V.I.P.

In the world, very few things have any inherent meaning, other than what we attach to to them. A young child has instincts that give meaning to the world around it. It knows that snakes and spiders are to be avoided (a self-preservation instinct), and that a mother figure is comforting.

As you grow older, many things in the environment will take on meaning depending on how they are used. The colour red, for example, is used to mean danger. This could be a 'STOP' sign, or a warning light in a movie. Seeing these things mean that in your mind, you will associate them with the colour red, and the meaning they bring. Another example of this is how red is often used as a shorthand for violence, because it is the colour of blood. This is an example of classical conditioning, which utilizes reinforcement. It's also the reason why horror movie posters often contain large amounts of red in the pictures or font.

What I'm trying to say is that often, it's not important what something actually is, but rather the meaning it carries with it.

The largest, and most influential instance of this is sex.

SEX!

Just then, when you read the word 'sex', a thousand connections were made in your mind. References to things you've read, seen, or experienced, all of which make up an incredibly detailed idea of what sex is to you. We all carry our own version of this idea with us, influenced by our own experiences. But increasingly, our own ideas about what sex is and what it should mean are influenced by forces outside of our personal spheres, and not for the better.

A Dictionary defines sex as: "An act with reproductive functions".

I define sex as: An expression of affection.

Our culture defines sex as...here's where it gets complicated. In television, movies, books, videogames, sex is now shown to be a goal.

Instead of being traditionally portrayed as an act, or an event, sex is overwhelmingly shown to be a prize. Something you get. Something you are entitled to through your actions. And when something is shown to be a prize, people lose all perspective on it. If it's shown as a prize, it becomes a be-all, end-all attainment, or something to be won. Suddenly it seems viable, even normal for people to spend their entire adolescences, sometimes their lives in pursuit of it.

You might think "Okay, our culture gives a terrible impression of what sex is about, but it's only an impression, and people will see past it. Right?"

But the thing is, they won't. They won't be able to.

When something is placed on a pedestal in the same way that sex is, it's status as a concept is elevated. Due to the fact that it is so ill-defined and mysterious in young people's media, yet so prized, they will assume that it is simply above their understanding. They'll be driven to pursue it, without really knowing why.

And this is where the danger is.

We risk having an entire generation grow up with a stunted definition of sex. If the first ideas about sex that they're given are distorted and fetishised, then that will affect the ways in which they percieve sex throughout their entire lives.

I'm concerned about these effects because I've been influenced by them. Half my adolescence has been spent fretting over something I didn't understand. Let me tell you what sex was (and on a bad day, still is) like to me.

...

Picture a cityscape at night. All is quiet, and small lights pierce the blackness. Towards the centre of this place, a dark monolith rises up out of the pockmarked pavement. It's a nightclub. A gaudy and gigantic neon sign adorns it, carving a name into your retina in primary colours. The beat from the music playing within vibrates out from the club's walls, permeating everything around you. Nothing seems untouched by it's influence, all the city's architecture seeming to lean obliquely towards it.

It commands attention. It's the centre of everything. At least that's what the throng of people around you seem to think. You're in snaking line, surrounded by them. Preening hopefuls, waiting to get in. A cookie-cutter collective of haircuts and brand names. You're pushed along by them, carried towards the club by these braying skittles, gossiping and enthusing about the wonders that supposedly await.As you approach the doors, you can see frosted glass windows, behind which blurred and indistinct figures can be seen doing...something. There's a huge, stony-faced bouncer guarding the door.

If you ask him how to get in, or what you're supposed to do when you get there, he'll just shrug. How's he supposed to know? I mean, you've been here before...right?

So, what now? If you want to be included, or even find out what all the fuss is about, you've got to join the teeming throng. But suppose the place is members-only. There's an implied standard if you want to participate, and you DO want to participate, don't you? Good. Thought you were a weirdo for a second.

So you'll wait with the others, shivering, hoping, and worrying.
But what if you don't get in soon?
What if you're not good enough?
What if you're left alone?

...

Weird situation, eh?
And that's what sex seems like to a great many people. A massive, daunting, unknowable concept. And it's not, it's one of the most normal things in the world.

The night is cold, and the velvet rope's all sticky. Why don't we get on with living instead?

Cumulo Irritatum.

It is 9:27am, and the heavens have opened, sending freezing sheets of hydrogen and oxygen molecules down to us.

It is 9:27am, and it has been raining for 3 days.

Don't get me wrong, I like the rain; I like looking at it, seeing it strike the ground at a furious velocity. I find watching the murky figures that trudge about in it, heads downcast, endlessly fascinating. There is also something that appeals to me about the immense randomness of billions of objects that constantly alter their shapes, impacting each other, merging, splitting, crashing about and all the while plummeting to the ground.

What I dislike is being out in it. To retain any semblance of warmth, I have to don:

-A Trench Coat

-A pair of Leather Gloves (just wearing these makes me feel so creepy I have to hide them by shoving my hands in my pockets; but if you're wearing a trench coat, that's somehow worse...)

-A Scarf (This is truly an accessory for the mentally deranged. I mean, this is an item of clothing that actively TRIES to strangle you as you're wearing it!)

- My poor, beloved trilby, which ends up defeated, slumped over my head like a depressed felt haddock.

If I close my eyes really tight, I can imagine I'm a sleuth from a bygone era, pacing the streets in search of adventure...though the feeling walking in the rain produces is usually more akin to being a soldier with trench foot (though at least I've got a dead rat dinner to look forward to.)

If, by some miracle of architecture and parenting, you have never encountered this phenomenon of 'Rain', I suggest you pay a visit to your nearest bus stop.

A bus shelter in a raging rainstorm is alone in the universe as being a quintessentially miserable location. A piece of mass-produced metal that must have been commitee-designed simply to incorporate this many bad ideas. In a miricle of engineering, the only part of the roof that keeps water out is the centre, affording dryness only to those prepared to stand surrounded by shivering, dog-faced people. State of the art non-functioning lights act as small conduits, funneling rainwater onto a lucky few. Brand-new perspex windows with holes kicked in them by highly-trained experts,are strategically positioned at face and genital level for maximum discomfort.

But surely there must be some silver lining to this misery shared between people. A chance for conversation, maybe friendship to be struck up; some gallows camraderie?

People huddle underneath the shelter through an unconscious atavistic instinct to share body heat, but are repulsed by each other. So we end up standing, deperately trying not to make eye contact, close, but divided, like a little pack of grey, damp sausages.

And that was my week.

A fairy story

Hello there children.
Are you sitting comfortably?
Then I'll begin.

Once upon a time, there lived a fairy who made his home in an old tree stump in the middle of a park. This happy little fellow wore a name tag he had found on the pavement, pinned to the front of the grimy dish towel which served as his kilt (another great find!). He didn't have a name as such, so he simply wrote 'fairy' on it.

As he wandered the park one day, a thought struck him:
Why not do some good deeds in the run-up to christmas?
He was sure he'd been a good little fairy, but you can't afford to leave these things to chance.

Venturing forth towards the town, he came across a rather large, beetroot-faced man jogging along, looking very tired. The man wore a bright blue tracksuit and wobbled excessively. As he bounced along he resembled nothing more than one of those little rubber balls that businessmen squeeze between board meetings and spousal neglect. He really was becoming quite sweaty.

"Do you think you should take a rest?" the fairy asked.

"Oh, no, lad." the Large Man replied. "Got to keep up one's fitness, eh?"

"Are you sure? There's a bench right over there." offered the fairy, motioning to a rusty, yet undeniably inviting-looking bench on the side of the path.

The Large Man 'ummed' and 'erred', but he was terribly tired. And fat. "But mostly tired." he thought. Cantering over to the bench, he sat down heavily.

The bench was frankly not going to stand for any of this 'being sat on' nonsense, and promptly collapsed. The man was sent careening backwards into patch of unfortunately placed bramble bushes. The fairy may have been a kind little soul, but he was smart enough not to want to be around for the aftermath of this, and made himself scarce.

He was disheartened, but not defeated. He was sure there were plenty of people in his situation who had suffered such a setback.

Continuing on his merry way, he met, outside a bakery of all places, a baker. She was only a waif of a girl, dwarfed by her which apron seemed to have been tailored for the ill-fated jogger. She grimaced and scribbled on a notepad, pausing ocasionally to chew on a pencil.

"Are you alright?" asked our hero, hopefully.

"Not really." said the girl. "I've got to design a cake for my bosses' party, but I can't come up with anything."

"What sort of party is it?" the fairy replied.

"A bowling themed party." said the girl, frowning at her notes.

The fairy's eyes lit up! "Oh, I KNOW!" he said, grabbing the notepad. "You could have a bowling pin here, and on either side, a bowling ball!"

He sketched out a little diagram, and gave the notepad back to the girl. He blinked at it for a moment, as though recognising something, but shrugged it off.

"This is actually quite good," said the girl "I'll show my boss right now!"

She hurried inside, and the fairy cocked an ear at the doorway, listening for a reaction. There was a shout, and a crash. A very tall, very pointy man appeared in the doorway, and pointed at the fairy with his pointiest pointer finger.

"IS THIS A JOKE?!?" he yelled, brandishing the notepad.

As i said, our little friend is many things, but foolish is not one of them. He was off again, as fast as his little legs could carry him. He sped towards a shopping centre, hoping to lose any pursuers he may have gained, and eventually came to rest in the underground car park of a shopping complex.

He slumped against an expensive-looking red car that obviously spent it's weekdays compensating for something, and tried to catch his breath. He felt that maybe he should cut his losses with today, go home to the tree stump and spend a theraputic evening bearing his soul to some of the more sympathetic lichens.

Suddenly, he noticed a tall, heavy-set man crouching behind a car, rubbing something with a rag. He watched for a moment, before approaching, and hazarding his luck.

"Can I...er...can I help you with anything?" he asked point-blank.

The man looked up. He had the kind of face that was usually stood outside Eastern European nightclubs, regretfully informing you that it was now obliged to 'break you'. He smiled in the same sort of way a series of fence posts do. Gappily.

"No, little man," the gap-toothed man graveled. "I am having work to do...as soon as I fix this."

He showed the fairy what he was polishing. It was a grubby revolver.

"It won't fire." he explained.

Our hero knew nothing about guns, but this was his last chance, and he was going to help!

"Have you...checked to see if the barrel is blocked?" ventured the fairy.

The man blinked stupidly, theN raised the gun so that he stared down the barrel.

"Little man," he smirked, "there is SOMETHING in there."

The fairy was overjoyed he'd gotten something right, and suprised the man with a tight hug as he glared down the gun's muzzle.

...

The fairy, this happy little chap, didn't seem to shoppers to be quite so jolly as he stumbled around town later, a dark red stain on his tea towel.

Manley Power.

Salvager's Log. XX Date 2087.
While searching through the ruins of the Pater ghettos, we found a collection of meticulously filed documents, written in eyeliner and bound in fabrics from over 30 seasons ago. It appears to be some kind of diary kept by a political dissident, possibly a member of the Brotherhood. Dates are hard to ascertain, since it doesn't use any known measuring system. There's some reference to 'anno domini' which sounds foreign. Lance thinks it may be of some intrest to a historienne, considering how old it is.

I find it...odd to say the least. Perhaps I'll mince over to Bruno's place, see what he thinks.

Here's an extract I tore out. It appears to be a speech or some kind of address:

"Comrades, my brothers in arms, these are dark days; at this very moment, agents of the Ovarium hunt us to ensure our destruction!

Have you all forgotten?! I look before me and see you clad in the warpaint of the enemy, lashes curled and genitals constricted in tight trousers. Have you forgotten how to be men?

Perhaps you mere boys need a role model...a champion! Allow me to enlighten you.
In the early twenty-first century, the social tool known as the internet was riddled with the opinion that the ultimate amn was a being known as 'Chuck Norris'. Fantastical claims were abound, but this...'Norris' was but a false messiah.

The true man began as a humble fellow, living amoung vagrants, braving the elements and drinking disinfectant strength lager through sheer force of Y-chromasome. He killed and ate his own food, the man-sized squirrel, despite antifreeze induced blindness. Ironically, this just made it easier for him to stride confidently through town, shouting "What ho, crumpets!" in the general direction he assumed women would be.

But he soon tired of this life, and went on a pilgramge to the grave of the great prophet Manley Power, in Bath. There he left an offering of beef, bacon, and bison. Suddenly, a huge, lightning bolt penetrated the heavens, and struck him with an almighty crash.

Our champion emerged,ith a cry of "HAAAAAA!" that made every women in the vicinity pregnant.

He was a mustachioed, Y-chromasomed mass of pure, bubbling testoterone. he was masculine. Bacon wrought. Utterly contraffeminate. While most men are made from earth, wind, air and fire; he was so laden in pure manliness he was considered to be made of muscle, tempered steel, and bodily fluids.

And so he strode the earth, a beacon to all those beset by the plague of metrosexuality.
He fathered many children, so virile he had to be buried in a T-shaped coffin.

it is upon this man you must model yourself. His name was Al...(the rest of the entry is torn off.)"

...
I guess that's where babies come from.

Snapshots into my liff.

As some of you may have found, there just aren't enough words to go around nowadays.

The word gap between the rich and poor is widening everyday, with the guffawing, fox-masticating toffs making off with all the Latinate treasures, while the poor, dog-faced, and disease-ridden amoung us are left with the meagre pickings of 'bling' and 'twittering'.

However, there are certain groups bravely coining new phrases to help the
underprivileged. I strongly suggest you donate to the 'Twitter's Women Against Tastelessness' organization. With a view to being part of the solution, I have created several new words to define certain situations and feelings I have encountered recently.

-Contraphrau, noun. (con-trah-fra-ow)
The situation created when a girl would desperately like her male friends to stop talking about their genitalia.

-Infinimpotent, adj. (in-finihm-poh-tent)
A word used to describe a conversation between two people that will be repeated ad nauseum, whether either party involved likes it or not.

-Iscariot, noun. (Eye-ska-ree-ot)
The feeling of guilt imposed on you by your Ipod when it sees you booting up a non-Mac computer.

-Bepob, noun. (Bee-pob)
The malformed result of a professional scat singer critically fumbling an intelligence roll.

-A gauch johnny, noun. (gow-ash-johnny)
A type of prophylactic obtained by having to look the college health nurse in the eye and, while straight-faced, ask for a 'small'.

Hopefully this helped.