I Love Monkeysmell

So. Tomorrow is results day, and to be frank – this is all getting bloomin’ ridiculous. This morning I turned on the radio (Radio 4, if you’re that interested) to career advisers telling people to study in Amsterdam. Really? That sounds… well thought out. I mean, I’m not usually a sarcastic person, but it seems to make more sense to actually help people get into universities in their own country, before telling them there’s no hope other than in the arms of the Dutch.

Of course, studying abroad has its benefits – I nearly ended up doing my A-levels in China in the form of the I.B, meaning I would have had my results earlier in May… and would probably be able to speak Chinese. In other words, I would have been ‘sorted for life’, as various people like to tell me. Unfortunately, this never happened. So I’m stuck with one more year to go before I’m off on a Gap Year. (To China, probably.)

A big debate at the moment is the choice between university and apprenticeships. University automatically lands you with a whopping £25,000 debt – and that can rise even higher in locations such as London. And, you know what? I’m not even going to talk about this any more. I think if you’ve managed to stumble across this article you’re either a friend of Lawrence, Andrew and I, or have been madly googling ‘A Level results day 2010’ for a bit of, well – empathy, I suppose, in the few frantic hours before you look at the little letter on a piece of paper.

I’ve done it myself. That’s why I wrote this rambling and not very cohesive blog. If you find this, then DON’T PANIC about results. I know it’s quite literally what everyone will say – but to be honest, everyone you know can’t be wrong. If it doesn’t go well, it hasn’t gone well for a reason. You’ll figure it out. And if it does? Congratulations – just don’t rub it in everyone else’s faces. It’s not the end of the world. And anyway, you don’t even know what you’ve got yet.

In short – put the kettle on, sit tight, and keep your friends close. You might also want to smile, after all – everybody is in the same boat as you, and if you panic then it’s going to start rocking for everyone around you. Nice little analogy there, eh?

Chin up.

Quantum physics, philosophy and theology. What’s it all about? More importantly: why isn’t everyone contemplating our macro/micro/quantised microverse? I’m aware of the harsh (and, as with all stigma, misconceived) stigma around the subject. Follows is another rant.

This article applies to sciences of every kind; medical, industrial or chemical (even language!). I’m going to focus on my own subject; physics.

We all have escapes in our daily lives that keep us from thinking about our inevitable death and inferiority. The vast landscapes of our horizons and the spectacular edges of our observable universe have much in common, which fascinates me. For similar reasons, a large portion of choosing my university course was based upon my resultant business cards; Master of Science had an attractive air to it. Sadly, Master of Engineering sounds worryingly like the next BTEC vocational course to be announced.

I’m surprised so few have turned to the enlightenment and solidarity physical philosophy has to offer. Quantum Mechanics (despite desirable bartalk) has a rewarding sense of achievement, and if a 17-year-old college-goer like myself can get my head around it, why can’t you? You’ll need basic understanding of mathematics (including, yes I know, algebra), and a lot of common sense.

I hate people that say ‘I can’t do science.’ Everyone does science during their daily lives, and hence this is no excuse. If you’ve never tried to understand it, this is a perfect chance. If you’ve tried and ‘failed’, chances are it was your teacher. It takes no time at all to find and read something that interests you. I enjoy Top Gear. While diluted, there’s still something to be learnt by watching what’s normally fun TV. Be one of millions to watch Wonders of the Solar System by a rockstar physicist. You’ll be fascinated, I promise. What about NewScientist? If you enjoy reading about innovation, this one’s for you.

I offer you this sense of empowerment and knowledge. You can change the world, or you can sit there and watch as others do so. Rant over.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been known to do this. What I’ve managed to do, is write a post aimed at a minority of readers that live in the South of England, and travel/commute by train. This was illadvised, I’m aware.

However, I did enjoy ridding a few qualms I suffer from my chest with Southern Rail, and those that had a clue what I’m talking about will (hopefully) have enjoyed the post as normal. Especially those that have suffered the infernal and repetitive signalling problem at Havant that only seems to happen at rush hour, resulting in packed delayed trains.

That will be all for now. Have a pun:

‘I wondered why the baseball was getting bigger. Then it hit me.’

Ugly in purple? Try snot green.

I’m writing today about Southern Railway. If you’re not aware, they’ve recently (and proudly) announced a new line of trains to add to their fleet. Dubbed (creatively) the class 313s, they are to replace some services between London, Lewis, Ore and Southampton. Or somewhere.

Normally, my response would be ‘oh wow; some new trains’ (my [inner voice] is rather eloquent, if you can’t tell) — I’m a huge fan of painstakingly futile improvements to my routine. My life consists solely of train-laptop-train-eat-sleep, so it brings joy to my heart to observe something ever so slightly different. That is despite patronising looks from Alannah: she doesn’t understand. What wa–?

Ah yes, trains. I source this information from Wikipedia, though much of it is fairly obvious as soon as you set eyes upon the monstrosities. The 313s are ugly, cramped, noisy, bouncy, poorly air-conditioned, whiny, clunky beasts that, in fact, pre-date their ‘sexy’ sleek predecessors. They have gone to as much effort to stick a ‘bear with us as we paint over this’ (or words to that effect) plasterboard over the ‘First Capital Connect’ stickers.

After much some thought, and reading a sign, I deduced that these trains are not replacements. What had actually happened is a ‘Southern Railway Improvement Survey’ — a prime example of why ordinary people ought to keep their mouths shut. While Southern planned endless improvements, some snotty business-productivity-paperwork-filing-secretary-sh*gging ‘Joe Bloggs’ commuter decided that he didn’t want to sit next to the dribbling peasant of a stringf- an anonymous drunk any more, thoughtlessly ticking a box on a form thrust upon him by a Southern employee on his way to London. Thanks to that single tick (from several people), Southern had to cancel their improvements, and bring out the rickety bangers to give people the space they need.

So, in effect, they ran out of trains (to satisfy Bloggs and drunk), and so took some old ones from the back of the warehouse. Now, every guy who has enough free time to deliberate over underwear consumption and his purchasing routine will have made the connection. When I purchase new underwear, I don’t throw away the old – I keep it (or some) at the back of the draw, knowing that one day they might come in useful (I might miss the washload, thanks to my rather creative and spontaneous life). My ‘this doesn’t typically happen, but what if it does’ approach to life has saved me from many a life-threatening occasion might help. Eventually. In case of meteor shower.

Indeed, just over a week ago, the worst happened: I ran out of underwear. I resorted to some vaguely ill-fitting underwear for a day. And didn’t enjoy it. This is what Southern executives do. Or at least, presumably, the engineers responsible for the signal fault at Havant.

So, by process of highly intelli- some thought, it’s fair to say that Joe Bloggs is responsible for your chafing on the way to work. That is unless you are on your way to work in London, and you have a briefcase — in which case, you should never be trusted with a form again — inflicting Class 313s upon Brighton and Sussex is enough damage for one man.

An awkward analogy that’d otherwise never make the press. Here’s a pun:

In other news, after an engaging conversation about fish tanks, I had to concede; I was out of my depth.

Seeing as we’re on the topic of odd ramblings of our younger selves, (entertainingly introduced by Andrew) I had a quick rummage through my old books and photographs to find this: a journal of a past holiday to Tehran. Now, I remember HATING having to do this journal, though my Mum insisted that it needed to be done, for future reference, probably. I even remember at one point really wanting to eat a marzipan mouse that was so cleverly placed on the table… but instead being forced to write. So, here are the products of that sugar-mouse avoidance, around about 11 years ago. Complete with original spelling.

we went to a park on top of the mountain there was a little park on the way so we stoped to have a play there was a slide and a swing and climbing frames then I saw some monkey bares and they were small I did two

We went to Mellat park but the swings and the slids were to hot so I went on the see saw. Then we looked at the animals we saw birds. And I said to mummy can we go on a peddle boat. Mummy said yes.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Now, somehow my punctuation seemed to miraculously improve between these two entries. Must have been the magic of the pink felt-tip. Anyhoo, the next entry I found made me a little sad. It simply said:

The Palace Museum “We went to the Palace Museum and we …”.

I wish I could remember what I did that day, for some reason I gave up writing mid-sentence – probably to sneakily eat the marzipan mouse. I bet the Palace Museum was brilliant.

This is not a new story of mine. I wrote this when I was seven, grammer mistakes and all. I seem to have enjoyed repetitive structure, probably meant something intelligent. Comment with your literary analysis.

One day a bear was wearing pink underwear.  He was exercising, he lost his balance and bumped into a tree.  He bumped his legs on a door and he went to the door he knocked on the door, but nobody came.  He knocked very hard on the door and he hurt his hands.  The bear banged the door with his pink underwear.  Then he hurt his bottom on the door.  Somebody was coming, it was a Granddad wearing blue underwear.  The bear ran and ran and he bumped into a another door!  This time it was little, he knocked on the little door.  He banged with one arm and he did it with two arms and he didn’t get in.  Well he always does it with his pink underwear.  Well the first bear  he hurt his bottom on a little door.  Something was coming, it was a little bear, he was very little in the world.  Well the first bear ran away into a door.  This time this door was middle – sized.  Well the first bear was angry he didn’t want to bang three doors!  He was very cross, he kicked his feet up in the air and he turned around he fell down on the floor.  Something was coming – a little girl was in a middle – sized door.

 The End!

Frankly this is only very short of complete genius.

I remember once, perhaps in a dream, I attended a lecture at Princeton University in America. The professor had wonderful glasses, a frame that I’ve wanted to have yet never found. The dream ended with me stealing his glasses. The point of this anecdote escapes me but I did bump into the professor a month ago and I gave him back his glasses. In return he told me everything I’m about to write.  

“Are you unable to recognise the key signs of a person being barking mad? If not, this is understandable. For nowadays mad people often appear in disguise; usually using the novelty glasses/nose/moustache combination. So, how can we recognise the mad ones? There are obvious signs. For example, those who murmur to themselves are clearly culprits of insanity. As the old wife’s tale goes, “talking to yourself is the ‘first sign of going mad’”. Of course this is all lovely but it poses the question; what on earth is the second sign? Is it when hairs start growing on the palm of your hand? When you develop an irrational fear of unconventionally shaped furniture? When you start becoming paranoid that Freud is controlling your sub-conscious like a cruel puppeteer? Maybe. Although, the listed diagnoses above are more likely to be, roundabout, the fourth or fifth signs. 

But, as always, there are those who pretend to be mad, which is ironically madness in itself. How do you spot these frauds? I will tell you. Commonly if someone is able to tell you the ‘fact’ that they’re mad, they’re most likely not (Some exceptions, as with all things). On the other hand, if someone shouts out in the street ‘I just saw a duck wearing socks. Please, someone tell me where I am able to purchase socks. Specialised for ducks!’ Try to subtly run away.

Some people, now and again, are mistaken for someone who has lost their marbles. They’re not a ‘madness pretender’; they may just have the personality of someone who’s quite weird. I often find myself in that situation, strangely. So, when someone asks me the common question “Are you mad?” I produce the pre-prepared reply. “No. Although if you feed me prunes I pretend that I’m Emperor Constantine for an hour and a half; or that I have constipation for an hour and a half. Either of the two.”

Being the great intellectual mind I am; I was once asked if there is a link between madness and genius. Is there such thing as a mad genius? As there are so many people who’ve been hailed as one. Well, is there such thing as a mad genius? I say, no. Mad people dribble on you and geniuses are very able to control their saliva. Well known observation. Of course, there are times when a genius produces works of art that, by their critics, appears to be nothing else than the work of a madman. It might just be a bit too ahead of the times or avant-grade, that’s all. Vice versa with a madman.

I hope that’s helped with your understanding of those who are completely barmy. Thank you for giving me back my glasses. I haven’t been able to drive my space hopper for weeks! Now, I’m off to draw a smile on the Mona Lisa with purple crayon! “

As he hopped away in his unusual mode of bouncy transport, waving a purple crayon in the air and cackling the words “Why eat banana fruit when you can have potatoes?” I thought, ‘What a well rounded intelligent man’. He had renewed my faith in the American educational sysytem. It didn’t seem to bother me that he was obviously quite strange. Or how he was able to get out of my dream. Although as Bob Dylan sang “You can be in my dream if I can be in yours.”

Now, it doesn’t take a genius to notice that recently Andrew has claimed a good percentage of this page as his own. However, I, being unintentionally intelligent, (hello tongue-twister) have so far only posted one blog – meaning my absence hopefully hasn’t been noticed. Andrew, on the other hand, has posted weekly film reviews… and after realising that NO SHREK 4 REVIEW has been posted but instead replaced by his own ramblings, I thought it was probably time I intervened, before he talks himself into insanity. (And possibly out of existence.)

Speaking of Andrew, and the recent cinema-Orange Wednesdays-gathering-trip (I will really need to abbreviate that), I discovered two things:

1. 3D is clearly a new concept in his mind. I don’t want to make fun of anybody here, but let’s just say a sweeping zoom into the inside of a carriage shouldn’t create much of a shock in a U rated movie.
2. 3D is more of a new concept than I thought. The conversation went a little like this;

[whispers]
“Tara, do we see in 3D?”
“…”
“So we’re in 3D now?”
“Urm, seriously?”
“…?”
“YES, Andrew.”
“Ah.” [impressed noise]

I think Pixar deserve an apology.

Anyway, this is all leading somewhere. You didn’t think I’d make a joke at someone else’s expense for no reason, did you? After trying to live up to the reputation of a good science student that I seem to have acquired, I have begun reading New Scientist magazine. (By which I mean I might have a snoop of it whilst in the college library. Shhh, it counts.) Looking through the extensive list of articles; gene switches sexual desires of female mice, Dolphins make their last stand in Mediterranean, smart TV remotes could censor shows for kids etc… the one that caught my eye was this: animated 3D models extracted from single camera video.
Turns out, we’ll soon be able to record in 3D. (Good news, Andrew!)

Well… I may have just made that up. BUT it definitely is on the way, I promise! So far, the technology developed means that 2D video recordings of people performing simple tasks (i.e. weightlifting) can be reproduced and played in 3D. In model form, for the moment.

Impressed?
Thought so.

My English Literature teacher came in to the lesson and said “Write a poem or some prose in today’s lesson, call it ’8th July’”. So I did. She may be slightly confused by it.

Whilst I was innocently running my hand up and down a hip, I became shocked. All of the feeling in the right side of my body had gone. Suddenly I realised, that it was not my hip. Now I am soothing the burning sensation on my left cheek, where I have been slapped. Turns out that females aren’t too accommodating to a man with his hand, unwittingly, on her form. Replacing my sunglasses on my perfectly handsome face (I’m allowed exaggeration), I placed my hand on my hip. Thankfully the shape was familiar. I made a personal vow; ‘I will never touch anyone else’s body again, without written permission.’

I thought to myself, I know I’ll become a hermit. ‘Every man is an island’ and all that. In fact, I wouldn’t mind if I were an island right now. Mostly to have a palm tree protruding out of my upper back to provide me with some shade. That would be useful evolution. But really, I don’t have much choice; I’m restricted to being a normal human being. I’m as advanced as I can get.

Although the primeval nethanderal man most likely thought they were advanced, normal beings as well. There were probably various social spots where they would share in academic, intellectual discussion. There’s a possibility that you may’ve been a primeval ape, thinking you were top of the ladder, the bees knees. Anyway, who cares? They didn’t ever imagine what I’d be like, so why am I imagining it of them?

It’s not a masterpiece, it’s my English work.