Overtaken - A short essay on the pace of life

Lest I turn into a terribly negative and self-absorbed Tumblr user who tag their posts as 'personal', I will attempt to use the thoughts I have on an emotional matter to write something that people can relate to and come to a positive conclusion from, rather than simply dwell in tears and pity, posting meaningless grayscale .gif images of leaves and sky and tattoos. If you read my blog regularly, or even just during these late-night pseudo-epiphanies of mine, you'll know I can be quite reflective. However, this past week has been especially full of nostalgic thoughts.

For example, I've realised it has been five years since I finished secondary school and that is a rather long time. A quarter of my life. This evening I saw my friend Becky York, one of the few people in my year group from Applemore College that I still speak to, and we discussed the fate of the mischievous, immature and carefree class we knew. A large number of them have gone on to grow up frightfully fast. Careers in the military, full-time jobs... Several have had children of their own, others married. One of them is even dead. Real life is reflected in the names of those who were once my peers, and I can't even imagine myself in their shoes. I'm twenty-one, I'm doing well in higher education, I'm always out and about working at charity shops or writing for websites and making films. 

It is just that for all the responsibility and experience I have, my mindset is still that of a teenager. Video games and catching up with the fun I've missed than career prospects and flat rent. I still go and hug my Mum before I go outside into the world. Yet (and here is positive conclusion number one) I don't think it necessarily matters. We're a very impatient culture, always encouraged to do everything as soon as possible, as if we're in tribal competition. Who didn't rush out at age seventeen and try to drive? But as someone who has found change and socialising difficult, I'm a firm believer in everyone simply living life at the rate they can, without being stagnant. There are those that set enormous, strict goals for themselves, and stress when they sometimes struggle to reach them. Doing the best I can is my goal, as it should be for anyone, regardless of the result. I don't have a year-by-year life plan, but eventually I think I'd like to move out, settle down, marry and have children, just not now. In much the same way, I hope I'll come out of university with a degree which I can use to start a career, but that is a means to an end which takes time and effort.

What scares me more is that my youngest friends, many of whom are my best, will be leaving for university in a few months after gap years and travels. Others will be getting full time jobs or moving away and out of my life. If the lack of contact from my mates already at university now is anything to go by, I'll get 'left behind' all the more. I know several people who maintain relationships whilst at university - Skype and MSN are useful tools - but it doesn't change that those I love most won't be just down the road anymore and past experience suggests that I'll be the one making an effort to stay in touch and meet up with some of them. I don't know if it is that I envy the independence and the experiences they have, the things they've done, the maturity and confidence I've seen grow in them, or if I don't recognise different but equal growth in myself. I'm hardly playing with rattles.

I know doubts and regrets are common, but I've always been very sure of my choices and the sort of person I've tried to be, even if I unintentionally come across as a jerk to some so this is unsettling for me. When friends or acquaintances come to me with their problems, Agony Uncle Luke hears a lot of What Ifs and intense analysis of what went wrong. What If is the most dangerous and vengeful tempt of fate. Second guessing is deadly. We've all been there. We all wish we'd said or done something different at some point. Paid attention or worked harder. I wonder if I'd feel happier had I been more open and more social at secondary school. However these are questions and actions that help us better ourselves in the future. We can learn from mistakes, even at our cocky post-teen ages. And I have.

Ultimately, each individual has a path that they can travel along as slowly or quickly as they like. Respecting that and celebrating that with each other in the time we have is much more pleasant than feeling overtaken. I just hope other people can see that perspective too.

Film Review: The Swan Princess

Back when I was a small lad, I often enjoyed watching Disney animations. Most children do. I loved The Jungle Book, Hercules and some of the later Pixar features like A Bug's Life and Monsters Inc. For one reason or another I got it into my head that any animated films that weren't Disney were somehow inferior, cheaper or just plain bad. Whilst I enjoyed Anastasia, the Fox-funded, Russian-centric amnesia epic, I always felt it was on a separate level. As I've grown older, I've obviously watched less kids films, and I rarely get the chance to widen my perspective.

However, my good friend Rebecca Carter recently suggested one of her favourite animations from childhood, The Swan Princess, an independent 1994 film directed by Richard Rich. I hope he is well off financially. Now Becky knows me better than anyone and she was well aware that I would cross my arms during viewing, ripping apart the plot and nitpicking animation's typical absurdities. For example, in one scene where the protagonists are ballroom dancing, they inexplicably find themselves in a colourful starscape, devoid of a floor on which they can stand let alone dance. After she told me to shut up, I bought the DVD and sat down with her this evening in front of my room's television, promising not to say a word as she squeed with joy at the songs.
The story involves two royal children of different kingdoms being pushed into an arranged marriage for the sake of peace. However, putting aside the sheer unfairness of this agenda, the kids nevertheless grow to fall in love over the years, or at least as Prince Derrick is concerned, he gets an erection because she is hot. Sadly, an evil magical villain with a moustache wants to rule the Kingdoms, and therefore kidnaps Princess Odette, turning her into a part-time swan. I gather the inspiration for all this was a ballet, but the plot doesn't translate to film very well. Still, with an open mind, I continued watching, saying little, with Becky turning to me periodically with mock expressions of horror at dramatic moments. It was very funny.

Although it wasn't especially well received by critics at the time, and I don't feel it is exactly the best film I've ever seen, or even the best animated feature I've ever seen, The Swan Princess is quite progressive. Though essentially a retelling of any prince-must-rescue-the-princess-he-loves-from-evil-sorcerer plot, Odette is a surprisingly pro-active damsel in distress, not waiting around for Derrick to fumble around for magic clues in a library and using her swan wings to track him down. She also has the moral high ground in berating him for only loving her looks. In fact as the handsome hero, Derrick (and what a terrible hero name that is) appears rather unspectacular in this outing. He repeatedly attempts to kill his beloved in swan-form with a bow and arrow, utterly misinterprets a dying man's warning and barely notices any strange behaviour when the sorcerer's hag masquerades as Odette, proving even towards the conclusion that he hasn't learned to appreciate the princess beneath the skin. Nevertheless, this is feminism in action and is a good example to set children who are watching. Derrick does love Odette for who she is by the conclusion, and though it is the typical romantic fanfare, there is a noticeable lack of cheesiness: the dialogue is genuine and touching.

There is also a lot of humour and the voices are spot on, whilst there is a decent balance between physical cartoon gags and funny lines. I enjoyed it. I laughed a lot. I'm not going to deny this at all, and Becky was making the most of my wavering pride: "you're loving this, admit it". My favourite character is the turtle Speed, who's uninspired, ironic name nevertheless hides an exasperated, realistic and wise personality who helps the swan on her quest to escape moustache-bloke. John Cleese also puts in some voice work as an annoying French frog. Following a particularly amusing line about taxation, Becky observed that as children, we don't always completely listen to dialogue or the lyrics in musical interludes, our simple minds probably more interested in the vibrant visuals, and so it is interesting to go back after several years and get a new reading of a kid's film. Watching The Swan Princess has inspired me to look back at other films I've not seen since childhood and see what I get out of them now. Someone will have to lend me their DVDs, though, I'm not buying a load of Disney films for the sake of it.

Except maybe The Rescuers.


The Swan Princess might have a predictable and moralistic plot, but it is surprisingly progressive and genuinely funny, with memorable characters, good voiceovers and a catchy score. Yet they DON'T HAVE A FLOOR.

Hopefully another girly movie night will be in order next week, where I'll be able to rewatch this film with more people and laugh shamelessly all over again...

Stormtrooper Ballet

As website manager for Star Trek Elite Force Files on the Filefront Network, I am given an amusing little placeholder instead of adverts. I thought I'd share this peculiar image with you faithful readers.

Trying to think of a "not the droids you're looking for" pun, but nothing comes to mind.

Am I grumpy?

Occasionally, friends of mine inform me that I'm quite grumpy.

Now this is more of a surprise to me than it should be because most of the time and in many aspects of my life, I'm actually very happy. I'm always grateful for what I have, who I have and I'm satisfied by what I've achieved and been part of since birth. However, it is true that I find some things difficult to cope with and I often fear change, despite my favourite television show Star Trek drumming the positives of bettering oneself into my head since I was little. My parent's nickname for me was "Mister Mizo-Squack".

I think my problem is how I present myself to others. I don't smile a lot. It seems such a simple thing to do, yet not only do I dislike my rabbit-toothy grin but I'm very self concious of how I act, whilst my laugh is about as subtle as a killer whale on the set of Jeremy Kyle.

Many times a week, I have friends over for lunch or to watch television and they will often tell amusing stories of their day or share entertaining gossip, only for me to sit there with a neutral expression or only the flicker of a smile, sometimes prompting them to ask if I'm feeling alright or even bored. During my Year 10 work experience at Southampton Library, I was given a full access all areas tour of the library archives, which is only slightly less exciting than it sounds. It was really very interesting, exploring old collections and documents from decades past, but the librarian later claimed that I had looked bored. I really wasn't. I was concentrating, I was thinking. I love little stories and learning about new subjects, I ask lots of questions after all, but this obviously sacrifices the use of muscles in my face.
 
It isn't a new observation that I often act like an old man. A jaded individual. That is something I kinda like and if I'm speaking to older people, I'm quite the gentleman. I find it much easier to get along with people over fifty, because though they are doubtless judging me as a young man, I can simply put to rest their disdain by not acting like chav, and shaking their hand firmly whilst using the word "indeed" a lot. My generation are far less satisfied and in constant social competition to prove themselves as part of the crowd, but that is another discussion. So I find having a front and the expression of a non-committal Victorian gentleman a safe idle defence, and a sarcastic, cynical sneer of a voice a way to hide nativity and shyness. Some people find it funny, oddly, but others are unnerved or find it hard to trust me. I'm beginning to see why. Something I should work on.

But if it helps you understand me, faithful reader, I'm just like any normal, emotional, excitable and horny youngster. More or less. Grumpy isn't the right word, because thinking about it, though I'm by nature a serious and an awkward person, who can't start to lower his shields until the proverbial ice of saying Hello to someone has been broken, I am nevertheless always having a laugh, cuddling everyone, cracking jokes and running around with a cheesy grin. Thats genuine. That is who I am. Until I can find a way to express other parts of myself as me more openly, it is probably best to close your eyes and listen to the words I say, rather than watch how I deliver them. 

I'm not an old man. I'm a little boy.

The Thirteenth Month of 2011... and Emma Long's New Years Party

As I get ever older and more jaded to the frolics of youth, it occurs to me that though everything in life changes, a remarkable amount of it remains the same, year after year. Such as it is with time. A week into 2012, and nothing yet would inform an ignorant hermit that it was more than the thirteenth month of 2011. Well. Maybe the extravagant fireworks.

Beth and Emma's dad as a
Stormtrooper. Sadly, this wasn't
 the droid he was looking for.

Not three days into this Olympic year, and I was waking up and switching on Top Gear in the mornings, Emma Long was using my home as a refuge from windy weather, I was walking down to Totton with Lewis Smith to buy flapjacks as well as talk about social philosophy, whilst Annie Bailey made an evening visit for fatty foods, a Doctor Who marathon and playful gossiping, before she makes her epic and exciting trip abroad to explore the world. Quite right too. I have even got busy continuing the filming and editing of Star Trek: Revolutions - Part Two, the next upcoming edition of my surprisingly popular Star Trek: Unity fan film series. Ian Pidgley spent the afternoon with me on Saturday filming more scenes - it is great fun. All of it. Always. But in terms of my daily routine, nothing new.

Vibrant colours were a reoccurring
theme. IDIC indeed...

I don't know what I was expecting in 2012. Indeed, today I returned to university for a morning to oversee the editing of last month's busking documentary and ended up attempting to cut a few rushes (and a video diary) together myself in vain, as everybody else seemed to be suffering from the exhaustion inherent with January Blues, and insisted we go shopping instead. I do love them. Nevertheless, I enjoy stability and the predictable. Besides the ebbs common with me when I'm in proto-romantic moods, I'm feeling at least mildly positive at the moment: brought on, not least, by an excellent finale to 2011!

Darth Vader turned up, but he
 won't get far holding his saber blade...

I went to Emma Long's house for a top secret New Years party with her family and friends, including Becky Carter, Beth Hobley and Emma Goodwin. Apparently, Emma's family had wanted to do a science-fiction themed box social for a while, and it was just brilliant. There was even a quiz and a character checklist to complete! Though I couldn't decide what to dress up as, opting for an Arthur Dent dressing gown/Jedi robe look on top of my Battlestar Galactica green jacket on top of a Starfleet uniform whilst wielding The Tenth Doctor's sonic screwdriver - just to cover all bases - the majority of the Long's guests had really put a great amount of effort in. Emma was stunning as a blue Na'vi creature from Avatar, Beth inadvertently turned the living room into a hay-filled stable with her Wizard of Oz scarecrow, Becky looked hot in green as Elphaba from Wicked (though it screamed Orion Slave Girl), whilst the amusing alcohol consumer of the night, Emma 'N00bers' Goodwin, created a "Silver Surfette" character, complete with card surfboard, in order to accommodate her gender. How selfish of her to be a girl.

Me and ma girls. The Doctor and his
 companions.

Other guests dressed up as characters such as Spock, Luigi from Mario, an Eleventh Doctor, Princess Leia, Einstein's Theory of Relativity (in humanoid form), Edward Sissorhands and Emma's sister Zoe was a terrific little Jawa from Star Wars. It was a hilarious menagerie of creatures (and made the franchise crossovers in my films look tame!). After sitting at home bored over New Years in 2010/11, albeit with my parents, it was really lovely to be among friends this time, dancing around in silly costumes and hugging lots. My thanks to the hosts. 

Drink long and prosper.

So, as it turns out, even when returning to the mundane and familiar constants of every day life, there is always something weird and wonderful to mark the interesting and memorable times in one's life.

Oh yeah, I saw The Iron Lady yesterday and Thatcher kept referring to herself in the third-person. Sorry, it rubbed off.

Hello 2012.

Bit wet out

I woke up this morning and from within the warm, cocoon-like duvet, my semi-concious form heard rather a lot of rain falling outside. And wind. Naturally, having planned a quiet day of writing and working, this didn't bother me, and I switched on the television in my room to Jeremy Clarkson on Top Gear, which probably explains a lot about my personality.

Then I get a text from my good friend Emma Long stating that she was soaking wet on her journey to college. Like the considerate friend I'm not, I invited her over for a brief respite, prepared a towel and awaited her arrival at my door. When she stumbled in, she was wetter than... well, you just finish that innuendo in your head.

All over the news are reports of transport delays and apparently even some school closures. My Dad offered to give Emma a quick lift to college after our gossiping, and I went with, experiencing the full force of the elements as I failed to keep the front door of the house closed.

This, then, is definitely the much talked about 'rainy day'. So anything you've saved for it - assuming you are sensible enough to save money - now is the time to stay in and shop online with it... keep warm.

Which is why I'm going out later.

Star Trek: Revolutions - Part One

Here I am, kicking off the new year with yet another plug for my increasingly not-too-bad series of films. Back in the week just before Christmas, I released the long-awaited first part of Star Trek: Revolutions, a further adventure of Star Trek: Unity. Long awaited by fans, I might add. 

Yes, for the first time in seven years, I've had to seriously contend with users on YouTube and the rest of the fan film community actually taking notice of my little home movies. And they like it. It is quite weird, as I had always felt my series was just for friends, family and a handful of loyal viewers online with not very good effects and back-garden alien planets. And it was. My good friend Adam Best, who plays Jimb'a in the show, is always reminiscing about after-school filming next to lockers and fake whiskers made out of yellow pieces of paper. 

Yet now Unity is being reviewed very positively on professional websites and mentioned on 'Trek forums. Then again, maybe it is all down to the look... the sex-appeal factor. Our gorgeous, but no less capable female cast includes Emma Long as Eleanor, now the longest running girl in the crew, and the widescreen, vibrant format of 2011's episodes means that the visuals look the part more than ever. Getting better at chroma keying also results in the ability to truly visit alien worlds. 

This is why I've kept at it for so long. I wanted to get better at making what I feel is probably the hardest practical genre to attempt: science fiction.

Revolutions is the sort of epic story I used to write for big series finales when I kept trying (and failing) to stop making Star Trek fan films. Whilst it very much rounds off 2011's style of episodes, it lays the foundation for the year ahead and will definitely lead to long-term changes in the situations of the characters and the style of films. It isn't really the episode I'd encourage new viewers to start with, however, considering the very complicated story, which requires the knowledge of previous episodes and a lot of patience for non-linear narratives. A remastered edition of one of the earlier episodes will serve as a new pilot, being re-released later this year.


Captain Lewis, Jimb'a and Eleanor have together seen the wonders and dangers of the galaxy in their odyssey, but when a mysterious summons to the Guardian of Forever reveals the arrival of the Iconians - once noble, now deranged Time Lords - the crew take up arms and defend planet Kressgon for the final time from plasmid-wielding warriors and their so familiar leader...

And meanwhile, the Discontinuities grow... the Nightmare Child is rising...

Starring Luke Sutton, Adam Best, Emma Long and Beth Hobley. With Fred Milner and Ian Pidgley.

Follow Captain Lewis on Facebook for mission reports and extra features: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100002157257121

The Christmas Sales

A giant rubber duck in John Lewis.

Every Christmas, usually starting Boxing Day, are the sales. Hoards of shoppers (I'd say women if I wasn't just too damn politically correct) drive into cities at a painfully early time in the morning to snap up outrageously cheap merchandise that explains a lot about the state of the economy at the moment. Some people save up money for the whole year to blow in a day. Indeed, for several years, my Mum and my Nan would stand outside John Lewis waiting for it to open and push through to the best deals.

So, intrigued, I went to the shopping centres in Southampton with my Mum yesterday, the day after Boxing Day, and even by 9:30am West Quay was filled with lots of people with bags and cash. 

The problem was that none of it was very good... The best deals I saw were in Waterstones with a selection of new release books at half price. But no sale in Forbidden Planet, no sale of any worth in HMV, no sale that I could see in WH Smith and my Mother, known well for her shopping pedigree commented that John Lewis' sale was useless: a sentiment my friend Sam shared with me when I was texting her, advising her where not to go on her own later shopping spree.

Indeed, I bought nothing at all, and went home at midday, with the knowledge that though I had enjoyed a pretty, Christmas-y walk around my home city before an afternoon of Beth Hobley, Lewis Smith and Gregory Holgate, the internet provides a far more productive shopping experience: even in the legendary sales.

Merry Christmas 2011

Hello faithful readers! I hope you've been eating too much, assembling under the Christmas tree in your hoards and enjoying tedieous social gatherings during this festive period.

This year, I've been thinking about the concept of Christmas: evolved from a pagan festival into a Christian celebration and now, oddly, into some sort of multi-ethic holiday. Some argue that Christmas shouldn't be celebrated if you aren't at least slightly Christian, but I think a more contemporary perception and attitude is that this time of year, regardless of beliefs, should be for everyone to have a break and spend time with their loved ones as they hide from the bitter cold outside. Just yesterday, I was walking down a path near my house and a complete stranger - a semi-chav no less - nodded at me and wished me "Merry Christmas!". That is actually heart-warming. I am fairly agnostic, I don't go to church or pray, yet I appreciate more about Christmas than just the presents: all my friends are coming home from university, I get to spend time with them, whilst the inevitable family visits at least prove I'm not alone. I give thanks, perhaps not in a religious form, but for all that I have, both material and social. I think that is the spirit of Christmas...

Generous presents included a KEEP
 CALM I'M THE DOCTOR mug, a Star
 Trek calendar, Lord Sugar's new book
 and a CyberMat, along with choc and money!

Yesterday, after unwrapping the presents under the tree with my parents and Nan, I went to my Aunt's house for the usual lunch, before coming home and watching Ratatouille on BBC 1. Hilarious little film by Pixar.

I also sat down at 7pm prompt for the Christmas Special of Doctor Who "The Doctor, The Widow and the Wardrobe". Like all the seasonal episodes, this was full of pap, simplistic morals and wasted guest appearances, but it was festive, fun, and Claire Skinner was good as the very 40s mother. And Matt Smith is a perfect present for me...


Did I mention that Santa gave me a USB vacuum cleaner?

Filming the London Buskers

In Westminster with Steph (left)
 and Amber (middle) on the 3rd.

It is a bit of a sad state of affairs that I have not been blogging in almost a month, but the real world has thankfully provided entertainment with constant editing, writing, location filming and the upcoming celebration of Christmas. Oh yes, welcome to December. Besides, I bet nobody missed me.

The heavy equipment
required a rather bulky
 trolley that survived
many knocks and tube
 journeys...

In the past week, on the 3rd and 8th of December, my university trio and I made trips to London to shoot an eight-minute documentary all about "The Hidden World of Busking". Judging by the public perception of busking, you might think that amateur musicians simply turn up at a London Underground train station at their leisure and find a quiet spot near a warm radiator to perform some of their choice tunes for an assortment of 2p coins flicked from the hands of a passively sympathetic commuter on his way to The City to lose the country even more money.

But rather than beggars or homeless people who happen to own instruments, many legal buskers are professionals that simply want to perform in public for the enjoyment - a part-time job, as one performer I interviewed described.

No piece of television set in
 London is complete without
 a shot of Big Ben...

The process in which a busker can legally earn one of the few marked busking spots is apparently filled with red-tape, strictly issued licences and X-Factor-style auditions in which hopefuls perform on a disused platform for the amusement of Mayor of London Boris Johnson's committee. Presumably the rejects are then ejected onto the track or something. Still, there might be something to be said for regulations and keeping track of who is where and when. It perhaps avoids competitive buskers "owning" certain spots or prevents dangerous set-ups right next to platforms. The purpose of our documentary was to delve deeper into this 'politics' of busking, hopefully without treading on too many toes.

Interviewing a busker above an
 underground station with TAV on
sound.

Rather than spend an excessive amount of money on train transport, our project manager Steph Usher opted to travel by coach, National Express, a new experience for me. Though far cheaper, the 7:00am departure time from Southampton and the late return at the end of our second shoot did make for long, tiring days with little time for me to butter my well-packed lunch box bread with peanut butter. Besides, certain members of the team had a quick nap on the coaches, at least when the vehicle wasn't in "party-mode" with bright blue LED lights!

Steph and her purchase in the
absurdly vibrant M&M World store
 during a break in filming.

What really got up our noses, however, was travelling and filming on the underground constantly, and though my eight year old self utterly loved spending all day in the endless winding ceramic and metal tunnels with plenty of time to soak up signs, insignia, and the exceptionally cool invention of trains, the fumes and dust got so much that Michael at one stage sneezed soot onto his face, rather amusingly. 

At the Earl's Court TARDIS with
Amber, my companion.

I also bought a Big Ben figurine souvenir.

In terms of what we filmed, Steph had set up interviews with several current buskers, a former busker whom we filmed in a rather quaint Hackney public garden and a city official who was to provide the local authorities' stance on busking. Sadly we were unable to make the latter interview due to getting hideously lost on a bus, but the rest of our appointments were successful. It was important that our documentary also had cut-away shots of the city and interesting locations to use in between scenes, and though the weather (and presence of ever-annoying camera zebras) caused some of these to be overexposed, we gathered plenty of material, including several songs played by the buskers we had interviewed.

With a permit to shoot in the Underground,
we took advantage and visited several
 marked busking spots.

In summary, though our documentary currently lacks an edit, we're otherwise doing well and I'm sure our excellent editor, Michael Tav will be cracking on with one early in the new year. Steph has been brilliant in arranging the logistics and interviews, Amber has become a pro at pull focus shots... and me? Well I've done a bit of everything. An interview, lots of camera work, some sound recording, route planning... bits and bobs. Call me a jack of all trades! No, call me The Doctor. Wait... no...

Children In Need & Star Trek: Airlock 3

Children In Need isn't what it was. Though clearly raising more money than ever before, a staggering £26 million, I visited ASDA and Totton College on Friday 18th and the whole event seemed a little low-key and tired to me. It entertains children no end, but more and more I hear adults sighing heavily and complaining that it takes up a whole night of their everso precious television. I also utterly missed the opportunity to have my photo with Pudsey Bear, so that made me sad.

However, this year I did put out another special Star Trek episode to at least raise even more awareness and support for the cause, and its nice to be part of something bigger. Telethons are very much a group effort! Star Trek: Airlock 3 was mostly filmed back in June with Emma Long, and I adapted it from a larger story I'd planned and abandoned that would have involved Adam Best's character of Jimb'a in a heavier role.

Airlock 3 and the earlier episode The Castaway have recently been reviewed at the Fan Film Follies website. Which is far less ominous than it sounds...

Trapped on Trenok Nor, a Cardassian research station in the Badlands, Captain Lewis and Eleanor must escape the confines of an airlock before they are blown to their deaths in space... But what is lurking in the dark hallways? Watch what you feel...

Please donate to BBC Children In Need 2011, visit: http://www.bbc.co.uk/pudsey/

Birthday 2011

The staircase in our new house has
become an excellent group photo spot.

I don't feel any older at all. This time last week it was my Birthday and I was preparing for a house party after visiting my Nan and a local fete in the morning, feeling surprisingly happy and sweet-natured for once. I suppose I appreciate the little things more now: I love taking comprehensive photographs and video diaries of my adventures, but generally, so long as everyone has fun and I see all my friends, I'm far more happy-go-lucky. I'll go where fate takes me!

Saturday 19th November 2011 started rather early after the telethon of Children In Need the previous evening. My parents burst into the room whilst I was barely awake, with cards and packages. In terms of presents, of which I think I've become less bothered by than when I was a materialistic youngster, from my parents I was the grateful recipient of vast quantities of chocolate, a Keep Calm and Carry On mug and a Doctor Who almanac, continuing the unfortunate Sutton family tradition of being bought books that I already own. There is also the small matter of the massive 32" television that I've recently had installed on my wall. Thats rather awesome, yeah.

Though the Stargate has yet to find
 a permanent home in our new garden,
 I used it as part of the party decorations!

But what I was really looking forward to was the party, held in the evening of my actual birthday, for once! Last year I enjoyed an epic do in the Totton community hall for my 20th, but this time around, our new house became an obvious location to decorate and socialise in.

Ian Pidgley was the first arrival, followed by Lewis Smith and Liam Garrahan, and the four of us ran a "TwitterCam" live webcam to the internet masses, at one stage gathering a massive ten viewers, watching us watch Tiny Planets on DVD. Thrilling stuff. More guests arrived, including Emma Long, Tom & Oliver Stevens and his girlfriend Kerrie, Becky Carter and Michael Hamilton, plus fellow YouTube filmmaker Matt McConnell. Adam Best eventually turned up, completing the arrivals, so that my rough plan of activities could begin.

Standing room only to see the
 hilarious video of Emma Long and
I miming to Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now"

For some reason, I like doing quizzes. It is the one part of otherwise inane family gatherings I enjoyed as a child, and everyone else were very much game for it, diving into teams with facepalm-able names like "penis", sitting in the lounge as I played music samples and asked questions about current events and my twenty-one years of life, where it was revealed by my parents that after "Dadda" and "Mummy", the third words I spoke as a baby were "Traffic lights". I was obsessed.

Emma, myself and Adam in my
 bedroom. With the COOKIE
 MONSTER t-shirt from university!

Then came the inevitable moment where my parents turn off the lights and enter the room with a candled birthday cake, this year consisting of a loaf of bread with "9-2-1" numbers stuck in. I'm not making it up. Still, it was brilliant and everyone demanded a speech from me, all of which you can watch on the video diary. It involved genuine admissions of love and gratitude in contrast to my often grumpy exterior...

Finishing another priceless
anecdote during the quiz...

Ian and his family gave me a small 'video notepad' device and a wallet multi-tool, whilst Ian's attempt to buy me an executive back scratcher backfired spectacularly as he presented me with a ball scratcher. Rest assured, I don't think I'll be using it for it's intended purpose. Twenty-one pieces of bread were also in a bag from Ian, ranging from rolls to baguettes, so that should last about a week. Tom and Oliver gave me a pair of hilarious Facebook-style "Like" and "Dislike" ink stamps, whilst Lewis had given me a Jedi Path book, something I'd been meaning to read for a while!

So with my birthday party, seeing everyone and the fun I had with the university gang on Thursday, I've had a very enjoyable reminder of my impending death, once again!

A Birthday Countdown with my Companions

Amber, myself and TAV. Photo taken
 by Steph, who dislikes pictures of
herself. Which is just silly.

Lower key than ever, at least from my perspective, the Birthday is upon me again on Saturday 19th November, and I'm turning 21, otherwise known by anyone over fifty as the "perfect age", the peak of physical, mental and youthful existence. Lest I have my Nan mocking me with her ancient "Twenty One again!" song, I intend to make the most of the next year, doing lots of youthful things like girls, running around pushing my body to the limit and throwing up on a pavement after boozing and consuming a cheap kebab. Whatever a kebab is.

"To our doctor!"

Earlier today, after having Rebecca Carter over for an insanely brief visit between her lessons to talk about Totton College's continual failure to process student's UCAS university forms correctly, my lovely Mother drove me into Southampton so I could meet my colleagues  from Solent, Michael Taviner, Steph Usher and Amber Stubbings. Now as I've waxed in the past, I really rather like these three people from my course. We work on all our filmmaking projects together, hang out between lessons, driving each other hysterical and collimating in today, I count them amongst my best friends. 

They had insisted I attend for a special pre-Birthday party two days early, and they came baring gifts of hugs and a Card Factory plastic bag before we sat down in a Costa. 

I feel spoilt already. Even the
Doctor Who birthday card
was bespoke. <3

Wrapped up within a bowed package was a round "21" badge, ludicrously oversized, bigger than my favourite plate at home, a box of Malteasers chocolate, demonstrating they do listen to my specific culinary desires, and best of all, a blue COOKIE MONSTER t-shirt, doubtlessly inspired by my love for a Sesame Street themed cupcake made by Cath, the cake-making subject of our documentary last month. OMNOMNOMNOM! That amused Steph no end.

A walk around the Marlands shopping centre followed, including a visit to the Rockbottom Toy Store, in which someone inevitably puts on a hat. This time Amber did her best Captain Jack Sparrow impression with a pirate cap. Surprisingly realistic. In summary, I'm very grateful that I have friends at university that care about me and my quirks enough to spend time and money on me. Wouldn't be without them. Not that I'm getting emotional, y'know.

Millie and Leah inspect the horrors of
 Tumblr.

Meanwhile, as I prepare for Saturday's party, the first in our new house, I've realised it has been four weeks exactly since we moved from Morpeth Avenue. Only four weeks, when I've already established a routine, redesigned a room and had countless friends over for chats and television. Emma Long and I even already danced to music for a video, whilst Millie and Leah, who visited on Tuesday, complimented the comfort of my bed, but sadly not in that way. With the Starfleet flag now hanging from my wall, and just a few posters left to stick up, my new den is essentially complete: a worthy successor to Morpeth Avenue.

I await the weekend... and the chance to spend time with more people that, despite my sarcastic grumpiness, I love like family.

Was that too emotional?

The Isolation of the iPod Generation (or "How I unplugged my music and started to enjoy bus journeys")

As I get the bus each morning, I'm struck by how many people have tiny little wires leading out from their ears into a small contraption in their pockets, staring blankly ahead of them, oblivious of thoughts outside the pathetically deep melody of music they are inevitably listening to, sometimes turning their heads towards the window, trying to subconsciously recreate the emotional emancipation that a soft tune brings in a dozen really crap feel-good films, ignorant of their ultimate insignificance and thinking self-centred pities, pretending the chords are playing just for them. I'm also struck by the alarming number of overweight people on board said bus, but that is another story. An outside alien observer would consider these headphones some vital sort of life support machine or simply part of our biology. Its absurd. I even know somebody at university that only takes his out during a lecture, ostensibly so as not to appear rude.

I like music, though. I like sad tunes and piano performances that strike something bittersweet in my heart. I simply don't get on with these tiny little earphones. Rather than enjoying my more high brow tunes, I find that I'm concentrating more on the extreme discomfort. It is like somebody is trying to shove the tip of one of those novelty jumbo pencils into my ear drum. The headphones I use on my laptop at home are plush, padded, comfy devices that might well look clunky, but at least don't deafen me with point blank renditions of Adele.

What is somewhat depressing is how much people depend on music for entertainment when they lack a book or decent company. Are bus journeys and train journeys, car trips with parents and aeroplane flights so boring that we're reduced to stoically ignoring those about us because we're all so bloody uptight and judgemental? When I stand up to exit the bus at my stop, I feel the eyes of the passengers behind me burning into my spine, waiting for something embarrassing to happen, like the vehicle's sudden halt throwing me to the floor. Its like being in primary school all over again and shaking your head at some kid from another year group who makes a fool of himself. I want to see community spirit and laughter on buses. I want to meet new people and giggle about suburban life. I want to stand up and tell jokes to a carriage of people on the train whilst on my way to Plymouth, then blast some music out of some portable speakers rather than pander to the lonely iPods. Just something to turn the sheer boredom of sitting around into something social and positive that doesn't involve plugging in music to unplug life.

And boy do I hate that phrase. 

Ugly Bags of Mostly Water

The one thing I'm not especially keen on about our new home is the fact there is no shower as of yet. We have a bath. A small, cramped and pink bath that the pensioner who that previously lived here made use of. Now I've not had baths day after day for about six years and I've suddenly found it tremendously tedious, because it is all very well jumping in and washing your sweaty body clean, but then instead of simply walking out of a shower and getting on with your life, you decide to sit down. Then you lay back a bit because the top half of your body is a bit chilly compared to the toastyness of your bum. That is fatal. Not only are you bathing in your own filth, but like a lay-in, five minutes becomes half an hour and you suddenly realise you've wasted time with a jolt of focus and raise your hand to find that the mischievous water has aged it about thirty years. I hate wasting time.

As this has inevitably started happening to me, I take time to look at my naked body, resting in the water below and I've decided that there isn't anything very special about us. As some alien on Star Trek once said, we're just ugly bags of mostly water. When you're little and are more interested in the world around you than a teenager is in X Factor controversy, everything still seems detached. You eat worms as a kid with no regard for how the worm feels. Would you like it if some giant worm came down from above and ate you whole? Can't say I've got it on my bucket list.

The reality is, we're not some super intelligent being made of impenetrable material, but we're simply another animal. I guess we have equality on our side, what with two arms, two eyes, two legs and a rather well developed brain, but give me a machete and I'll show you how little your brain is worth in comparison to a chicken breast when it is laying on a dusty slab of patio. It is quite an unpleasant thought, actually. Maybe we're just like vermin. We have lots of dirty hair, lumpy frames and more germs than a bird-flu hospital ward in Hong Kong.

We're also incredibly shallow for a species that has sentience. We've created atom bombs, iPhones and the wheel, yet our first action upon meeting someone is judging how they look, as if it somehow matters. Surely we can get past that first stage and base our judgement on personality and behaviour. But no, all I see when I walk around are chavs hitting on women with their tits hanging out and they don't even know why. "COS THEY IS FIT" will be the typical reaction, assuming you can translate it, but truthfully, even chavs are subconsciously evaluating women with large breasts as more able to support offspring.

But why care at all about that? We're better than biology! Don't you know you're shagging humanoid vermin? Women with smaller breasts are just as lovely and beautiful! Part of this is doubtlessly blamed on the media and how they control fashion and perceptions of beauty, but lest I start ranting about peer pressure in society, I think on a more core level, as much as we're intelligent creatures of progression and conciousness, we're ultimately just animals.

Still, we can always satisfy these urges in a cramped pink bath with some female lump of hairy skin. Any takers?

Big Brother isn't watching you, it just wants to waste your time

Once upon a time I watched Big Brother. I was about eleven years old and up at midnight, sitting in front of the television like a ninja because I couldn't sleep and was fairly curious about this so called 'Babestation'. Needless to say that tits and thongs weren't what they're cracked up to be and I was soon channel hopping through Sky TV stations, looking for something to drown my sleepy sorrows with. I stumbled on E4 and a live-feed to the Big Brother house, the reality television show that I hadn't been watching, mostly because even at eleven years of age, I knew quality programming from a giant commercial on the miracles of CCTV.

Nevertheless, I watched it. The housemates were sleeping, infrared cameras trained on them like a sniper suspicious of a target playing dead. I kept watching. Literally nothing happened. Someone turned in their sleep THE CAMERAS WERE THERE in an instant, capturing all the action! Then more nothing. About sixty seconds of this passed and I continued to sit motionless, eyes trained on the screen, with my mouth slightly open, drool probably seeping out. I finally knew what it was like to be a chav! But my common sense prevailed and I switched to something else, astounded that anyone could care enough to view what amounted to a stranger being unconscious during the middle of the night. Surely a grainy old repeat of Friends would be better to show if they had to show anything at all.

In theory, it is an excellent concept: a load of people must live in a confined house together with cameras watching them 24/7 and deal with trying to act normally despite strangers and scrutiny. I'd totally watch that, because it would be an interesting sociological experiment on Human behaviour and gender/class/race interaction. Indeed, when Big Brother began in the United Kingdom in 2000, a take on the original Netherlands edition, Channel 4 had described it as reality television, but also a social experiment. So far so good. The problem is, it was on for sixty-plus days at a time with a game show presenter, a prize for 'contestants' and crucially, a public vote. Whenever you give the public any sort of control, television shows inevitably become bogged down in personalities, hype, and opinion. There starts to be an agenda, either from the press or the producers, to create entertainment through ego. It makes money, but it boils down to mass manipulation for the sake of ratings - in one year, more people voted for Big Brother than an election. An election! About the future of the country, and millions of people were too busy evicting someone they only knew through what Channel 4 showed of them. Do you see any public votes on The Apprentice? No, you see professionals creating their own drama, whilst the show itself has business skills as a focus. Thats why I like it. Perhaps Big Brother should have been more documentary-style, once an evening for seven days, less interested in petty squabbles and sex, more interested in psychology.

What is more infuriating is that Dirty Desmond's Channel 5 edition, whipping the dead horse of a format in it's eleventh year have perverted Big Brother's style further, turning it into more of a soap opera that just happens to be all real, complete with "previously" segments and production values that look like the vision mixers spilt the contents of a child's painting set onto the screen. Casually dropped is the threadbare 'social experiment' pretence, in favour of unashamed voyeurism for the sake of seeing a few arguments and maybe some kissing. I could go down the pub and see all that live if I wanted. Big Brother has become fast food television that, much like McDonalds chips, has about as much true substance as cardboard.

Keep Calm and Eat Cakes: Reflections on producing an interview-based documentary

(L-R) Michael, Steph, Amber and a lot of
 kit worth a lot of money.

Back, as I am, at university for my second year, I've been thrown into more projects than John Barrowman on a Saturday night. Amongst designing my own DVD and considering the woeful ethics of reality television, my three friends Amber, Steph, Michael and I, forming a mini-production company of sorts, have embarked on making television documentaries in our Factual Production unit, starting with a two-minute short that had to focus on a single person and their presumably interesting life.
 
Steph, most certainly the organiser and "fixer" of Hourglass Productions, phoned and emailed around, looking for marks. We decided early on to find a cake maker, a profession that would lend itself well visually to a documentary. Impossibly quickly, Steph had found someone in nearby Chandlers Ford, and I decided to have a go at writing a script, using a short biography of the person and a template that was about as much of a step-up from stone carvings as the iPhone isn't from an iPod.

Shooting all the action in the kitchen!

The problem I found with writing a script based on someone's life story is that it is a complete waste of time, considering you don't know what someone is going to say in an interview beforehand. I'm not entirely sure I believe in documentary scripts in general, and on reflection, I feel they should serve only as guides of what coverage to shoot, rather than some equivalent to narrative scripts that have pre-defined parameters and dialogue.

Nevertheless, I put together an example document of the sort of shots we could cut to, set to the essay's dialogue. Cath Mitchell, our subject for the painfully short two-minute film was possibly the sweetest and most accommodating participant we've had to film. With the assorted crisps and doughnuts Cath bought us on Thursday 20th October, when we filmed, clearly in an attempt to fatten we poor, malnourished students, you'd think the four of us were doing her a favour when it was she who was kindly giving up time and allowing her living room to become a metal forest of technological sticks, cameras and blindy-bright thingies as we kept telling her to speak up, poking her with intruding (though gently executed) questions about her career.

Beautifully girly cupcakes, with
the glitter that Amber obsessed over.

As a man who eats mostly bread, I might not have appreciated Cath's work itself, but I can applaud and admire the designs and sheer effort that goes into creating bespoke cakes, especially the hilarious Cookie Monster cupcakes OMNOMNOMNOM.

My job on the shoot was to record the sound on the Marantz, an unsettling small black box with flashing lights and a strap that made it look like I was a scanning the airwaves with a Star Trek tricorder. On previous films, we'd always recorded the audio directly into camera, using it's basic built-in mic, or by hooking up the boom pole. This time, I saved the audio separately, and we later spent a not inconsiderable time during editing trying to match it up to the visuals. Sure, the sound was somewhat clearer than the camera's, but why we didn't we plug the quality boom and radio mics into the camera? Would that not be easier? Am I missing something? Answers on a postcard, please. To be fair, however, I learnt a lot about audio during this shoot, tinkering with what I've taken for granted previously when recording just with the camera's audio. My puny arms also built strength holding a heavy boom pole, so I need not get a gym membership.

Holding up a boom pole during the
 interview. Cath says I "look" like a
sound guy...

Sitting in an edit suite with Michael, our chief editor, is like watching someone else play a video game: you really want to get in and have a go by yourself, but you don't want to ruin their high score. I personally like to edit alone, and without distractions, but it was productive for the four of us to pitch in together, especially when we all 'feel' a certain edit at the same time, knowing that it works and voicing our approval with a silent look. The other member of this project, Mark, who had been unable to attend the day of filming, but took part during post production, again provided us with a useful fresh pair of eyes on the 70+ minutes of material.

This was one of the more successful projects I've worked on, and the four of us have really formed a good team, whilst being able to work with other students and outside agents. I gather that our next documentary may be about busking, so the work goes on, all whilst we finish the editing for our two minute, now entitled The Icing on the Cake.

Cute, no?

The Big Move - Zero Hour

So anyway, last Friday 21st October 2011 at 12:30pm, my parents and I departed 20 Morpeth Avenue for the final time, leaving behind a building devoid of any contents save an internet wire and some substandard light bulbs.

The men from the removal company came in their massive truck half an hour earlier than expected, casually carrying away heavy boxes of books, VHS tapes and hats at 8am, like they were some sort of ultra-manly forklifts, before I'd even had the chance to clean my teeth using the toothbrush that was no longer unpacked. Nevertheless, considering the amount of stuff we have gathered in our extended stay at Morpeth Avenue, the lads did a great, efficient and professional job, yet not without some humour, clearing the property of Sutton chaft within just three hours. Really must compliment the guys at M A C Removals.

The awkward moment you realize how
 many plant pots my Dad had on the patio.

There was little time for sentiment, sofas and beds merciless ripped away, though our older neighbours Anne & Terry did pop by, which was quite emotional for us all - they have been fantastic people to live next to. I recorded a short video diary and said "Goodbye" to my bedroom of eighteen years before jumping in the car and becoming literally homeless for half an hour, waiting for the legal papers to be pushed and the keys to our new house, named COSMOS by us, reflecting a type of flower my parents like and my love of science fiction!

Yet before the day was out, I was sitting comfortably behind the desk I write to you from now, DVDs and books lining the shelves, and completely at ease in our new home, awaiting some well-deserved bread. It was all very quick.

The empty house.

And though I've had a stressful few days at university working on projects and attending lectures consisting of slideshows being read out loud, I've barely spared a thought for our old house. Perhaps my efforts at wrapping up all my affairs at Morpeth Avenue weeks ago have allowed me to neatly move on, or perhaps six days simply isn't enough for the change to sink in. MAYBE, as I've been thinking a lot, I feel like I'm just on holiday in some modest château in France and in a week or so I'll become restless for the compost heap at the bottom of our old garden, and the airing cupboard that took up the side of my old bedroom.

Unpacked and set up in my new
bedroom, ready for the future.

Having said all that, I really like it here. The stacks of boxes yet to unpack, and the papers strewn across the floor aside, this is an excellent home for us with lots of space, the same area of Totton and plenty of quirks. So far, I have given the tour to Lewis Smith, Steph Parsons, Becky Carter, Liam Garrahan and Annie Bailey - they all really like it here, complimenting the bigger, wider garden especially. I think they have parties in mind...

Also, I have a blind in my room as well as curtains. That is so cool.  

This is so cool.

The Big Move - Boxes

Bitch got everything in the divorce.

I realize that it is annoyingly melodramatic and ultimately idiotically attention seeking to post such things as "new year, new start" on Facebook, claiming that one particular action on one day, such as dying ones hair will somehow change your whole life for the better. Yet by the end of this week, it really will be a new start for me. When I wake up in the morning, instead of walking out of my door and turning right, I'll be turning left on my way to breakfast. If that hasn't got political undertones, I don't know what does. But I'll still be eating Ready Brek. Life won't change that much...

The loft before it got turned into the
Star Trek: Unity "cruciform" set again.

Over the weekend, my parents and I finally packaged my beloved room into about fifteen modest cardboard boxes. With the amount of DVDs, books and trinkets that I have acquired since moving here when I was two years of age, I'm stunned it wasn't more. Nevertheless I'm now living in one small civilised corner of my bare bedroom with this laptop and a lamp, though being surrounded with cardboard, its like I have a little snug fortress. Thats fun.

What was a very lengthy task, however, was carting large, heavy and numerous boxes down through a small hatch from the loft. There were so many boxes. All shapes and sizes. Heights and weights. Varying materials and packaging... I'm trying to make boxes sound interesting, but essentially, it was only slightly better than working in a box factory for a day. We got quite a good system going, though, with me passing a box at a time down the ladder to my Dad's strong, ready arms before my Mum would situate and repackage in the dining room. Efficient and actually quite interesting, discovering some of my old toys, various magazines from yesteryear and a guitar I didn't know existed.

Two days to go, then. Not even nervous: too busy filming, packing and living!