Decanters of Wine and Chateramas or 'David Tries Fighting the News'

I’m often asked to consider – more often than not by myself – why I write. Why do I want to be an author?

                I read something yesterday responding to something George Orwell once wrote. This being that successful authors don’t write for pleasure, or for love of the craft, but they are driven by some inescapable demon that keeps their mind focussed in divine purpose levels of concentration to see an idea and be compelled to commit it to paper.

                Orwell may be one of my favourite writers; I was blessed with excellent English teachers so I was raised on Animal Farm followed by 1984. I can’t profess to say I’ve read the passage of essay or speech where Orwell actually gave this view on writing. If I am to believe in the man who wrote some of my favourite books then I’m inclined to say that these are merely the words of a columnist who doesn't love his job the way I would if I were lucky enough to have it. Having said that, I don’t need to love the man to love his work – look at Liam Gallagher.

                I write because I love it. The simple moment of having an idea can make my day. The completion of another chapter, another scene, blog, article or even a tweet perfectly balanced with sarcasm and humour; ideally fit without a character to spare. However, I would never say I’d be completely satisfied if everything I’ve ever written stayed on my computer. Almost, but still. That’s why I read.

                When I read the news, just taking today as an example, I can list the things going on the world that scare me, sadden me and offend me. We have the Oscars, 97% of films written and produced by men this year. We have ISIS, 3 more women abandoning radiology degrees and lives here off to join them. We have the imminent threat of war from the East. Russia seems poised to cause some sort of international incident. The term ‘end of the world’ gets bandied about in something other than a dystopian novel, and it’s not something I want to be reading when I’m watching Mary Berry make scones on BBC1. The oceans are full of plastic, children are increasingly becoming depressed and killing themselves because of the pressure heaped on them during exams. Let’s widen that, the education system in this country is under threat from people who don’t believe books – the things I live by - are important. The NHS is buggered. All the while we have a bunch of toffs and shadow-toffs engaged in childish arguments shouting ‘pick-me, pick-me’ when I’m sat wondering why they don’t just set their decanters of wine and chateramas aside and do something to fix the world depicted in the news every morning.

                The list goes on. So I turn to books. Books warn us of dystopia and evidence continually surfaces to suggest we’re travelling at breakneck speed towards one. Some might say we live in one already.

                But fear not, I don’t wish to spread the doom the news media shoves down our throats. If we examine books, we see new, exciting debut authors every day. Books stare at the man-laden film world and hold up the big two fingers. We have women heroines in abundance. We have even more women writers and we, the readers who think them wonderful for their minds, not – E! Entertainment - for how pedicured their feet are.

                Books offer ideas that have us believe a better world, either by showing us that world or holding up a mirror on our own, so we might change our paths and create one that doesn't look quite so bad. They offer us solutions to war, cures to terror, visions of a world where innocents aren't murdered and people far cleverer than you or me be the change they want to see.

                So I turn to these. These fragments I have shored against my ruins, as TS Eliot famously, if not a little melodramatically, once wrote. When modern life attempts to bring you down in the guise of a newspaper, you can look away; peel open the pages of an old favourite, listen to a fantastic song or flick on the best on screen and realise that things aren't quite so bad.

                So I would ask Mr Farage when he disregards the arts because he might not be intelligent enough to put down his pint and pick up Animal Farm instead, I’d hope that he’d feel the guilt shared by thousands that their reflection has a snout.

You've Added 'Final Frontier' to Basket. Proceed to Checkout? or 'David Tries Space Journalism'

            And so readers, once again I find myself compelled to voice an opinion. This cloudy Sunday afternoon I look to the skies and can’t make out the cosmos spread above me. Regardless, recent weeks have been full to bursting with exciting news from space.

            Let's examine the evidence. Chris Nolan, a writing idol of mine, releases Interstellar, a film I’m yet to see but am told is ‘amazing’ ‘a clever blockbuster’ ‘too full of science.’ Scratch that last one. But still, whatever you think of Nolan’s work, Interstellar is released with its finger on the pulse. On the big red button that I’m absolutely certain is all you need to launch a rocket.

            And here we have the crux of my argument. We have the pioneer: ‘Philae the Bouncing Robot’ – beautifully christened by The Sunday Times, and the entrepreneur– beardy Branson and his space tourism disaster.

            First of all, can I just give my own congratulations to every man, woman, child, dog, cat, amoeba involved with the Rosetta project. Too often these days we’re lambasted with what I like to call ‘non-news.’ I don’t like Ed Milliband this and Kardashian’s arse is photoshopped that. We watch endless repeats of the same 5 episodes of The Big Bang Theory on E4 and spend our evenings deciding which social media site is best suited to wile away the hours.

            Philae is a beacon of hope in all that pointless sludge. This is not an attack on the pointless sludge. I’m a member of all these sites, can do a fairly good impression of Howard’s mum and will be tuning in to a reality triple bill tonight with ‘The X-Come Dancing Factor–Get Me Out of Here!’ We have this stuff to get through the day. To laugh, chat, complain at Louis Walsh and just for a second forget the stress of modern life. Stress used very lightly here – first world and all.

            But the first world landed a robot on a comet. With the precision of ‘throwing a dart at North America from 19 miles up in the atmosphere and balancing it on the pin point of the Empire State Building,’ to once again quote The Sunday Times.

            We can do amazing things, and it was a travesty that the landing wasn’t televised in some way. We could have had our ‘one giant leap for mankind’ moment to tell the grandkids.

            And then you have space tourism. I read an article by Caitlin Moran yesterday who said Manhattan was great for the reason that we built it simply because we could. Not for the need, or the beauty, or by decree, but because we had the money, the talent and the desire. So we built a metropolis on an island. And it’s for this reason that part of me respects Branson and Virgin Galactic. Because why not?

            Then I thought of a reason. How many of us will go on Branson’s version of Thunderbird 2 when it’s up and running? Leonardo DiCaprio, Russell Brand and Stephen Hawking were three names on a list of current ticket holders. And who deserves to see that view of earth in all its majesty? Well I don’t think it’s the dandy anarchist and I don’t think he was in Titanic either. 1 out of 3 is probably the ratio of the deserved/rich on that plane.

            Call me a curmudgeon, but I believe space should be earned. Astronauts train for years, decades for the privilege. They push themselves to the limits of human capability to accomplish world-defining experiments. We make baby steps in exploring and understanding our universe. Philae and the European Space Agency could prove that life on Earth was spawned from space - when a comet hit millions of years ago, gave a dry planet water and the amino acids that make up the building blocks of life.
            And then we have Russell Brand seeing the same view because someone at a desk thinks he’s good to put on TV for the same reason that Kim Kardashian showed us her nipples. Because people will look, people will fork out their money. I feel a slight injustice there.

            If I might, I will make a metaphor.

            I want a Times Atlas of the World. I love maps, I always have. There are few things that I enjoy more than sitting, reading, learning capital cities, seeing the shape of our earth recorded by men and women smarter than I. I could buy the book but it’s inordinately expensive and that defeats the object. The Times awards an atlas to the winner of its cryptic crossword competition, so I’ll earn the atlas. If I bought it, I’d be no better than Russell Brand.
            Sure, we can buy our place on a spaceship if we're rich enough, but should we really be part of plans like Branson's? Trying to commercialise the universe? Could this inordinate sum of money being used to paint a red Virgin stamp onto the vacuum of space not be used to support real space exploration? Or how about used to help people from below the first world join us in the privilege of the pointless sludge? Together with footballers wages and the long list of benefactors of misplaced wealth we could end this 1st, 2nd, 3rd world system and simply have a world. Too utopian? Probably, but if they can land on a comet...

            As a conclusion, I’ll give you two headlines, one real and one for the future:

            One Giant Step: Philae’s landing on a comet is the space era’s most astounding feat of navigation. Forget the critics – this is a positive leap for mankind.* 

            Poodle haired comedian does insensitive impression of scientist on space plane. Andrew Sachs sympathises.

            Who deserves space?



*Fantastic articles by Bryan Appleyard and Caitlin Moran, who I hope won't mind me using quotes

A Space In-between or 'David Tries a Short Story'

An exciting new turn for 'David Tries New Things'. Throughout my education I've been asked to write short stories. I've never been great at limiting myself to about 2000 words. As Charlotte said to me only a couple of hours ago: 'You're like me, you think in novels.' And this is true to a great extent. 

But I love the idea of writing short stories. To write 2000 words or thereabouts and tell a story of characters you only have a short amount of time with and tell as much as a novel can. I think it enhances your skills as a writer. Also, I have new ideas every day that I think could one day be novels. Why not get them down on paper as short stories first? Then I can extend. If I don't then I have the accomplishment of a finished story in an hour. 

I could have written a blog about this, but sometimes my blog writing becomes angsty and grumpy. I don't like this. In a story I can turn angst to humour. I can extend my talents and explore an idea for myself in the process. So that's what I'll do. 

Just a little background. I've recently started a subscription to The Times. I know, I'm officially old now. But this means I'm taking a far greater interest in what's going on in the world. I wanted to write a blog about Cameron, Milliband and the rest of them. Who votes, why we vote, why young people sometimes don't. But realistically, who's going to want to read that? You might as well by the paper. So a story sounded like a better idea. Secondly, I've recently come to face with one person's opinions. These opinions grated on me a great deal. A little game for you: spot the opinions that grind my gears. Also, a warning - piss off a writer, you end up in a story. So here we are. I present - 'A Space In-between':

The lift ground to a halt with an ungodly sound. Jonas found himself cringing as though someone had slid their hand across some cellophane, or scratched their nails down a blackboard. He stumbled backwards and grabbed the rail behind him. Two things occurred to him. One, that of course the lift had broken and he was now stuck somewhere between the fourth and fifth floors of the civic centre in the middle of town. And two, that he would be spending an extended period of time with a complete stranger.

After that, more things started to make themselves apparent. He shut off the old Blur track he'd been bopping along to while it pumped its way, without register into his ears via random shuffle. He sighed and slumped the huge bag of newspapers, which were giving his shoulder stiffness issues every single morning, on the floor. They're probably all bent now, he moaned in his head. Another telling off from Mr Barnes tomorrow then. 

'God that sounded like a car crash,' said the other man in the lift car, Jonas assumed more to break the silence than anything. 

He turned. Jonas looked into the eyes showing the first sign of wrinkles. The salt and pepper hair and the salt and pepper from breakfast sprinkled on his left lapel. He wondered if there was enough time to get his sketchpad out. Would that be rude? To just slide down on the floor and start drawing? Not much inspiration in a stuck lift though.

'I've never seen one,' Jonas grunted. He didn't mean to, he just hadn't spoken that morning yet. Even so, he noticed the doubt in the man's eyes. The question over whether following this path down to conversation town was a brilliant idea or an ill-conceived fancy.

'Bloody awful,' the man replied. He laughed. 'I crashed my first car when I was your age. I'd just seen this girl. I...erm...' He faltered and his words faded to silence. 

Jonas felt his hackles rise. I'm seventeen not seven.

The silence in the car became thick. Jonas shuffled. He glanced at the alarm button on the wall. Aren't we supposed to push that now? Or do they know already? He cursed his paper round. He'd be late for college now. What seventeen year old still has a paper round anyway?

'Guess we should give this a little old push then,' the man ventured. I bet he's a dad. Jonas thought Only dads talk like that.

The man reached over and pushed the button. There was a loud ringing on the speakers. Then silence again. 

He rose to his tiptoes and let himself fall. His suit looked old and well worn. He must work here.

'Oh come on,' he said and jabbed the button again.

There was a crackle this time, then a quiet grumbling voice. 'Yeah alright we heard you the first time.'

'Erm...what's happening?' asked the man. 'I have a place to be you know.'

At his words Jonas began to wonder whether he was high up in the council. He clearly thought a bit of himself. 

Jonas heard the end of a sigh as the repair man clearly pressed the speak button too early. 'Don't worry, you shouldn't be in there too long.'

Silence again. Jonas decided that sitting on the floor was the best plan of action. He slid down the wall and stretched out his feet next to the bag. Then, without even thinking about it, he slid his hand in his pocket and extracted a smartphone with a large crack down the middle of the screen. No signal. Great.

'So, erm... you going to go and vote later?' said the man. 'I'm Terry by the way. Terry Grisham.' 

'Jonas,' Jonas replied. 'And no, I'm eighteen tomorrow.'

'Sod's law,' Terry tutted and rolled his eyes like he belonged in a sitcom from the eighties. His eyes flickered to the small noticeboard next to the alarm button. 'Can't escape his smarmy mug.'

Jonas followed his eyes and noticed a picture of Henry Bayes, the Tory candidate. Dad loved him. Strict on immigration, strict on criminals, strict on everything. Jonas looked forward to the days when conversations at the dinner table didn't revolve around Henry bloody Bayes. 

'My dad likes him,' Jonas said for no reason other than to continue talking. The threat of the awkward silence was approaching again.

'A lot of people do,' Terry replied as if that was a reason to condemn them.

'He has some good ideas doesn't he?' Jonas asked. Terry would know. Terry was politically involved. All adults seemed to be. Jonas wondered if you reached a certain age and it all became interesting. Like he'd wake up tomorrow morning and would know what 'deficit' meant.

'You could say that,' Terry said. 'The NHS stuff might be good, but he only said that because our guy did. Never trust a Tory.'

Jonas laughed. 'Sounds like football.'

Terry bristled. Clearly not a fan. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, you can't trust a gooner. Dad says that too.' He met Terry's blank stare. 'A gooner's an Arsenal fan. Dunno why. I don't really like it as much as Dad does. But he doesn't like anyone if they support Arsenal. It's the rivalry. I just thought it sounded the same.'

'I'd hardly say that,' replied Terry. 'Bunch of hooligans don't have much on the people who keep their country from falling down.'

'I dunno about that,' Jonas said. This is like debating at college, he thought. If only Miss Peters could see me now. 'I've seen... what's it called. That House of Lords place when Mum turns it on before Eastenders. You know? The one with the green chairs they just use to shout at each other?'

'The House of Commons, actually,' Terry corrected with his eyebrows raised. What are they teaching kids these days, his eyebrows said. 'And sometimes people like Mr Bayes over there need to be put in their place.'

'But I thought the other lot, the Labour guys had messed everything up? We've been at war for about ten years haven't we?'

Terry sighed. 'It's a little more complicated than that.'

Jonas picked at a loose thread on his jeans. He'd met people like Terry before; teachers who thought they were doing children a great service by imparting their great pool of knowledge. Of course they'd never actually give you the answer quickly.

'Rick Yeoman did great things for this country this past term,' Terry said. 'Of course the papers never report that do they. I don't suppose you watch the news?'

'Well it's not like they make it appealing,' Jonas retorted quickly. 'Why would I want to watch an hour of how terrible the world it. You should watch YouTube, there's only funny, cool stuff.'

'Oh I don't go in for all that rubbish,' Terry replied, crinkling his nose like YouTube smelled funny. 'YouFace and TweetGram and the rest of them.'

'I see both of them on Twitter all the time,' Jonas informed Terry. 'Both Dick and Bayes always tweet stuff. It's quite interesting to get their opinions actually. Like, to see what they're actually like as blokes.'

'I don't think Rick would do that,' Terry snorted. 'He probably gets some intern to do it.'

'I saw it on the news actually, now you mention it. Dad put it on. I think he does it himself.'

'Don't believe everything you see on the news,' Terry scoffed. 

One minute I don't watch it enough, next minute I should ignore it.

The speaker crackled again. 'Er...sorry guys, you might be in there a little longer.'

'Oh for Christ's sake,' Terry said before sliding down to the floor opposite Jonas and removing his tie with a jerking motion. It was getting stuffy in there. 

Jonas fished in his pocket and pulled out a KitKat. He sliced his finger down the foil and split it in half. It was a bit melted but that just made it better. He offered the other half to Terry who shook his head. 

'I like Twixes better,' Jonas said, trying to change the subject. 'Do you know you can drink tea through them? Melts it all inside.' He put the whole wafery biscuit in his mouth and crunched. 'So good.'

Terry raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Does this man have any fun?

'Say what you like about Bayes,' he plowed on. God I've made a monster. 'He's thinking of doing great things, building all those homeless shelters for example, but you just can trust a Tory.' He repeated the words like he lived by the mantra.

'Why does it matter?' Jonas replied through a mouthful of mushy wafer and chocolate. 'How do you know he's going to be bad because he's a Tory?'

'History is a brilliant teacher,' Terry said, raising his eyebrows. Jonas was beginning to get sick of his patronising eyebrows. 

'I just think everyone's different,' Jonas shrugged. 'I don't think you can judge someone just because they belong to one party. They might start with the same idea but in the end we all like and think different things. What's the difference between saying 'I don't like Tories' and 'I don't like Asian people' or 'I don't like women?' I just think it's silly.'

'It's nothing like that,' he said. 'Bayes is an Eton boy, same as the rest of them.'

'Didn't Dick go to some posh boarding school too?'

'No...I...'

'Yeah, Dad told me, he went to private school in Wimbledon.'

'Yeah but he didn't go Oxford like Bayes? He went straight into a job like a normal bloke. S'why I like him.'

Jonas shrugged. There was no arguing with a man like Terry. He should get 'set in my ways' tattooed across his forehead.

'If I was going to vote tomorrow, I'd vote for Bayes,' Jonas said. 'I just think he's stronger, more genuine and he wants to do good stuff even if he can be a bit harder.'

'Your vote's your vote,' Terry stretched, then quieter at the peak of his stretch. 'Doesn't mean its the right one.'

'You think I can't have an opinion just because I'm younger than you, don't you?' Jonas felt his voice raise a little. He fought to control himself. 'What, exactly, does one night make in my opinion? Just because I'm eighteen tomorrow doesn't mean I know any better than today.'

'Well, it's like that young girl last week? The one from that film. Talking about human rights like she knows what she's talking about. She hasn't lived a life yet, had kids, had a real job? How old is she, 19? You know, whatsername?'

'Emily Brady?' Jonas replied. 'I think she had brilliant opinions. And she's 24 actually. And if you ask me, having kids can narrow some people's opinion.'

'All I ask is that next vote, you be careful. We're trusting you, you know, the next generation, with this great country.'

'Oh thanks,' Jonas replied. 'Passing on great big mess to us. If  you ask me there's a lot wrong with the people up at the top. Who do you see in Lords...'

'Commons.'

'Whatever, Commons, you see old posh blokes. You don't see women, or anyone darker than an Essex boy. I bet there's no transexuals, or pansexuals...'

'What on earth's that?'

'Maybe you should go in the internet, there's this wonderful thing called Google.'

'Oh very funny,' Terry said. 'I have the internet, I just think all this social bollocks is stupid.'

'So you think Emily Brady's YesForWomen hashtag is bollocks?'

'Well what's it going to do on Twotter?'

'Make people aware,' Jonas answered. 'A lot of people my age see it and think it's brilliant. Maybe you shouldn't be so terrified of handing over your great nation to us. We might make it better.'

Terry shrugged. 

The lift beneath them jerked and then there was another horrible grinding sound. Both of them cringed and then the lift moved. 

'There you go lads, and lovely conversation by the way.' Jonas heard the repair man snort. 'You should have a TV show.'

There was the familiar bing and the lift doors slid open. 

Terry jumped up and exited the lift faster than he would usually. 'Nice to meet you,' he mumbled. 

Jonas stood up and watched the older man walk down the threadbare carpeted corridor. It was like time had frozen for the twenty minutes they'd been stuck. Their debate was stuck in an in-between place and now, normalcy resumed. 

'Terry,' he called. He had to say one last thing. He didn't know why. To win? Old versus young. Labour versus the undecided. To make Terry see sense? Terry faltered a step and cocked his ear. Jonas took that to mean he was listening. 'It's not football, Terry.'

He didn't reply, only walked on, through the council doors and into the street. Later that day he would make his vote. Jonas picked up his bag and swung it over his aching shoulders, already thinking about a distant lunchtime. 

 

 

Niall Whatshisname or 'David Tries Being Young and Hip'

Checking the Twitter trends each morning has become a bit of a habit for me. Usually I'm in search of that day's hot topic. Sometimes Twitter delivers. Yesterday for example, I discovered that Michael Gove had been reshuffled in Cameron's cabinet and is no longer Education Secretary (rejoice!). The trend was #GoneGove. Though I was disappointed this was not the eagerly awaited sequel to a Gillian Flynn novel, Twitter did its job. I, with my lazy, first world brain had gotten hold of some news.

Today however I check Twitter and what do I see? One, it is someone called Theo's birthday. Equally enrapturing I find that the trend #NiallTakeASelfieWithTheo is keeping Tweeters occupied across the land. Now I'm a light-hearted chappy when I want to be, but I want to pose the question: is this country in dire need of going outside?

I know the weather here's drizzly at best the vast majority of the time, but really? Niall Whatshisname from One Direction's nephew is one today. Why does seeing them in an image together beat everything else to become today's most talked about thing? A child in the world is a joyous thing, and I have no problem with Niall from One Direction. However the sheer volume of demands from Tweeters to desperately see a child they don't know is a peculiar site to behold.

I think I'm getting old before my years. I'm approaching 24 and I believe I'm entering the window of my life where I'm often confused by some things young people (and some slightly worrying older people) do. I don't really want this to happen. On the one hand I love being young. The full use of my hips, the hope for a long and illustrious career, the so-far lack of wrinkles. These things are wonderful. However, some days I wonder if celebrity culture has gone a little too far. This is how I know I'm beginning to settle into my slippers and find myself powerless to prevent it.

I feel sorry for the celebrities. They are in fact just blokes and lasses, regular joes and janes who we decide are better than us and deserve to be lauded to the point that a nation cries out for an image of them on Snapchat or Instagram or Twitter or Tumblr or Pinterest or a combination of the above.

I worry I'm becoming an old grumpus. Maybe I should join the masses and wait, eagerly for the immenent iPhone image of Whatshisname and Theo. Then I look out of my window. It's sunny outside. We are a nation of cheese rollers and black-pudding throwers and May Day festival dancers.

In the words of Hugh Grant in Love, Actually - the only PM I'm likely to listen to: 'we're the country of William Shakespeare, Churchill, The Beatles, Sean Connery, Harry Potter. David Beckham's right foot, David Beckham's left foot for that matter.' Maybe if we weren't so concerned with images of these pretty people and aspired to do great things with our days, we would have some national pride. We should. Get out into the world, read a book, write a book, bake a cake, hold a large and ridiculous event for charity. Invite a friend over and watch that classic film you've always wondered about. Go on a long road trip with no destination and find some corner of the country where brilliant things happen. We're a great country, but only when we want it to be.

I hate to add gloom to happiness but togetherness is a tremendous thing. So maybe if we were all as like-minded as Tweeters are in wanting to see pictures of 1D, on things such as equal rights for all, ending poverty and doing something about the stupid wages of footballers, the world would be a better place to live in.

This Sunday I attend the Hastings Pirate Day and dress up as a pirate along with an entire town for the third year running. I'll see family and friends and drink drinks and enjoy the sun and the beach (hopefully). I'd urge people to do the same. Maybe that dangerous, scary, doom ridden outside is a little more interesting than what One Direction did today.

Maybe I'll take a selfie.

What is Facebook for? or 'David Tries Being Socially Savvy'

Seriously though. I'm not questioning the existence of Facebook or any social media site. Checking Facebook is one of the first things I do in the morning. Because I'm bored? Because I'm nosy? Because I'm a fidgeter and I don't smoke?

I do ask myself the question a lot: what is Facebook for? As in - what are we supposed to put on Facebook and do different social media sites require different types of content from their users?

We get asked that same question every day. Several times for most of us. 'What's on your mind?' For those of us who don't really pay attention (me included) that's what Facebook asks in it's status bar. A lot of people will look at this and think it's a rant about what people put on Facebook. And I could. I probably will. But my argument isn't exactly what people put on there. My qualm is with Facebook itself.

It annoys me in a lot of ways. I don't think anyone who owns Facebook isn't annoyed by some of what their friends put on it. I bet I'm a huge culprit of this. Sometimes, as I put up my latest status, a photo, my latest page of my Page a Day project - does anyone really care?

But then what is it for? Who am I to say what someone decides to put on their personal Facebook page. I do believe there are some limits though. I am strongly against internet bullying. I've fallen out with people because I didn't agree what they put on their Facebook because some things are just offensive. I stick by my guns to this day, because as strong (and right) as freedom of speech is, sometimes I think you have to wonder. Will what I'm putting out their for the internet to see be offensive to someone? If the answer is yes, then maybe think about what you're writing.

Very few people actually want to cause offense. And if you want to put your opinion as your status that's absolutely fine, just construct it in a way that sounds like a debate, not an outright accusation or insult. And that's something I see every day. Not a lot on Facebook, but on Twitter and especially Tumblr, that wonderful land where everyone has an opinion and everyone is always right so help them God.

So I'd never say people shouldn't put their opinions on Facebook. That's censorship, against human rights and just a little bit Nazi. But thinking about the words that come out of our mouth should extend to our typing fingers. We grow up being told to think about what we're saying. I do think some people need to consider what they put on the internet.

So what is it for? Debate? Showing off is a big one. Sometimes we use Facebook to show our wares, our latest holiday, shiny new car or purchase. Sometimes I think the world was better without it. Because sometimes I sit there, look at someone showing off and Peter Griffin jumps into my head. 'Who the hell cares?'

But of course some people do. Family and friends who actually want to see people do well. Facebook's wonderful for that. So the fault there might lie with me. Am I bitter for seeing someone with a better day than mine? The answer, usually is yes. So who's in the wrong? Nobody really other than Facebook itself. But then wouldn't small updates about your day be more suited to Twitter? That stream of snippets of our thoughts, days and whims?

Is anything that breeds jealousy a good thing? But then is that our own faults as jealous people. More often than not I'm just inclined to side with Peter Griffin. But it's an interesting debate. One I'm sure that will kick off on Facebook. Most likely in capital letters.

Facebook is the land of the misconstrued. The place where we discover that sarcasm really doesn't translate online. Everyone's looking for an argument and everyone has an opinion to give. Do we have a right to? Yes. Is it tiring sometimes. Yes. Should I stop thinking about it? Probably.

A lot of people who know me will smell a double standard. I met my girlfriend of 2 years because of the internet. Through YouTube video blogs and then Tumblr. We spent a year living 80 miles apart and Facebook made that a lot easier. Facebook has a thousand plus points to balance the negatives. The internet is a wonderful place. Here is an infinite land where everyone is connected and you can create content: videos, films, books, blogs, art, plays, anything you desire and most of it is completely free. Like most things on earth you can always find a flip side. The half of the glass that's full. So I am enternally grateful for the internet.

So what is Facebook for? Procrastinating? Showing off? Taking away the necessity for conversation and actually having friends? What's the point when there's a handy like button to show that you're still hanging around. I like to think a big reason me and Charlotte celebrate our 2 year anniversary in just under two weeks is that our relationship wasn't exclusively on Facebook. We made the time for each other in spite of those 80 miles.

We're all culprits of the Facebook downsides, that's the annoying thing. Some days, when I look at Facebook and consider all these things I do wonder. We were probably better off without.

Will that stop me going on it every 5 minutes?

The internet has us. There is no escape.

Don't get me started on Tumblr.

Every 4 Years or 'David Tries Taking Stock'

And World Cup fever grips the nation.

I love the World Cup. The wall chart is at the ready. The excitement held in the minds of millions is palpable. We've even got some nice Brazillian weather to accompany it. Of all its accomplishments, so far the tournement has made me think. Taking place every 4 years, World Cups are far apart but close together. If you look back to last World Cup, South Africa 2010 and consider where you were, what you were doing and who you were with, I bet you'll be surprised at what you've done in a short space of time.

I for one was standing in Hyde Park with my mum. We were watching England play Germany on the big screen put up to entertain concert goers before Paul McCartney took to the stage with 38 hits loved by millions. Unfortunately, England entertained fans a great deal more than Elvis Costello who came on, played 4 songs and then (understandably) left as the oohs and aahs were directed at England's efforts to topple the European giants. We didn't even get 'Oliver's Army' or 'She'.

The setting is important as, for me, that day marked a turning point in my life. I like to call Summer 2010 the summer of gigs. I saw Paul McCartney, Eric Clapton and Green Day in a very quick succession. This summer also marked the run up to me starting my degree in English at St Mary's University. It's strange looking back. At that day, in the sweltering sun, pulling up the grass-turned-hay, I was on a gap year, I had no job, I was single. I'm not afraid or ashamed to admit that I didn't have a great gap year. I wasn't productive enough or proactive enough to get myself moving.

Now, looking back, I can happily say that me and Charlotte: the missus, partner, girlfriend, will be moving in together in a couple of months and we celebrate our 2 year anniversary very soon. I am coming to the end of my Master's degree in Children's Literature after proudly graduating with a 2.1 and honours from that English BA. On top of this I have two jobs. One at my university library gaining a backbone of experience that will hopefully carry me into a career. The other as an intern at the Wimbledon BookFest. Also today I attend a meeting as a judge of the BookFest's Young Writer's Competition; a position awarded to me on account of my writing, my MA and my knowledge of literature. I'm proud to have been a film journalist for 11 months with The Hollywood News, interviewing the likes of Jason Statham, Dara O'Briain, Helen Mirren and Steve Coogan. I also had my first ever published work there. I've made great friends, I've lived in halls, I've lived in a house. I've explored London and found a list of favourite places that have become part of me. I was even longlisted for a short story anthology. I've read books, I've written, I got a tattoo, I've started projects, completed a few and generally had the best four years of my life. I have a feeling I've done more than that, but off the top of my head that's pretty damn great.

And all this in the space of 4 years. It makes me excited for the future, to know that by the time the next World Cup grips the nation, I may have a new list of accomplishments to be proud of.

So I'd urge you to do the same. Have a real think and consider where you've come from and where you're going. And if this proves anything, as television and advert breaks seem to be telling us: the World Cup really does relate to everything.

Immediate Education Reform or 'David Tries Being the Education Secretary'

Michael Gove is an idiot.

This is a fact. He's out of touch and quite frankly a dangerous influence to have so high up the pyramid of power.

This morning it has been revealed that his new curriculum for GCSE students omits To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee and Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. Two of the best and most important novels ever written. They're novels that appear on scores of lists of favourite books, and communicate important messages to the reader. Yet the fact that Of Mice and Men being in the reading lists of 90% of GCSE students is seen as 'worrying' by Mr Gove.

I'm sorry, but why. A novel about two men who share a dream. It shows that life is difficult and sometimes you don't get what you want. It's a sad novel, but an important novel. It's a 20th Century novel.

Gove believes that anything post-1800 is unimportant. His curriculum is composed of Shakespeare, Austen, Dickens and romantic poets. I'm not saying that these aren't important. But the point is they're not more important than anything else. They're authors, not gods. They're highly acclaimed because people like Gove sit in their ivory towers and deem it so. If I had a lot of money, I could get myself into a position of power. I could buy myself a great deal of land, get myself into the circles of the high and mighty and forge myself a career in politics. And then I could say We're Going on a Bear Hunt is the finest novel in the English language. And it is one of them. What kid hasn't heard it? What child doesn't have 'we're not scared' as part of their personal identity? And if they don't then that's fine too because no one person should measure importance in literature. What if a Twilight fanatic became education secretary, or a 50 Shades desperado? We'd be taught that male-centric relationships and lack of consent bondage sessions are the most important things in literature.

But that's the point, anyone with power and money can say anything's great. And whatever Gove's reasoning, he's saying that a collection of authors who are a) all dead and b) all English, are the most important things our children should be reading.

But lets look at the children in the class for a second. How many people are 100% English these days. I'm not, I'm Irish/Scottish/Italian and I'm not seeing my nationality represented on the curriculum. That's just an example. What about middle eastern children? Wouldn't they benefit from seeing something like The Kite Runner on the curriculum? How about Noughts and Crosses? Malorie Blackman's groundbreaking novel that shows us that race and labels should not be an issue. Michael Gove's message is if you're not English then you're not important. Congratulations, you've just alienated the vast majority of English classrooms.

Diversity is so important in modern Great Britain. We are a multicultural nation and this should be celebrated, not locked in a cupboard and deemed 'unimportant' and 'worrying'. What's next? Only British artists in galleries? Only British musicians on the radio?

In my opinion, the curriculum of all subjects, not just English, should be decided by a council of teachers, authors, students, politicians, parents and whoever else has a say on the subject in question. Not by one man with the world's most elite view on literature believing that every child will relate to someone who's been dead 400 years.

Ask any teenager these days what literature they think is important and a lot of them won't say Shakespeare. They'll say The Perks of Being a Wallflower. They'll say The Fault in Our Stars. They'll say Divergent. Why do we disgregard these novels purely because a) the authors are alive and well, b) they sit in the Young Adult section not Classics, and c) if you're Michael Gove, they're American? I could write an essay each on these novels and a thousand others why they deserve just as much right on the syllabus as Hamlet.

All novels have equal importance because they can mean something to someone. I disgregarded Twilight and 50 Shades of Grey earlier in this blog. Just because I have a personal dislike for them doesn't mean they should be disregarded either. They mean something to a lot of people. No one person, myself included should have the final say on matters as important as literature.

I urge you, whatever party Michael Gove sits with in next year's general elections, vote the opposite. He's a dangerous man.

We need an immediate education reform. Basically, boot grandad out.