Being Late (And How to Deal With It)

I doubt there is a soul among us who can deny feeling at some point in their life the inextinguishable panic of being late. It is a brutal but inevitable experience that will undoubtedly happen again and again until you truly believe that the universe has a personal vendetta against your punctuality.

It begins in school, when we are blissfully unaware of both time management and consequence, and can be happily going about our mundane business, with an enraged parent as our only alarm clock. As the years go by, however, the system changes slightly: We become aware of our consequences; we are educated as to the importance of time management; we remedy our priorities, until getting to your destination on time becomes essential. Of course, as the universe would have it this is when it gets thrown out of our control and into the hands of the unmerciful, uncompromising, and unforgiving “fate”.

From that moment on it is she who determines when we arrive, despite all our attempts to outwit Her. When we choose the train there will be a problem with the railway or the route (one that is directly proportional to the importance of our appointment); if we chance the bus (and of course it will be a frequent bus assuring us no more than ten minute intervals) we will find ourselves locked in a time capsule where every bus we want glides smugly past in the opposite direction, and the ten minute intervals temporarily expand to the exact point in which we lose faith that this bus actually exists (even if we have used it successfully many times before). If you decide to walk, the earth somehow manages to stretch ever so slightly; not enough to be proven, but enough to add a good few minutes and a furious frustration to your journey. And of course, the one day you decide to take the car (be it yours or someone else’s at your expense) it will be the day everybody else has the same idea (apart from those you see walking on the pavement irritatingly slowly and yet still faster than you).

So why, you may ask, am I voicing (or wording) this abominable problem if there is indeed nothing to be done? Well, the powers that be may have control over what happens to us, but we and we alone can control our reaction. The fact is, if you reach the stage where you are willing to believe the universe is out to get you, then surely it isn’t too far-fetched to think there may be a reason for it. For example, you are alive and well, with a roof over your heads and indeed an appointment that seems so important not to miss (of course if you fail to meet these assumptions then this article may not apply to you), the universe in all its infinite wisdom must be doing something right; and if you are going to be late for something then maybe it is just the way things are meant to be.

Of course I share your scepticism and am aware of how unlikely this theory is, but if you can believe it in your time of agonising helplessness then you can beat fate, you can beat the universe, and you can beat your own frustration. And if you can achieve that, then equipped with this novel confidence no platform alteration, flat tyre, or terrible (yet oddly intriguing) accident can hinder your optimism. Because let’s face it, worrying about it isn’t going to get you there any sooner.

John Butler Trio (and why they are amazing)

Choosing a band to see on your Birthday is a challenging task, especially when an eventful city leaves you spoilt for choice. I was introduced to the John Butler trio by a friend a few months ago, and after seeing a couple of impressive songs online, I decided they would be worth the gamble.

They burst into their first few songs after a stylishly nonchalant introduction, setting the pace of the evening with some tricky riffs and one of their singles. It was a wonderful moment because I relaxed, utterly reassured I had made the right decision (a feeling I could feel I shared with those around me). As a musician myself I was looking out for comparable qualities, such as his vocal range, which at first seemed misleadingly limited. Of course I soon realised he had mastered his voice much like he had mastered his many instruments, and used it as such to wonderful effect later on in the show.

Though this was unquestionably a good performance, it was only later on, when his comrades gave up the stage for his solo performance, that this concert exceeded everybody’s expectations. “Ocean” is widely considered to be one of his best songs, but the magic began before he even shaped his first chord. Completely contrasting to his laid back opening, this introduction was a passionate speech about a protest he experienced in his hometown. It was slightly hindered by the audience’s ignorant cheering, as they clearly had no idea of the incident he was referring to. Nevertheless, it was inspiring to see such a spirited audience captivated by this one incredible man. He then went on to perform what I believe (after extensively searching all online resources) to be the most mind blowing rendition of this song ever. The audience was utterly mesmerised for the entire duration, united in sheer disbelief; everybody sharing the confusion of how he managed to condense the four guitars that could clearly be heard into this one vessel of musical genius. It was a rare and special moment to feel everyone around me thinking exactly the same thing: “This is the best thing I have ever heard in my whole entire life.”

From there the evening went from strength to strength. Each song seemed like a mosaic of genres, infused with a tapestry of world influences from Indian to Aborigine to good old fashioned redneck country. Even the rest of the band held their own during their incredible six minute drum and bass solo (reminding everybody what “drum and bass” actually sounds like). John Butler’s endearing ramblings between songs held the show together with humility and genuine passion, leaving every member of the crowd spellbound on their departure. It was undoubtedly a wonderful concert, and after watching him perform his impossible songs, I feel enlightened as to the true purpose of people’s fingernails.

It's not your fault, Rebecca Black!

Okay so anybody who has the internet-time to stumble upon this blog will have almost definitely seen Rebecca Black's infamous "Friday" song (and beautifully directed accompanying video). When I first found it i was rendered dumbfounded for a few minutes, before conforming with the rest of the world and joining in the mocking laughter. It is undoubtedly a ridiculously bad song, with virtually nothing like-able about it. Let this blog in no way imply that I condone this song in any shape or form. But a couple of nights ago, when procrastination was my top priority (thank you exams) I did a little youtube browsing, and found some interesting versions (backwards, sped up, chipmunked etc) of "Friday". I then figured that if I'd invested this much time, I might as well find out who this Rebecca Black is who fell so virally into our lives. It was on discovering a bit more about her that my opinion began to change.

That sounds misleading. That sounds like she's going to turn out to be some cancer-surviving genius who puts all her profits to blind orphans. I'm pretty sure she's just a dumb kid. But she is just a kid. A thirteen year old girl who's extravagant mother decided to give her the gift of a music video. "Friday" was produced AND written entirely by ARK music factory, and it cost Mrs Black $4000. Needless to say, there's no wonder not much effort went into the song. So Rebecca got a song to sing and a video to star in: a perfect present. Except the song sucked ass and she became infamous overnight. Imagine coming home one day after school, going on youtube to see if any more friends had seen your video, only to find a million people had seen it, and about 80% of them hated it and were laughing at you.

This is basically the same as a thirteen year old girl getting a photo-shoot for her birthday, only the photographers are crap and make all her pictures look horrible, and then somehow EVERYBODY finds out and starts laughing at her. You want to pick on someone pick on the dicks who took this girl's money and wrote her the worst song in the world.

Having said that, this whole thought process began because I heard that Simon Cowell was a fan of Rebecca Black, and controversial as he is, without a million and one years in the business, his opinion must have some value. Of course, the term "there's no such thing as bad press" didn't come from nowhere, and this girl has accidentally become one of the most famous thirteen-year-olds in the country. Give her a half decent song, a half decent singing lesson and some top of the range fake-ifying equipment and you have yourselves a number one. It's not really about who can sing anymore anyway; it's about who's famous. And Rebecca Black? You're famous. I think she got screwed out of a good present, but she's been noticed now, and I find it hard to believe we've seen the last of her. Simon's about to make his entrance.

Basically, Rebecca, I'm sorry, you're a victim in all this, and next time I have fun on a Friday (or indeed face a car-seat-related decision) I will be sure to think of you. (And on that subject you should wear like a hat or something that says your thirteen, because, you know, it's so hard to tell these days and you look like you could be at least, like, sixteen.)

Dawn (A poem)

I sometimes watch the dawn from a dirty canvas
And envy the world;
Its ability to begin again without pain or pride
Free from the tide of emotion;
Adept in accepting the draining drive of Destiny;
Freely forgiving the darkness from the night before;
Filling a putrid page with sunlight and sanctity.

I look back on my darkness and decay and pray I had
Such strength.
Such strength to leave the past for the past and cast my pride
Aside.
I pray to the world to see through its eyes;
Through the scratches and scars to the seas and the skies
And then, from way up there, maybe I too can learn to
Dawn.

A traveller's glimpse of India

This is an extract of my experiences in India. I can guarantee it's mostly true!



Some say that certain parts of Delhi can make hell seem like heaven and poverty seem like luxury, however as I wondered the bustling streets on the first morning of my adventure, I couldn't agree less. Delhi, far from heaven though it was, was fascinating. It was so much more alive than England: With thousands of little stalls narrowing the dirt roads by half, and hollering merchants being ignored by as many people as possible; with cows lying in the middle of the street, nonchalantly chewing their cud, and little three-wheeled ricochets weaving hurriedly through the masses. And such colours! Every stall retched a different, radiant colour onto the street, and every person, regardless off their ethnicity, boasted the brightest clothes. My primary aim of travelling was to see a world different from my own, and I couldn't believe the staggering result that lay before me on my very first day.



I ambled aimlessly from street to street, smiling at everyone, and making eye contact with no-one. Amongst my awe, i also felt a sudden frustration, as I knew I wouldn't get to see even a small percentage of this forgotten land given the time I had. I was distracted by an engulfing smell as I passed a little food stall with what looked like samosas piled high on the counter, and I suddenly realised my hunger. I'd been told countless horror stories about eating from the street in Delhi, but I decided this was a mistake I was obliged to make. I refused to lose out on the Delhi experience by adhering to ignorant western assumptions. I decided that if my immune system couldn't handle a little bacteria, then it was about time I toughened it up. In hindsight, this urge to rebel would have been better explored after the fourteen hour bus journey I would soon endure. Though I am not proud of the rather unmentionable consequences that soon followed, I truly feel enriched from the experience. After all, a traveller isn't a traveller until a publicly humiliating gastric incident is suffered.



I finished the apparently harmless samosa, and after struggling with the certainty of my whereabouts, I arrived safely back at my hotel. I refilled my body with water and gathered my bags, ready for the bus journey to a little village called Dharamshala. I daringly decided to brave a ricochet, and paid him 30 rupees (about 40 pence) to take me to the bus stop. I felt slightly guilty at how relieved I was to see so many western faces; each one caked with the traveller's trademark of sweat, fascination and anticipation. This guilt was soon replaced with an ironic smile as I realised most of the travellers were also foreign; the majority from Israel. Unbeknown to me, I would soon be known by all of them on a very personal level.

Why I Will Never Return to the Lake District

Very occasionally in life, everything falls into place with such perfection it tests my lack of belief. What happens slightly more often, however, is everything seems to fall into place momentarily, before unravelling chaotically into a laughably horrifying mess. Though I am not proud to admit this first adventure is the latter, it has led me to begin blogging, and for that I am grateful.

As my friends know I am awaiting the arrival of my girlfriend, Viviana (who is hoping to transfer to my university in September), so my summer has been full of questionable ideas to hurry time along. The latest of which was to go walking in the Lake District. Having grown up in the North Welsh hills, I feel very at home halfway up mountains, and so this outing seemed like a perfect way to pass a week or two. This idea became a plan one night when by chance I met someone who lives in the heart of the Lakes. She invited me up to visit, and told me about a rock festival I should join her in attending. As a fan of both rock music and festivals, I didn't need much persuading, and before long I had the whole thing planned.

On Friday, it began. I met my friend at the station, and she drove me to her town of Cockermouth ( which I am ashamed to admit caused far too many amused giggles) via Keswick, where I bought a basic supply of hiking equipment (tent, sleeping bag, boots, compass etc.). In addition to this I had a guitar for campfire music, enough clothes for seven days, and a considerable amount of alcohol (thank you ALDI). We arrived at the festival, and after introducing me to some of her friends, she left. She came back briefly that night, but that was almost all I saw of her for the weekend. This left me in a very uncomfortable situation where I was helplessly tagging along to a group of people who had no idea who I was, and weren't really sure why I was there. Of course the torrential rain didn't help either. On the plus side, there was enough alcohol to forget the awkward premise, and by Sunday morning most of the weekend had been reduced to a blur. I took comfort in telling myself I'd had fun, though.

My friend didn't seem to think she'd done anything wrong, but offered to drive me to the youth hostel none the less, where I was determined to turn my trip around. I felt like I'd been hemorrhaging money so far, what with camping equipment and a fair few crepes (comfort food is a must at wet festivals), so I decided to go hillwalking, where I could enjoy free accommodation and cheap food. I was anticipating rain. I was not anticipating the consequence.

One of my favourite aspects of traveling is the eccentric characters you are sure to meet along the way. The volunteer at the youth hospital was almost a caricature of these people. His hair was cropped on top, with a long, plaitted, greying ponytail snaking around his neck and down his front. He walked in a lively but hunched shuffle, as though he'd been living in a house that was too small for him, and you could tell by his teeth, face and clothes that he lived on his own. Having said this, he was very nice and accommodating, and agreed to let me leave my guitar and things while I went on my hill-walking escapades.

And so the next morning, with hope in my heart and a spring in my step, I set out in my new boots and the mild rain on my three day hike. I had a fair idea of where I wanted to go, and with a disintegrating but kindly lent OS map, I was on my way through fields and over stiles. Two hours later I ran out of public footpath, so I altered my route and set off for the "Lord's Seat"; a small hill that leads on to a nice walk through the forest ending up at Braithwaite, where there was a campsite waiting for me. It was a mile along a road, and then up into the mountains. I was having fun, and despite the rain it was turning out to be a pretty good day, until reality strayed from the map and the footpath... stopped.

In retrospect, it was a very metaphorical day, and I like to believe this is where the metaphors began. Have you ever felt there is a path set out for you, be it by fate, divine intervention or your own doing? you happily follow this path through life until one day, the path isn't there anymore. You can see where you've come, which is comforting, but it also shows you how far you've come, and how much effort you put into getting there. You can't find any moral justification as to why your path has stopped when you were doing everything right. Did you misread the path? Was there a technical glitch? or are you just not seeing what's right in front of you? Such thoughts, though deep and meaningful, don't help much when you're in that situation, and I was faced with the solemn prospect of having to admit defeat and retrace my steps.

Back on the path (which was more a gravel track heading up a mountain) I started relying more on what I saw in front of me and less on what the betrayal-of-a-map had to offer. By now, I'd given up on my waterproof (I think it's a fair course of action when you're still getting wet, only now you also look ridiculous and feel like you're suffocating) and was feeling very manly in just a t-shirt. The rain was far from relenting, and due to boggy fields my boots were soaked through. It was at this rather unfortunate time I realised this fantastic new pair of footwear was in fact a size too big. Cue blisters.

An hour or so later I found myself at another path ending. By now I had gone past the depressed stage into hysterical. It's very soul-destroying when you leave your house to pass time faster and to do something active and meaningful, only to wish you were curled up in bed watching re-runs of QI and Mock the Week. I was openly having an argument with the man upstairs (who I don't believe in, by the way) about this, and how pointless this was if it was a "test of my faith" as I didn't have any faith to begin with. In my defense, I think I won. Faced with this second choice I had to make, I decided I would take matters into my own hands, and venture forth into unknown land (metaphor alert!). I then found myself on the side of a mountain, in the middle of heather and bilberries, with no clue where I was, or even where I was meant to be going. I decided this was as good a time as any to stop for lunch.

By the time I'd finished my sandwich, I had decided on two things. Firstly, I could see a road, and decided it must lead to Braithwaite, and secondly, I decided I was going to climb this God-damned mountain if it was the last thing I ever did. Actually I think "mountain" is a little generous, and after 5 minutes of using heather to pull myself up, I reached the top. From this peak, to my amazement, I saw my Bethlehem in the distance, a mere three or four miles away. All of a sudden I was free from my chains of depression and misery, and running on endorphins and hysteria. And I mean literally running. To hell with maps and compasses, I knew the direction I was heading, and nothing was going to slow me down. I ran down the side of this hill (unaware of my poor feet sliding around falling victim to friction) into a lovely deep wood, where I found a path. I headed along here, as it was in the right direction, and after about twenty minutes, I found myself on another gravel road. I was a little put off, as I was expecting a proper road, but I was still going in the right direction, so I didn't mind. It was then, however, that my first blister burst.

Anybody who has rubbed alcohol into an open wound will be able to sympathise with me on this one. I was told later that the searing pain I felt was the ammonia from my sweat. Call it what you will, but it clawed at my optimism with all its might. I pushed on, though, more determined than ever to reach my destination (besides, what other choice did I have?). My last ounce of optimism, however, disappeared when at the top of this track I saw sickeningly familiar features from two hours before. It happens in films. It's almost a cliche, but I never thought it was actually possible to walk in a straight line for two hours and end up in exactly the same place. Thus begins the third metaphor: What does one do when faced with a familiar crossroads? does one give up, turn around and go back? does one go the same way, more determined than ever not to make the same mistake again? or does one suck it up, and take the road not taken?

Somehow, I'd managed to retain a little logic, and so chose the latter. This landed me in an adventure activity park with, thank goodness, people who knew where they were. I asked them the way to Braithwaite and they told me, just as my instinct had said that I needed to take the road, and that it was just two miles "that way". Of course, in life when one is totally convinced of one thing, any advice given by a third party member can easily be misinterpreted in any way the brain desires. Given this I managed to walk three miles along the road in the wrong direction. After an embarrassingly long time, I realised I was going the wrong way, and so turned around to go back; "I can still make it to Braithwaite,' I thought, "it will just be five miles instead of two. I can do this." However as I turned around I realised that this place was not entirely unfamiliar either, and slowly it dawned on me that I was indeed where I had been five hours earlier, before venturing up "Lord's seat".

I think by now I was too drained for any normal emotion. I may have chuckled slightly, I may even have struck up another conversation with a non-existent being, but I weighed my losses, and decided to walk back to Cockermouth. I realised it was probably now closer than Braithwaite, so for the last time that day, I refreshed my plan, and began walking. Of course now it was more of a hobble, especially after the second and third blister burst.

I must admit I was a little surprised that during my three hour trek along the roadside, limping and clearly in pain, not one car stopped to make sure I was OK. I'm not saying I wanted a lift; I'm not even sure I would have accepted one, but it would have been nice to know that people cared. Instead, the response seemed to be to speed up and veer across the other side of the road, even when I was on the grass verge. It was quite a wake up call, though, and I like to think from now on I will be less absorbed in my own head, and will aim to help those in need.

I did eventually arrive in Cockermouth, and successfully turned my day around with a delicious steak dinner and a nice bottle of red, thanks to Sainsbury's. I went to bed that night feeling utterly enriched. A horrible day, no doubt, and I won't be able to walk for a while without hobbling, but there's no denying it was incredibly character building. It gave me a lot of time to think about life and the paths it involves, and though I am now home (and so very glad of it) a week earlier than planned, I do not consider this to have been a failed weekend; simply a challenging one.

There are many valuable lessons to be learned from this experience. For example, you should always be sure you have the right sized boots; You should always take a copius amount of alcohol to a festival, and there is nothing I have yet encountered that a nice bit of comfort food can't fix. Having said that, I doubt I will be returning to the Lake District any time soon.