BAD WEATHER MAKES JAPANESE TRAINS BETTER

New research has discovered that bad weather conditions actually makes the Japanese train network run better.

Traditional ways of delaying trains like torrential rain and snow actually improve the punctuality of trains in Japan. Being famed for its punctual and efficient train service on ordinary days, Japanese technology has topped itself once again by using extreme weather conditions in its favour, harnessing cold temperatures and snowfall to speed up its service, being the only country in the world to now welcome blizzard conditions.

The new system is the brain-child of Takahiro Ishikura, a long time loyal scientist for Japan Rail. He says:
"The idea came to me when my English teacher said how he actually works better when he has hangover, because he makes a greater effort to fight his very bad feeling in head and stomach, so he works more harder to be better teacher," however the story took a sad turn as he shed a tear and continued, "he is dead now. Liver failure." Despite his death his legacy lives on in the tireless efforts of both the technological and research team, adopting the English teachers credo of using terrible circumstances to improve performance.

On man-made Japanese soil (a technological feat in itself) Japan Rail scientists have devised a system of exploiting the body warmth of the mass of commuters as a conductor of energy that is then directed through heat responding sensors to the tracks to thaw snow and ice. On top of this, sleety conditions are picked up on more train sensors that allow faster communications with the centre of operations in Shinjuku, using low temperatures to bypass normal wavelength interference that plagues train network communications all over the world. But not now in Japan.

Before all this could happen though a delegation of researchers went to Britain in the winter of 2010 to learn from the oldest train network in the world. The trip proved to be enormously fruitful according to researcher Hibiki Katsumura:
"We learnt a great deal in England. We studied very hard the train network infrastructure and took all of it's lessons and ways of working, then did the exact opposite. From this we were able to create a template of an efficient and punctual train system. One that people are happy to pay for. We made it a mission statement of our team to never see the disgruntled expression, so common on the British commuter's face, on the face of the Japanese commuter."

There are critics however, saying that this multi-billion Yen project has cost the taxpayer so much for a situation that only occurs only a couple of times a year.
"The money and time could have been better spent," says train worker Shinji Watanabe. When asked on what the money could have been spent on, he suggested more wheels, "more wheels means faster trains." Despite the few critics, Japan is generally hailing this as another technological success.

Now researchers are looking into improving the 100% punctual service on normal days. So far no headway has been made. They are stumped. It looks like there are a few more stops on this track to bettering 100%, notwithstanding the mathematical impossibility. But if anyone can do it, the Japanese can.

Bits of Tokyo

I could tell you stories about how I was the victim of a scam by the criminal fraternity of Nigerians in Tokyo, or how I discovered and took a stroll on that fine line between romantic pursuit and stalking, but no one wants to know about that. Instead this:


There are too many bicycles on the pavements here. You have to be quite alert when walking, limit your sightseeing to that space a few paces before you. Unfortunately there are no beautiful temples or impressive skyscrapers in that field of vision. Only no-smoking signs painted on the floor, and concrete. Luckily for me I like concrete. When the fast wheels of the bike comes into that field of vision, one can only hope that they are adept enough to swerve away from you, which they usually are. It's just that I can't help imagining that this field of vision will end up with me under the wheels of a bike, unable to free myself from the tentacle-like spokes, being dragged along towards my fate under the deathly wheels of a bike. But this observer is not quite ready to puncture a tyre yet. There's plenty more to see.

Like that Japanese doll-girl over there. She's far too manicured to be displaying anything at all natural. Even her walk is unnatural as she hobbles along about on heels as high as Icarus. It's like watching Bambi learning to walk all over again, figuring out that odd relationship between ground and feet. And of course the story ends just as tragically as that of Bambi's. The girl's mother was gunned down by hunters right in front of her. Strangely similar to the fate of Bambi's mother too. If only she was wearing more practical footwear, she could have intervened. Oh well. (She actually just horrendously fell over).

To your right up here, at the end of my road is the local park, which has solved that age-long problem of grass by having a green painted floor. Best of both worlds. Looks kind of like grass and avoids issues of maintenance, like cutting, and shit. A brilliant notion, one that the managers of Central and Hyde park would do well to heed.

Across the road, over there, is an office worker, or kaishain, as they are called here, as inconspicuous as a black suited salary-man in one of the many financial districts of Tokyo - which he is. So that was a pointless simile. Must do better next time, like a black suited Japanese office-worker... He is unhappy you see. For in Japan most people who work in offices are labelled as kaishain, a generic one-for-all term applied to pretty much everyone. But he is much more than that! He is a systems analyst coordinator, and he wants to go to the top of the Tokyo Skytree and shout it to the world! But he can't for although there is probably a word for it, here in Japan he will always be a kaishain. But deep down in his heart of hearts he will always coordinate analyses of systems.

To your right you'll see a group of Yakuza. The correct collective noun is a smank of Yakuza. They are very common and can usually be seen in one of the seedy, sex-filled side-streets of Shinjuku, or Kabukicho for short. Although this sighting is a little more out of the ordinary, or extraordinary, if I was more to the point, which I'm not. There are over ten of them altogether hanging around a doorway that must lead to the offices of the sex club just below. I believe they've just had a conference. The suited older men are probably the only few in Japan that are not labelled as kaishain, even though they do probably spend most of their working lives in offices as public as any other, with plaques of their Yakuza group on the entrances. Oh twisted world that places more interest on the lives of Yakuza than systems analyst coordinators. It's obvious that they are Yakuza. You don't need someone to point it out, for there is a swagger of un-inherited confidence they have, expressed in every movement. It's quite riveting to watch. This sense of entitlement has to be earned though, and the younger members among them are in the process of doing it, opening the doors of the convoy of people-carriers lining up to drive the bosses away. I can't loiter about too long though, just look over like any normal passer-by observing a large group of people. Don't push your luck though and ask for directions or maybe even a group photo, using the reverse camera function on your smartphone. The temptation is strong, but I resist. I must remain the observer in this one. Also the next one, for your humble observer must dart off to the next scene.

You'll see on your left a rebuilt and serene looking temple overlooking a large sandy rectangle in the middle. It is empty except for a few people, which means it wouldn't be empty, would it? God, what's wrong with me, another badly phrased sentence. Must to do betters next times. Further along behind the temple, in a secluded corner resides a tiny tranquil pond, over which a tiny bridge connects to an even tinier island, hosting the tiniest of shrines. The red bridge fits perfectly with the red kimono of a Japanese bride, beautifully make-upped and proud. She is holding the hands of her new husband, appropriately decked out in a formal kimono, albeit a little less colourful, black with elegant white reliefs. On what I suppose could be called the mainland were the parents of one of the happy couple taking photos on the normal camera function of their smartphones, along with a professional photographer, capturing memories for no more than 6,000 yen/hour. The going rate he would say. This idyllic fragment of nature lies in the shadow of one of the most densely skyscrapered communities in the world, the towers of west Shinjuku. I have seen it so many time in films before, seeming impossible that this place existed, yet here I am now observing this most traditional of Japan under the peaks of the most modern of Japan.


P.S.

Right, I'm off to write an essay about this:

Against the Clock

(The following blog has been ripped apart from its true place in time. It　was　originally　intended　for　posting in mid-August,　but due to circumstances out of my control it is destined for the worst kind of fate - displacement, but not of a physical kind. This is a displacement of time. A lonely, wandering blog, it is a nomad of time, a foreigner in its own land and all other lands to come, and thus a blog to be treated with suspicion. For how can it's claims be treated with respect if the author cannot afford it it's true home.

The blog's true home is mid-August and the sun is out. With the help of foreign athletes and international optimism Britain has redeemed itself with the Olympics. However its not too long till our hearts and minds must divert their attentions to those in Syria. So like the lift I am stuck in at Shinjuku station I don't know whether I am going up or down. An old lady with a hat whose brim is big enough for the both of us gets on the lift. I then get off, then back on, then off, and then back on again, with my large suitcase. A pathetic embodiment of indecision, without the eloquence of Hamlet. I am hot and tired for I am moving that day into the centre of Tokyo.

"Foreigner easily confused by new country," she says, surprising me with her good English.
"Yeah. Sumimasen," I say.
"Where are you from?" she asks.
"England."
"Ah, England. Something good has just finished there."
"Yeah.")


It is another Tokyo summer, so I am told, but this is my first, which technically makes it the first Tokyo summer. It's stifling so I am told. I am told many things though, it is one of the benefits of being a foreigner. Being told things, and being an eager learner, I am ready to listen. At least to make up the days at school when I thought it was better to try and give the teachers a nervous breakdown than learn anything. I still do. I regret nothing.

These thoughts of past days at school do nothing to help the heat though. Never does. I open my balcony window to let at least some breeze in, but the air rests still, lying plump and stationary, like a revered older lady. No moving it. I have now had to resort to closing the door and turning on the air-conditioner. The tired, plump old lady is no longer my friend. I have met someone new, and her name is Mitsubishi. She keeps me cool and grounded in an otherwise boiling hot, tiny flat. She doesn't judge me, she is kind. However, this machine imbued with human foils, unfortunately has the disorder of narcolepsy, automatically turning off every three hours. So like a twisted form of relay, when she switches off and goes to sleep, it is my turn to wake up. The plump old lady comes creeping back, pulls back my covers and lays right on top of me while I try and sleep. Eventually I get up gasping for cool air, reach over and press that red button for Mitsubishi, my sweet cyber love. And just like that the plump old lady goes rushing off, hoisting her large floral frock over her feet to help her escape, with all that is missing to make it a classic 19th Century romantic opera is a bit of cross-dressing and a duel (acceptable and illegal, respectively), fanning her heated menopausal breasts as she runs.

I don't like bugs at the best of times, but who does? The heat and humidity only serves to put a healthy spring in their step, with large beetles buzzing heavily near your head, smaller ones bold enough to crawl in your hair. Cockroaches scurrying in corners and the large rigid hulks of dead cicadas littering the streets. If I can and I see a spider or insect that can be deposited out the window, then I deposit, but there are some situations that require death. The insect my be upon a surface that negates the tried and testing cup-and-paper technique (a cushion, bedding, and the like), or may be quickly scurrying to a corner. In these situations a fast and deadly approach is required. There is no time to think of your fellow creatures. There is no time to think at all. The perfect time to kill. One grabs the nearest cloth or tissue and expunges the life from the cute little critter. However, with bigger ones that require the old "final solution" I need to build up the killer inside me, and to do this I usually yell out my war cry at the precise moment I kill.

"DIE MOTHERFUCKER, DIEEEEE!" I seem to recall myself screaming, and I am sure my neighbours also recall. When one has a death cry for insect victims, it follows that the person may start questioning their outlook on insect disposal - an issue that has troubled man from the very beginning. However one day I screamed my scream of terror just before I killed the bug, and the insect in perfect response to my yelling quickly walked in full view to the nearest window and jumped out. To think that I could have been giving insects a verbal warning all along, instead of this mindless, hate-filled blood-letting.

I tried to think of a link to my next topic, but I couldn't, so this itself is the link.

What is all this Instagram camera stuff all about then eh? Sounds suspiciously like the alias of a coke dealer who knows a thing or two about punctuality. No one actually knows what Instagram is. Many claim it to be a funky new camera app, that imitates old square shaped Kodak amd Polaroid images. This is not true. It is the Big Lie, hidden and mysterious, the one that can masquerade as truth and no one is wise to it. Be wary of this one for it distorts all true images to look cool and funky and makes the most hideous of images, like the grinning faces of a happy couple, look beautiful. Take a photo of a rotting turd and you'll think Gauguin came back to life and created his masterpiece. Take a photo of a bland Tokyo suburb complete with ugly apartment blocks and multi-story car-parks, and you'll be fooled you are gazing at the beautiful mythical lost city of Shambhala itself. Take a photo of Stalin's pock marked face with his torture-prone buddy Beria, and you'll be forgiven for thinking you are witnessing the very heart of God's compassionate self.

But hey, since when was it new that the image lies? Is that not a part of photography? Is not the choosing of a frame (its subject and composition), itself established from the subjective view of the cameraman, a lie? Isn't Instagram a continuation of the photographic traditiom, or a step too far at the risk of those hard earned frames?

Oh, Ive got another one. Take a picture of the 2010 England riots and you will end up with images of a equal and content utopian society.

Get the picture? If not, get the picture app. They're all doing it. Where's yours?

(It is early September and there is a faint freshness painted in the air. The heavy rain recently has cleared the air, non-figuratively speaking. Autumn is tentatively approaching, still a little afraid of the remaining sun's dominant heat. I have just hastily finished my blog in a tiny internet cafe cubicle, conscious of the hours I have spent here and the consequent charges. I am now comfortably settled in a nice house in a new area of which you will read about in later blogs. It is Tuesday, but of course my blog will never see the day. For although it is here now, it was also there then, and no entity but consciousness can exist in two places at once. But please be forgiving of my new blog because what we know can't exist now may be able to in the future. And only when time, past, present, and future, finds a shared plain of reconciliation, can my blog, possibly find it's home.)

Second Time Over

I saw a man wearing a Royal Mail jacket the other day. One of those thin blue ones that they used to use in the early 2000's, when that style of uniform was used. You see I follow the uniform trends of the Royal Mail, it’s a natural hobby. And I'll confront anyone with the rough end of a pillow should they say otherwise. They will feel the wrath of my pacifism if they so wish to test me.
I was looking at it for a few seconds before I felt that something was a bit weird. For a brief instance there can sometimes be moments when knowledge of where you are can be toyed with. Did I just forget that I was in Japan and think I was in England? Of course not! How could one item of clothing transport me back home? So there I was slowly coming to the terms with this new oddity this land has thrown at me, an oddity too silly to be repeated.
Two days later it was repeated. This time it was one of those orange and blue affairs, those thicker coats that are worn in the winter by our native postal workers. It's anglophilia gone mad, I tellya!


My phone started beeping in new ways last week. This was no ordinary call, text or alarm alert. This was something new.
“What new devilry is this?” I whispered to myself. It was a Sean Bean from The Fellowship of the Ring moment, if ever one called for it, save the moments before a swarm of Orcs surround you in a dungeon. I immediately picked up the phone to see that it was an earthquake alarm. No more than two seconds later, before I could even react to the alert, the walls began to shudder and I could feel that gentle sway beneath me, much like being moved my the motion of a train.
It would appear that punctuality knows no bounds here, even when it comes to earthquake alerts. No earlier, no later. Personally I would prefer a little earlier, just so I can prepare myself more readily. But who am I to question the most technologically advanced nation in the world? I will just have to learn to find comfort in those last two seconds, should they come.
The second time it happened, the tremor was much worse, with no warning. It was scary to say the least, and when one is pushed to extreme situations, articulation is shaken also. The best way to describe it, is that I felt the ground was angry with me. The very foundation I was standing upon was displeased with me and felt the need to vigorously tell me so.


“Buro-job?”. I am pretty sure that I did hear something like that when I was walking a main road in Shibuya. I did the sensible thing. I let it pass. It could have been anything. Then only a few yards on, again:
“Buro-job?”. Now that was definitely the same thing as before, right? Same words and intonation. This time I couldn’t let it pass. I stopped and walked back to the questionable speaker.
“Excuse me. What did you say?” I enquired.
“Yeah? You wanna bro-job?” she said.
“Ah. Yes. I thought so… er, no sorry. No blowjob tonight thanks.”


I've never scrubbed so much in my life. It was a mistake to buy red wine in the first place. Red wine just asks to be spilled, I do it all the time. I have accused other people before, just to escape the blame of being the wine spiller. There is no one else to blame here. Here is only me, and thus only I spilt the wine. I am told the property owners are fussy here. The slightest stain means uprooting the most comfortable of carpets and most settled of wallpapers. There is no middle ground. I wish there was. I like the middle ground. It means compromise, and I like that. It means give and take. The two parties both win some and also lose some. But I fear, here in Japan, I will be the one losing. And I hate that, especially after scrubbing so hard. I really did try.


There will always be a second time. There always is. I only hope I am more prepared, for whatever decision I may take. Do we not learn from the first time? Are we not always ready with soapy water and a sponge? If not, then a third time will be sure to present itself. No matter how costly, or inconsequential.

Cherry Blossoms and Nikons

It was inevitable that I was going to walk into someone at the Shibuya crossing. That iconic vision of Japan. The patient crowds waiting on the pavements, huge forces on all sides growing rapidly as more people spill out of the underground station. The build-up is immense. And then there is the release. It's in all of us, but we see it best collectively, as the snap strikes through and like a freed animal the crowds surge forward. Were it not so terribly messy and real it could almost be described as artistic as the uniformed masses so naturally press forward to meet so confidently in the middle. People threading through eachother, joining and mixing like some kind of fucked up human osmosis.

I practically rugby tackled a Japanese man in my participation of this phenomenon. I foolishly turned around to talk to a friend. When one does this the surface area in the direction you are going is reduced, as you are side on. Much like advice given to us in our sword-fighting classes at school. This new availability in space is quickly occupied by anyone wise or foolish enough to see an opening. Such a high demand for space increases it value, and in doing so increases the inventiveness and desperation in utilising space (you will hear more of this in later blogs.) As I turned back around to see where I was going I slammed hard into a man so forcefully that he was pushed back, my shoulder hitting his face square on and my arm striking his chest. I mean this was bad. This was an unpleasant clash. The kind where one wonders whether you have caused a bruise, or AIDS, or worse yet... a cold. No amount of apologies could ever remedy the situation. And believe me I tried.
"Sumimasen! Sumimasen! Sumimasen!" I kept shouting as a turned back to see his angry face.
At this point I realised that I was looking behind me again. You can guess what happened next. Whenever you walk the Shibuya crossing, always pay attention to where you are walking.

Given that the greater Tokyo area has about 35 million people living in it, the first thing one notices is that there are a lot of people. Shinjuku station, the busiest train/underground station in the world with literally hundreds of exits, is an apt example of Japan's striking example of human existence. Black suited salary-men wearing straight, smooth, smart overcoats rub shoulders (well not quite) with visitors looking up, searching, attempting to grasp some sense of order and direction in the madness, only to wander out and further baffle their senses as they arc their heads back even more to take in the beautifully monstrous skyscrapers of Shinjuku.

I could go off on one about the absolute efficiency of the train services. The trains pull up, never too early, never too late. The workers know a "fare" amount of English, fairly adjusting fares based on your explanations. Such belief in honesty is a wonderful thing, one that would make me guilty to abuse it, yet open to use it. The workers wear smart navy-blue uniforms complete with a police-man style cap and white gloves. They are always there, on the platforms, behind glass screens, at the front of trains, always ready to help with a knowledge that could challenge that of a London cabbie, such is the expanse of the Tokyo area train system. Sometimes at the end or beginning of a train ride you will see a worker gesticulating and moving his arms around wildly, yet in a very precise manner. I have no fucking idea what they are up to. There seems to be no other workers they are communicating to. Maybe they are communicating to the ancestral spirits of transport.
"Nowt to worry bout. Train arrived on time. All passengers've got off, 'n now tis t'end of me shift." (All in strictly formal Japanese. Well they are talking to their ancestors)

A friend's arrival in Tokyo just five days into my arrival sped up sightseeing. One night we went to the restaurant that was used in the Crazy 88 fight scene in Kill Bill Vol. 1. It looked nothing like it anymore, but when you visualised it you could just perfectly picture a gangster falling from one of the balconies into the pool. The bloodied water splashing up almost into my ramen. The cries of the ghosts of 88 dead Yakuza filtering through the traditional Japanese music. Unfortunately no such gangland showdown was to present itself to me that night. Instead I was to be sat next to a large table full of Japanese and American businemen with their wives and suspiciously young girlfriends.

I swear I pass a house everday near where I live that I'm sure is haunted. The upper floors look empty and desolate, made the starker by jagged wood and cheap plywood for the sliding doors. There seems to be no decorations. The perfect place for the vengeful spirit of a Japanese girl to just hang around in. Still there's a game shop down the road where I can go in and roam the shelves pretending to have a Playstation to play them on.

I think I have also become more of a man. I recently purchased a wallet you see, and there is something undeniably adult about using a wallet. Being primarily a cash based society, with lots of coins and cards included, I felt it was time for me to discard my well-groomed doubts about wallets and get one. Paying things takes a lot longer now. It was only yesterday when all I had to do was grab a note or coins from my pocket and throw it at the cashier, for them to pick them up and work it out. Now I am a lot more considerate. I now treat them as equals. This is how I have grown. Ah, growth.

I am still learning the value of the Yen. For me it's a slow process. The first week I was constantly converting everything to pounds on my mobile phone calculator. Mobaculator, for short. £5 for a pint. Fuck! £15 for a novel. Shit! Etc, etc. Balls! I eventually gave up this need to compare prices and resigned myself to spend when spending was necessary, or in my case when it was desired. However I have characteristically swung the other way. I recently bought a work bag for £90. Nothing should cost ninety quid! Should've used my mobaculator.

The idea of destruction and regeneration has always been a “thing” with Japan. Its history of disasters due to its location makes it very advanced in preparation and response to such things, but has also fostered over the centuries a sense that everything is transient. What once was built as a testament to a culture can just as easily be taken away, by fire or water. The key to living in such unstable conditions is acceptance, and this acceptance leads to a readiness for what may come, and also a sense that all things must past. Oooh, I love generalising on a country before I've lived long enough to know anything about it. Here's some more!

I've looked into the eyes of men and seen madness. Or probably that would be better described as tiredness. Its often a long ride home after work. And time spent at Pachinko doesn’t help. How best to describe Pachinko? It’s a drug, an entertainment and gambling drug, that comes in the form of small silver balls that you must collect as they slide down a slot-style machine, hitting and bouncing off pins in the process. When you enter one of these neon drowned, metally box-fests you will immediately be numbed by the immense sound. Ridiculous electronic sound effects pointlessly accompany the incessant sound of dropping balls. It's so damn loud, you'd thinks Malice's cousin just revived from a coma after being defeated by Goodwill and decided to reign chaos over my fucking ear drums. Yeah! I told you I've seen madness. Now if the thought of trying to direct a multitude of silver balls into a container doesn’t give you a raging hardon, then you probably don’t get the subtle intricacies of style and technique the game involves. In terms of interest I would place it in-between getting your driving license renewed and scratching your balls. And I'm not talking about the Pachinko balls. There you go! Alright! I did a balls joke!

Cherry Blossom season (Hanami) is in full swing, with the Tokyo parks jam-packed with visitors drinking and eating under the trees. When a strong gust comes the scenery is peppered by floating blossom petals – pinks and whites making a veritable fauvist snapshot of the country. I can understand the fuss. It's beautiful. The trees are crooked and full of character as they bend left and right. Much like fashion in Japan the trees try incredibly hard to be completely individualistic and stand out from the rest. The branches too spread out at all angles, bearing load upon load of fresh buds blossoming. Usually there is one or two low hanging branches reaching out beckoning the passer-bys to look closer. And that they do. Attached to these branches are usually between four to eight long lenses focusing so closely at a particular bud that the camera (which is attached to a keen photographer) is often an extension of the tree. Cherry Blossoms and Nikons.

Henry's Similes

A man's quickening step can easily cause alarm among the dampened minds of mind-numbed plebs, and the man who invented the word "like", surely his quickening pace would cause greater alarm, for no other man could have more enemies.

This unassuming young man had all the hallmarks of a person. His two legs propped up his massy body, out of which grew two arms. All limbs were real and not made of plastic. His Romanesque nose ran regular gamuts of emotions, more so than his eyes. When he was angry his nostrils flared wider than 1970s bell-bottoms and when he was sad his nose seemed to grow pointier by the second. His eyes were both round and square, and he had so much hair that it would be pointless to count how many. Anthropologists guess over 197. All the same colour. Brown like wood.

Henry was his name, and he was much kinder to others than himself. Incurably selfless, he had a smile that painted tones of tranquility on peoples hearts. Unfortunately he had much reason to me angry and sad recently. For this reason his nose was both flared and pointy.

In 2022 when he was a student he often thought thoughts. Big ones, squidgy ones. Ones skirting politics, others downright fucking them. Some thoughts were hard and unrelenting, like hard unrelenting objects. Others soft like those ultra-balsam Kleenex tissues, although they didn't leave a thin film of soothing balm upon the mind. A shame that, because when a mind as brilliant as Henry's starts a-thinking, it can be difficult for the mind.

He often liked making comparisons in his thoughts, so he usually employed the word "as". "As" was invented ten years earlier in 2012 and was revealed to the world in a slogan for the London Olympics - "The London Olympics - As exciting as Thorpe Park". Thorpe Park being very exciting at the time, reaching its zenith in 2011. The word was a resounding success and from that moment the English language deepened, as speech and writing could now use comparisons. But the eager and fresh mind of a universitied Henry sort more. For him "as" was as uncouth and short as a racist dwarf, and he thought he could coin a new simile like as, as like when liking as, to like as is sometimes not enough.

His invention had the double-quaffed benefit of having another meaning, similar to that of the meaning of life - "agreeable, satisfactory, finding pleasure in". But this was beside the point, like the last letter in a word at the end of a sentence.

Anyway, as a student, in his last year, the word came to him in a dream as vivid as the London Olympic logo (ironically something Henry rather disliked). And the next morning he had it! Like. Like. Like. Likes growth to international fame mirrored that of a dyspraxic pensioner - slow and with difficulties, but soon the word spread like the super-bug MIRS, and ten years later in 2032 the word "like" became a staple among the world's 3 billion people (half of the population having been killed off in the MIRS pandemic of 2029). It also joined the ranks of "uni-words", words used globally in all languages that were invented by students at uni. Like "bum", "propinquity", and now like "like". But such an invention, like poorly designed cutlery, can have disastrous consequences.

It was these disastrous consequences that Henry was now experiencing as he broke into a run, looking back at the armed strangers that were chasing him.

Confirmity vs. Convenience

Don't you just love Christmas shopping? It's so relaxing and easy. You can even bypass the hassle of reaching over and grabbing your card holder (I don’t do wallets) from the table, because with your details saved on the website you needn’t tap in the numbers. I remember the early part of the century where I had to look at my card, carefully finger my way through the digits to make sure the they were all correct and matched up with my orginal bank details. God the inconvenience! Such barbaric times! Then after all the number tapping, you had to go through an endless amount of confirmation pages. Confirming. Confirming the confirmation. Confirm that your confirmation confirm was authentic. Then just to be sure, confirm that you can confirm. Do you know the meaning of confirm? Can you spell confirm? Can you confirm these random swirly numbers and digits? No? Well try these ones instead. (Maybe if you make the fucking things legible, then I can confirm). Are you sure you want to confirm the confirmation of the the confirmation, verified my the squiggly letter code, of the confirmation? If not, then we urge you to re-assess your last couple of hours. Of course I want to fucking confirm!

But now, how we have progressed. A long way we have come. I can now buy with one click! One click. This is not new, it's been around a while, and for that I am glad. I would hate to think that something so practical and efficient should be held away from the public, so that it couldn't shape the minds of children to come. Makes me want to make babies, just so I can share with them the joy. I couldn’t give two Christmas-dinner-smelling shits whether it's too easy to spend money on things you don’t actually want, or if it's easier for hackers to take your personal bank details. I have made that choice to use the function and have my details saved for one glorious reason. Convenience. And when people start questioning such ease, it angers me that people are regressing to a baser for of atavism. We live in a a world where risk comes in many forms, and to exaggerate the fear of online security is only another way of spiking doubt into apprehensive minds. We all know. How hard has it been for us to encourage our elders to shop online, only to be confronted by stupid horror stories of how a hacker took your details to buy fat-people body suits. Or something like that.

And for those that claim that it encourages needless spending and purchasing mistakes? Well that’s just silliness. If you ened up spending all your money, or buying things you don’t want, you only have yourself to blame. I have no sympathy for people that rely on convenience to the point of debilitation. Just imagine a sales assistant repeating to you constantly if you were sure you wanted to buy a thing you wanted. You'd end up braining them really hard. I mean, it would be sickly satisfying stuff; easily done in a DIY shop. But even if you were in a soft toy shop, you'd find a way. You'd eventually shove the stuffed meerkat teddy, you wanted to buy for your two-year-old nephew, down the person's throat so hard that as the person turned blue and slowly died with bloodshot eyes of terrified bewilderment, the meerkat's head would diligently poke up out of the dead persons mouth, asking:

“Are you sure you wanted to do that?”

Human laziness has been such a fertile ground for creativity, born out of our need for convenience. It's how we are evolved, there's no need fighting it. That’s why we have corner shops (aptly named convenience stores in America!) Oh wait. Come to think of it, corner shops are dangerous. They breed angry, capped youths with dirty trainers and dirtier mouths who shout out racial slurs at old ladies. We should start closing them down. Trains too! They're dangerous. They kill teenage youths and old ladies alike. The former because of their daring stupidity playing chicken on the tracks with their mates, and the latter because of their slowness in getting away from the tracks when the barriers come down. End result – two stratas of society carelessly culled. We should have far fewer trains. One-click internet shopping! Your stolen money could be used to fund the next series of The Inside Lives of Britain's Masterchef Quarterfinalists. We really should limit that.

However, with every advance there is always a setback, and trust the banks to find a way to bring it all down. I recently had forced upon me a security number generating pad from my bank that you need now to access your online bank details. I always thought online banking was a nice step forward for banks. A good move. It takes a lot for me to say that, because I hate banks with a passion that equals the hatred of penguins towards BBC wildlife cameramen who get in their way. And then what do the banks do? They take all the convenience away, in the re-upholstered and hideous new form of the the word “security”. I mean it's all too easy to rip on banks. They're evil, we all know that, well at least I know that. I see the truth you see. It's an uncanny gift of mine, bestowed upon me through my hatred of the indirectness and obfuscation of banks. But the banks new move makes the machinations of Mao merely misguided mischief. Instead of simply accessing and easily performing banking transactions, now I have a new set of numbers and confirmations to contend with, ones that don’t even result in the payoff of things bought. The only thing that is bought is another slice of misery. HSBC - Horrible Shitty Banking Crap . I would rather have convenience at the risk of having all my money stolen, than have to carry cards, keys, numbers and patience, all in the name of security.

The Confused and Damned

I find myself in Brighton now. It's small and the people are scruffy. It's very different to Seoul. I have found a place where the wealthy enjoy to dress like bums. The worst kind of wealth. Wealth that robs garments of poverty from the poor is one of the worst kinds of things. I dont know who is who anymore! It's very confusing to not be able to have the safety of traditional class boundaries to base your prejudices on. Not that I am saying these Brightonians are breaking any boundaries. They are whitewashing an ever increasing fence made of stupid antique bric-a-brac stores and staffordshire bull terriers, with misunderstood liberalism and petty green codes as a cover for their vices. The rest are alright though. Peoples faces here have a reddish hue and thickened texture to it, a susceptibility to the coastal exposure and summer sun. And what with the smoking and drugs I have seen many wrinkled ones here.

Luckily we have a mix of people here. More often than not you will here the loud wails of Spanish and Italian teenagers who understand only that more noise = more fun. I am glad they are having a good time, bring 'em on! Without them I wouldn't have a job. Strangely enough some of my Spanish students dislike their own kind though, wishing a curtailment of Spanish human importation.
"There is too many Spanish people." Laura (pronounced Lowra) says.
"There are too many Spanish people", I correct.
"Yeah, everywhere."
"No. I was correcting you, you should have said there are."
"Yeah, they are everywhere."
"No, you... are, for more than one person."
"Yes, many more Spanish persons than one." She looks at me like I'm stupid. Maybe I am, I think. I decide to give up.
"So homework!" I announce.
"Ah! Why do you hate us so much Teacher Ameen!" Manuel, a Spaniard from Granada, says.
"Because I was badly beaten as a child. And the Spanish are too lazy, you need to do some work."

Entrepreneurial inclinations possessed me at the famous gay pride festival in Brighton; so with 40 packets of Saudi's finest Marlboros, fierce intent, eyes to read the street and ears to hear the buzz of the fuzz, I crossed the paths of eastern European hard-men loitering at the bus stop (drunken and altogether less ambitious versions of Nico Bellic), young Spanish girls thrilled to shout some more, pilled up men with rainbows on their faces and people like myself trying to get a cheap deal on cigarettes for their girlfriends - all the while ducking and diving from the drunks that wanted to try on my trilby.

Two guys did cause your humble blogger some distress as they tried to take my hat and glasses from me.
"Go away! Leave me alone!"
"What! It's the least you can do. We gave you some money." One chap slurred.
"For fucking cigarettes... which you have!"
"Yeah but you still have my money." he replied. I was desparately trying to claw a pathway to his logic, but the clever fuck kept on eluding me with his stupidity.
"What!?" I said, at which point he lunged at me. I managed to duck and swerve. The good old duck 'n swerve, a maneuver that has stood me in good stead in my old childhood fighting days, where I threw not punches but exhibitions in nimbleness. As I ran away I looked behind me at the guys who were now not following me, already tired of teasing me.
"You're lucky I don't tweet!" I shouted. This time it was his turn to look at me with confusion, clearly trying to decipher the threat behind my words.
"But I do blog" I thought to myself, "I do blog."

Inconvenience has been my karmic return. The monster under my bed deems it necessary to attack me with tiny scratches. I wake up with a new one all the time. Yesterdays was particularly visible, a thin scratch right across the tip of my nose.
"Playful beast, wont you harness your mischievous ways," I wonder. "Your power knows no bounds, and instead of planting wicked thoughts into my mind whilst dreaming, like making me think that rap music is the cause of social unrest or thinking it is somehow alright to point and stare at a girl you like on the street (ah, you may have done that one) - instead of inflicting a disability upon me, like fat hair/small follicles, you find it amusing to cast confusion upon me, as every morning in the mirror I see the footprints of your fingernails.

It's little consolation that the night terrors I never receive are only the shattered forms of half desired nightmarish adventures that may, in their thrilling capacity, force me to sometime focus and write down the ideas I have. But maybe shoving my face full of puffs of salty nothingness, only to suffer the intestinal pangs of undigested kernels, will help. I doubt somewhat, as the very kernels in my head remain dormant, undigested, eager to agonise a mind that finds little relief in its shared plight as my stomach.

I know! The monster needs to eat my head like a popcorn! Just pop it into it's head, like that. Just like that! Scratch me no more you vile fiend of taunting persuasion. Finish me off, so that I too may fulfil a dream that in your now troubled stomach, becomes a nightmare for us all!

Plunging the Depths

Last night I became a man. 26 years of nurturing, education, love, and encouragement has successfully led me to this moment, and it was beautiful! Last night I attempted to fix a blocked pipe on my own. I didn’t fix it of course; such miracles cannot possibly fall out of the womb without cosmic repercussions. But I did however take a thorough look, and even went so far as to taking apart a pipe. In all honesty, I think I did more damage than repair, but what is important here is that I tried! I went on a plumbological voyage, and boy did I discover!

What you all will be interested to know is that there actually exists a world past that black hole, the plug hole. It is not a majestic world, and there is little grace and finesse to it. It is a tough world, a dark one, full of aqua related perils. It is dirty and squalid, requiring a firm mind and stomach. It takes a strong man, willing and brave to discover this world, and fully prepared he should be. Doffing all unnecessary clothing (such things are an encumbrance in this world) I squatted in my pants and plunged behind the ceramic front cover (technical term I might add) to assess the piping situation.

When ones hands is not accustomed to the rigour of manual labour, it is easy to cut and fray such tender skin, but such is the sacrifice a man must make on such a voyage, and what I lacked in actual physical practice in labour and conquest I certainly made up for with a knowledge in the Classics. Homer and Virgil themselves would be humbled at the sight.

I pushed up my glasses and squinted into the darkness that was more a reflection on my sudden atavism.

The situation was grim and my hands alone could not conquer this savage environment. I had to fashion tools, thus increasing my manliness. From the clothes rack I forced out one of the poles with a strength I never knew I possessed; but it is at times like this that you learn new things about yourself. For this was as much a journey of self-discovery as simply fixing a blocked pipe.

With this long stick thingy I rammed it down the hole and immediately felt the resistance I was expecting. But it was hard, stubborn and reluctant to easily yield to my efforts. And so I met my foe, and like with many foes I could not see its face. Its elusiveness pressed a more fervent image on my mind. But I would not give in, I was in too deep, and backing out now would only bring shame upon me and my family. I forced down again, harder.

Like the seppuku-ed bowels of a disgraced samurai in a violent 70s Japanese action film, the splash was loud.

And like a child that kicked his friend’s balls who was trying to steal his skipping rope, only to discover that he had had testicle surgery a few days before, I felt I had gone too far.

Squatting again with more emergency I discovered that I had in fact forced apart the pipe by shoving against it with my stick, with all the accumulated water in the basin splashing onto the bathroom floor. What I thought was my enemy was merely the apparatus in this new world, and like a new-world coloniser what I believed was the block in my path to a restored world order was actually the new environment. And I was violating it. Should I have just let it be? At nights I ask myself that question a lot.

But through hasty violations, one can also learn. And With this newly freed pipe part new realms of piping knowledge revealed itself to me. I affixed it again to its right place, yet everything was not quite in its right place. I was a changed man. I had been to that place that we only hear of in legendary plumbing bawdy talk. I had marched past that place seen only in the ass-crack of a bending plumber, plumb plunging, and experienced myself the watery world of this misunderstood land.

And when the actual plumber comes around to fix what I had undeniably broke, I can be treated like a deserved equal as we swap stories of our piping voyages. I too can share with him a bond deeper than any pipe may wish to plunge.

Yellow Malaise

Like the hoary scales of a bourgeois flapjack, the yellow dust penetrates and wrecks the lungs' capacity to breath. Shallow and raspy, is the breath, with a sore throat as rough as the words of an outspoken atheist and as red as Gorky's pen, which in all probability was just plain black.

I was a chocolate biscuit once, violated by a crooked teethed cockney boy, dipping me too much in sugary tea, and even then my sense of deterioration was not as strong as now.

All in all, I've not been feeling too well lately. My acid is playing havoc with my oesophagus and unknown bumps and bruises are distorting the topography of my arms. I hate it when that happens. Got a yellow bruise that taunts me with words of Zionism. Should have got a mask, and look like a proper Korean. Can't see the yellow dust though! Is it real? Maybe its just a ploy to scare the people into correct behaviour. What would that be I wonder? Understand the bus drivers point of view? Knowing how many pretzels or nuts to consume at the pub? Eat your greens, and other colours too? But be sure to use a tootpick, and stab out those stubborn seeds of organics. Bastards.

It rained the other day, only a little bit mind. Took my white and black polka dotted umbrella to work for appearances sake. Show my Korean colleagues that I may not be a user, but at least I possess. The bosses at the front door gasped in disbelief, gesturing for me to use my umbrella as I walked past to the side entrance. I gestured back, “it's only a little bit of rain, I'm alright.” When I left with some colleagues after work, I walked out from the shelter with my neglected umbrella by my side, when I heard an uproar behind me.
“Ameen, your umbrella!” For fucks sake, I thought to myself. It's a little bit of rain. You're being silly. Like sausages that think they're frankfurters, because of their sketchy and rushed inner-city education. Inner city sausages. It's a sad state of affairs.
“It's only a little bit of rain.”
“No! The rain is radioactive. It's from Japan!” How come it's not green then? Can't be that radioactive. Turns out it wasn't that strong, hence the lack of green on this front.

Ah! Fukushima. I put up my umbrella this time. Faint thoughts, quietly depressing, for that place that can't quite seem to catch a break. Airborne particles, painted as threats, but in reality only tokens of deserts in the west and radiation in the east. Come here to meet and broker new ideas of air quality.

I ate lot of red the other day, you know, apples, strawberries. Ate a whole box of strawberries, and boy did my farts declare new artistic directions of potency. The kind of farts that builds dynasties and topples empires, founds charities and cracks down on organised crime with newly researched online techniques, all the while entertaining friends with words of decadent witticisms. All these and more were my farts capable of that night.

Being ill at work can turn me into a thoroughly temperamental bastard sometimes. A kid shows me that he has ink on his hand.
“Ameen Teacher! Blue! Blue!”
“Yeah yeah, I know, blue. But you're not going to the bathroom. That's life you know, people get blue on their hands.”

One book with pictures of China in it of course has a picture of Mao in it, to my displeasure.
“And here Chairman Mao, one of the greatest mass murderers of all time, still revered and idolised. Sickening.”
“Teacher? No understand.”
“Me too Hyeon, me too.” I shake my head.

“No, thats not how you spell me Hyeon. It's M, E. Like the disorder.”
“Teacher? No understand.”
“Me too Hyeon, me too.” I shake my head.

Needless to say I am tiring of the lack of appreciation for my jokes. The kids are too busy with their colouring and bogeys to let my jokes thrive. Why cant they let them live?

First summery-feeling day popped up its yellow energetic head last Sunday, and I took some time with friends to lie in a park, with all the crouton-like accompaniments; shit beer, shit sandwiches, music from an iPhone, saying “Anyong” to cute Korean children that walk to us, drawn towards the vocals of Damon Albarn telling us how boys like girls and visa versa.

That sunny day helped out on the whole eastern front of my health. Stalingrad is gradually being retaken, but the western front's not been opened yet! Lazy fucking allies. Maybe the vitamin C tablet I got will help out in the west. Huge orange lozenges of latent tenderness, unclear of it's directives (not sure if they are having any affect on me) , yet certain of it's destination (stuck halfway down my acidic oesophagus). I can also get some pro-biotic drinks every day. In Korea they are sold by yellow clad ladies with be-fridged motorised carts and hats with brims. These yellow petals of femininity provide the nation with their necessary supply of pro-biotic yogurt drinks. And who the fuck am I to refuse them! I don’t, I just drink.

Boracay, Philippines, 2010/11 (Part V)

Part V - A detailed Account of a Bat-Cave and its Inhabitants, the unfortunate Incident of the Dog and the Trike, and a last minute Literary stab revealing Sentiments by Ameen attempting some kind of Meaning from the Holiday.

If anyone is still reading, what do you think of when someone says "bat cave"? Notions usually tend to sway towards comic book ideas, but bury those prominent associations in the flymo grass compactor of your mind, and one will realise that a bat cave is actually a cave full of bats. And shit, and other such unpleasentries. There are many things one can feel when entering someone elses lebensraum. When you go into one of those homes hosting pictures of naked men cradling babies and ornaments of teddy bears climbing over countryside stiles, usually one tends to feel shock marinated in a thick layer of revulsion. Sometimes it's facsination and horror, much like stepping into a emotionally repressed married couple's household, where cold stares now replace the warmth that was generated by touch. A bat cave is a tender and sexual marriage of the two.

The terrain to the bat cave was classic Jurassic Park territory. Tall lush greenery, small meandering paths slippery with brown/reddish clay like mud, and a threateningly dark cloud in the distance on that particular day. The entrance was foreboding, sorrounded with jagged volcanic rock, and all that we could see was darkness, soundtracked by the whooshing of either a multitude of bats or the moving sea tide at the bottom. The climb down could easily have claimed many lives - the slippery sharp rocks, the visibility narrowed to reliance on small columns of torch light from the two guides, the precariousness of barefoot climbing, as our flip-flops would surely have been our executioner.

The bat shit stank of an acrid herb or spice being slowly cooked giving off that nose rapey stench that sticks in your nose long after the source is gone, but as we were walking through shit, touching it and rubbing it over our faces, there was no complaining. Once your in the shit, you just have to go along with it. We were not intentionally rubbing shit over ourselves mind you, but inevitably your shit caked hands do touch parts of your body to the extent that once in the clear light of day, we did look like "exhausted refugees, just come through to the other side".

At the bottom were a whole host of natures undesirables; large crabs, spiders and snakes in deceiving repose, coiled tubes of blue, white and black. Some weren't so stationary, slithering off into some dark crevice. Only catching the tail end of a snake moving somewhere before it disappears is, I assure you, a rather unnerving feeling. Where the fuck did it go?
"Are these snakes poisonous" someone asked. Of course not, I thought.
"Yes." was the short response from the guide. Great. Of course. Typical. Here I am walking barefoot in the dark, with poisonous snakes. Of course the natural chain of events in life, cause and effect, would find time to place me and my new friends in this life threatening situation. Thoughts of my own retardedness was however curbed by the thrill of it all, and how we were all loving it. Well I was anyway. I'm not sure about the Finnish girl who had a panic attack when a massive spider crawled over her foot, but hey, its a risk when you do this kind of stuff. Panic attacks, stuffy and stinking cloyiness, sweat bathing your body, possible death, then the dive in the dark into the sea at the back of the bat cave. An impossibly refreshing remedy to our discomfort, one that took you into the deepest recesses of Baywatch territory, diving under rocks to reach another enclave in the water, room enough just for our heads, with the rising tide speeding things up.

The journey back, still high on the rush of fear and near death, rubbed off with playful fancy upon the drivers, who raced each other down a clear stretch of road. It was a close race, and as each trike levelled, fell back, pulled forward, we kept on taunting each other. Injury finally found its claim upon not us, of which we were probably more deserving, but instead on a dog caught under the wheels of the trike I was not in. A yelp, then a bump, as it went under. The trike stopped and everyone looked back at the dog. It got up and limped away.

On my last night I went to bed at around 6am. I had to wake up at 8am for my boat to the little airport, from there to Manila, and then from Manila to Seoul. All with the worst hangover one can find enough alcohol to conjure. I had to give a Filipino worker a wake up call for me, insistent on my missing the flight if he forgot. He didn't of course. It is part of his job I suppose to rouse late night drunks in the morning for their departure. As soon as I reached that deep unfurling and velvet blackness of comforting deep sleep, I simultaneously felt the hands of the worker rocking me awake. He was awfully respectful. Fearful of incurring my displeasure at being woken up he apologised and gave me a wide encouraging smile. Just fulfilling his orders of which I was very grateful. Did I manage to say thank you? I am not sure my mouth could perform such a taxing task. And if swinging my legs out of bed was the hardest thing to do, the rest of the days travel would not bode well. A headache that pickaxes your temples and back of head (A.K.A. The Trotsky) with a disorientation that clouds your vision and makes you literally sway and walk into walls, is not the best condition for international travel.

When knowledge of an "end" exerts its invasive presence upon a mind too rich with pleasure, an occurance of contentment can sometimes find contest with feelings of sadness. The sadness builds bit by bit, with every final thing you do on holiday (drink, massage, swim) to the physical steps made towards the trike, boat, and plane, so proudly and mockingly expectant, ready to perform the functions that your feet are so reluctant to do. And when you finally arrive home to be met with demands of a normal life, the weight of your return truly find its stride. Although in time, a reversal comes about, one that soon finds you forgetting that sharp feeling of despair when you returned. Soon this is embalmed with memories that only grow in strength, bringing with it anecdotes and thoughts so powerful they are palpable. The sadness passes, as do all emotions, and like the retreating tide we are left with fragments, small but very real, fragments from which nothing is lost, fragments from which our memories are found in, fragments strongly formed in the past from which we can use for the future, susceptible to distortion and unreliability as time wanes on, but never wavering in the comfort it provides, both in the precarious world of nostalgia and the unpredictable world of speculation for the future.

And a month on as I was munching on a ginseng boiled sweet that tasted like an old ladies cardigan, I could still feel my flip-flops in-between my toes, peculiar that in their absence I felt it stronger.

Boracay, Philippines, 2010/11 (Part IV)

Part IV - Pertaining to that Auspicious time when Fireworks makes claims upon the Senses. Also, how some Preach, others Steal, and generally all finds Comfort in Smoking.

Later residents come, older ones leave, the circle of life so eloquently espoused by Elton John finds an example in the departure and arrival in travel, and while some legends leave, others fill their space. A glamorous South African couple, honeymooning at the resort (hosteling for a month, or fine hoteling for a week. Fortunately the bride chose well) before emigrating to Australia. A beautiful Swedish girl, Addile, rather bemused by the drunken force of Britishry on show at the resort.
"Sweden! Wow!" I over enthusiastly crow whilst very drunk, "whats your favourite Ingmar Bergman film?" She didnt watch much of his films. Not cool. Its like a Briton not knowing Lean, a Russian - Tarkovsky, a Japanese - Mizoguchi. You know.

Inevitably there comes the annoying, the passionate and the rascist. The Finnish guy that could not stop going on about the Bible (of which I have no objection), the Chinese-American economist who constantly told of the decline of the western economies and the irrestistable rise of China and the east (of which I have no objection) and the German pilot who went off on a rant about women not deserving equal rights and how the blacks cause a lot of problems and should be limited in Germany (rather questionable sentiments).

On the 31st, the prepartaion was palpable. People slept in till late, reserving strength to welcome in the new year with diminished senses and shameful acts. The beach bums although appearing to be nonplussed by the celebrations secretly harbored antagonistic leanings to leave earlier, shower that scuzzy sea and sand feeling off tanned bodies, and smack on those liquids of aromatic sexiness. And with the bright day morphing muted into a night full of expectation, the new year loomed.

And what do we find on the night of New Years? What new threads of celebration can be weaved into an already densely knotted tradition? Fireworks that compete for diluted attention as you feebly try to focus on those around you? ("Who am I sharing this with?") The light from the bangs casting different colours upon already transformed, taught, tanned, travel worn faces, lit up now with fresh energies of joy, fuelled by Red Horse (Philippines own 6.9er) and an incomparable feeling that you are on a tiny, beautiful and tamed piece of exotic land, locked with a key only functional when the senses submit to the island's design. And that we did on New Years Night.

Later that night Alex, Chloe and I decided to make the trip to the other side of the island, to the eponymous Jungle Bar, a place famed for its wild nights and access to drugs, Alex expecting it to be as easy as finding them laid out on a table, buffet style.
"Here we have our opiates, here our hallucinogenics, acid, mushrooms. Here is a selection of Bogota's finest cocaine, and to your left, if you want to wind down after a selection of our rave pills, there is an array of western Canadas finest marijuana, the best in the world."
Didn't quite turn out like that. However what you lack in one area you make up in others. Finding out there was a preposterous charge for entrance, we snuck around the back of the club. It being a tent club residing at the back of the beach and where the jungle began, we weighed up our options. Being already heavily intoxicated we saw nothing else for it, and began taking turns ducking under the canopy, rolling along the sand to an inner boundary (a log), at which point we sprang up like agile cats smoothly hugging the log as we rolled over the top, then side stepping briskly past another tent wall, all the while tempering our excessive excitement at our ninja like skills, as we then had to nonchalently stroll towards the crowds as though we did not for a brief moment believe we were Jason Bourne.

I remember pool table sitting (relaxing), drink stealing (makes you feel aliiiiive), fear of deja-vu (weird), white shirts (idiots everywhere) and a growing confusion of where I was and how I would get back home.

Morning (early afternoon). Lapsed conversations vaguley remembered, staggered forth through raspy post-party larynxes, hampered further by excessive smoking. It was a holiday; so those that normally smoked chained smoked, the dabblers found themselves buying their own smokes when ordinarily they would take from the smokers. Even those that didn't smoke found themselves with a cigarette in their mouths, sucking new unpleasant sensations into their lungs that would forever be associated with Boracay. Surprise surprise you non smokers and your sense of restraint, now completly violated by flesh hungry, rope toting cowboys, flushed red with the joy of that sweet sweet nicotine. It was a good time to be a smoker.

Although when tonsillitis hits, as it has hit me now, with the unaccustomed wallop of an old lady's handbag on an armed robber, met with a shotgun blast to the face (don't mess with armed robbers), when it hits, smoking is the last thing one wants to think about. Marlboro cowboy, your lassoo wont work on me this week. Still, why I'm aggravating it by eating chewy sweets is again one of those questions that I don't want to answer. I can't. I won't.

Boracay, Philippines, 2010/11 (Part III)

Part III - The Trials and Tribulations of a Search for a lost Person, showing how far Tourism has come and how wide Ameen's Fantasies can Lead him.

Chloe and Kellyn, two Seoulites, who both gave me the push to go on holiday to Boracay, impelled me also one night to drink at a quaint place called The Hobbit House. My fantasies of Middle Earth were slyly tickled, as I thought of a nice English style pub affair complete with tokens of Tolkien, prints of various fantastical lands, rustic rural furniture, and tankards frothing full of ale.

No. No. Just no.

It was silly of me to think so naively, as the nature of reality briskly asserted itself on me. Reality took the form of the novel idea of having Midgets/Dwarves/Little People (N.B. My attempt at political correctness may have served the opposite effect. Please let me know how I did.), anyway all the workers at this place were dwarves (Yes, dwarves. I'll stick with dwarves), there to serve your drinks, dance for you and take an endless supply of photos with obscenely drunk foreigners (of which I was one of them), surrounded by a disproportionate amount of cats and kittens roaming the bar. Exploitation or Capitalisation? You choose. But all I can say is that I have never been in a place that so sparked my sense of Right and Wrong so savagely and so equally.

Downside was that they didn't even dress up as hobbits. Where were the large hairy feet, eh?

The places strongest advocate was Jeff, a Massachusetts man, a ferocious smoker, who can only be described as a midgetophile. He had no qualms in enjoying a night in the company of small people. In fact I recall a terribly Pynchon-esque story he told us once where he paid a midget to spend the night in the company of his drinking buddies. Drinks all paid for. A deal any self respecting midget would jump (somewhat poorly) for. However being a popular person, the midget, finding a suitable occasion when all were not looking, ducked away through the crowds of the pub and escaped down the road, a feat fairly easy for someone blessed with short height. Now you can imagine the annoyance that Jeff felt when he discovered his hired companion pulled a fast one, and the consequent problem of searching through the crowds of Itaewon for him. Luckily enough Jeff caught sight of him
"Hey! Where are you going?" Jeff yelled.
The midget looked back and seeing nothing for it but to leg it, started running away. Jeff gave chase, but the law of physics dictate that the larger smoker is no match for a local midget, utilising the streets like a world-weary taxi driver, getting cheap thrills from taking tourists through completely unnecessary roots. Jeff lost the midget.

Anyway, I left The Hobbit House early at midnight with Kellyn, it being my first night, leaving Chloe safe with Simon, an English guy, currently based in Qatar. Simon was a guy that looked like such an Australian surfer dude, that no matter what he said or did otherwise, it was still hard to believe that he was anything other than an Ozzy.

Chloe did not turn up the next day, despite the need for her to check out with Kellyn to another resort. Evening rolled on, dragging its feet, as Kellyn grew so worried that I became affected by it and decided to help her on a quest through Boracay to find Chloe. The first port of call was the hospital, to no avail. We were met by a mild mannered, grave and kind looking Filipino lady who worked with the Tourism department.
"No sign of a blonde Canadian I'm afraid, but I'll let the office know." So we had the tourism department looking for her now.
Next was the police station, where I got a glimpse of the light blue t-shirted officers, "Pulis" on their backs and guns on their hips.
"Does this happen often?" the captain asked, staunch, broad shouldered and safe to be around.
"Weeell..." and the subsequent pause by Kellyn, gave enough of a clue to the officer of what kind of girl we were looking for. So with no luck at the station, I decided to do some detective work of my own.

I made it! Finally, I was in my element. I may not be in a suit, tie and raincoat, roaming the killing fields of northern England, but dammnit I was going fulfill my fantasy if it was the last thing I did. I started asking Simon questions about who Chloe was last seen with.
-A tall blonde, northern European looking guy.
-Where were they last?
-Summers Place.
-Did you see her leave with him?
-No, I left before they did.
-What did he seem like to you?
-Friendly.
He produced a picture on his iPhone 4, yes it appears the iPhone also helps in tracking missing people. Amazing! I gravely perused the picture rubbing my holiday hairy chin with intent. He did look friendly. There was only one thing for it. I had to go to the club, Summers Place, and question the staff. Before that we had to the police station and drop off a photo of Chloe, all the while Kellyn in tears, dark thoughts gathering in her head.

So that was the hospital, tourism department and the police, all with a lookout for Chloe.

We returned to Frendz resort, both rather subdued and worn out, a silent trapdoor threatening us with despair, only to be met by Chloe, beer in hand, smile of reassurance, and quick steps as she had to chase after a distraught Kellyn who ran away in anger, relief and disbelief. Matt, an Australian from Seoul was kind enough to start searching for the searchers the second Chloe arrived.

As we were thinking those dark thoughts that accompany such paranoid stricken cogitations, natural in their formulations, however irrational or unhelpful they are, it turned out that Chloe's half of the adventure could not have been further from such bleak possibilities. She got so drunk, she found herself on the other side of the island, on a beautiful, secluded beach, surrounded by stray kittens that I presume came from the bar. She played with kittens all day on the beach in a state of, what I can imagine, hungover stupor.

I can only assume that the iPhone 4, sensing something was wrong in the world, extended its inbuilt limb system, fully functioning arms and legs that helped it traverse the island. Defending itself from curious dogs with images of notorious cynophiles on its screen, scaling walls with its mini jet pack and refuelling itself by sticking stray Apple leads up its bum, it finally discovered Chloe on the other side of the island too besotted with the cats to form a coherent thought of her own. With close up images of the curious dogs (of which Mr. iPhone 4 cleverly took snaps of) he managed to agitate the cats into dispersal. And with promises of free minutes and extra texts, all within the manageable range of £50 per month, Chloe skipped along holding iPhone 4's extended arm, a thin, silver limb securing a connection with a blonde haired, foggy minded Nova Scotian, rapt with thoughts of intimacy with her saviour.

That's how it happened.

And if that's not a long limbed miracle for you, then we only have to wait for The King of Limbs on Saturday, Radiohead's new album, bam! announced right out of the blue like the sly sexy foxes that they are. Its a good time to be alive, what with that and the uprisings in the Middle East.

Boracay, Philippines, 2010/11 (Part II)

Part II - Where Ameen resorts to a listless list listing the Resorts residents, risking the Displeasure of many People by not Including them; also Containing snatches of poorly remembered Dialogue and the resultant Fallout of the Resort's Bug

We have gecko's that cluster together in threes near the lights that cast hazy yellows upon white plastic chairs. Four tables forced togther makes what is generally the scene of much of the activity at Frendz. Its the evening now, which is why the lights are on, and the already yellowing veneer of aging white plastic makes for secondary thoughts of recline, were one not on holiday mode. Not washing your hair, not shaving, teeth brushing that does not quite fulfil the three-times-a-day quota. Dirty chairs hardly matter anymore. The air strong with puffs of Tanduray, the Filipino rum, that diffuses such natural scents as the trees and the flowers and fruits they bear. Stringy wisps of cigarette smoke rising in still air. The British have hijacked the iPod and more ethereal lines are being drawn on tonight's tracing paper, so flimsy we all feel, as Burial is on, and the thick Austrian voice of the owner explains the hair threatening nature of Filipino bureacracy to newcomers. He is bald.

There was Alex, from Nottingham, mad as me for Chris Morris and a little crazier for humourous Japanese porn. Many nights began with Chris Morris and ended with Japanese porn, like the fatal throws of a failed comedian, a sex starved Japanophile, attempting some closure upon a life thrown away to cheap business cards, novelty audio cards, and 100% plastic playing cards. It's got to be done once in your life, like stealing traffic cones. Alex's feet were so worn from travelling Asia that black stuff started growing on it. I think when black stuff starts to grow, then something's not quite right. Im no brain-bolstered duck quack, but I know a case of "shit feet" when I see it.
Alex made it.

Then there was Tim, a Sydney man, really easy to get along with, very nice, like all those from Australia and Nottingham. Possessing the finest hair east of the Ganges and a smile to equal. His hair was as black as Beria's heart and as thick as those that chose to cross him (those seeking a non Soviet history related simile are looking in the wrong place). He was the person that introduced me to the Warsaw Convention, not to be confused with the Warsaw Pact. I ate a good burger with him once, whereupon he demonstrated the truly sick ability of guzzling down a 1/2 pounder in minutes, taste buds forced into unequivocal redundancy, a recession of the tongue, but my! what a boom the stomach must have gone through!
Tim did not make it; he was tragically caught on the last night.

Pawel a Polish-Canadian, currently residing in Taipei, also possessed one of those infectious smiles, along with one of those infectious infections. Unfortunately it made him primarily unable to come out drinking, barring New Year's Eve of course. He fuelled himself with Gatorade, Powerade and many other variatals of the "..ades" drinks category. He was frequently the victim of "poomerges", a tactfull reduction of the phrase "poo emergency". He also had to go "bippity-bop" a lot, ie take a shit.
Needless to say Pawel weakened constitution made him an easy victim.

Mac, a student from Vancouver, currently in Singapore. He had a classic west coast vibe about him, laid back and bold, full of classic lines and cool phrases, "tight" being my particular favourite. Always seen in his blue swimming trunks and white wife beater, he had the most iconic look of the bunch, only to better it one night by wearing a white silk kimono. Such is the natural progression from day to night clothing. There was not one day where he did not take a massage.
"Where did you go?" I asked
"Got a massage."
"Of course."
"Yo dude, it was so sick."
Alex, Mac and I had the pleasure of getting incredibly mashed one night and then get a Swedish massage. There was a lot of bum rubbing involved. Brilliant!
Mac was part of a student collective from all over the nationality-ridden world that inevitably find themselves in the metropolitan glam-plex of Singapore, port-heavy and architecturally bold. Dan a well spoken English guy who didn't mind my need to shout out "DAN" in mock Partridgesque fashion was a frequent Frendz visitor.
Mac made it.

A gay San Franciscan, Joseph, was a big player in this vague group, a teller of great stories, a born entertainer. Stories of intoxication and sex people. One anecdote ended with a classic shimmying-down-the-hotel-drainpipe-escape episode. Needless to say the story involved gay Dutch Men, locked doors, sex toys and mouth gags. To what other story elements results in such desparate behaviour?
He claimed his complete homosexuality but we knew better. He ladded it up with the rest of us over the fine forms floating down the beach, bums and boobs mockingly cradled in bikinis too small to pretend at modesty. Granted, one may love the breasts and fear the vagina, but we were sure Joseph needed to go back in the closet ... then come back out again.
Joseph fell victim to the bug.

The longest resident for over a month was Ash, a red headed Maidstone boy. He was like the non-local local, informing all newcomers of the things to see and do. The places to drink, dance, fuck. He stayed there for so long that he ended up staying in some nights watching the television series Rome with his viewing partner Pawel.
"Hey! Come here, this guy is fucking his sister!" and like miraculaously healed paraplegics we turned into running men, eager to have our incest vicariously fulfilled.
Ash fell to the bug.

Scot, short for Scottish, half the word Scotland, was the name of a man hailing from the land of Scots, Scotland (not to be confused with a country populated by people called Scot). His bald head was the first to be fucked by the sun. His body dutifully followed. On my last last I mistook the constant Tequilas, Sambucas and B52s he bought for me as generosity, realising (just in time) by the end of the night that it was purely a ploy of his to get me in trouble with a lady-boy. On his first night he left his jeans and iPhone on the beach as he went for a night-swim. When he returned they were gone.
"My first fucking night!"
"Was it the new iPhone?" I asked.
"Yeah!"
"Shit! Coz if it was the last one, that would have been alright. But the new iPhone! Shit!"
I mean of all the things to get nicked; British passport, your bank card with pin number, a first edition of Proust's Swann's Way, a locket of hair from your recently departed lover (claimed tragically by swine flu) - the iPhone 4, the single-handed saviour of the worlds economy, redeemer of safety and security in a politically destabilising world, is surely the last thing one would have wanted to get stolen.
Fuck Scot falling ill to the resorts bug, I want to know how he survives without an iPhone 4!

Now back to this antithetical little peninsular. The North has not waged war on the South, good. The South has waged a successful mission against pirates, good. And the whole of the east is preparing itself for the Chinese Lunar New Year, good. But I am gloveless, I repeat, I am gloveless.

Boracay, Philippines, 2010/11 (Part I)

In which Ameen starts his Journey and Blog on the wrong Foot, with ill Preparation and even iller attempts at Classicism, respectively.

When you turn up to the point of your departure and discover to travel drained mind that you are at the wrong aiport. When you are too ashamed to divulge your error to the information lady. You act naturally. "This is not Gimpo Airport right?" When her kind face confirms your mistakes. When you dread missing your flight and remain stuck in ice-locked spasm country, bound to suffer the turmoils of your own stupidity. When you arrive at correct airport to discover that buying a one way ticket is not as exotic as it sounds. When you have to fork out more money for a return ticket bought silly style at the airport, knowing that any further down the path of ridiculosity, you may just end up a dried husk of hastily rolled bread lying untouched upon the dish of a discerning food critic, a useless bum of bread. When this happens, you know that it must end up as a retina scorching holiday. And so it was.

This was on Boxing Day, otherwise known as the day after Christmas, or the 26th.

The destination was Boracay, an island in The Philippines. One of those islands that you see but can't quite accept the notion of its existence; until you arrive there. I had the pleasure of arriving there at dawn, in a small jet (the kind of jet that has exposed blades cutting any notion of comfort years of boeing flights created) smelling of old and buzzing loudly. To my left, outside the plane window I saw the skies. They were messy. Truculently heaped together with greek god-like pettiness. What was it I was seeing? Cirrocumulus, Altocumulus, Stratocumulus, possibly clear sky, or even distorted renditions of earth or sea? The knowledge of a climatologist was sorely needed. Many shades of grey, but with no clues as to what was what. That's alright though, for only the rosy fingered dawn can clarify such obfuscation. However this dawn was far from rosy fingered. Its onset was sharp and straight as the gold line of the rising sun, faint at first, grew in size, torching the earth. As the light cut in half the worlds, revealing its form, I envied the easy assumptions one makes in the pre-dawn mask of an unintelligable world. Gone now, for a while at least. Enough time for me to settle down.

The island was elegant in its beauty despite its growing tourism and business. There are still stretches of quiet beach and coves with innocently sharp rock faces, cradling coarser grained sands and roughly built restaurant shacks that can be reached by the many boat tours. White beach, the main stretch, was the centre of most of the holidays debauchery. Grabbing strong beers from the shops to drink on the beach or in the local reggae bar at night. Being grabbed by the cock by lady-boy prostitutes that sneak a kiss, hands and jaws too big to just ignore. Spilling out of a club half cut, only to find yourself staring at the ocean, wading out, calming your feet with cool water, relieving yourself, then finding yourself somehow on your back looking up at the stars that eluded you in Seoul.

I can't say I really delved into the cuisine of The Philippines. I frequently had a Filipino breakfast, but the only vaguely Filipino thing about it was a red meat, sweet in taste and chewy in texture, called Tisino. The rest of the breakfast was eggs and rice, two things that could not be more generically Asian if you tried. There is a Filipino treat that's basically an egg with the largely developed fetus of the bird inside, resplendent with wings and feathers. Unfortunately I did not get to taste this egg, but that's alright, for next week I will be supping on the beating heart of a freshly spiked baby chipmunk. Maybe I will look into its eye when I feast on the heart. Will it be asking for mercy? Mercy that I will not extol? There is also, in The Philippines, the deep-fried entrails of pig intestines, served in crisp (chip) form, called, and I spell this in capitals because the name clearly deserves it, CHICHARON BALAKLAK! You can't say it without sounding like a white middle-class south Londoner trying to be a little bit ghetto, wanting just a little bit of drugs from his dirty street drug dealer.

The resort I stayed at, Frendz, is a locally famed hostel, pulling all those with means into its hedonistic hub, being a sucubus of homely form, with wood frames, overstretched wi-fi and pool-table felt, sucking you dry of money and ambition, as some nights were spent largely in the communal area, surrounded by Thai dance music and stray westerners with backpacks full of dirty clothes and Macbooks, hash and DSLRs, swimming gear and iPods. It was here that I met many legends (strange that one place can host so many) so many great people from around the world, each with stories to tell and take.

Along with the good spirits, a bug was also being fostered at the resort, that was carried through some unknown means (probably water, so in a way its carrier could be vaguely fathomed). It struck many of the visitors, like a slinky that lost its coil and believed its saviour lay in the half functioning stomachs of travellers. Of the bugs success or failure, I shall note in the last sentence of each character summary.

But before I embark upon a list of the characters at the resort, I shall use this moment to take a pause in the blog and wrap up the first part by telling you that I am currently in cold sub-zero Seoul. The ice has claimed me twice now, with my usual cat-like agility failing me. The extremely cold temperature does weird things to your nostril hairs. No matter how many times you twitch your nose it still feels very uncomfortable, as though each hair has decided to strike up a disagreeable personality of its own which is deliberately antagonistic to the other hairs. I wish they would just get along as they did before, you know, live together in harmony. I'm also trying to get used to wearing long-johns. Where's yours?

A Guy Called Harold

A cleaning lady that doesn't like to clean up after other people: one of life's great contradictions.

Anyway I'm not here to write about her, she clearly has issues that needs solving, and I'm not the person to help. Mainly because I am a foreigner in his mid-twenties who can't speak Korean, and she is a middle aged Korean housewife who can't speak English. Ha! Look at me, writing about her and everything. One would suspect me of harbouring some Harold and Maude-ish love for her. I think about it sometimes, but she has a high pitched whining voice, a piggish nose suiting her flat face, and a stoop accentuating her humpback. It just wouldn't work out, we're too different, from backgrounds too far apart. We would walk down the street hand in hand, and people would stare back at us, horrified by how far modern times has come, society would just laugh at us, throw our love back in our faces, turning something of joy into pain and misery. And if our personal trials of cultural disparity would not be our undoing, then the pressures of social conformity would surely break our backs. Pioneers we will not be, doomed to spend our days apart, bowed by the weakness of our wills, the strength of social appeasement forever haunting our mourning thoughts, as we watch others hand in hand, walk past, free from such torments. And we will say to ourselves, "why us?"

And you will say to yourselves, "what's this?"

And then next week will be the G20 in Seoul. "The first summit to be held in Asia", so the slogan reads. It will be quite exciting to see what happens. I'll try and head to the centre of town when it's on. A very clever place to hold the summit though, the level of political naivety here reducing the risk of large protests. Such things if they ever did happen would happen in countries where there's a sizable population of liberal youth with time on there hands to consider global injustices, and less of a money-orientated career drive. And if such out of control protesting never does happen, much to the chagrine of the media, they will no doubt find a way to make a bloody riot out of a peaceful march. Police waiting at the lines, ready to follow suit. Then the grand act it filmed, photographed, written about for the whole world to see. The images that will fall on the eyes of all will be spoken about from the mouths of few. And to these people we listen? One can only hope that the cycle is regurgitated with a touch of derision.

And we will say to ourselves, "it's all shit!"

There's too much fun to be had I suppose. Last weekend was a face-fuck in good times, a little too in your face. I mean I enjoyed myself, but no matter how much you enjoy yourself, when you're surrounded by drunk North Americans dressed in costumes ranging from Lego men to more topical bloodied-up Mexican Cartel gangsters and Federales (it seems that no social or national tragedy is out of bounds during Halloween), no matter how much you enjoy yourself there is always a relative diminishment when bombarded with such debauched revelry. By the way, since when was it acceptable to dress as the KKK now? One shouldn't have double standards, as people can dress up as Nazi officers, serial killers, terrorists and other such orchestrators of horror, but there is something still not quite right about the KKK (not "right" in the obvious sense, there was never much "right" about them to begin with), something still not quite safe about the comedy the KKK uniform can quite emit.

There's a great level of fulfilment a gaming geek can sometimes get from Halloween. Occasionally I found myself exclaiming, "you're Ling Xiaoyu!" (Tekken), "hey, you're Squall Leonhart!" (Final Fantasy VIII). Whether it was the fact that I stated the characters first names, the titles of the games, and their release dates, but the people never stuck around for too long. Still I was smiling, "I'm off home to listen to the Final Fantasy VI soundtrack now." So I got to thinking how I would dress up next year, how esoteric or mundane you can be? "Fuck Nico Bellic, I'll be his cousin Roman", or eschewing the distinctive shaggy-haired, bearded features of Peter Sutcliffe I'd adopt the inconspicious facade of a friendly country doctor. Harold Shipman certainly didn't look the part. I suppose that's what helped him be so successful.

And then I'll say to myself "can I say that?"

And then when all the protesting and partying is over we can go back to our routine again, whether that routine is part of the big machine or a wholly independent cog, we're all good. That is to say, if you believe it... and you're not Harold Shipman.

Falling Rocks and Mountain Tops

In Korea there is little sense of personal space. Your bubble of security, zone of safety is a construct of inconvenience, a crock of shit. It has no space here, being too packed for you to be feeling annoyed if a person walks right next to you, leering upon your person, maintaining the same walking pace as you, never leaving, always there, a Korean shadow that masks your own. When I was first here I was frustrated at this, always complaining that it was I that always had to move out of the way, but then I realised I was the only one that moved out of the way because I was the only one that gave a shit. Now I mind less having an elbow thrust right in front of my face or a lady knock my arms about like limp strands of spaghetti.

Even in Seoraksan National Park, a place of such natural beauty, like Yosemite or the Lake District, that when you reach the summit you dont want to leave, and when you do pull yourself away, you regret the decision a bit, because you know that you may never be there again - even here there was no chance of solitude or serenity, as the trails were full of people. Old people keeping fit and familys dragging their small children along, yanking them up steep mountain staircases, instilling into them from an early age the popular Korean tradition of hiking.

When you enter the park you are presented with the child friendly images of a cartoon papa and baby bear, exited with the adventurous prospect of ascending the mountains. I am assuming they left the country to seek fortune in the city, then missing their roots decided to make the trip back. See once again the steep granite rock faces, burning faint gold in the evening twilight, or a straight grey in the flat morning light. The forests deep with impenetrable mystery, when flashes of light shine off the glittering streams flowing down the centuries old carved waterways. I can see why they returned.

Things take a turn for the worse though. The papa and baby bears smiles soon fade as warning signs show impressionable Korean kids the disasters of such hikes. One image portrays rocks falling on top of papa bear as he desperately attempts to protect his child from crushing. The large rock is moments above papa bears head, just before it is caved into oblivion. One can only surmise that papa bear falls back on baby bear, smothering him with a slower more traumatising death.

Another image shows baby bear perilously close to a cliff edge losing his balance. You can see the terror in his eyes as he realises that he has reached past that point in counterbalance where there is nothing for it but submission to the fates. I assume that he fell to his death. Maybe he landed on other hiking bears, who knows. However I cant help but thinking where papa bear was, leaving his baby to roam free around the mountain tops. Negligent parenting, that's what I call it. He only has himself to blame. Live with that papa bear, live with THAT! There should be another warning sign later showing papa bear drinking himself into an alcoholic stupor years later in a gas filled room back at home. Bear that in mind. Hikes can be dangerous, you see.

A Brief History of Happiness

"Hello! How are you?"
"Happy!"
Happy? Are you really? I look at the kids. Are you genuinely content with the world, because I dont believe you actually are. I think you're just saying it. It's alright if you aren't. You can tell me if your mum packed you a shit carton of milk, the standard range, and not a flavoured one, because I know that can fuck up your day. Maybe your best friend is spending too much time with another person, not fulfilling the duties of a BFF. Is it a girlfriend/boyfriend that you want? There is a couple in one of my classes, 7 year olds. I found out in class when the girl sat next to her boyfriend and said to me:
"Ameen teacher! Eric, I, together." I was shocked at first but then I realised it was normal. Kids are not idiots, they do know what more there is than friendship. I think the surprise came primarily from my distance from that age, but coming to think of it, I remembered that I had girlfriends at that age. Kisses on the cheek, holding hands, pointless walks around the school field. Then I began to remember a few girlfriends, oh my! I think I was a bit of a player when I was eight.

I remembered giving away my Stuart Pearce football coin to a girl because I liked her. What a fool. Never saw that again. And she never gave me a kiss! I've been a lot more guarded since.

What else is supposed to be ideals of happiness?
That magnificent career,
Educations purpose or consequence?
Maybe it's a partner,
As two may do what one cannot.
How about benefits,
Dependence can be comforting.
Anonymity,
No face, no place, some bliss?
What about friendship,
It seems to provide all the fun.
Some think the thought and search,
Eliots ennobling intellectual purpose.
Failing that, getting fucked,
A problem that solves a lot, given money.
Do you like recognition,
Fames fortunes finds no fault, yeah?

Happiness was invented in the early 18th Century in England. As the growth of coffee houses, prostitution, drinking and opium dens, reached an all new height, scientists at the time realised that a new emotion had to be manufactured to fit in with the hedonism of the time. A prototype was first created and tested on the willing participant, poet Alexander Pope. It failed miserably; after a half hour burst of ecstasy where he ran down Fleet Street proclaiming "I see the light!" he fell into a deep coma. Upon awakening he developed a humpback and shortened in height, and generally got a little bit more ugly. Doctors also recorded another side-effect - witty satire. It was the last thing they wanted to happen. It is believed today that Ian Hislop, the editor of Private Eye, has contracted a similar strain. This strain is commonly referred to as The Pope (aka Dunciad, Lockrape and Cock-Curll). The Pope is highly dangerous and is a big priority in modern policing.

After the Popotype Affair, scientists re-assessed the compound structure of Happiness, adding more Joy (a French invention) and a reduction of Erratic Behaviour (a disputed invention between Latvia and Estonia). The result was an overnight sensation. Revellers could now feel the correct feelings for their times. It was such a huge success that the initial pill form of Happiness had to be changed. It was pumped into all the country's water supplies, feeding the nation with an emotion that has been going strong to this day. So strong was its success that the French modified their Joy, and the rest of the world followed suit with their own version of Happiness. The German version, Glaubiestenfranggebotstung, is a particularly potent form of Happiness, one where the effects are not externally visible on the face, but doubly powerful inside.

Today with a recorded decline of fun and hedonism since the 18th century, due to growing trends of health consciousness and the invention of Reservation in 1813 and Prudishness in 1821, the strain of Happiness has been diluted to accommodate our more considerate times. However there have been anomalous peaks of Happiness, via illegal sources, in the late 19th Century symbolised by the Aesthetes, and the late 20th century represented by the Madchester scene, pioneered by New Order's seminal album Technique.