Two Day Guide to London

It’s fair to say I didn’t arrive in this city on the best of forms. In the nature of all last nights in Belfast, one needs a piss up. In the hour and a half before I entered the venue of that evening, I had guzzled four tins of Bavaria. The rest of the evening had been no different. Unfortunately, since my Dad had made the crazy decision to get us on a flight that left at ten to six in the morning that gave me approximately two hours to sleep. Those two Godless hours were slept through in my clothes. After the painful trawling with heavy baggage through tube and train station that followed the quick flight between Belfast and Gatwick, I wasn’t allowed the pleasure of even a brief nap. Even a greasy spoon meal from Whetherspoon wouldn’t make up for that and with the alcohol rumbling around my inner organs; my stomach was turning and my head was in a state that I can only describe as buhhhh.

To add insult to injury, Friday’s weather was cold, damp and grey. A walk around Hyde park, as big and impressive as it may be just didn’t seem to be helping. Despite this, I still managed to take in the most impressive Prince Albert memorial. If anyone hasn’t seen it, it can be only described as a large dome with maybe somewhere around forty statues of great philosophers, scientists, artists and poets of ages gone by.
Apparently the government spent millions restoring it and it shows. I imagine it looks just as good as it did back when it was first constructed. Compared to what I was to see next it was breathtaking.

Near Hyde park is a famous spot called Speaker’s corner. Brief wikiapedia-ing of it would probably tell its history, but the general idea is anyone can go there and voice their opinion to the wandering general public, maybe give a valid rant or two. Right now the corner is marked by a large metal container - one of those eight foot tall, fifteen foot long constructions, kind of throwing a spanner in the works of me getting to hear a good rant, or give one for that matter.

What I visited after the Albert Memorial was the Serpentine Gallery. A small somewhere in the middle of Hyde Park, its main attraction was its admission price; free. Maybe its because of my disinterest in modern art that I failed to get any real enjoyment out of it. I, like a lot of people I just don’t see the point of many modern pieces, perhaps because often enough there is none. Some don’t seem like they require a lot of time or effort to make. A bulbous mound of unfired clay is neither particularly impressive in its design, or is it anyway aesthetically pleasing. Similarly, miniature red floruescent lights curled around badly sculpted pieces of clay don’t really add up to too much either. Lastly, I just don’t think there’s that much need for seemingly meaningless phallus shapes. Maybe there was one real gem in that place and its not something that ever could leave the gallery. A bronze work piece with a bronze saw embedded into it was great did have a kind of cool factor to it.

Otherwise calling that place an art gallery was a bit of a stretch of the imagination. Thats perhaps why its called the Serpentine gallery; because of the deception involved. The Large bookshop that also had a host of computers advertising a badly designed online game called Second Life would be a little bit better. What was even more scandalous was the prices in that bookshop. A scalpel used by some random artist who’s name wasn’t recognized by me or my History of Art studying mother, £100. Can this artistic blade cut through diamond? Does it improve your ability to sculpt by 50%?

Next to it was a set of ceramic salt and pepper shakers going for £55. What were special about them? One had heroin written on it and the other had cocaine written on it. Now I’m sorry, but unless these condiment dispensers are filled with the class A substances specified on them, I don’t get it. For that amount of money, I want to be able to skag up my steak and sprinkle my chips a lick of coke and vinegar.

By that point, the hangover had me condemning London as a town made for wankers. I had texted a friend asking for his advice on what to with my parents to do in the capital that wasn’t going to have me scraping out my eyes with a rusty spoon. The answer lay in a town called Camden.

I loved it. The place had that bohemian feel that made Chrstiania such an interesting place in Copenhagen albeit with about 240% more character destroying consumerism. Not to sound like a capitalist hating pussy liberal but one has to admit, when money is involved in something, it can destroy the easy going alternative lifestyle vibe that gets one excited. Of course the whole point of the place is that by its name and nature, Camden Town is a town and what makes it interesting is the various shops and cafés. Given some time on my own I probably would have left the place with a nice new shiny bong and a crystal catching grinder, but I didn’t want to have to explain to my Dad what the purposes of these counter-cultural creations were designed for. That being said, those multiple shops with the overly large collections get a bit tacky after a while. As do those tourist catering shops with the slogos of “My sister went to London and all she brought me was this lousy t-shirts. Almost every big city in the world has got these sorts of places. Barcelona is no different in this aspect and you’d expect it out of them; people come to Barcelona and London for touristy purposes - sightseeing, that sort of thing. It just means you’re slightly more unlikely to get a real London experience, although if that involves getting stabbed on some dodgy council estate, I’ll stick to seeing art museums and parks.

After seeing Camden town we went back to the hotel. The hotel was pretty standard, kind of like a travel lodge minus half a star for everything being noisy and the bed not being as comfortable as it could have. What made it worse was that whenever I checked into my room, some self absorbed bastard before me had left on the radiator for what must have been hours meaning it was nothing short of roasting. To a hung over body it was like being twatted with a radiator. I got some kip and went and got myself a mixed shwarma from a Lebanese restaurant called Beiti whilst my parents were off having a fish and chip dinner in some pub they didn’t really rate.

The next day I managed to get my lazy, still slightly hung-over ass up in time for a free 9 am breakfast. Croissant, toast and a bowl of cereal that I can only describe as muesakes. Being a connoisseur of cereal, I have a long tradition of mixing different types of cereal in my quest to find the greatest combination. Muesli and cornflakes isn’t a bad mix. Not quite as good as banana and pear yoghurt mixed with chocolate chip muesli, but good none the less.

Anyway, the fact I had a hang over two days after the drinking session is a sign of how bad it has got ladies and gentlemen, at the age of 22 I’m about ready to hang up my drinking boots. Not only are hangovers life ruining on the day after session (I mean questioning my obligation to be on this planet) but they are somewhat detrimental the day after that.

I’m going to interrupt this post to say that I’ve just been stung. Four weeks ago when I was booking the rail ticket from London to Lancaster, it was priced at £30. I had to go back a few steps to add my rail card and in the space of time it had almost doubled in price. Adding my railcard brought it down to £39.90. I had booked it for 15:25 because I thought that’s when I was going to end up leaving London. Having to check out of my room earlier and wanting to avoid hanging around London with my baggage in tow meant that I decided to hop on an earlier train. I just got ticket checked and then for my reservation and the smarmy little prick of a ticket checker added on £7.60. So in total for one rail journey I’ve paid £47.50. For a fucking train ride?! Apparently it can cost up to £250 for that ride. I could have a full scale hydroponics grow operation for that!

I could get a fucking return flight to the middle of Europe and back, taxes included for that. British rail charges are amongst the highest in the world and it needs to stop. Somebody needs to punch the minister of transport in the mouth until he wakes the fuck up and realizes we’re sick of this shit. I’m going to lie to every ticket checker I ever meet on a British train until they do. There’s probably some law limiting our free speech that suggests we can’t encourage unlawful behaviour, but hell, I suggest you do the same. Do what a friend of my does and hide in the toilet whenever ticket collection comes around.

Anyway, back to the story about London. That day my Mum, my Dad and I went and visited the Imperial War Museum. If you’re as big a geek as me, you’ll be amazed - even by the two guns outside of the museum, once belonging to some old British warships. Inside the place is filled with tanks, artillery pieces, planes, bits of submarines, weapons, armour and just general artefacts collected from the beginning of the First World War. You could almost spend a day on each of the floors, examining everything from holocaust inspired art to the above mentioned -stuff-. The amount of information at hand does just cause a brain overload.

After that, we stopped by a Spanish themed pub who’s name escapes me. One thing you have to admit about London is it has variety. Kaiser Wilhelm II was so cocky about winning the First World War that he declared “Lunch in Paris, St. Petersburg for dinner”. If you’re in London that’s not impossible, you could go through every regional cuisine. It’s probably the reason why The Times tends to write so many guides on where to go for a good meal in London, especially on a budget. Having all the money could get you whatever you want. In Lancaster I can comfortably live off £80 a week. In London I’d probably have to stop myself from spending that in a day. Hell, probably even in an hour.

After that we went off to the National Gallery to see the Picasso exhibition, which is only £6 with a student card. Not that I was paying, I am all too well catered for by my very loving parents. It was interesting, but in the time that we were waiting to get in, we checked out the classical paintings upstairs. Maybe this is just another expression of my distaste of modern art, but I was far more impressed with the vivid colours of Turner and Rembradt than I was with the loopy natured cubism of Pabs. I’d quite happily trip my balls off in those halls, just taking in the beauty and brilliance for hours. I felt I learned a few things anyway, I’d trade one of those audio things for the conversation of my madre any day. Aren’t I a sweet, culture loving boy.

Once we were through with that, we went outside to enjoy the sunshine and watch some Dutch bands playing. There was some Holland Festival outside of the museum, maybe as some sort of drive to encourage tourism. Stalls were set up selling Heiniken, pancakes, waffles, and tulips. I was wondering where all the coffee shops and bicycles were though. Surely that’s the whole point of going to Holland?!

We returned back to the hotel for a brief break. During that time, I put on the new Prodigy album on my iPod full blast and watched some David Attenborough documentary about African Wildlife. Take me the Hospital, Otter vs. Crocodile remix. Immense. Somehow I managed to collapse asleep for an hour after that. A knock on my door awoke me to get me up and go for the reason that we were in London in the first place - Van Morisson’s Astral Weeks tour. Father is in avid fan of Van the Grumpy Old Man. If he’s in any room in the house that has a CD player or L.P. for more than five minutes he’ll probably stick on some Van. There are a few other things that he listens to but if he had an iTunes, 85% of his top 25 list would be Van. Quite sad, I know, but this is the middle aged Northern Irish man. Go to any chippy on a Saturday night and you’ll probably have some drunken forty seven year old give you his rendition of Brown Eyed Girl. I can almost guarantee it.

Anyway, the concert was in the Royal Albert Hall of all places, we had a balcony seat, equipped with its own little bar to pour the drinks you’d purchased downstairs. A couple of glasses of red wine in me and I was enjoying it almost as much as he was. A lot of Van’s music has a mellow bluesy feel to it, meaning I sort of go off and day dream in true pothead fashion. With a bit of vino rogue in me I’m positively bouncing to the rhythm of Baby Please Don’t Go and Moon dance. Not quite as much as the guy from Bangor in the booth beside me who had seen Northern Ireland’s visually un-impaired Ray Charles 35 times and was convinced this was the best performance the old cunt had ever belted out. What amused me about this was that a couple in the booth on the other side of them offered them a bottle of red wine to not be so noisy after the interval. To which the man replied “I’ll take your wine, but it’ll be no guarantee I’ll be any quieter!” Once again, that is typical Northern Irish behaviour. Don’t expect any better. Despite the fact you’re in one of the most renowned musical venues in the world, we’ll still belt out

G
L

O

R

I

A

G-L-O-R-I-A, GLORRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAA! G-L-O-R-I-A, GLORRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIAAAA!

After that we returned for late meal in Beiti again, which I’ll have to find the website for as I firmly recommend it, for anything from a take out kebab to an actual meal. My parents had their reservations but the quality food and amiable service soon put a stop to those.

I think I was destined to be in London that weekend because on both nights before I went to sleep I got to see two films that I’d seen the start of but never the end, almost picking up where they left off. Inside I’m Dancing on Friday, Lord of War on Saturday. I slept, woke and had the same jam covered breakfast as I had the day before, packed and after a mocha chino from Bella Italia, got on this train. Giving my parents a few hugs before doing so.

If you’ve managed to stick with me this whole time well done. What was meant to be a guide was pretty much a diary entry. If its been entertaining, then I’m more than happy.

If I had taken pictures, I’d post them and give you a Where’s Wally index. Most of you are unlikely to have picked up a Where’s Wally book in years, although I’m sure you still remember the banging theme tune of its animated representation. However, if you think back there was always an index of crazy things to look for on each of the different pages if you got bored of just looking for the stripy jumper wearing nerd. If my life had one of those index, it would probably give you pictures of evil grey squirrels, the view on the train ride to Lancaster, noisy Northern Irish people, the seemingly endless supply of beautiful women in London (there must be at least two gorgeous girls on every tube carriage, I remember a girl making eye contact with one over the tube tracks, realizing we’d never meet again and romantically imagining our live together in my underground lair), a barbar shop trio in Hyde Park, chalk graffiti by artistic buskers at Camden lock and the expression on my face when it finally clicked with me that London is actually pretty fucking cool.

Glad to be back in Lancs though.

Ratings

Beiti ****
Check that tasty Lebanese shit out! Even my parents reservations soon went away once they got food put in front of them and it was also the best of a bad situation; its hard to get fed after eleven unless one wants to lower themselves to an AIDs infested cheeseburger. Turned out all the better.

Imperial War Museum ****
For any true geek you’ve got go to see it, even just to marvel at the collection of old stuff and learn a few quotes from the Kaiser along the way.

National Art Gallery *****
Pablo Picasso was still a ridiculously cool and talented artist that wanted to break boundaries even if his stuff isn’t as pretty as Turner’s classical artwork of the 18th (?) century.

Serpentine Gallery **
Avoid if you can unless you really want some books on art or want to test out Second Life by flying around a room of bad, linear graphics.

Apparently though, the exhibitions change every so often so I might have just been unlucky.

Van Morison’s Astral Weeks Live ****
I’d probably say I still would go to an Easy Star All Stars gig, but the old man still has it after all these years. Talented fucker can play the sax, guitar, piano, harmonica and sing and that’s just from what he was whipping out on stage. As long as he’s not grumpy he can put on a show.

Hangover *
Buhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Tube rides and general London ignorance *
Not to make sweeping statements, but people in London can be self serving pricks that don’t see people and only see routes through them, especially when involved in the tube. The underground is busy for sure, but it shouldn’t allow for ignorance. Same as any other town as well, when you see some 24 year old women dressed like a fourteen year old girl listening to metal at full blast with no sound cancelling headphones on public transport you really feel like having a go. Best not bother too much really.

Overall weekend in London rating *****
I might have to write a version of this post with the swearing and drug references edited out so my parents can know I’m thankful for the things they bring me to and the times that we have. The only way I could have made this better is if some London savvy friend of mine had taken me out to a cool club or bar, one that didn’t require me to get blind drunk just to enjoy.


Thanks again to anybody that read, shoot me any questions and comments the usual way.

Much love.

X

CC.

Prepare for a rant:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/7412852.stm

If you haven’t heard, a bunch of French fishermen are being wankers. They’re complaining about EU quotas being put on the amount of fish that they’re allowed to catch.

Do these people not realize that these quotas are set for a reason? Do they think that the EU are sitting around in their assemblies having conversations like:

“What do you want to do today?”

“I dunno, fuck with the happiness of French fishermen?”

“Brilliant! Get to the quotas Barry!”

They’re there for a reason; so as to prevent over fishing, so as to prevent certain types of fish reaching borderline endangered species. Arguably they’re there to protect the very industry that these dumb asses are worried about losing.

I’m not saying I’d want to be in their shoes, but their concerns are ridiculous. If they love their job so much why don’t they go fishing elsewhere. The money one can earn from fishing in Alaskan waters is ridiculous and probably on the same level of danger. If they try and pull the “It’s family tradition to be a fisherman,” story they can piss right off. It’s a shitty argument, if someone said “Oh my father was a paedophile, I’m going to bugger small children as well” you wouldn’t feel bad for them. Quite the opposite in fact.

Alright that’s a bit of a tangent as one is clearly detrimental to society and comes from psychological defects, some perhaps genetic and some social but you get my point.

I just don’t see how these fishermen can have the gall to blockade ports, preventing people from getting them from where they want to go. You don’t see English fishermen creating widespread disarray over the fact the French fishing in waters accepted to be British. On top of that we’ve all got it bad at the minute with the credit crunch, inflation and the general state of affairs in the economy. Being a third year student I’m as worried about getting a halfway decent job after my degree as the next guy, but it doesn’t mean I’m gonna start interfering in the running of other people’s lives for the sake of a few fish.

Maybe it’s a case of one man’s freedom fighter is another man’s terrorist but I dunno, I still think these guys should accept the government’s promises and stop getting in the way of progress.

Back when I started this blog during my school days, I used to have a habit of posting a 'website of the day', along with a 'song of the day'. Back then I was an even bigger nerd than I am now, coming home at four o’clock for an avid session of button bashing on the Nintendo Gamecube and a post-school shank over Sabrina the Teenage Witch or even a Countdown wank. I can attest that anyone who hasn’t had masturbated over the number crunching minx that is Carol Vorderman simply hasn’t lived. The beautiful veteran mathematician certainly gave me something to look forward to on a cold winter’s afternoon. Since this is a standard entry to the blog and not a special edition where I theorize ways to improve the world or write letters to evil corporations sponsoring acts of terrorism such as ringing you every three minutes demanding you sign up to their broadband, I shall make with the goods:

Website of the day: www.cracked.com
This website is a humorous bunch of articles about all sorts of things. It particularly has the best lists of things you’ve ever seen. Channel 4 might have thought it cornered the market with shows such as 'Top 50 Annoying Songs' or 'Top 10 Air Guitar Classics' but in comparison to Cracked’s 5 Things You Think Will Make You Happy But Won’t, they don’t have shit. Some of these are amusing, some are damn near close to life changing..

Song of the Day: 'Bust-a-move' - Infected Mushroom
This is song lasts about eight minutes, but builds up subtly, crescendo-ing into a masterpiece. I was blaring this at full volume from my room back home and my Mum came in and said 'Who is this?' At this point, I thought she was going to give me an old person's 'It's awful', I told her who it was and she said 'I should get some of this, it's very good'. Apparently she could detect the musicality of it. Amazing.

Game of the Moment: Displaying my nerdiness in all its colours, I give you 'Mafia Wars'
Yes, this is a pointless text based game on face book, but it gives me something to do on top of checking my narcissistic social networking websites and spam-filled e-mail accounts whenever I wake up and before I go to bed. If it isn’t your cup of tea, then try face book poker. I was bent on making top five out of my friend in number of chips, but unfortunately I got a bit reckless with my betting, chasing non-existant flushes and banking on low pairs, ended up with almost nothing to my name. I often become rude and impulsive playing, insulting other players with lowest common denominator insults. My play habits became wild and immature. If anyone’s feeling really frisky with their nerdiness though I recommend playing a pen and paper based roleplaying game. To pass a dreary Monday afternoon four of us picked up our strange shaped dice and began rolling our way through the streets of Mos Eisely in a Star Wars based game. Even one friend who was convinced he wouldn’t enjoy it loved every second of it as we added a mix of humour, intelligence and problem solving into the fold. And people wonder why I don’t have a girlfriend..

Readers do beware: The following will contain a few rants about my life, they are written in hope that you can relate to them, or understand where I am coming from. I do ponder if I ever become whiney, self-absorbed. Those that know me should make no heisitation to remind me when I do this. My writing style can only ever grow better from good critique.

So I want to know what the ideal way to spend an Easter holiday is. This time last year, I was in the mythical town of Copenhagen. The ten days I had been home involved scaring my mum silly (she was for ringing hospitals miles away from where I live) after not returning from a hardcore drugs rave until six in the evening, dating a really good looking blonde girl who I’d met on said drugs rave and schooling my Belfast friends at getting high (we went through a period of competing at who could smoke the most weed, like that‘s not childish!). This holiday is rather dreary in comparison.

I left Lancaster in order to seek employment and managed to score a couple of shifts here and there doing temp jobs, washing pots and chopping sticks of brocolli. Ideally I’d have a few more shifts, but I suppose it’s just a symptom of this economic climate. Work isn’t steady for anyone in this recession era, just like everyone else we hear about the disruption caused by layoffs and the discontent brought in by the whole thing. Of course, the usual outlets of work are closed to me if I am to use honesty and confess that I am a student with aims to return to University once my holiday is over. On top of this, I don’t really want to get a fatigue inducing 9-5 job which will only cause stress and an enforced rigidness during the time I’m home. I’d rather spend the time talking of nonsense with my mum, attempting to study and just enjoying the nice weather. On top of that, I should be utilizing my time to understand the interwar economy of Britain for part of my course. Doing so might actually explain the aforementioned economic crisis of today. Instead I’m getting drunk on Friday nights and dancing round the streets at 2 am by myself listening to psytrance blaring on my iPod and going to the park the following day to savour the fresh air and the passable levels of sunshine.

It is a strange life that I’m leading at the minute, but I think it’s a sign of how Belfast has gone. Drinking in clubs seem to exist only from the hours of 11-1. By 2 all clubs are shut. Those that stay open either do so illegally, are expensive or are so far out of the way that they are irrelevant for my needs. When I have been in clubs they just haven’t been the same either. Girls just don’t seem interested any more. Have I grown less charming or more ugly since the last time I was home. I’d like to think not. What I feel has happened is that girls have grown more snooty, more close minded just like the rest of the UK.

As this becomes the case, the interesting exciting girls tend to stand out from the crowd. This has its pros and cons, whenever I meet an easy going, open minded girl, I two things:

A) 'This girl is awesome, great craic and fun to be around. I’m enjoying myself'

B) Then comes the confidence sapping - 'She’s lots of other guys interested, is she interested in me or just being herself. Is she flirting with me deliberately or just being friendly, or worse still is she being attention seeking?'

In part to some of those reasons, Belfast to a certain degree has lost its charm to me. Don’t get me wrong, I still love my home, friends and family. I can quite happily return to a good meal and good conversation with the elders. I mean, I might even go to church next week so I can enjoy the community of happy Christians. Perhaps part of me does so in the knowledge I am keeping the ‘rents happy, or that I love the sound of my own voice when singing (its true), or even a chance to imagine fornicating with one of the beautiful girls in another row. But if the Abrahamic God is real, maybe he can just take comfort in that I am there and I’m sort of making time for Jesus whilst waiting to go back to Zen meditation classes.

However due to the repressive drinking hours and lack of available, attractive women, on top of limited access to magical plants, I’m a little disenchanted with what I have here. I know I should be constructive with the lack of debauchery by attempting to learn a musical instrument, write more, study more and do some exercise but as I mentioned before what I should be doing and what I end up doing are often very different. I’m a born procrastinator and to justify my lack of doing things, I’ll say I’m a thinker not a do-er. With so much disposable entertainment at our fingertips, its sometimes quite difficult to motivate ourselves to do things. Such is one of the curses of modern society..

Despite failing to get all this done though, I cracked it on the pudding front and I should tell you about is a very special recipe that I invented when I was… sober.

Conor’s Hunger Ender

For this you will need:

Utensils: One bowl, one desert spoon
Ingredients: One banana, two hobnobs, 1 tbsp honey and some double cream

Method: Chop banana, mash up the hobnobs, drizzle honey and cream over. Mash to desired texture.

Enjoy. Next week, I’ll spit out some film reviews and a guide to mental disorders.

P.S., I might have to start a blog ring for the Lancaster crew. If you hadn’t done so already, check out:
Jewface’s www.jewbao.blogspot.com

And

KB’s http://kb-log-acollectionofcerebralfaeces.blogspot.com/?zx=272e9c8357e7a3b

As most of you who read this know, I go to Lancaster University. Lancaster is a small town in North West England, an hour away from Manchester and about an hour and a half away from Liverpool. It’s generally pretty quiet, being that its economy seems mostly based on students and old people. That’s not to say that there’s no families around, there are a few. It’s just that you can’t go into any shop without having to wait for old women to count their pennies or for students to decide how they’re going to destroy their overdraft.

There’s not really a lot to do most of the time, though its location lends itself well to getting trains out to surrounding towns and the countryside. One could feasibly go to the lake district for a nice little dander any day with half decent weather. That or head to Morecombe for some cockle picking if you’re feeling suicidal. I don’t mean to rinse Lancaster that bad because in all honesty I’ve had a great three years. Made some great friends, had some brilliant nights out and I’ve definitely had one toke over the line old friend. This is something I’ve become renowned for.

You can’t go to a small English university as loud as I am, with a thick but charming Northern Irish accent, a pair of pretty blue eyes and get wasted on a regular basis without gaining some kind of reputation. It’s like being the lad about town. In fact, a couple of years ago when I was heavier in both fat and muscle mass, there was little danger of getting into a fight. In my college bar at the height of business there was a bit of confusion about who was in the queue. Some guy was giving me jip and in turn, aided and abetted by alcohol my arrogance was spilling over into the realms of “Go fuck yourself, I own this bar”. Whilst he was getting scrappy and I was for going outside and punt kicking him through a glass window, his friend was grabbing him and going “Leave him dude, it’s not worth it. He’s a lot bigger than you and he’s Irish”. That to me was a victory. I was such a prick back then.

Anyway, I decided last night I would make a guide to the University on the blog. Just.. Not yet. I want to do one on the boat or plane on the way home from graduation. I want to be equipped with every experience before I tell people whether or not to come here for sure. What I do want to do is make a guide for those already at Lancaster and it’s not something I can do in one shot. I’m sure given a couple of days I could have a God damn dissertation written about the town and university. What I’m going to do now is make a comparison between town and campus. Here are six things I don’t miss about campus:

1) Porters - If anyone doesn’t know what a porter does, it’s basically the voice of authority for each college. Not the governor or principle of it, more like the policeman. These guys during the day walk around to check everything is in order or give you the parcels you were looking for. This is handy enough as they’re always there to sign for your package and there’s no where else to get mail.

At night, they can turn from day-time heroes to overzealous demanders of early bed times. That is to say that the very nature of their job is often a hinderance to students. No student ever wants to be told that they need to stop their party at 11 pm because other people might be trying to sleep. I understand that the noise needs to be turned down if people complain, but all too often I’ve been either fined, or told to go to bed by a balding middle age man who was never a student in his life.

In honesty there are cool ones, but its only in relative to the shit job they have to do. Being told to keep the noise down isn’t so bad when they ignore the fact you could be skinning up a fatty (hey, that happened once!) In town you have a lot more freedom, provided your neighbour doesn’t have a family and a job, you can get away with a fair bit of noise. In the case of the 12 Blade Street crew, we now have to keep our noise to a minimum until somebody buys the house from this guy. He is in fact a dick who writes far too many letters for noise we haven’t made in about a month. Trying to get the council involved is just not cool though.

2) Being told to tidy up the mess - In Pendle college, our entire flat got a series of money taking threats from the head of housing. This was all about the mess in hallways and in the kitchen that was preventing the cleaners from doing their work.
For a start, the only thing cleaners ever did was wipe down surfaces and mop the floor when there was already stuff on the floor. Rather than sweep up the mess, they just made a floor dirty by rubbing bits of meat into the ground with a mop. Then when they couldn’t do that, there were fines threatened of £80.

In town, you don’t have to deal with that sort of bullshit about hygene. You’re free to risk getting food poisoning from the stack of dirty plates you’ve accumulated in every room. When you have a dissertation to write, you kind of get used to having a mess in every room. I could not deal with false figures of authority telling me to clean up my mess or face a fine. When you’re sharing a house with friends, you can share the mess, not have to worry about it affecting people that should have no concern in your life.

3) Fire alarms - Oh how I grew to loath the fire alarms. In houses, I can deal with smoke detectors that whinge until you fan the smoke out of its way, but fire alarms that get out around a hundred people from their rooms at 3 am because the extractor fan doesn’t work and some cunt left the grill pan in the oven. Similarly in town if one wanted to go back to bed after a 3 hour seminar on a Wednesday morning, they could do so without being rudely awaked by a fire alarm they know works fine, but feel the need to test for four hours.

4) Poo days - This is the name given to those fine Spring and Summer days where some denizen of society decided to leave a manhole open, or I don’t know.. Send a dozen laxative dosed cows to take a dump all over South West campus. Whatever it is, it smells like the aborted foetuses of the queen of shit. Its like Bastard man unleashed his peduran in the middle of Pendle quad. Smells like bacon cooked in piss..

5) UPP - When I signed up to go to Copenhagen, I was under the naïve belief that the university would take care of my housing contract and for the third term, cancel my contract or at least let me off my rent. For months, I was worrying myself silly over the thought of being financially fucked in the middle of a Scandanavian country because I would have to pay the rent for a room I wasn’t going to be using. Luckily I ended up paying only £220 because some random goth girl needed the room for the guts of the third term. This scandalous manuveour was performed by the people that look after the halls of residences, not the university. UPP as you will learn from whenever they wake you up on a post-Carleton Thursday morning to change some random bit of shower head or light are a literal shower of bastards. I don’t mind the guys that fix things up, but the people at the administrators are absolutely useless whenever it comes to looking after the students. So much so that they should change the company name to Unidentified Profiteering Pricks.

I still lost my deposit despite the room being fairly good nick (okay, it needed a damn good clean but that’s about it) because they’re absolute twats. /Rant

6) College spirit - Okay, I’m going to qualify this. There’s a lot to love about college life. I love the social scenes that go with houses and halls on campus. I go down to Manchester Metropolitan to catch up with a friend every now and then and it’s just not the same. He’s sort of friends with his flatmates, but not like I was with mine, not even how I was with my other housemates. It’s not that he’s more socially inept from me, in fact probably the opposite, it’s just at Lancaster you’re not afraid to show your personality and we all have this feeling of being in it together. At other universities, they stick to their anonymity, finding it a lot more difficult to develop a good friend base. Part of this is the closeness of the college bars to halls, the competitions and an involvement in things.

Anyway, what I don’t miss is being awake at 3 am in the morning and some cunt’s still yelling “I’M PENDLE TILL I DIE!”. Mate, it’s Spring term, it’s about time you shagged your way around the different colleges to the point you shouldn’t be able to give any less of a shit. I’ll be honest, in the first week, I was the biggest college loving head case around. I caught on quick enough that it was a metric pile of balls and was neither funny or amusing unless you have the personality of a dead catfish.

However for every Conor Charlton there’s a twat who tries to start a fight outside of some club because he thinks his college pool team is harder than ours. Christ sake, leave me alone I’m trying to enjoy my drugs without you killing my buzz. Bowland pricks. I had to shake my head at everyone’s favourite balding 34 year old Lonsdale enthusiast as he was chanting his college nonsense in Holland. Bad times Skanky.

That’s about it for now. I feel you are now equipped with the relevant information to realize that there’s a load of shite you have to deal with on campus that you could do without. On the upside to campus, there’s the beautiful convenience of everything, the social life and well the proximity to Spar - Obviously as it is easier to obtain Spar Baguettes if you are on campus. This doesn’t need explaining, I’m not going to write another 500 words about how damn good the humble Spar Baguette is. Don’t be ridiculous, just check it out on face book - Temple of the Spar Baguette

Now I wouldn’t have done anything differently, but having your own house is great, try it some time.

For a special, overly intellectual treat, I'm going to upload the first draft of my first dissertation chapter. This first chapter is going to be totally re-written, so its kind of being kept here as a reminder of the many facets of the crack era.

arlton%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_editdata.mso">

1986- 1990: The Crack Epidemic and the War on Drugs

Chapter one: Origins of an Epidemic

The ten year period of the 1980s was a complicated decade for US politics. The change of leadership from the relatively easy going Jimmy Carter administration to the hard line conservative cabinet of Ronald Reagan meant there would be a number of radical changes in policy and it could be argued that these radical changes had a radical effect on American society at large. Whilst Carter had aimed at creating a peaceful climate with the Soviet Union using the SALT talks and a period of detente, whilst he was lenient on recreational drug use and aimed to be resourceful on energy and environmental concerns, his successor on the other hand set out to destroy what he deemed the “Evil Empire” and the dangers of “Narcoterrorism”. Drug use for Reagan was an American problem that had to be stamped out, but in the 1980s the problem seemed only to grow. At the begining of the decade there were almost double the number of African Americans in American universities and colleges as there were incarcerated in State and county penitentiaries. Four years later, the statistics would reveal a drastically different scenario. The six year period between 1984 and 1990 saw a massive surge in the levels of street crime, drug addiction, overdose and homicide of many major American cities. The blame is almost always placed on the introduction of crack cocaine into inner city areas and whilst there were reports of the appearance of crack in Los Angeles, San Diego and Houston as early as 1981, the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) recognizes 1984 to be the first year of "the crack epidemic". The crack epidemic saw a dramatic increase in the numbers of Americans addicted to cocaine. In 1985, the number of people who admitted using cocaine on a routine basis increased from 4.2 million to 5.8 million, according to the Department of Health and Human Service's National Household Survey. Likewise, cocaine-related hospital emergencies continued to increase nationwide during 1985 and 1986. According to DAWN statistics, in 1985, cocaine-related hospital emergencies rose by 12 percent, from 23,500 to 26,300; and in 1986, they increased 110 percent, from 26,300 to 55,200. Between 1984 and 1987, cocaine incidents increased fourfold[1]. This chapter aims to discover what this new drug was, how it emerged, even to examine the shadier origins of the “epidemic”.

Up until the late 19^th century, cocaine was used extensively fairly extensively in the United States, not just as an aid to recreational vices but as a pain killer and medicinal tonic recommended and prescribed by doctors. Toward the end of the century, its negative effects began to be recognized and the Pure Food and Drug act of 1906 was the first law to control the use of the drug and the health crisis it caused. It was finally legislated against in the 1914 Harrison Narcotic Act and after a series of problems (involving the arrest of around 3,000 doctors and spates of gang violence), use began to decline. It was not until the 1970s that cocaine would experience resurgence as a parlour drug for college students and young white professionals as a study aid or party drug. The drug became particularly popular in the disco culture, as usage was very common and popular in many discos such as the notorious Studio 54. The emergence of crack and the epidemic that ensued follows a slightly different path. The official DEA line points to the Bahamas, where the majority of cocaine was kept before it was transported to Miami. There, a huge glut of cocaine powder caused the price of the drug to drop by 80%[2]. As a result, drug dealers facing this drop made a "shrewd marketing decision" to convert the powder to crack, a smoke-able form of cocaine. It is easy to say why; crack was easy to produce, had a high level of purity, did not require needle injection (thereby avoiding a major route for hepatitis or AIDS infections), bypassed the danger of flammable liquids such as ether used to prepare the other smoke-able form of cocaine - "freebase" and it was cheap: a single dose could cost as little as $2.50. In comparison, powder cocaine was available on the street at an average of 55 percent purity for $100 per gram. Additionally, smoking crack allowed a large quantity of cocaine to be absorbed directly into the blood stream from the lungs and then to reach the brain quickly; the user typically experiences the high within 10 seconds. These factors made dealing crack highly profitable, the instant high and low cost meant that users often found the appeal irresistible and unable to control their use. Crack was not a new drug, its active ingredient is entirely cocaine, however it was a marketing innovation. It was a way of packaging a relatively expensive and upscale commodity (powder cocaine) in small inexpensive units. So package, this form of smokeable cocaine was then distributed on the street by young Latinos and African-Americans to a whole new class of customers: residents of impoverished inner-city, neighbourhoods. This made the sale of the drug very profitable for dealers and when Caribbean immigrants taught young people in Miami how to produce crack, South Florida became a principal area for the "conversion laboratories" used to convert cocaine base into cocaine HCl, the form in which cocaine is sold.

Big time drug traffickers such as “Freeway” Ricky Ross soon emerged, cashing in on the appearance of the new drug. For young black males growing up in LA like Ross, drug dealing served (and often still does) as a way out of poverty originally, he had began selling small amounts of inexpensive cocaine to finance tennis lessons, with which he hoped to gain a college scholarship. Unlike the other small time cocaine dealers around him, Ricky Ross’s story is by comparison slightly out of the ordinary. Thanks to a network of friends in South Central and Compton, Ross and his friend Ollie “Big Loc” Newell steadily built up a clientele that granted them more funds to invest in the drug. When Ross’s supplier, a Nicaraguan man called Henry Corrales introduced him to Danilo Blandon, his fortunes would spiral out of control. Within a year, Ross owned millions of dollars of real estate; houses, motels and several other businesses and when crack finally made its way onto the streets of LA in 1983, Blandon and Ross were able to corner the crack market with ease. Crack would take Ross a lot further than just his home of Los Angeles, but he was able to move past California’s borders, expanding his crack empire by selling hundreds of kilos on consignment, offering them to dealers on a “sell now, pay later” basis. By the mid 80s, Ross’s biggest problem seemed to be more in terms of what to do with the cash he was making, than actually making it. ''Our biggest problem had got to be counting the money,'' Ross said. ''We got to the point where it was like, man, we don't want to count no more money.'' Because of his rags-to-riches like rise, Ross has become an almost legendary figure but he admits the damage he caused to his own community made him far from a Robin Hood character some would wish to portray him. He admits also that his success was not solely his own doing. What granted Ross such success as a drug dealer was Blandon’s rock bottom cocaine prices. Where this cocaine was coming from has been the subject of a conspiracy that links the origins of the crack epidemic with the Central Intelligence Agency.

In April 1989, the senate subcommittee on terrorism, Narcotics and International Communications headed by Senator John Kerry of Massachussetts issued a 1,166 page report on drug corruption in Latin America and the Carribean. The subcommittee found that 'there was substantial evidence of drug smuggling through the war zone on the part of individual Contras, Contra suppliers, Contra pilots, mercenaries who worked with the Contras supporters throughout the region.' U.S. officials, the subcommittee said, ‘failed to address the drug issue for fear of jeopardizing the war efforts against Nicaragua.’ The investigation also revealed that some 'senior policy makers' believed that the use of drug money was 'a perfect solution to the Contras' funding problems.'[3] The investigation was followed up in 1991, in a book written by Peter Dale Scott and Jonathon Marshall called Cocaine Politics: Drugs, Armies and the CIA in Central America. The book illuminated the reality of the drug war. During the cold war against the Nicaraguan Sandinistas, significant elements within the Contras trafficked extensively in cocaine, supplying much of the North American market while the CIA, National Security Council, and Justice Department acted oblivious to the evidence. Whilst the book raised little media attention, it would be followed up by a series of newspaper articles five years later. After a year long investigation, reporter Gary Webb wrote a series of articles for the San Jose Mercury News in 1996 examining the CIA/Contra drug running conspiracy. The articles raised a number of key questions: why Danilo Blandon was free and employed by the DEA, why Norwin Meneses despite openly admitting to have supplied Ross with the drug was never touched by the law in comparison to Ross, imprisoned for life without possibility of parole. Along with these questions, Webb’s Dark Alliance would make one stunning allegation which neither the Scott/Marshall book nor the Kerry report had dared to suggest: that this influx of Nicaraguan supplied cocaine had been the catalyst for the entire epidemic that had swept through city after city. What followed was a large scale retaliation from various major newspapers, (including an editorial note that said the story was wrong to imply CIA knowledge of Contra drug-dealing) doubting the merit of Webb’s accusation that the CIA was aware of the transactions taking place but did little to stop them. This was in part down to Webb’s failing to provide evidence that the Blandon-Meneses ring raised “millions” for the Contras or that Blandon was linked to Langley. Ironically though, it was the title and graphic of the story “Dark Alliance” and a picture of a crack smoker superimposed over the CIA logo that most strongly implied a direct CIA connection to drug dealing and titles and graphics are rarely the responsibility of the author. Whilst Webb would later come to agree in an interview that there was no hard evidence that the CIA as an institution or any of its agent-employees, the story of the government agency injecting crack into ghettos had taken hold. As a direct response to the controversy that emerged, the CIA conducted an internal investigation of its role in Nicaragua in relation to the drug trade.

The official statement of the report given by Frederick Hitz, the inspector general in 1998 found that “absolutely no evidence to indicate that CIA as an organization or its employees were involved in any conspiracy to bring drugs into the United States.”[4] However in Hitz’s testimony to congress, he revealed for the very first time that the CIA had a very special agreement with the Justice Department: The CIA did not have to report if its non-employee agents, paid or unpaid, were dealing drugs. In other words, “it was not just incompetence or lack of interest that led the CIA to ignore that their operatives were dealing drugs; it was policy. With the evidence weighing up on both sides, it is almost undeniable that the the CIA would have been entirely pro-active at preventing the flow of Contra drug trafficking. Whilst some DEA agents working in the area claim that they were granted carte-blanche, others confirm reports that drugs were being flown directly into CIA warehouses. However, as noted in a Congressional Report there is almost no doubt that the American intelligence agencies have a long history with working drugs traffickers. During the second world war, the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), along with the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI), the CIA’s parent and sister organizations cultivated relations with leaders of the Italian Mafia in order to keep in touch with exiled Sicilian Mafia leaders. The domestic goal at hand was to prevent sabotage on East Coast ports, whilst in Italy, the aim was to gain intelligence on Sicily prior to the allied invasions. For his wartime services, the imprisoned Charles “Lucky” Luciano earned a pardon and was deported back to Italy where he proceeded to build a vast heroin empire. In 1947, the newly founded CIA aided the Mafia power seizure of Sicily and sent monetary aid to heroin-smuggling gangsters in Marseille to assist in their battle with Communist unions for city’s docks, whilst in the early 70s a Christian Science Monitor correspondent reported that the CIA was ‘cognizant of, if not party to, the extensive movement of opium out of Laos,'[5] quoting one charter pilot who claims that 'opium shipments get special CIA clearance and monitoring on their flights southward out of the country.' At the time, some 30,000 U.S. service men in Vietnam were addicted to heroin. After a decade of American military intervention, South East Asia become the source of 70 percent of the world’s illicit opium and the major supplier of raw materials for America’s booming market[6]. Perhaps this long history could be paraphrased best by Dennis Dayle, former chief of an elite DEA enforcement unit:

“In my 30-year history in the Drug Enforcement Administration and related agencies, the major targets of my investigations almost invariably turned out to be working for the CIA”.[7]

One could argue that the CIA’s use of drug traffickers to fight against the dangers of Communism was employed “for the greater good”. Or rather that in order to prevent the “Evil Empire” from gaining a foothold in South America and across the world, some less than reputable characters had to be employed and that shadier methods had to be relied upon. As much of American policies during the Cold War were based on Truman’s “Domino effect” (in that if one country fell prey to Communism, others around it would soon follow suit) the government may have regarded use of the Contras as a necessary evil. This is especially after the failure of the Vietnam war, the government wanted to avoid direct military intervention at all costs. However the war on Communism was conflicting with another of the US Government’s wars: “The War on Drugs”. First started in 1971, by President Richard Nixon, the War on Drugs is an ongoing controversial prohibition campaign intended to reduce illegal drug trade, in order to curb supply and diminish the use of specific psychoactive substances deemed harmful or immoral. The successive administrations of Reagan and Bush embraced the rhetoric and polices of the war, in the process committing vast new resources to the conflict[8]. It was to be a period of zero tolerance, indicated by the words of Ronald Reagan’s wife Nancy:

“Each of us has a responsibility to be intolerant of drug use anywhere, anytime by anybody.. We must create an atmosphere of intolerance for drug use in this country.”

If the CIA had been guilty of aiding the Nicaraguan CONTRAs bring in the "cocaine that flooded in helped spark a crack explosion in urban America...", then the American government could be accused of acting contradictory to both its aims of destroying Narco-terrorism and lowering recreational drug use. If the DEA wielded a sword, the CIA held an olive branch to the illegal importation of drugs into the United States and if the DEA were able to successfully prevent cocaine being delivered from South America, then the CIA would have a much harder time doing its job. With this in mind, it is not difficult to see how the crack epidemic emerged, with the abundance of a highly dangerous, highly desirable substance flooding the drug market of inner cities, drug use was inevitably going to rise. However, in dealing with such a recent history and one that is as controversial as the crack epidemic, it is important to treat the issues with a large degree of caution and sensitivity. When Dark Alliance was first published, a number of conspiracy theories quickly arose as to why the CIA had effectively moved cocaine into America. Ideas such as the CIA had deliberately set out to ruin black neighbourhoods with an influx of an addictive drug are highly unlikely and there is no substantial evidence for the accusations. As we shall come to understand in a later chapter, the war on drugs suffered a number of other problems than a contradiction of government policies but it is still worth noting at this point.

Although the main argument of this chapter was that elements of the American government may have had as much to do with the development of the crack market as the criminal drug dealers , finding out the origins of the drug, who supplied it and where it first began to be sold does not explain how or why levels of crime rose so sharply. It does not even establish whether or not the crack epidemic even took place; despite the statistics showing a strong surge in the levels of dangerous cocaine use and of street crime, one argument suggests that the problem took place only in the front pages of newspapers and in sensationalized news programs broadcasted on television. Also this chapter does not detail how or why media representations of the problem may have affected it. This is something that will be addressed in future chapters, along with the affect of law and enforcement and government policy upon both drug use and crime.

---

[1]National Institute on Drug Abuse

http://www.streetdrugs.org/pdf/Cocaine05.pdf

[2] US Drug Enforcement Administration 1985-1990

http://www.usdoj.gov/dea/pubs/history/1985-1990.html

[3] Eric Umansky History 101, The CIA and Drugs

http://www.motherjones.com/commentary/columns/1998/06/cia_side.html

[4] http://ftp.fas.org/irp/congress/1998_hr/980316-ps.htm

[5] Congressional Report: A Tangled Web: A History of CIA Complicity in Drug International Trafficking

http://www.fas.org/irp/congress/1998_cr/980507-l.htm

[6] McCoy, Politics of Heroin, chapter 7. Robbins, Air America, p. 128 and chapter 9

[7] Peter Dayle Scott & Jonathan Marshall, Cocaine Politics: Drugs, Armies, and the CIA in Central America (Berkely: University of California Press 1991)

[8] Bruce Bullington, America’s Drug War: Fact or Fiction?, The Control of Drugs and Drug Users: Reason or Reaction, Ross Coomber pg 108

If you've all read the last post, I posted it on a web forum sparking a minor debate. If you'd like to read it, it'll open up the argument and address the controversy of the situation:

http://bbs.zoklet.net/showthread.php?t=11290

I’ve been meaning to make this post because I’ve realized a slight problem with oxymorons and contradictions. They all have relevance!

Weird social query:
“Why is it that if a guy sleeps around that he’s a stud but if a woman does the same she has negative connotations put upon her: I.e. a slut, hussy, whore”

Now understand that this post is going to get quite controversial, by outlining my thoughts on this particular matter. By itself, the query illuminates an old hypocrisy and questions gender identities, but the way I go about it, I may have a slightly more radical idea.

The double standard statement to me is bullshit for several reasons.

Men like to get laid and biologically, males are meant to make sexual contact with a number of different members of the opposite sex. Women on the other hand are biologically meant to seek out the best male to father their offspring and protect them, sleeping around doesn’t factor into the natural biology of the situation.

However, since you can’t boil all of human psychology right down to what the animals do, it does give a good reflection on the matter from another angle. This is especially as we are (apart from dolphins and some form of monkey) the only animal to have sex purely for enjoyment and fun. In my eyes, there is absolutely nothing wrong with having sex. There are many benefits for both our minds (keeping our endorphins at a good level) and our body.

What I think is the problem is sleeping with people for the wrong reasons. Often when a woman sleeps with a guy, she’ll later deem it a mistake. Usually a guy only deems the event a mistake if he caught something, got the girl pregnant, he was in a relationship and did not mean to cheat, he was really drunk and she literally was an elephant that turned into a stalker, or her vagina tasted really -really- bad. I mean gag reflex provokingly bad. So bad that you’d rather inhale paint thinner vapours than catch a whiff of that cooch.

Sorry.. Back to sounding smart..

The reason I think a lot of women call a sexual encounter a mistake is that they were either one of three things; unprepared for the events that would follow, were having sex for attention or were just absolutely fucked on something at the time. For the first thing, there’s not a lot a girl can do. Maybe think carefully on whether she wants to sleep with the guy and what she hopes to achieve. If you think its because you’re in a relationship, think carefully and if the situation is slightly murky and you are unsure even a little, don’t hesitate to ask. Though please don’t give us too an awkward conversation, we can‘t operate on that level,

In terms of having sex for attention, this applies to the type of girl I deem a slut. The noisy fat girl who makes a particular effort to emphasize her large but probably saggy bosom is a particular example. You know the girl that wears enough fake gold jewellery to make Mr T. proud. This is usually the chav ladette stereotype, but it can often be just girls with no class. Think of the girls who French kiss their fellow female friends in the middle of bars. Are they doing that because they particularly enjoy the act? No. They’re doing it because they like to be seen kissing other women, so men can think “Oooh she’s a bit kinky”. These girls aren’t going to have sex with you because they find you attractive, they find anything attractive. These girls aren’t going to have sex with you because they are wanting to have sex for fun. They are doing it for attention. Because they don’t get enough love somewhere in life, they feel they need to make it up by whoring themselves out for attention - guys, when you meet a girl that wants to jump your bones at a club, think of how drunk the girl is and maybe whether or not she would be doing the same when you are sober. Don’t just think “Oh shit, this is my chance to get laid! Quick, man the cannons!”, stop thinking with your penis because its been a while. I’ve made the mistake myself and really felt guilty at a later date. I mean it seemed like a good idea at the time because I was on something and the girl was well up for it, but I could have done without the awkwardness that came about afterwards. The last thing you want to be is a regret. A guy that sleeps around with a load of ugly, irritating women is never cool. It doesn’t make you a “playa”. Respect goes to those that can charm good looking women, give them a good time and have sex with them without becoming a regret. Not just random pieces of dirt who have no self esteem. We’ve all had our random pieces of dirt, but they don’t teach us anything, so guys, stop going for the girl who covers up her screaming insecurities by being a slag. Girls, if you feel unloved, talk to somebody. Give your mum a ring, get some counselling or something.

I’m not saying there’s any problem with getting absolutely metrically banjaxed drunk. Well of course, there are problems, but whether you are male or female you should be entitled to abusing whatever beverage or substance you like. It’s the context of why you are getting that messed up that matters. If you’re doing it for a good time, or because it fit’s the situation then that’s grand. On the other hand, if you are doing it to cover up massive insecurities within yourself, or are doing it to self-medicate I.e. drowning your sorrows, then be careful for Christ’s sake. Chances are the situation can only get worse whenever you finally beat that hangover. It’s the same thing for having sex with random guys. It’s not going to make you a better person or fix all your troubles in life just because you have that attention. I know in both men and women, alcohol can affect our judgement and lower our inhibitions, sometimes mistakes this way can’t be avoided, but if you see a recurring pattern, think carefully on whether you want to keep on making mistakes and formulate some way to rectify it. Sooner or later the mistakes will catch up with you.

I don’t see a problem in a woman sleeping around. As long as she is careful, subtle and selective. In Scandanavia 60% of the women have sex on the first date and whenever you go to Denmark or Sweden you realize that these women are not just beautiful but to a certain degree cultured and refined. Rarely do you see a woman in a club dressed outrageously “slutty”, or a woman that becomes a target for the sleazy, slimey pricks because they know their lack of looks and personality will not prevent them from getting into the girl. It all comes down to self esteem. The women there don’t feel pressured (or at least not as far as I’m aware) into sleeping with a guy but they know what they want. Most women if they sleep with a guy may develop some emotional attachment, but Scandanavian women seem higher evolved. They can have sex without emotional attachment and know when they can trust a guy and whether they want to have sex. Sex is a big part of their lives and they have no shame about it, but they don’t flaunt it around just because “sex sells”. They aren’t stuck in our Victorian tradition of sweeping things under the rug because they’re a taboo, or abusing something because they are a taboo. They have a well thought out social contract. This way they don’t end up with tons of unwanted children. By this, I’m not saying they’re baby crazy. In fact quite the opposite, their birth rate is quite low and they don’t have a high teenage pregnancy rate. What I’m saying is they practice safe sex and despite having more sexual partners on average than British and American women, are selective, thereby lowering the chance of sleeping with someone and being a regret. Nobody ends up being harmed, betrayed or abused.

So what have we learned?

Apart from liberalism is a fantastic thing, a number of lessons that apply to both men and women.

1) Try not to get off your face and sleep around all the time. Your mum was right, it’ll end in heartbreak eventually.

2) Be secure, dignified and comfortable in yourself. Don’t do things for attention.

3) Be selective. Chose your sexual partners because you find them attractive for all the right reasons

4) Be honest. Are you in a relationship? Act however you want to in a relationship, but don’t say one thing for the sake of getting your hole. Don’t make the member of the opposite sex think like you value them as a boyfriend/girlfriend.

5) Have fun, but well thought out fun. You’ll end up with a smile on your face that isn’t going to be turned up side down into a frown because of regret.

At the end of the day, there are no mistakes. In life, we are all social scientists conducting experiments on a trial and error basis. It’s all in the 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration way of living life. You’ll learn something new, from one mistake to how to make another mistake. Know yourself without judging yourself too harshly. To get really zen on you (I’ve started going to zen meditation classes), whenever you are afraid, it is okay to be afraid. Just how you deal with the being afraid bit is that matters. Don’t necessarily think you were a coward. Just realize that what you have to do comes from deep within.

So thus concludes my rant. In a way it makes me entirely unashamed to be going through a dry spell. I can live without having a moral regret myself, or being a regret for somebody else. Though I will always wish I managed to have even a kiss from one of the gorgeous Danes whenever I was over there. Another time maybe. God damn I think too much.