Well. Here I am.

So, what's happened to me recently?
I'm afraid not a lot has happened to me recently. The Summer Holidays are underway, and I have done precisely nothing since I left those school gates on Friday 16th June. This is the main reason for the lengthy space of time between the last blog post and this one, for which I can only apologise. Alas, I am the type of person that, artistic pastimes aside, does very little of any interest until something of interest comes my way; in other words, I don't go out looking for interesting things to do - I don't actively seek them.

Well, it just so happens that something of interest - of considerable interest - came my way last night. Well, the night before last, as it is now seven in the morning (yes, insomnia, you win this time) and so the past few hours now officially take the place of Sunday night as being 'last night', so... I'm sorry, I digress. Sunday night. Something of interest came my way. 'Sherlock' came my way; it's the new BBC series, written by Doctor Who's Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss, and it's absolutely marvellous. Sherlock Holmes, set in the 21st Century, done magnificently.
Benedict Cumberbatch: a man whose name is only equalled in terms of awesomeness by his acting.
So yes. I'm no television reviewer. Watch it, if you haven't done so already. If you did watch it, watch it again. I did.

Right. Elsewhere in my memory banks...
Oh! I'm currently animating the first series of The Milnesy & Wivell Show, which is the secondary reason for the aforementioned lengthy space of time between the last blog post and this on; I have been working constantly for the past week - more than is healthy for a typically productive person, let alone my good-for-nothing self - making the most of the lack of school to get as much animating done as possible.
The thing is with animation, the better you do it, the longer it takes. This goes for most things in life; a rushed cake may taste unsatisfactory, or a car made in a hurry might shed its wheels at an inopportune moment and unexpectedly introduce its driver to a nearby wall. Slow and steady wins the race. Good things come to those who wait. And so on, and so forth. I've been animating the M&W Show to quite a high standard of quality (if I do say so myself), and it has therefore dominated my life this past week. I have done loads, though! Episode one is nearly complete, which, for animation, is pretty speedy. So well done me.
Here is a little preview picture for you. Please note that the actual series is in colour - I made the photos in the picture sepia because that's how I roll (anyone who has seen my Facebook profile picture can vouch for that). So sorry if it's misleading in that sense.

Okey dokey then. Good day.

The funny blog entries are back!

Hello. I use italics to make my greeting sound dry and edgy. Nyah.

Right, on with the blog thing. I was asleep a moment ago. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking 'I bet he didn't do much if he was unconscious', and you'd be right. Unless I not only had an amazing dream but am also able to recollect it, how could I turn the concept of having a nap into a narrative worth reading? The answer, dear readers, is I can't. But it padded out the blog a bit, didn't it?

No, the interesting thing, the thing worth blogging about, happened before I was enveloped by the numbing duvet of slumber. I was laying on the bed (so you can see how close this event was to my falling asleep), and I could hear the self-loving strains of some young American band radiating from my sister's laptop in the other room. She doesn't, in my humblest of opinions, have a very good taste in music. She'll listen to music she likes the sound of (usually awful), but most of the time she'll spend every waking hour listening to tunes that are popular with her friends (usually suicidally awful).
You know the sort. The singer is invariably a bratty girl (that Lavigne lass falls under this category, fans of shit music) or a boy that sounds like he's been kicked so hard in the testicles, they have re-entered his body, are bouncing around in between his internal organs like a couple of Super Balls, and he's singing to keep himself from going mad. They sing about 'love' and 'emotions' and 'miscellaneous hormonal misdemeanours' (I made up that last one for comedic effect, by the way - I'd take my hat off to a group that managed to successfully place 'miscellaneous hormonal misdemeanours' into a song), and some occasionally burst into a tirade of shouting, accompanied by squealing electric guitars and whatnot. I suppose this is what constitutes 'music' nowadays, eh? Hm.

Anyhoozle, I was listening to involuntarily overhearing the music, too tired to do something about it but too awake to immediately evacuate myself to the Land of Nod. And then it happened.
There was a part in one of the myriad of endless droning songs that actually sounded good.
It was only brief, mind. Perhaps a line or two. But somehow, the music, the lyrics, and dare I even say it, the voice, seemed to fall into place and fit together into something quite nice. Almost immediately afterwards, naturally, the inanity commenced. But it rattled me somewhat.

TWO REASONS WHY THIS RATTLED ME

1. One of the artists on my sister's play list produced a moment of aural professionalism.
2. I noticed that one of the artists on my sister's play list produced a moment of aural professionalism.

The second point, despite its numerical status as the secondary point here, is actually the key point, and the point that will drive my narrative further.
If I was just hating my sister's music because it was my sister and it was her music, as I have long suspected, I would have shrugged off that fleeting moment of musical mastery, and thought nothing more of it. But I didn't. I sat up (well, almost) and took note.
I can only conclude from this that I am secretly wanting my sister's music to be good. I am subconsciously listening out, in optimistic hope, for some good sounds to emanate from her speakers.

Now, not only does this mean that I'm not the stubborn, curmudgeonly bastard I had secretly suspected I was for so long, but also that her music, overall, is genuinely terrible. It's not just me.

So there!

Cursed to a life of aero-apathy

It's the Waddington Air Show today. I'd go, as I have done most years prior, but... meh. Just meh.
I'm not an aircraft buff. All planes look the same to me, and people who can identify a plane by the shape of its nose cone, or whatever, nearly bore me into unconsciousness.

The only real appeal the Waddington Air Show had, for me, was the challenge of getting in without paying. Every year, my dad and I would devise a brilliant scheme, each one wackier than the last. I don't know why, but it's just lost its novelty now. And I don't give a crap about aircraft, so that was never going to be a redeeming strength of the show to lure me back.

I assume the Red Arrows will be their, doin' their thang. They practise over my village and have done for as long as I can remember, so they're of no interest to me. Seeing a group of professional aerobats creating a heart out of smoke, and then piercing it with a smoke arrow, is an everyday occurrence to me, which is a bit of a curse. I can't ever appreciate the Red Arrows in the same slack-jawed way the rest of the country can.
Ho hum. Might just slob out today. Or animate. Whatever.

So sorry, Waddo. No offense, but I think you're boring. And I suspect I always shall.

A few words on hypocrisy

I was sat in the common room with a group of three other people today, during the uneventful hour I have on Tuesday afternoons prior to catching the school bus. These three were playing Magic: The Gathering, a card game I have never fully understood. I'm sure that if I invested enough time into learning it, I would come to enjoy it as much as any other game, but there are reasons why I opt not to participate in this particular pastime.

Firstly, there is, quite frankly, a social stigma associated with this card game. I'm not the type of person that desperately tries to fit in with the cool - or even socially-acceptable - crowds, as I respect those that do less than the social 'outsiders', as it were. But to risk whatever amount of social acceptability I currently have, in exchange for a card game with no distinct long-term merits, seems a tad foolish to me.

Furthermore, I have heard that it is extremely addictive. Once the rules are clear in your head and the game makes sense to you, it's apparently very hard to escape its allure. My Olympian procrastinating abilities mean that I have very little time as it is without such frivolous distractions, thank you very much!

So I took on the role of barely-conscious spectator, slumped in one of the corners of the square of sofas, glancing optimistically at the seemingly-random collection of cards on the table between fleeting, unavoidable moments of sleep. My mind, being in a perfect situation to do so, started to race.

For example, there was a theory floating around in my head that made perfect sense to me, but I found it impossible to verbalise it and explain it to other people. To be honest, I'm still not entirely sure I've completely managed to explain it all yet, but I managed to extract something from it that made sense, so that's satisfying. It may be the entire theory in a nutshell - it could be, however, just the tip of the iceberg. It's so wibbly-wobbly in my own head that even I can't be sure.

My ponderings concern hypocrites, and our tendency to shrug off criticisms, no matter how correct and valuable, if it transpires that they have been made by a hypocrite. As far as I can see, we are a compassionate species overall - if we see something that's wrong, we get the urge to remedy it for the benefit of other people. Sometimes, our remedial urges can contradict past choices we ourselves have made. If these past choices are known to the person we give the advice to, a response akin to 'what do you know?' is likely to conclude the exchange. But surely such a response is demonstrating a blinkered assumption of our mindset!

The general consensus regarding hypocrites is that they are wrong for offering advice because they can't criticise that which they have done themselves. The only logical conclusion to that consensus is that we think hypocrites are incapable of learning from their mistakes, which is ludicrous. In many situations, I would value the advice of a hypocrite more than that of someone who is basing their advice on secondary information, as opposed to personal experience. A hypocrite knows. They've been there. In many cases, they are there, which may make them an even greater hypocrite but could also give their advice even greater validity.

When we make mistakes, we immediately start thinking about how to shift the blame. This isn't necessarily a bad trait; it's a form of survival instinct. So when someone comes over and offers advice, we immediately target the 'self-righteous goody-goody', if only in our minds at first, and try to find some sort of acceptable motive to vent our frustration out on them. Hypocrisy is a popular excuse, and should the mistake-maker have any such ammunition against the adviser, it is more than likely that they will open fire.
It's a perfectly human thing to do in moments of weakness, but by cutting down the person giving the advice, we may miss out on a valuable nugget of information that could prevent such mistakes from occurring again.

So lay off the hypocrites. But just a little bit, mind. Use a bit of judgement in these matters, because some hypocrisy truly outweighs the value of the advice. In these cases, it is advisable to go with your gut and rip 'em a new one (metaphorically speaking...)!

Tally-ho.

Me and my opinions, eh?

Old kids' shows weren't as patronising as kids' shows today. Nowadays, everything is much more money-driven. We cut corners all over the place to make a bit of a profit, and unfortunately it shows in this flimsy, blinkered era. Kids' shows are a perfect example of this.

Instead of boring you with a long rant about my opinions, I have fashioned them into a rather fetching, but moderately unfunny, sketch. Enjoy.

Darren: There's a slot opening up in the CITV schedule, and it's our job to fill it.
Vic: When's the slot?
Darren: Right in the middle of CITV, Vic. Smack bang in the middle.
Vic: If I can do maths - and I can - that's exactly halfway between the middle and the end!
Sandra: Good! Good! So we need a premise. What do kids like?
Darren: Kids like stupid things, mostly. Do we want to do a show about stupid things? Hyperactive nonsense to render them numb with adrenaline?
Vic: If they like it...
Darren: Yeah, I get that, but maybe our purpose isn't just to give the kids what they want. Maybe our goal is to develop them as people, to ensure that the fundamental mindsets of a functional society are secured in their heads.
Vic: I don't like the sound of that.
Sandra: No. A bit 'brainwashy'.
Darren: What? No, no. How about a show about a milkman?
Vic: What's interesting about a milkman?
Darren: What's not interesting about a milkman?
Vic: He's a milkman.
Darren: So what? He can be a milkman and be interesting. What would you suggest, then?
Vic: I had this idea of a ninja that has the ability to...
Darren: Can I just stop you there, Vic? I appreciate your input, but when do you ever meet a ninja?
Vic: I don't follow.
Darren: Unless the youth of today are going to grow up and become ninjas, I really can't see the merits of a show about ninjas. 'The moral of the story: don't get blood on your balacalava.' A story about a milkman can teach the basics about business, at least.
Sandra: Business is boring, Darren. Kids don't care about business.
Darren: So we should just cater to their every childish whim, and somehow hope that the notion of being good at business will just pop into their heads at some point in the future? 'Mummy, I'm ditching the cartoons and wish to pursue a career in accountancy.' What about social norms? Do ninjas socialise?
Vic: Well, not really. They keep to themselves, as a rule.
Darren: Do we want kids to keep to themselves? I don't think we should promote reclusiveness.
Sandra: This is Mary Whitehouse all over again.
Darren: This isn't Mary Whitehouse! I'm not saying that ninjas are a bad influence. I'm just saying that at such a crucial and formative time in a child's life, ninjas are a pointless influence. We should be making the most of the suggestibility of children to make sure they're fully functioning upstairs! Come on, at least one good show would make the world of difference.
Vic: How about a ninja milkman?
Darren: ... Yeah, that'll do.

END! THIS IS THE END! STOP READING THIS BECAUSE IT HAS ENDED!

Prepare to go 'hmm' in an interested way.

I can't sleep, and by fighting it I usually prolong the insomnia because my brain starts working even faster than usual, almost mockingly so, pursuing the sadistic goal of making sure that I can never shut down. As a result, I'm simply going to wait casually for the drowsiness to kick in. This very blog post is my way of wearing out my hyperactive lump of grey matter. The very eloquence of this blog post is an indicator of the sheer fury with which my brain is churning away, thrashing against the walls of my skull, screaming for stimuli.

I think a fact chain is in order.
Yes. I'm calling them fact chains now.

There have been 24 expeditions to the International Space Station (including the current one).
An idea for a form of escape craft, or 'lifeboat', for the International Space Station, the Crew Return Vehicle, was scrapped when it was decided that the station should just have some emergency docked Soyuz spacecraft.
The Soyuz spacecraft was originally designed in the 60s by the Soviet Union, to help in the race to beat the United States to the moon in a manned expedition.
The word 'Moon' comes from the Latin mensis, meaning 'month'.
The idea of months as units of time was devised by the ancient Egyptians.
The ancient Egyptians prized the blue stone lapis lazuli, and had it imported from Afghanistan.
Afghanistan culture is heavily influenced by Persian poetry.
One of the most famous pieces of persian literature, the epic poem Shahnameh, was written by a chap called Ferdowsi.
Ferdowsi was born in Iran, in a small village of Paj, in the year 940.
The High King of Ireland Brian Boru was born in around 940.
Ireland is the third largest island in Europe.
The word 'Europe' may have originated from two Semitic words: the Akkadian erebu meaning 'to set', or the Phoenican ereb, meaning 'evening' or 'west', as the Sun sets in the west.
An average solar day on earth is approximately 24 hours.

After the Brian Boru bit, by the way, I fell asleep (hurrah!) and so the rest was done a day later, as was this bit of text that I'm writing now. It feels weird for me to refer to writing this text in the past tense, as it is in the present as I'm typing, but it will be in the past when you read it, so I'm referring to the present as the past to correspond with the inevitable future. Phew. Right. Get it? Got it? Doubt it.

Bye bye now!

Peter Samuelson, interviewer. 29 April 2010.