Blog
05th August 2010
That guy sat opposite.
So I’ve been on the train a lot recently, going in between Lincoln, Leicester, London, Newark etc. etc. It’s been rough and fairly expensive, but over my time at University I’ve always made a habit of talking to the person sat opposite me. Personally, I find sitting on a train for hours on end twiddling my thumbs to be such a waste of time, and you never know what you could find out by asking the simplest of questions to the person you’re sat with.
In my time I’ve met surgeons, tourists, accountants, doctors, entrepreneurs’, labourers, Italian men, American Women, the occasional drunk and a plethora of kind old ladies… I even once came across a women who commissions films – which really justifies my previous comment, “you never know…” At the time I was actually designing a new CV on my laptop, which I promptly swivelled round to her as we exchanged numbers.
“Thank you George!” … “Don’t thank me Sharon! Thank my frankly dangerous confrontation of absolute strangers!”
I say ‘dangerous’ for a reason. Did I not expect that by blindly sinking my silver tongue into the melee of society, I would eventually stumble across painful consequence?
Well I did. For I must add a final occupation to the list of my endless locomotive compadre’s. He was a rare type of person, short, bald, tatoos and unshaven, he was a ‘convict’… and he was sat right opposite me.
I was wearing headphones at the time, so being a man of intuition, he assumed I was in the music industry working on a new album.
He was dissapointed.
“Oh….so what do you do?” I answered his second question more hesitantly, “I err make films, I’m editing one right now actually” I watched his reaction grow for a while before asking “What do you do?”
He shrugged, “I just got out of prison mate, this morning, I’m on the way home now."
Now, I’m usually a fairly positive person who tends to dress bad situations with a certain veneer of optimism. So naturally I assumed he was incarcerated for something low key, you know, a victimless crime like tax evasion or fraud… perhaps he was returning a purse to an elderly lady one day and was accused of theft?
Nope, he held up a store with a firearm.
After a few seconds of absolute silence he whistled loudly, “That’s a nice laptop mate! I haven’t seen anything like that in a while, 8 years I was inside…” My stomach began to twist, and my only hope now became the fact that 8 years ago Macintosh was still shit, and it was only recently that they became overly expensive and frequently stolen… and anyway you cant rob someone on a train, otherwise you would just take their stuff and spend the next 20 minutes awkwardly sitting there waiting to get off.
“So can I see your film then?”
I took a deep breath and turned the laptop to face him and he openly adjusted the angle of the screen to suit his viewing pleasure. He sat back comfortably and watched for a while, he even laughed a few times! But before he could get to the chainsaw decapitation scene he ran off, leaving me and thankfully my laptop behind. The ticket inspectors had arrived, and I took the chance to stuff my laptop back into my bag, putting it by my feet.
5 minutes later he returned slightly out of breath, and smelling a tad worse then he did earlier.
“What happened to your laptop mate, that film was looking really good.” I immediately blurted out a response with a laid back attitude, “the battery died mate. I have a charger but these trains don’t have sockets you know.”
I was surprised with the credibility of my excuse as much as he was.
“Oh right yeah.”
He looked around for a while, his eyes surveyed the cabin. He stared at an old lady to his left for several seconds, her face went white with fear and then became obscured by a trembling newspaper raised frantically to her eyes. His gaze then settled on my phone and wallet, which I stupidly left on the table. He looked up at me and I grew equally translucent as the old lady had.
"Don’t worry mate, I’m not after them.” I quickly replied, “It’s okay you can take them if you want, I’m thousands of pounds in debt, I have no money other then about 20p and that phone weighs more then I do.”
He smiled.
Anyway there is a purpose to this story, and like everything I write about on here, it’s changed my perspective on life.
In the end I treated this man as if he was anyone else: I talked to him, I asked his name, how he was, what he enjoyed doing, what he wanted in life, if he regretted what he did and how he was going to celebrate his release. I even let him borrow my piece of shit phone to ring the job centre and his family.
Afterwards, he went into his suitcase of 8-year-old clothes and pulled out a cigarette lighter. “Here you go bud, I got this in prison, you can’t get them anywhere else.” It was small and black and had the scuffed text ‘H.M. PRISIONS ONLY’ embossed in bold white text.
“Thanks man. It was nice meeting you, good luck with everything” we shook hands he got off in Nottingham.
From now on I will never judge anyone without reason. No matter what you’ve done, how you dress, what you do or how you look, you’re still just another face and one more person, and I suggest you all do the same as I do, for you’ll be a far richer person in doing so.
I learn a lot that day, but the thing that will stay with me for as long as I live, was when he told me, “I didn’t do it for money you know, and I didn’t do it for respect. I had no choice, I was forced to be there…do you believe me?”
He looked at me honestly with clear and aching eyes; “Yeah, I do.”
01st March 2010
NOC - Non Official Cover
This is NON-OFFICIAL COVER.
Editor’s letter.
You don’t have to walk very far to brush shoulders with a hero.
They don’t wear lycra or have super strength, they don’t jump from rooftops and they never get the girl. Real heroes are just those who step up in times of need.
‘Non-Official Cover’ (NOC) is a name given to undercover agents in a time of espionage, an empty pseudonym assigned to protect the identities of our faceless conquerors and underground heroes.
Behind enemy lines these individuals have no human rights or diplomatic immunity, and are frequently executed upon capture. They are loyal kamikazes, that in death receive no public recognition or memorial from either side of the battlefield.
They give everything, for nothing in return.
This magazine recognises, and represents their valour.
We are here to bring public notice to those who have been ripped off, exploited or ignored by society. Those who deserve the lime light, but receive none.
The officer who saved that baby from a burning building, that ‘guy’ who cured polio or just the unknown stranger in the street.
Even the humble ladybird is responsible for keeping the human race from drowning in swarming aphids. Everything plays its part in saving and sustaining life – it isn’t always Bruce Willis.
It’s surprising to find that life’s biggest saviours are perhaps its smallest: complex chemical elements that in specific quantities allow the Earth to support life, or the invisible Gulf Stream that prevent the oceans of this planet from freezing over.
We all listened when Edward Lorenz asked “Does the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?”
Well, here at NOC, we speak on behalf of that butterfly.
We recognize the unrecognized – so sorry Bruce.
Signed:
Anonymous
10th February 2010
The Colonel
The Rise and Fall of The Colonel.
RIP 2007 - 2010
One of the chickens died today, which is fine as chickens die everyday. I actually ate part of a chicken earlier, and it tasted pretty good, delicious even.
But this chicken was something else. Not your average, scraggly necked poofter-chicken, oh no. She was the pack leader, the top dog, the alpha and omega - she was ‘The Colonel’, a chicken that quite literally ruled to roost. She strolled round the garden like it belonged to her, its habitants were her minions, and if shit got in her way she would just kick it aside.
I vividly remember one of my first terrifying experiences with the Colonel. I had been watching her from afar for quite some time, and I knew that all the other chickens both respected and feared her.
I remember one day hoisting her muscular frame up onto my shoulder, and with her as symbol of protection at my side, I proudly marched around the garden – nobody messes with the Colonel. She’s got my back. There is however, one thing I learnt on this day that will stick with me forever, and that is: The Colonel works alone, and this was a lesson that was learnt promptly.
I soon realised that something was awfully wrong. Usually when chickens are perched on your shoulder they squawk, and flap and yelp, but oh no, not this one, she did nothing of the sort. I felt her talons tighten, and remain locked. The sunlight that had been bathing the garden found refuge behind clouds, and the wind fell short of its jubilant whistle.
I slowly turned my head to see what the Colonel wanted, and she was looking directly at me with fiery eyes.
Now chickens never make eye contact, they just look stupidly at you, and then waddle off to hide in a bush somewhere. But the Colonel was looking dead into my soul, and she was pissed. My expression, which at this point had been one of curiosity, melted away into one of fear and forgiveness.
Dear God… I had plucked her from her favourite patch of grass, and dishonoured her in front of her chickeny comrades.
Her punishment was short and swift, we both knew it was coming; I was just faster of the mark. BAAAM! She pecked me right in the eye. Thankfully I managed to close it just in time to feel her razor beak pinch my eyelid, and her fury ooze into my body like a poison: “AGHHHH MY EYEBALL! WHAT THE FUCK!!?”
I tried to launch her from my shoulder, but she resisted. She began flapping her wings like she was throwing punches, slapping me in the face like I was a 12-year-old girl.
I’m pretty sure that day I became the first person in history, to lose a fight against a chicken. Although I’m also pretty sure, that there has been no other chicken quite like the Colonel.
Shorty afterwards, all cut and bruised, my Dad said to me,
“Don’t play with fire, otherwise you’ll get burnt.” How does that even help?! Surely it should be, “Don’t put a big-ass-chicken on your shoulder, otherwise it’ll peck you right in the fucking eye!”
It doesn’t really matter to be fair.
Today the Colonel was found as stiff as a board, lying facedown in the chicken run.
The remaining 5 chickens had taken the liberty of standing on, and repeatedly shitting on her for quite some hours. They had all suffered under her rein, perhaps this was just their payback. She was picked up, wrapped in a few choice articles from the Sunday Times and chucked in the bin (...yeah) I don’t think my Dad’s the biggest fan of remembrance.
I can’t help but think that even though we had our differences, The Colonel deserved more then that.
Either way, I won’t forget her.
The Colonel is gone now, she was a dinosaur and she was a triumph.
Goodbye.
17th January 2010
Embarrassments...
One of my favorite embarrassing moments occurred quite recently at ‘The Orange Tree’, a particularly fashionable cocktail bar in Loughborough.
Now we all know that the best embarrassing stories happen in the men’s toilets...
And I’m pleased to say, this is no exception.
Well it all started as I reached out to open the toilet door, extending my hand and fingers in front of me to take hold of its handle, however at the exact same time, another guy leaving the toilets, began to push the door open…and this is where the problem began.
His hand was pushing on the door from one side, whilst my hand was reaching out to open it from the other - we were on a direct collision course. It’s also worth mentioning at this point that I was pretty intoxicated…
My reactions were slowed, my vision blurred, and before I could do anything about it, my outstretched hand met his, our parted fingers somehow interlocked, and I was left, quite literally holding the outstretched hand of a complete stranger.
A few intimate moments passed...
Both of us just stood there silently, stunned into a vacant stupor, neither of us quite knew what to do, as neither of us could have possibly seen this coming. So we just remained transfixed, as if frozen in some quiet moment of homosexual tenderness.
It was around this point, that I began to deliberate whether he would use the same hand to hold his cock, as he would to open a door (to which he probably did) and that made it all the more terrible.
Usually you can just shrug off stuff like this. Both of you pretend that it never happened, and you carry on unscathed. But there was no ignoring this, we both had definitely been holding hands for at least 3 seconds, which by power of association, might as well have been his cock.
Then all of sudden I saw him blink, his eyes flickered and he snapped out of his hypnosis, yanking his slender hand from mine and in the most manly voice he could muster, grumbled “alright mate…err...cheers” and barged past me.
Perhaps a heavy-handed solution, but one that was necessary.
Embarrassing situations are bad enough, but ones such as this are much worse, simply because there is no possible way of foreseeing them.
In these unfortunate situations, all you can do is grit and bear it, and preferably use your non-cock bearing hand to open doors in future.
08th January 2010
Editors: The Unsung heroes of film.
Oh my days!
I’ve finalllly got my free time back.
For those of you who don’t know, I’ve been working 24/7 on a new short film I’m involved with, and it’s eaten up my life.
I hate working in post-production. I didn’t edit the film, but I did have to colourise it and iron out all the defects. It’s real hard work, and the worst thing about it, is that even though I’ve put in all this time and effort, I doubt anyone will ever notice.
I couldn’t bear the thought of editing the entire film from scratch, but kudos to Emily who has. I actually hung up my keyboard and mouse about 6 months ago, when I simply couldn’t stand the process of editing anymore.
Funnily enough, I actually first got into filmmaking as an editor, back when was a goofy 14 year old, and I loved it. Every night, computer nerds from all over Europe, would send me footage of their favourite computer games, and I would edit it into montages. I learnt a lot, and I did this for 4 years.
By the time I got to Uni people began telling me to be an editor as a career, even some of my tutors started to heckle me into it - but I cant.
Why not? Well, a good editor is basically Batman’s Robin.
The guy behind the scenes who makes things work, nobody knows they’re there, but without them, Batman wouldn’t fly – not even for second…
He would simply plummet towards the streets of Gotham like a slab of granite.
It’s strange, because in any other role in filmmaking you try to be as eye catching and innovative as possible, but the editor? They’re supposed to be invisible, and not only that, they have to fix all the problems that are left behind from filming!
The words “Don’t worry, we’ll fix it in the edit” are ones that will be emblazoned across my consciousness forever. I mean, I’ve spent several hours rotoscoping out boom mics that drop into shot, and does the audience care?
No… No They don’t – because you don’t notice what you can’t see.
It’s like all the children run out into the playground, having fun, picking up stones, eating worms and climbing trees.
Then after they’re gone, the editor comes out with a plastic bag, picks up all the shit they’ve left behind, and is given the task of mashing it into gleaming effigy, ready to show in tomorrows assembly. The next day, the parents of the kids applaud wholeheartedly and the editor fades into the walls.
I do respect editors, for I can no longer do their job.
I just enjoy eating worms too much.
20th December 2009
19/12/09: What I think Blogging is.
Blogs are still pretty new to me.
It’s very confusing…they all seem to be part of this online ‘good life mask’ that people have started to pull over their faces: It’s a new fad to show the World “look how great I have it!” I have 675 friends - most of them good looking, Mr X: “had the best night ever, and also had a great time in Hawaii last week! – Here’s the pic’s” Are your lives really this good?
Oh yeah…really? Facebook is a place for misery, lets leave it at that. We don’t want to hear about your amazing new boyfriend, your day out with ‘the girlies’, or how you have ‘the bestest friends in the world.’ We all write those things on our status with the dreams of them being liked, or perhaps even commented by our peers – so lets not fool ourselves.
In saying those things you said about Hawaii, you’re either showing off, or crying out for attention.
I’m not going to lie to you, if do something then I’m going to tell you. In fact, the most entertaining thing that happened to me recently, was at a house party I went to 2 nights back.
Things were pretty relaxed and going swimmingly, but after a number of soul stirring, sing-a-long pop anthems, and 1 too many shots of Goldschlager, the ‘pretend’ wrestling began…Now I use the term ‘pretend’ in the loosest term possible, because it didn’t stay that way for very long.
Personally, all I remember of the experience, was being punched several times in the ribs, getting lifted several feet into the air, and consequently being ‘choke-slammed' into the sitting room floor.
I actually spent roughly 2 – 3 minutes unconscious, spread eagled across the floor. I was totally out of it, and whether or not I was indeed murmuring to myself during this time has still yet to be confirmed.
That’s how good my life really is, no ‘fab nights out’, no holidays in Greece, flash cars or adorable new born babies. I actually woke up the following morning with an agonising pain across the bridge of my right foot, a crushed kneecap and a subtle, yet quite sizable concussion. I couldn’t stand up or move, let alone sign into Facebook to tell everyone how great my night had been.
And then there are those people, who like to tell us how well their careers are going “new job”, “pay rise!”, “holy crap! Promotion!” You want reality? The best thing that’s happened to me recently, was when I was a press photographer for the Engine Shed.
And even then I spent most of the night being followed around by a boy, who might well be the strangest person I’ve ever met. He wore a thick woolen jacket, corduroy trousers that were a couple sizes too small for him, neon gloves and brown sandals (complete with socks.)
Of all the strange comments he made that night, the thing I remember most is what he said to my friend James, who had just learned all the photos he took of the night had been lost: “Well actually, my Dad works with military intelligence so my Laptop’s pretty high spec, I don’t mind taking the files home and giving them a whizz around there. You know, try and get things all hunky dory?”
I felt like saying: “I’m sorry… but what exactly has your laptop got to do with your Dad? Well, my dad works in Sleep Research…but that doesn’t mean I necessarily have a really bad ass pair of pyjamas."
Anyway my point is this.. are your lives actually better then mine, or are you just pretending? Because I really want to know. In all honesty, I bet last night was shit, your going on holiday to Skegness. Driving a Nissan Sunny and your baby looks like a slapped arse.
Put that in status.
06th December 2009
End of the Line.
"Don't worry, you have exactly 3 minutes to get off my train, across the platform, along the bridge, down the stairs and onto platform 3, or else...", "Or else what?" I replied...
If I could offer the world one piece of solid advice, it would be the following: Never, ever, trust railway staff.
..and this is something I learned a while back:
About a year ago I got on a train with the impression that it would take me to Lincoln: "Yes sir, all the way to Lincoln, by 9 o'clock in fact!" The chubby railway patron chortled as he waved me off.
Smiling politely and returning his wave I began my departure, soon to arrive at the gun crime capital of England. A place where I would spend the next 5 or 6 hours of my life... He lied.
Tonight was the same. it started with me quite happily on a train back to my home town of Loughborough, I had hoped to go back to Lincoln that night, but I had missed the train and this was the next best thing. About midway through the journey, along came the ticket collector. He was an old and well kept man, who after a long discussion, and a large amount of time spent prodding his little LCD screen with pork fingers, deliberated that I could go back to Lincoln, this very night.
Great! This is perfect.
But like everything in life, it came with its costs and considerable risks. I had always watched those people desperately running down various train platforms, I never saw myself in their position. These people are the risk takers. And right now I found myself being talked into taking one of these risks: "Come on. 3 minutes, that's plenty of time! I've seen people do it in 2... if you move to the end of my train you'll be nearer the bridge!" it wasn't long before other excited passengers started to join in, baiting me and offering various pieces of encouragement. I remember specifically, a strange old man looking at me and saying "You're young, you'll make it, you look fit." - Wow, thanks for noticing.
We arrived at Peterborough, the stage was set. The doors opened, and I found myself being almost pushed out the train, by a crowd that had since formed to watch me attempt this feat. I had to sprint, and I mean full on sprint through this station. Who knows how many old women I tramped, or how many small children I punched in the back of the head, soon the cheery faces of those still rooting for me back on the train became a smudge - I was _not_ missing this connection. Except I did. Amazingly I made it with time to spare. However, the train did not arrive at platform 3, but rather platform 5, directly behind the train in which I had just got off.
I saw the faces, of those back on the train who had talked me into this, grimace stupidly and then become blurs as both trains pulled away from the station.
Fuck my life. Over 2 and a half hours I now had to wait, that was the risk I took. I thought I'd better ask for help from another member of staff, this time it was a short polish man. He looked like a confused superhero, clumsily ushering me into an office where we would stratigise my return home. "Don't worry sir, this train will take you midway, where after a short wait of 10 minutes a connecting train will take you back to Lincoln."
I was dubious, and decided to asked him bluntly, "So, does this connecting train actually exist?", to which shockingly he replied "...I don't know." I couldn't trust anyone, but it was time to cut my loses, I decided I would get a train to Newark, where I would spend around 2 hours 20 minutes, and then get the last train to Lincoln.
I had left Cambridge originally at 5pm, and I wasn't due to get into Lincoln until past 12. I arrived at Newark, where a final member of staff told me that there was actually another station in town, and their final train to Lincoln left in 15 minutes, this station however was almost 2 miles away, and I would have to run like the wind to get there in time.
Fuck it, I looked and smelt like shit already and I was definitely _not_ forking out £45 to get a taxi home. I had nothing to lose, I had tried my luck at short distance train catching and failed miserably, perhaps I was better suited to long distance... I was off, at full speed following the impossibly complicated directions of the 'Station Supervisor', I was quite simply running towards what really was my final chance to ever get home.
I tore through town. I'm sure Newark is a great place, but I saw none of it. My eyes were fixed on the road ahead, at this point I really lost the plot. I was running like a mad man, clutching my bag to my chest like it was some sort of surreal canvas baby. Turn right, then left, then left, then straight over at the traffic lights, a right again at the roundabout, then left and finally right into the station. This was the lowest part of my night. But I made it. Just.
I vowed never to speak of this experience, it was not the proudest or prettiest moment of my life. it was a night fueled by incompetence, anger and serious physical effort, that I will never repeat.
I have literally never be so pissed off in my entire life, and I do not wish that feeling on anybody. No other method of transport makes passengers literally jump through hoops, in order to get home on time. I have learned my lesson, perhaps you can learn from it too.
