spin: Politicians obsessed with a false reality

2009-08-14T04:34:00.000-07:00

Yesterday it was announced that Labour was hiring a certain reality T.V judge as a 'dance champion' of the nation. Sounds like a show doesn't it, well it might as well as be.

Andy Burnham will be presenting; he's the new Vernon Kaye, but with Swine Flu.

Feeling a bit sick? Join the club.

Anything to do with that dancing show on the BBC generally incorporates Strictly into the title but it's hard to stray away from the word on this current subject of blatant PR by Labour.

Could they think of anything less original than hiring age-row judge Arlene Philips as a leader of all things twinkle-toed, they may as well as have promoted Harry Hill as a champion of bald men. No, that's too obvious.

Labour's Health Secretary Andy-haphazard-swine flue-Burnham needs all the help he can get to improve his image after the muddled information he helped provide, or not, on that global flu which is going around.

And at a time when the public is calling the sacking of the 66 year-old judge from Strictly Come Dancing in favour of a 30-year old singer an ageist outrage, Labour has swooped in again on a popular reality T.V star.

If they're not careful the party will turn into it's own Big Brother; they've already been rowing about who claims for what, but, we should remember, they have got Alan Sugar to tell them who's boss. Why hasn't he fired a few of them yet? Oh, they've already left.

The whole Strictly stunt is sharp, you may think, but it's definitely too cosy.

They should of got Harriet Harman striking the champion pose with Arlene; bursting through a placard of the BBC outside number ten.

Anyway, as Arlene gets her grip on Burnham, perhaps we should expect to see him on the next series of the dancing show alongside Ballroom-lover Vince Cable, and maybe even Alan Duncan. Oh but he probably won't have the energy. Or Cameron's already given him the notorious: "You're fired!"

Music Interviews

2009-05-19T08:42:00.000-07:00

BBC Essex Radio: mountain-bike event package, available to listen here:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/essex/content/image_galleries/mud_sweat_gears_gallery.shtml

Beijing 2009: a crazy culture trip

2009-04-24T06:51:00.000-07:00

Sunset over Bei Hei Park

Jing Ling Great Wall hike

On the 27th March 2009 I set off to Beijing as part of a government funded study China program which involved 3 weeks of mandarin lessons, lectures on the economy and culture, and getting involved in activities like Tai chi which off course originated in the eastern country.
I already had a personal interest in China, with it's unique culture and increasing presence in global affairs alongside various controversial topics and this trip allowed me to explore all these things, and a lot more...

Here is a tour of the highlights:

On arrival

On arrival in the chinese capital on Saturday the 28th March I was expecting an immediate culture shock. Instead I experienced the extremely calm and pretty much deserted space of the airport, which is huge and, like the Birdsnest, amazingly shaped.
Outside, there are no taxi drivers scrambling for tourists or crowds of people jostling to leave or enter, in-fact it was utterly quiet, even the university volunteers who had come to collect us were carrying Olympic like ceremonial flags to direct us to our transport.

At arrival at Beijing Normal University, where we were to study for the next 3 weeks, we were supplied with a 'gift' which consisted mainly of a jam-packed timetable.

Nihao!!!

The mandarin begins: AT 8AM

After a day off on Sunday, but still in a 7 hour jet-lag daze, the program began with Mandarin lessons at 8am, and then an 'informal' discussion with students - they were as interested about the U.K as we were about China, but our questions were perhaps more investigative.

Like me, there was clearly alot of Europeans who had some delving questions they wanted to ask, although at this moment the ground was still being felt and I didn't jump in on the one-child policy or Tibet. Instead we stuck to n student life and the odd question on Olympic controversy. Answers were mainly very positive, remarkably assured and believable.

My class of about 15 students were intoduced to two teachers; Liang Peng and Liang Laisho.
We were quickly informed of our Chinese names, and to explain my English name I referenced Harry Potter which made the teacher laugh, signifying the books/films worldwide popularity. My name for the next 3 weeks would be HanHaiRei - this karate kid-like name made feel like I could fully get into China mode, although when our student teacher, the more intense of the two, wrote us chinese-character name tags she seemed more intent on spontaneously testing us.
Now, if you just nod off for say 5-10 minutes thats a whole lot of mandarin you've missed.
"HanHeiRei," she'd call out, as she walked to the opposite side of the room to me, "Ni qu gou ri ben?" (Have you been to Japan, or something else along those lines). And in those jet-lagged moments I would frantically nudge a classmate, generally my Scottish mate Euan, trying to find out the answer. The good thing was these on the spot questions did generally keep me on-the- ball so I could pick up the basics, or more likely Euan had cottoned on to my nodding off and was ready to fill me with the info.

Cultural Times

"It's half hour walk, too far, too far, I think bus or taxi will be best"

The student volunteers didn't seem to think walking should be the chosen option for many cultural trips, and in hindsight, although we often ignored this piece of advice, I can now see why. To cross the road there is a red and green man, normally you would think green is fine to go, but NO. Basically, in general, green is as dangerous as red because cars generally don't stop for any signal. Quite simply you just have to become an aggressive pedestrian; see a gap, go for it.....don't show them you're timid otherwise you'll be honked all the way to Shanghai.

Often the best plan is to go when you seen the locals hit the road (at an olympic like walking pace). Also, at most things cars will hoot, particularly at cyclists, who don't seem to care; they often get nudged off their bikes by taxis, but from what I saw they just pick their bike up and continue as normal.
During these insightful walks the other notable thing was the spitting, which I never really not accustomed to. Both men and women participate, and the worst point is when someone is walking behind you and you just hear the sound.....and expect to find saliva ridden up your trouser leg; luckily I escaped this, there saliva spit precision is quite accurate- I just wish they would water the plants and not the pavements, but each country to their own.

Oh and another quite weird thing was the food on display at the night markets...

Bidding for a starfish, but offered dog (no thanks).....

The Forbidden City

Built in the Ming/Qing Dynasties this place was overwhelmingly huge and all imposing. It consists of various structures that were used for different tasks, such as animal sacrifical chambers to prayering areas.

The only sad thing about the place is that the historic information is a bit vague and like quite a lot of cultural sites in China tends to reference their poistions as places for amazing tourist interest because of their beautiful architecture (true but where's the historic grit). I did find out however that the place housed quite a lot of concubines- the emperors must have been busy men.

As we walked around we asked a Chinese couple to take a photograph of us (me and a few students from the U.K), and they quite happily did, after which they took a photo on their own camera of us which I found bizarre but hilarious. What do they do with these photographs!? We must be pin-ups on quite a few walls by now.

On the way out of the Forbidden City exit two intrigued-looking Chinese women approached me and my friend Tom. Were we twins? they asked..... and their questions continued. We were used to friendly inquistive Chinese, but we noticed the personal questions that proceeded.

They finished, in their perfect English, by telling us they were going to a park and would we like to go with them and then on for a drink. We concluded that this point that this could be a scam like we had been told about by the university. When we told them we were waiting with friends they looked startled and said goodbye, but instead of walking towards the 'park' they talked of, they walked back to the exit of The Forbidden City. It's amazing that they can speak a second language so well and yet they choose to do this.

It's not easy to get a well paid job in China I guess.

Overall we had walked around for about 5 hours before we strolled out to a hugely communist and historic landmark, Tianamen Square, what a name drop I know....

Not bad for a summer hangout:

The Summer Palace/China's historic OC

I cannot believe that this place was for such a small amount of people to stay in during the summer; for like an Emperor and co. The place is huge, with a massive lake which we walked the whole way around, and a large temple at the top of a hill where you can see all around the lake. Unfortunately it was quite smoggy when I went up and so the view wasn't that great, however I should point out that in my time in Beijing I experienced a fair few blue skys and the smog wasn't as bad as is made out in Western press, although I did hear that it gets worse in the summer.

Before 1978 Economic Reform: Unhappy faces, after reform: Happy Faces:

An economy lecture

So we had a lecture on Chinese economy, which I was dubious about because in a previous culture talk it had consisted more of a tourism powerpoint tour.

The economy lecturer had studied at York univeristy in England and she did give some interesting information about China's changing economy and growth, with reference to it's struggle in the economic crisis, however I have to be cynical in reaction to some parts of the presentation. I know they have to be careful in regards to criticising the government but the presentation depicted poor streets and unhappy Chinese people before the 1978 economic reform, where there was no motivation for striving for a profitable business, to a photo of happy faces and nice streets after the reform.

Honestly I was pretty shocked that this is how we were shown the change in their economic policy. Also, it was stated that China intends to reach 8% economic growth this year, but how are they going to reach this target? We were not told but I have a feeling it will be to do with investing heavily in places like Africa, which is helping the continent, but at the same time investing further in some of the repressive regimes.
However, we were shown a few interesting graphs depicting both China's growth successes and failures compared, positively and negatively, with countries around their world in relation to different trade practices- so it's wasn't a complete China promotion.

The 'Eight' Wonder of the World:

The Terracotta Army

A group of about 10 of us, from England, Norther Ireland and Scotland, decided we couldn't come to China and not go to what China calls the eight wonder of the world. Officially there's just seven, no!?

Waiting in Beijing West train station, and then on the train..on the bunk-beds.

So after some deliberation we booked sleeper tickets on the 12 hour night train to Xi'an (opposed to booking hard seats which are cheaper but you are not actually guranteed to sit down and could end up standing up for the whole 12 hours at night).

Thank god we decided to opt for the

beds because when we arrived an hour early at Beijing West train station it was absolutley rammed, mainly due to a 3 day festival holiday,

and people were obviously preparing to sprint for a seat. Amongst these preparations for a seat battle I was experiencing the culture shock I had

expected on arrival, with Chinese people trying to subtley take photos and videos of us. As we accepted recognition for this by pulling the favored peace sign or saying Nihao, people often suddenly took down their phones and pretended as if they hadn't been watching....though we did get the odd smile.

The train was a real experience, comparable to those jungle jim places, because everyone is in compartments of 6 bunk beds, 3 on either side with a small corridor at the end and you just hang over each other bunks chatting. I actually slept quite well apart from when I turned to see a chinese women on the bed oppsite me staring wide-eyed.

Arrival

In reaction to some quite negative accounts of The Terracotta Arm I though the place was absolutely amazing, although it's weird that they have built such firm, Egyptian-like structures around the pits, particularly as they are still excavating for more finds.
There are two small pits full of miniature towns with people, horses and pots filling the alleyways and then one huge pit full of the terracotta warriors.

Clearly the army of workers who took part on the construction of these clay objects were not just ordinary workers but many of them must have been amazing sculptural artists, because some of objects are so detailed and realistic.

The large pit is just astounding, it's huge with hundreds of terracotta warriors, all with a different faces and many different races....there's definitely something spooky about them; they look like they could start marching at any moment.

We had hired some audio guides, fully prepared to mke the most of the experience, however much of the information consisted of: 'the left pit is 1.5 metres tall, and is 5 metres way from the right pit.' The factual measurements seemed very important but I wanted to know more about the tribulations that the clay warriors had suffered, because the Emperor after the one who had requested there making for his after life, had tried to burn them all, and also the wooden roof placed on top of them had collapsed and caused many of them to be damaged.

The audio tape did inform us that not one of the warriors is undamaged, oh and that deers were sacrificed because they are 'pure.'
Also there are apparently large parts which have not been uncovered, including mercury rivers, because there is a risk that it could damage current findings. They believe that a whole world was created for the Emperor for his after life, much of it still uncovered- wow.

After that we went to some hot springs, but they're so ancient you can't take a dip so instead we.....

On the train on the way back we couldn't get beds next to each other, however when we got on the train a really nice but crazy Chinese woman managed to shift the whole carriage about so we could be in the same compartment.

The bit I was staying in had two Chinese women on the bottom two bunks, who sat and talked with us (me, Euan, my Scottish mate and Lindsey, Norther Irish friend) all night, with a bit of their English and a bit of our Chinese. It was great fun, they were testing us on our Chinese as well because they were teachers who had been on a staff trip to the same place as us.

Down the isle a bit further the headmaster and some of the other teachers were having a drink with the rest of our group; drinking rice wine which is pretty strong and tastes foul!

"I can't sing, I can't dance,".... the only thing about me is that I will because China loves both these things.

(In England: If you can't sing you are told not to.

In China: sing at all costs)

The Graduation performance

After being in Beijing for two weeks it was clear that the Chinese loved singing (in general); on a quite a few 'social' occasions we had witnessed Chinese students volunteer to sing in front of us all, although quite a few of the UK students (not me) joined in as well.
I personally have detailed memories of being told not too sing in both primary and secondary school by both teachers and friends. In China, although they particularly commend those who can sing, they are quite intent in getting everyone singing their hearts out. For tone deaf me I found this quite disturbing.

Our group singing at one of the karaoke joints in our own 'lounge.' I think the song was a Boyzone 'hit'.

For our graduation day each class had to do a performance, and my student teacher had chosen us a popular chinese pop song, involving a quite lengthy rap. At first I thought I could stand in the background stepping from side to side with the odd clap. But this was not to be the case. The teacher would call out our Chinese names: "HanHaiRei," she would call out, "louder." So I went with it, caught up in her enthusiasm for my rapping, to the extent where at one point I believed I was quite good. That was until everyone else stopped and I could just hear this monotone drone ringing through my ears. "We practice again our teacher would say." Sometimes practice does not make perfect, believe me.

Student Life

In China it's really hard to get into university in comparison to the amount of univeristies and the huge population/number of applicants. The students I spoke to had really quite long days, although quite a few admitted to skipping lectures.

Amy- student volunteer legend

Weirdly, from a western perspective, male and females stay in different dorms and even in the international halls men and women cannot sleep in each other rooms.

Both these things mean that in the evening when walking around the large campus (which is like a mini town full of restaurants and bar) there are a lot of couples getting it on before they go to bed. Also, there was a curfew at 12am for the Chinese students, and they miss it they will have to stay out all night. This was particularly strange because in the international halls where we were staying there was no curfew, and here's us experiencing the nightlife and the Tsingdao (Chinese beer)....

Secondary school visit

After a tour of a secondary school in Beijing we were all impressed with their amazing sports facilities, including a room full of loads of ping pong tables. A competitive battle followed and we....unsurprisingly lost....

25 minutes of fame:

The Birdsnest Olympic stadium

Seeing China's olympic stadium at first-hand is pretty impressive, the architectural structure is crazy and it's not suprising quite a few people died making it. When we went inside I found it quite a lot smaller than it appeared on television.
About 12 of us sat down on the floor in the centre of the main area where all the athletics took place, and as we chilled in

the sun, I noticed some Chinese people posing behind us........

Getting snapped by the locals

......Then I looked forward and people were taking photographs, I looked behind again and realised we were the subject of a quite substantial photo shoot with people posing in photos with us.

They were, however, quite shocked when we got up and posed with them....though it was then quite hard to get away!

A few of us waited around till dark to see the stadium lit up, and in between this time we went and had dinner, not realising how efficiently early and on time they turn the lights off. Both the Birdsnest and the Watercube (the swimming arena) looked awesome fully lit-up, but unfortunately they were soon after switched off. It was around 9.30pm, so we only saw them for about 15 minutes, saves electricity I guess.

Watergate

After seeing the Birdsnest lit up we then went back to our halls where we staying.... to find the Thai's on our floor having a mass waterfight. Suddenly as I walked into my room about 5 thai's, men and women, ran into my room and poured buckets of water onto my head. For about an hour after that it was waterfight war. The photo below shows a bit of the carnage in the corridor.

Trip to the countryside

The weekend before the final week of the program we were taken on a trip to the countryside/middle of nowhere...but it was quite nice to get some fresh air. We went on a hike to see these ancient pagondas (shown above). We were then given a bonfire, between 8pm and 9pm, very efficient, but in the end we were allowed it to go on until 9.30pm before we had to go back to the local houses we were staying. 21 and being told to go to bed!haha

A momentous occasion:

Graduation

I felt like I was being inauggorated for a government position at the study program graduation. They had people speaking again from the university (like in the opening ceremony) and they played a video of our time there, which had this highly/overly emotional piece of classical music playing in the background (they had been constantly filming us throughout our time there and it was a bit like being on a reality show).

It was nice the importance they put on our visit....but then we had to perform. Why oh why. Our performance was painful but they clapped, in-fact they clapped happily to every performance no batter how bizarre or out of tune.

Afterwards we had a 'banquet' laid out for us....

Alone in Beijing:

My days after the program

As all my fellow study program students flew home I stayed as I had organised to fly out a few days after so I could see how I faired on my own.
When everyone left I suddenly realised how different it is to be on your own in the capital and how many Chinese people there are in Beijing (derr! I know).

I took the bus and the subway and walked around the city, sometimes attempting to ask for directions and sometimes getting answers. Generally I'd say 50% of the people stare at you; it's not rude and most people are friendly but it's weird when you are strolling on your own

Harry, Harry, dance, dance ya!!!

Thai New Year: Watergate 2

After living in the international halls next to some thai students for three weeks we had become quite good friends with them, although the majority could not speak English (I did not expect them to obviously).

The friendship actually started after 'watergate,' and when one Thai lady, Kong Kung, who was training to become a teacher, found out I was staying on after the program and invited me to Songkran, a festival on Saturday 18th April to celebrate Thai New Year. So I agreed and off we set at 12pm, me and a lot of Thais, Koreans, Vietnamese and Taiwanese. It was crazy, and I had no idea what was going on.

A Taiwanese women who spoke English took me under her wing and showed me around the festival, whilst I quizzed her about China-Taiwan relations - she was not negative, but did mention that her blog which talked about both countries had been blocked.
As we walked towards the stage Kong saw me, she grabbed my hand and dragged me up onto the stage. Before I knew it I was standing in front of hundreds of people with no idea what I was meant to be doing. "DANCE, YA," Kong shouted, "Like this" (she motioned a dance action I had never seen before, but I followed in fear. People cheered, in sympathy probably but it was quite fun.
As this festival signifies a hot time of year where the Buddha needs cooling down there is a tradition to poor water over a buddha statue, which I did, after studying the other people in the group. But then a mass water fight started, unfortunately I went to fill up my bottle as the water truck arrived. Basically I looked like I had been in a severe monsoon. It was awesome.

A foreign investment:

The Global Times

Whilst in my last days in Beijing, a new English translated newspaper was launched by the government, The Global Times. I had actually read the newspaper before finding out if was run by the government, and according to various English press, it's aim is to spread the parties view to the international community in China and, in reference to the official aim, to improve relations with foreign countries. After I read these aims the various articles about countries donating gifts or building new embassies made sense.

Some of the articles were of real interest and quite negative, but who knows what they choose not to put in. Apparently there are significant differences between the Chinese version and the English version, with more reliance on a nationalist theme than in the foreign version. Western media has also pointe dout that people living in China who speak English will not read the paper because internet news is more favoured, which, after speaking to quite a few English speaking Asians I agree with; many of them use sites such as the BBC.

3.5 hours too far for one american family:

Great wall hike

So I'd been to Badaling, and although it was good, it was packed full of tourists and a lot of it's re-built.... so I wanted to go to a more un-touristy, original part. I took a bus for 3 hours from Peking Downtown Backpackers Accomodation to the Jing Ling part, with some Danish girls, an American family, a Brazilian man and a Spanish women. When we arrived we took a cable car up to the top of a large 'hill' and began the hike. This part of the wall was just awesome, surrounded by greenery and with some parts resembling ruins. The beginning was pretty steep but it evened out, and to some spectacular views of the countryside.

At one point as walked through one of the 30 towers on route, we realised that on the other side there was a large drop in the path where the wall had fallen away, so we had a rather large challenge trying to get down. In fact I had to catch the 4ft Spanish women as she dropped down.
As we waited for the American family below the tower they came strolling carelessley to the right of us. It turned out there was a path around the tower which was 'safe,' oppossed to our route which the guide described as 'very dangerous, no go that way.'
Oh health and safety. But in the American women's words: "Y'all survived, well done."

We walked for 3 and 1/2 hours until we were picked up at the other end, and the walk had taken it's toll on the American family; the son who had been before had clearly down played the trek to his parents, and the mum proceeded to throw up as we began driving back.

Back at the hostel where I was staying, situated in a Hutong, one of the old streets which the government are trying to knock down to replace with newer buildings - they tried to knock most of them down before the Olympics but failed.

At the hostel I talked to a Taiwanese women, who was not particularly happy about the Chinese women behind the reception who was confused by her Taiwan passport. She reiterated to me that China has seen Taiwan as a province of China ever since the Ming/Qing dynasties travelled to the island centuries ago. However, she explained how shocked she was when she spoke to some young Chinese people who said they had no idea Taiwan wanted to be it's own country.

Finally

My last two days involved strolling around 798, the art district, which is exhibits art work in an area of old industrial buildings. On my last full night I stayed at my mates house (in Bei Wa Lu in the south-west of Beijing) who is studying Chinese. That night I had an amazing meal because he knew exactly what to pick after living there since September. Although now he has to go to the gym a fair bit to avoid the Beijing belly which I need to now work off!

I flew back at midnight on the 22nd and I'm back home now, enjoying sandwiches and cereal and watching the news, all so bizarrely different, but thats what makes China so interesting, right from the smallest things there are quite substantial differences.