A Misguided Christmas Message

It's that time of year again where the children of the world are convinced a fat old man defies half of the laws of physics simply to feed their ultra-consumerist desires. And I love it.

Maybe it's because I loved it from a very young age and that stuck with me, maybe it's the whole idea of togetherness and unity of mankind and peace and love on Earth if only for one day, maybe it's the food.
It's probably the food.

And what goes hand in hand with food? Drink of course. This is Ireland at Christmas, why not embrace the stereotype? So before you partake in a light beverage or two, let's take the time to educate you on all of the different types of drunk you can be.

Let's get started!

Number One: The Jekyll and Hyde

Drunk you is the complete opposite of the you that dwells in the land of sobriety. Where you are quiet, they are loud, what you want to keep a secret they scream it from the rooftops...repeatedly. This type of drunk has the advantage, however, of being able to distance yourself from all the rampant stupidity you bathed yourself in the night before.
When all of your friends say "James you got so drunk last night you started humping that statue of Buddha"
And I'll say "Dammit drunk James you've done it again. What are we going to do with him, guys?"

Then they look at me and make a call to a man in white with a giant butterfly net.

Number Two: The Weepy

The weight of the world lands squarely on your shoulders. Everything that has ever gone wrong hits you at once and you simply can't hold the tears. That time your dog died. That time you stubbed your toe. When you got dumped. That thing that happened in that country in Africa that time.
Your friends are obliged to hang around you and make sure you're okay.

And oh do they resent you for it.

Number Three: The Hulk

Whether it's because of a few too many mouthfuls of  a certain member of the Daniels family or just your general demeanour, when you drink you become an uncontrollable rage monster, fighting anything in your path for no other reason than they might have glanced accidentally in your general direction that one time...maybe

Number Four: The Master Planner

You've had a few. You're chatting with your friends; you're having a good time when suddenly you're making plans to go travelling with two people that you met that day whilst you were trying to decide whether you should have another beer or start on the vodka. You agree to a great many things that you have no sober desire to follow through on
The next morning you decide whether or not you want to just make up an excuse so you don't have to see these people ever ever again.

Ever

Number Five: The Old Friend

Utilising the wonders of 21st century smart phones, keeping in contact with friends has never been easier. Drinking has made it almost impossible to not contact them.
At various points in the night, people whose names you haven't heard or thought about in months are receiving a multitude of misspelled words and phrases in the form of a text message. When this doesn't deliver an instantaneous response, you ring them.
They answer.
Here is where it all goes downhill. Your conversation goes in circles; you forget what you were trying to say, why you rang them or even who you are calling. All you know is that the person on the end of the line is of the utmost importance and you have to see them...like now.

And so you, of unsound mind and equilibrium you find your way to their home, meet their friends, eat their food and go on your merry way.

It is only in the morning you remember that you went there and the friend lets you know what a complete idiot you are. Friendship, ladies and gentlemen

Number Six: The Usain Bolt

To you, modern transportation is a crutch. Evolution has delivered unto you all the athleticism you will ever require and it is vastly superior to any well heated taxi cab when it comes to taking you the 3 miles to your home. You are fast. You are strong. No distance cannot be traversed. And the best part is you get to skip all that boring running in silence stuff because you don't remember doing it. All you know now is that you are home, in the clothes you were wearing the night before and your legs burn like the fires of Mt. Doom.

Despite this pain you do not learn from this and are certain to do it again.

Number Seven: The Pigeon

It's the end of the night. You are alone. Of course you are. You are the hapless and hopeless wandered of the club. Staying in one place too long was boring. But as is the protocol at the end of the night, you begin to make your way home. 

You aren't that familiar with your location but you know your nest is in this city and you have to get there. So you start walking. A sense of direction sober you just doesn't have kicks in and before you know it you are waking up swaddled in coats and jackets your friends have put around you after showing up at their door an hour or two after they came home. 

You don't know how you got here or by what means, but all that is important is that you got there and there is a Spar across the street with a hot food counter and coffee.

Number Eight: The Gentleman

The English language and your inebriated self are best friends. There are no monosyllabic words in your repertoire, oh no. You say things like "Madame" and "libation" and "repertoire". Ladies, first, doors held open, you paying for the drinks, you are a perfect gentleman. You just can't use those big words without slurring, you're swaying whilst holding the door open and the bartender gives you a hesitant look before serving you another shot of tequila. 

But you're still wildly polite.

These are just a few of the many persona's you may adopt whilst partaking in the festivities. Trust me there are many more. But those you will have to figure out for yourself.

I don't want to demonise drinking, alcohol is a social lubricant and gives you some great stories, but always remember, everything in moderation, drink responsibly yada yada yada and know that at one time or another I have been almost all of the personalities above. 

I'll let you decide which those are.

Oh and don't let my level of (un)fitness dissuade you from believing I can be the Usain Bolt.

The Inexplicable Intricate Rules of My Life

From reading about my life and beliefs and whatnot, you may have come to think to yourself:

Wow, I really wish I could be JUST LIKE James.

And who is to say you can't?

However, to live in my shoes you have to understand there are a certain amount of rules, provisos and a couple of quid pro quos.

Rule number the First

Food must never touch. This is tantamount to being happy in my life.

Rule 2: electric boogaloo

You may not drink from the carton, it's gross

Rule C

Try to limit the amount of times you say words that sound like make, bake, take or cake. People will hear you and make fun of you. Relentlessly

But then, as obviously and crucially important these rules are, they do of course come with innumerable contradictions. Take the no food touching rule for instance. I hate food touching. Mash potatoes must never come in contact with the tomato sauce of baked beans for example. This hatred stems from a childhood incidence involving a camping trip, a deceased and rotting sea creature, my 8 year old self and a bet which will not be discussed.
It was then that I felt what can only be described as crippling discomfort whenever I came in contact with something that leaves a smell or residue.

Deep psychological trauma aside, there are many exceptions to the food rule. Sandwiches are foods which must naturally touch and are actually a massive part of my diet. Mince, carrots and potatoes in reality have to be mixed because they were regularly mixed before...the incident. Gravy makes everything better. Need I say more?

For the no drinking from the carton rule there are also contradictions. In fact, in all likelihood there are more cartons that the rule doesn't apply to than does. The rule mainly applies to Milk. Even if I am the only one that is going to drink from it, I have to get a glass or something.
For years I have scolded my sisters, two of which are my elders, for drinking from cartons. In my mind, when they take a swig, some of the saliva is invariably returning to the container, no matter how small. Every little helps as they say, as the ratio of milk to saliva slowly changes and shifts. Think of how much saliva is in that carton that you share with your beloved friends and family. Think of how much old spit you pour over your cereal or put in your tea.

Yeah. Drink from it now.

Orange Juice on the other hand is completely okay for me to drink from the carton. I have no specific reasoning of decade old emotional scarring to explain this. It just is what it is. Who am I to question my own rules? Without rules, society falls apart. And if they are rules for my life, and my life is my personal society, then it would be me to fall apart. And if that were to happen, who would be the token Irishman in a hall of Scots, I ask you?

And finally, the final rule of finality...there aren't really contradictions to this one. It's more of an optional rule I guess. You don't mind saying "cek, mek, bek, tek?"

Then go nuts!

Moral Fibre

In every person there is a sense of right and wrong. Every single person will have different beliefs on what goes with or against their conscience. For some, the height of their personal immorality will be when they are selfish or greedy and that will be all they see as wrong. Others can go as far as committing murder and not feeling a shred of remorse such is the vast difference in their moral beliefs.

For me, I believe that as long as you aren't knowingly hurting someone or affecting their lives in a negative fashion whether it's directly or indirectly then you're grand. It goes against what I believe to be right and wrong to hurt someone intentionally, physically or otherwise, even if I don't like them. The exception is self-defence or if they are having a go at me verbally. Even then I regret some of it later.

Some people don't share my views. Maybe their moral fibre is better at keeping them regular or something, I don't know, but they think their beliefs are more accurate. For instance, today I met a friend of a friend. This person and a few of us were chatting and we were discussing the mad stoners a few floors up from us in this circle of hell they call AKD alternatively life styled members of our esteemed hall and this person said that people who smoked, whether it was cigarettes or drugs, were bad people.

Now everyone from every walk of life is allowed their own opinion and I will always respect that right. I've met opinions I don't agree with but wouldn't argue with people about them because it is their basic human right to have these thoughts.

But that is complete bullshit.

My parents have been on and off smokers for my entire life. They taught me right from wrong and I think they did a rather good job of it. So it stands to reason that they are either good people or exceptional liars and honestly I would be happy with either. I mean being able to convincingly sustain this lie for nearly 20 years, that's something to be admired.

My grandmother has smoked long before I was alive and while this woman is disturbingly racist occasionally reveals herself to have different beliefs to myself she is still a good person.

I have known many smokers in my life and I have never once thought it detracted from them as people, more that I worried occasionally for their health. But they aren't hurting anyone so who am I to judge. I know people will go on about second hand smoke, but it's not like they chain smoke and force me to bathe in their exhalation.

Another thing some people see as immoral is Piracy.
I believe that it is an old and noble art form that should go about Poseidon's garden unabated.

And also digital piracy. People argue that theft is theft. This is irrefutable. Theft is in fact theft. It's a good thing I'm not stealing then when a completely nondescript human, who is most certainly not connected to your devoted writer in any way shape or form and thus this writer is not legally responsible, downloads copies of films or music or e-books or whatever.

This of it this way. Say you had a mug in your hand and someone else saw this mug and thought to themselves "hey that's a pretty cool mug, I want one too". They then proceed to instantaneously duplicate an exact replica of this mug. Both parties still have the mug though only one person paid for it. Is that stealing?

I'm not going to go into arguments involving piracy or smoking. It's just one of the facets of life that interests me, that people can have such different ideas of what is right or wrong. And none are more right or wrong. There are the accepted morals of society and there are personal ideas of right and wrong.

The exceptions are The Westboro Baptist Church, Dictators and children. They are just plain evil.

Fighting Fair

I should preface this with the fact that I have never been in a fight in my life. I've wrestled with friends, family, fashion choices, the decision to keep my no shave november beard (I think I might, sorry Granny), but none of that has turned into a fully fledged fight.

I talk. I talk and talk and I say the right thing to avoid a fight. It's not cowardice. Not by any stretch. In the back of my mind I am actually scared of hurting people. Okay, so, I'm not massively physically imposing, but I think I could hold my own long enough to leave an actual physical impression on the guy I'm hypothetically fighting against. And there are all these horror stories about some guy punching another guy once and that guy falling down, cracking his head and dying.
How would I even begin to go about dealing with that?

So as I said I talk. I've talked my way out of hundreds of fights. And it's not that I get into these situations myself. On the contrary. People and I get on very well usually. But sometimes some of my friends display their less than admirable qualities and regress to their baser natures of the neanderthal and have to fight someone to present their alpha male status to the world.

This always confused me. I have found that on the burger of my life, I wasn't given any Machismo. And thats okay. It makes me gassy anyway.

There are few times I get riled up enough that I want to hit someone and they only occur when a) someone starts talking crap or is disrespectful about a friend of mine or a family member or b) whenever one of my friends is in a fight. I always miss it when they get into fights. It will have been a night I haven't gone out with them or something like that but I get angry knowing that someone took a swing at them.

There was a time recently, I was outside a club and a friend of mine got started on by some guy. I stepped in between them and told the guy to back down. This guy was having none of it, nostrils flaring, swear words flying, insightful questions thrown about enquiring about the nature of my participation and whether or not I suffered from the Freudian disorder known as an Oedipus Complex (look it up, you'll get the joke).

His friends on the other hand were perfectly reasonable and told me he was drunk and whatever. I was perfectly polite to them because they were so to me. I hadn't moved from in front of this angry fellow as I told his friends I completely understood and that I had friends who were exactly the same.

I tend to dwell on potentially violent events like this and wonder what I would do. I wouldn't hit him first. I just don't have that in me. I suppose I feel I need so kind of tangible, personal justification to hit a guy. I wouldn't fight fair either. I would hurt him in any possible way until he fell down, but I absolutely draw the line at kicking a guy when he's down. If he went down I would give him the option of staying down. If he got back up and kept going, I would keep going, and so on.

There's really no such thing as fighting fair. There are winners and losers in a fight. There are also no good guys in these random ass fight. It's simply two people who can't keep themselves in check and on some level that seems to offend me.

On the subject of fighting, at the beginning of the year I went to the introductory class for boxing because it's supposed to be really good for fitness and as well as that it would teach me the basics about fighting.

As it turns out fighting is really tiring. Like, I mean, Who would have ever known it could be so draining. It was awful. But my testosterone loved it. Eventually I actually came to enjoy myself (the instructor said I was really good, just saying) until the instructor called us all round and said

For all the women around here, and some of the guys, a broken nose is almost a given in boxing

And I haven't went back since. 

People Don't Change

Well isn't that a dirty rotten lie? People constantly change based on their environment, present company, hell even their diet changes people. People change every day to accommodate new information, beliefs, television advertisements and those warning labels on the sides of washing up liquid.

But on a grander scale, do they really change? Do they change their base nature? Is this change simply growth?

I like to think change is not only possible, but probable and occurs every few years. Here's a quick run through of my personal timeline.

Born shy, my mother likes to tell the story of how when I was 2 or 3 (or whatever the appropriate age for sentences is) I asked a friend of hers who was visiting at the time "are you not going home yet?" Even at this young age, I was not a social creature.

Fast forward to primary school. I was still not crazy sociable. I got along with everyone at least a bit, I had some close friends, but primary school was surprisingly challenging. It was, more than anything, a seven year long popularity contest where I was never the winner, but never the loser. For a lot of it I was stuck very much in the middle, the physical manifestation of an "Average Joe". Average James as it were. Worst super hero ever. "Quick come help us Average James! There's a fire!" I would stand at average height and run to the scene at the average running speed of 8 mph and inform everyone that the fire brigade would be here soon.

That quickly became the most boring hero ever...

But yeah primary school was your typical be-friends-with-the-cool-kids fiasco. And I remained the overweight, introverted kid who's talents lay with a pen and paper rather than with, say, physical exertion of any kind.

I stayed that way until the end of my 4th year at secondary school. That year, the french classes were offered the chance to go on a trip to France for a week. Officially it was to help us absorb French culture and test our french speech. Really it was a trip to Disney Land. Who could turn that down? You look me in the screen and tell me you would turn that down. I dare you! I'll control alt delete and end task your ass.

Anyhoo, on this trip I began to realise that people outside my comfortable group of friends and outside of the library weren't as scary or as crappy as I had thought. Other people were actually kind of cool. There was a swimming pool at the hotel we were staying at and I, having done swimming lessons for many years when I was younger, wanted to give it a go. I had my old trunks I hadn't worn in a few years and it never even occurred to me that they wouldn't fit. In retrospect it wasn't my brightest move. Oh well. But I did one length in this pool and thought to myself "swimming didn't used to be this hard did it?"

So when I got home I took up swimming again. Every Friday after school I would toddle on down to my local leisure centre and swim as much as I could. This was the first time I'd decided to physically change something about myself. Before then I just didn't care how I looked. I was comfortable with my permanent bed head that made my sisters cringe, I was comfortable wearing the same old jeans and t shirt that, again, displeased my eldest sister who craved variety in my fashion choices, and I just didn't care that I was wearing trainers with jeans just because it was comfy. I'm a function over fashion kind of guy. Still am, and all of those things I still do, except the hair, it just stopped going that way. So yeah first physical change.

Soon after that I made my first personality change. And it wasn't a personality change to fit in with a group of people who I thought were "cool", it was just something I wanted. I wouldn't go as far as to say I hated the kind of person I was, but I was by no means happy with it. This is the part I'm the most silently proud of. When I simply decided to become confident. People can and do change. All it takes is the will. And it didn't hurt that I lost a metric crap-tonne of weight. I decided to be confident and make new friends and that's exactly what happened. It's what I consider to be my greatest achievement, proving to myself that I can literally be whatever I want.

Secondary school contained the biggest changes for me sure, but even at University now I'm fine tuning things. I'm learning to be less passive, as in if something bugs me I don't just shake it off, I think hard about whether than actually bothers me and if, later, I'll regret having not said anything. I won't sit there and be yelled at anymore. If someone yells I will yell right back and then some.
And I'm swimming so much more. I got a membership for the year so I can just walk in whenever I want.

So the moral of the story is, don't let pessimists (like me) and cynics (like me) tell you people don't change. Don't let them shake their head and say "even if they do, they don't change much". I am a completely different person from even 5 years ago. God that wasn't that long ago. But there you go. Change is capable in the greatest and smallest of ways.

You just gotta want it.


Well that one got serious didn't it?

Difficulty Level - Authority

It's occurred to me recently that I have a problem with authority. However given past evidence, I probably should have realised it sooner. I mean any job I've had I've resented whenever my employer got serious and told me to do things, rather than ask me. If they were to ask me to do something then I would have no problem whatsoever doing it. But as soon as they told me outright to go do this or that, the next hour or 2 would be spent silently cursing them and grinding my teeth.

Let me tell you about A-Level history. A-Level History was taught to me by a man named Colm Morgan, the bane of my existence and reason for my raging inferno of hatred that now runs through my veins instead of blood. I got along famously with my other teachers. My English Literature teacher was crazy easy to chat to, my Business Studies teacher thought I was hilarious, but Morgan was everything they weren't.

He was abrasive; he was discriminative; he was repetitive and above all he was a self-righteous bastard. The mans favourite phrase was "pull your finger out" because he was the most eloquent man in the world. He only got along with you if you were a) athletically inclined (and even then it had to be Gaelic or hurling) or b) really really good at history.

I was, as it happens, neither of those things. Here's a list of things I was in his class: 1. Sarcastic 2. Able to see his massive gaps in knowledge when it came to the English language 3. Sat next to someone who was infinitely better at the subject than I was 4. Late to his Thursday morning classes because I kept having to wait for the coffee machine to heat up.

I couldn't start my day without 2 shots of espresso. I just couldn't function in any way. So whenever Thursday rolled around I would walk to class sipping at too much caffeine and walk into his classroom, mutter "sorry I'm late" and sit down. "Why were you late?" he would ask in his virtually indecipherable coalisland growl. To which I would casually reply "I had to get my coffee, sir". For some reason he never seemed to think of this as a viable reason for being late.

No it seemed he and I were never destined to get along. There were few others who shared my opinion of him though. Most of my friends were sporty and viewed Colm as some sort of God in trousers that were far to tight, a shirt that was vaguely translucent and, more often than not, shoes that didn't match. We didn't get on to the extent that whenever he even vaguely displeased me, I would steal from him.

Yup

At the back of his room there were all sorts of goodies. There were file pads and poly pockets and such but the cream of the crop was stacks upon stacks of bottles of water. That year the school had been selling this over priced water and giving the money to charity. Eventually Morgan stopped selling it and the water just lay there, slowly beginning to stagnate. And so, when I felt displeased with him (or thirsty) I would walk into his room when no one was around and take a bottle or two, sometimes a file pad for when I was running low, a spare pen if it was handy.

I should let you know that this was wildly out of character for me. Sure I'll pick up discarded things, lost pens, pennies on the ground, anything free. But I wasn't one to steal. The closest I came to stealing anything in my life was when I was 8 years old and I took a penny chew from a pick-and-mix stand. Morgan just inspired such massive amounts of loathing that I had to take things that were his and make them mine.

I will never in my life regret those actions. He was the first person to tell me I had an attitude problem. I didn't have an attitude problem. I just hated him. He had to pay.

I almost ended this post on that last sentence. But then I realised it sounded vaguely murdery and blood vengeancey, so I'll end it with an evaluation of myself.

Okay, yes, I have a problem with authority. I am a cynical, sarcastic, judgemental ass hole. But I'm also a pleasant guy, good conversation, mildly funny if the stars align and Saturn's moon in closest to the sun and a lamb is sacrificed to the great god Ra on the summer Solstice. I'm quick to help people, I can turn a clever phrase now and again.

It's just Colm Fucking Morgan...

Oh Stop, You're Making Me Blush!

I can't take a compliment.

Or a present.

Or a kind gesture.

I don't know what it is but for as long as I can remember I have never wanted to accept something that I didn't think I could justify receiving. And it's not as if this was some deep seated psychological issue stemming from a poor upbringing. I had a very pleasant upbringing actually.
And in actual fact it's usually my dad trying to give me stuff that I feel I can't accept. Every so often Jim would hand me a tenner and say it was for petrol for the car (which he had filled the day before) or for cutting the grass (a chore that I did for free) or even because I was young and needed money (I've never in my life been flat broke. I'm very good at saving).

Birthdays and Christmas are an awkward time for me. I mean I love the events and I love having stuff that people give me and people having things that I give them. But the whole process of giving and receiving that old yuletide tradition makes me squirm so violently I rip a whole in the space time continuum and see the untold trillions of other James's in parallel universes who all coincidentally hate the giving and receiving thing.

Now the Multiverse Theory stipulates that there must be a version of me out there that actually revels in the process. But I looked. He doesn't exist.

I love being a universal anomaly. It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling in my belly.

Honestly, my ideal situation is where we lay presents down in an empty room, like a saucer of milk for a stray cat, and open the presents in solitude so we can have our true reactions and practise the ones that make the gift giver feel the best. Okay, yes, that sounds really weird and a touch socially awkward but hey, I'M weird and a touch socially awkward. So it's all good.

As for the compliments thing I'll tell you this. Whenever I get bored or I get a really good idea I start to write a book. I've never finished one and the passion fades quickly but I've written the starting two chapters to 3 different books, only two of which I would ever consider carrying on. So eventually I let some of my friends read these chapters and I got a really good response. Sure, they could have been faking it to protect my feelings and that was good of them. But when they came to me and told me they thought it was really good, I got all shy and looked at the floor and shrugged saying "awwwww it's okay I suppose".

Then I would proceed to point out all that was shit in it. Because no one criticises my works quite like myself.

One day I'd really like to finish those books, even if I just convert them into short stories. Hell maybe someday I'll put them up here. But that's for another day.

The More Things Change

You know how this goes. I'm bored, I should be doing something else and yet some how I find myself with too much time on my hands.

Let's do this!

So let me tell you about the the first few months of university life. I had a tabula rasa, the chance to trick brand new people into believing that I was cool, funny and generally a joy to be around. Boy did I mess that one up.

I'll back up and give you some context. On the first day, the parents were there for a few hours, helping to unpack and whatnot, staving off the moment where they would have to leave their child in a foreign country with nothing but a bank card and a foot that he can fit in his mouth at any given time.

I went to the kitchen, the place various sources informed me that "all the best craic is had". Moving on pure faith I went in and introduced myself, all the while hoping the dark stain on my crotch was spreading slowly enough that no one noticed. Sitting there for around an hour, I realised that this was not my kitchen. I scooped my food from the incorrect fridge and ran to the other kitchen.

Now here's the funny thing. I had spent a year thinking of what to say to people. An entire year to invent the perfect set of words that would wow all of my would-be friends and show to them that this guy that had just walked in the door was going to be the most interesting and funny guy they would ever meet.

This all went down the toilet when I ran into the appropriate kitchen with an armful of assorted Tesco's own brand food items and a stupid grin on my face accompanied by the words "I've just spent the last hour in the wrong kitchen". I got a laugh and apparently tricked one of them into thinking I was cool, confident and an altogether carefree person.

So I at least got the tricking part down.

I also started swimming a lot more than I used to and so I accidentally led people to believe I was sporty. Who would have thought? I also became less uptight about my sleep. I mean I still have to have it at least once a night, but there are so many noises here that I just got used to it. Outside my window, there is a tree. Not just any tree. This tree was evidently planted by Lucifer, lord asshole of the damned because every, and I mean EVERY morning that tree comes alive with the unholy noise of a million crows cawing as one. Never before had I heard such a cacophonous din that made me so angry at a deep psychological level that I can no longer look at a dark feathered bird without clenching my fists.

Does that make me racist?

It's not just the crows. The radiator, for reasons I can't understand, makes a thunking noise at 6 am every morning. I discovered the secret to my blessed silence was to kick it. Hard. The clunk becomes a click. The click gets kicked. The click goes away...for a time. It always returns. But what the hell could be making that noise? Good God!

And then there's the fire alarms. This week there have been 6 fire alarms, most of them in the middle of the night or really early morning. Some funny funny bastards have been pulling the alarms with stupid regularity. Because, as we all know, pulling fire alarms is the funniest thing a person of low intelligence can do. In fact I'd go as far as to say it's ranked up there on the hilarity scale with drowning puppies and having to work for a living.

But I'm not bitter about it.

But as the title of this post suggests, there's a lot that has not changed. I still lift pennies whenever and wherever possible. If people have food they are throwing away because they don't think they'll eat it by the sell by date, you KNOW that I want in on that action. So I'm still a scrounger.

During secondary school at the start of every year I thought to myself "I'm going to really buckle down this year and work right from the get go". This was no different when I started uni 2 months ago. But if you look at my note books you can see just how quickly my notes move from "very detailed" to "quite detailed" to "bare bones" to "notes are gay". Classic work ethic for me.

I adapted to the new diet fairly well. I mean I could always make breakfast and lunch. The secrets of dinner time regularly confused and angered me. However pasta is so easy to make and its makes me feel like some sort of culinary super hero whenever I have the ingenuity to put bits of cooked sausage or bacon into it. My diet will always have pig. I can't always afford cow, but pig is easy to come by, thank the gods.

And on that note I think it's time for me to go and do this work I've been avoiding for quite some time. Wish me luck, or a swift and painless death. Or if you're feeling really generous, a non-fatal excuse as to why I don't have to do work.

The real world is going to kick the crap out of me and leave me a bloodied mess on the floor.

What's the Opposite of a Film Buff?

Okay so here's the thing. I am by no means well versed in the land of big screen moving fiction. I've never seen Jaws, Rocky, The Goonies, Hocus Pocus (whatever the hell that is), Braveheart, Jurassic Park, the first 3 Terminator films, Titanic, hell I hadn't seen Shawshank Redemption until earlier this year!

I am a movie producers wet dream. Special effects can successfully keep me distracted for the full one hundred and fifty four minutes of a film (I'm looking at you Transformers 3). Plot often comes second. My memory is poor, my attention is lacking and I crave instant satisfaction from a cacophonous explosion of fire and brimstone as debris comes crashing down, missing our protagonist by an unlikely hairs breadth. Witty repartee between characters will have me hooked from the get go. When some kids are young they dream of being doctors or lawyers or even super heroes.

Not me.

Though I've often said that being Spider-Man would solve all of my problems. No, since I was young I wanted to be the funny side character of the show. The main character has way too much responsibility, the spotlight shines too brightly upon them. I wanted to be the buddy of the surly hero who would maintain the spirits of his friend with quick talking wit and insatiable goofy charm. Always having something to say seemed like such an amazing skill to me.

So when I say that I absolutely loathe "Shaky cam" and "Found Footage" movies with a fiery burning passion, you know that I don't say this lightly. I should explain.

I feel like it began with Cloverfield, though it might have reared it's ugly head long before that. Some director somewhere believed he was clever, nay, a VISIONARY in utilising the simplicity of a handheld camera following the events of a story, instead of several cameras on tripods that wouldn't give us a headache and motion sickness. Gone! exclaimed the director, Gone are the days of the Neanderthal and his stone age methods of capturing film. Gone are the days when man can watch a film and feel safe in the knowledge that they would not have to squint to properly see through the blurred movements of the silver screened footage.

On that day that man made a mortal enemy in me. Because you see, here's the thing. While this type of filming may have been a novel enterprise and an artsy retro style of filming that no one else could have possibly thought of, it became something much more.

It became, ladies and gentlemen, a plague! And it was contagious. It spread to more and more films. The term "Film Maker" now applied to any of the thousands of misguided saps out there with a handheld cam corder and delusions of grandeur. Shaky cam told them that low budget need not be a road block to success, but a ramp into the heavens of unsteady glory.
It gave them Hope.

And you know how I hate things that instill hope.

Now even big budget films like Star Trek and Man of Steel use a shakier camera to make it seem more "realistic". I'll tell you right now, if I want to see a film of some guy doing the dishes or hoovering the carpet I will implore that you grab the nearest handheld device with a camera and start making magic. But I when I pay to see a film about an alien, that looks like a suspiciously handsome and buff human being, crash land on Earth, get adopted by some sterile farmers and discover that our air and sun gives him super strength, then you know that I am not there for realism.

Long story short just put the camera of the frigging tripod, okay? Okay.

Final thought, found footage, much like shaky cameras has been done to death. Seriously, it's not an impressive way to tell a story. Are you listening big time movie executives that clearly read this blog?

But then again this is all coming from a guy who legitimately enjoyed the Green Lantern movie...

What?

Superheroes, gooood. Ryan Reynold, gooood. Blake Lively, GOOOOOD.

James' Hundred Days

Day 1

I'm sick. My head hurts, my throat is making it difficult to eat, my nose is making it difficult to enjoy what I do eat and the mucus I'm coughing up has the collective surface area to create my own country. An amazing start to the countdown isn't it? Sure beats Napoleon's countdown I'll tell you that much.
Where his men were slaughtered and defeated at the end of his hundred days, I will have left to enter third level education. So you know, they have their differences and similarities...

Day 2

An egg fell off the counter top and before I could stop myself, I turned to my mother and said "Well, I guess the yolks on me". I'm homeless now. The next 98 days are going to be tough. The situation wasn't helped when I went to work later on and my middle aged, teeny manager threatened me with a shovel.

Day 6

The heat is unbearable. The walls of poundstretcher are closing in around me. I won't last much longer. The faces of my co-workers melt and distort into some sort of freakish living Picasso's. Hell is breaking loose from beneath the super affordable display bed frame, only £99.99. Buy now while stocks last.

Day 16

Today I applied for my first debit card. A big day for most 16 year olds. However being 19, my attitude toward money has already been set in stone. Online shopping remains an outlet I will only utilise with the help of amazon vouchers I earn doing surveys for a faceless corporation on my laptop lying on my bed in my underwear sobbing and wondering where my life is headed.

Day 27

After arriving in my friends house in Donegal, a group of my friends and I proceeded to drink until we saw Sol rise in the sky. This morning we were not so jubilant. We decided the beach would be an excellent place to recuperate. Too bad it was raining and freezing. Regardless, we proceeded to use Poseidon's palace to cure our hangover. As it turns out the ocean is an unforgiving mistress. Her chill robbed the breath from our lungs and her waves forceful enough that we sought to drown ourselves to end the pain.
Good times were had by all.

Day 33

While the ocean was indeed challenging, she was manageable, if only briefly. The ice offers no such mercies. Today I entered an ice rink. Truthfully at this point it was just to kill time, but a small part of me wished to convince those around me that i was a graceful swan and not the uncoordinated oaf they believed me to be. I hate that part of me and wish it would die. The words "like Bambi on ice" were passed around like a bong at a frat party as I stumbled and inadvertently twirled my way around the icy floor. Small children would pass me and laugh. A little girl who couldn't have been more than 4 slid into my path. Steering was a skill I hadn't yet developed and so, in an act of pure desperation, I dived to the floor on my side in an effort to dodge her. Picking myself up off the ground I noticed that she had drifted away and some part of me wondered was she ever really there?
This is the same part of me that thought ice skating would be a good idea. Of course she was there you idiot. I don't just randomly drop to the floor. God!

Day 50

I have passed the halfway point. I take solace in this fact yet in my heart I feel great anguish. I have come so far to reach my goal and yet I must cover this distance once more. Pray for me dear children. I feel I am not long for this world.

Day 62

As a wise man with various facial deformities once said "I've stood all I can stands and I can't stands no more!" I have handed in my notice of resignation to Poundstretcher. No more will I scrub dust older than myself from my hands. No more will I wipe so much sweat from my brow to my shirt that it saturates my clothing. No more will I endure the wild and rampant sexual harassment. I AM NOT A PIECE OF MEAT DAMN YOU! Freedom... I am free. I. AM. FREEEEEEEE!!!
....two weeks from now, but...you know...whatever.

Day 83

This unbearable wait has robbed me of who I am. I have become a husk of a man. I am dead inside. My journey has purged my emotions from my body. Food is bland. Having friends is an inconvenience. Television no longer excites me. The Sun no longer warms my body. I await the day with indifferent curiosity when I can leave this accursed place and experience joy, love, acceptance and the excitement of the new series of Doctor Who. Though I fear that such a day will never arrive.

Day 91

So close yet so far. The Darkness that has descended upon me will soon lift, and I will feel the return of my humanity. Though my pragmatism tells me I have not the financial security to survive the year. This darkness may yet latch onto my destitute life and never release me. I will be, suffice to say, an interesting year...

Day 100

Arriving in Scotland I find that it is ridiculously similar to Ireland. And apparently they love the Norn Iron accent...I know! I don't get it either.
The majority of the students here have softer Scottish accents than I was expecting and yet every so often I find my face slacken and look blankly at a person talking and think to myself "Laugh, nod, wince? What the fuck do I say"

In the end I usually choose honesty and proclaim "Uh huh, uh huh I don't know what you just said"
The only other Northern Irish person on my floor is a girl called Nina from belfast and she and I began chatting. Suddenly we realised the other conversations had died off and every one was watching us. One girl, who's name escapes me looked at as with a strange mixture of fear and admiration saying that we spoke at the speed of light and she couldn't understand what we were saying.

So speed talking isn't just something my family does. Interesting...

Small Talk

Small talk is all code.

By asking about the weather, schools, jobs etc. we can determine everything we need to know about a person. For example, imagine you go for a cup of coffee or something and there's a queue. As you're waiting in line, you strike up a conversation with another caffeine enthusiast. You can't make the usual jokes or use the usual slang and tone you would with friends and family, so you adopt a more soothing and a more generally acceptable version of yourself.

This is Step 1: Assimilation

Step 2: Research begins at the actual interrogation. "Where are you from?/what do you do for a living?/What's your blood type?/At what exact time of the day will you be home alone?". The usual routine.
Their answers reveal the darkest recesses of their mysterious and often terrifying personalities. "It's windy out today isn't it?" you'll say.
"I held a wedding ceremony for my cat and its favourite scratching post this morning. I can't wait until the kittens are born" they'll reply.

Step 3: Reaction Is where you decide whether or not, as a result of your attempts at small talk you can continue the conversation and potentially make a new friend or quietly and subtly dissuade them from talking to you, pay for your coffee (or not, I'm not a cop) and leave knowing you might have just escaped from the clutches of a serial killer.

Alternatively, you might have made them realise they're going to die alone and thus forced them to take out their pain, abandonment and subsequent aggression on the world, birthing a mad man of untold potential into society.

This must be why I don't have any friends. Too many serial killers about. Do I put out some kind of mass murderer victim vibe?

Ever since I was really young, I always loved it when you were in class and you were divided up into groups to do a project or something. Everyone would groan because they didn't get to pick their groups they could stuff with their friends. I would be disappointed as well, at least ostensibly. But really I was excited that I would get to work with someone that I usually didn't speak to so i could make a new friend.

That makes me sound horribly lonely and friendless. I wasn't and am not today, I swear (*sob*). I just enjoy making new friends. I'm good at it too. But unfortunately I have an intense hatred of small talk. I'm what you might call an acquired taste. I get a little uncomfortable when I meet a new person because I don't really know what to say. I just open my mouth and words I hadn't planned to say come crashing out like a tsunami of awkwardness and bad jokes.

Usually I say the bare minimum and get straight to the point. "Where do you go to school?" "Stirling" ...*silence*. When I realise I'm socially obliged to say something else to fill this void, I make a joke that is either terrible, unrelated or simply has no basis in reality.
It gets worse when they ask about my course, which is Psychology by the way. They ooh and aah in all the appropriate places and ask what I hope to do with that.

As it turns out vague questions about my goals in life are my kryptonite. That and light to moderate pain.

Yet when they are forced to be around me for a length of time they come to see that I am likable (sometimes),charming (eventually) and funny (no). This is why I will be just fine in halls come September.

These people will have to come to like me.

They have no choice...

Anti-Explanation

Oh hi there. I did just post a while ago and not mention the fact I didn't write anything for a year didn't I?
What has it been? 5...6...1 year 31 weeks and 6 days?

Time's just flown hasn't it?

So what's happened in all this time? What changes have there been in my day to day life, in my ongoing existence on this planet, in my very core and fundamental beliefs?

...not much.

In all honesty I can't really remember. It's all a bit of a blur. Of course you can't take my word for it. My memory of this morning is a bit of a blur. There was definitely cereal involved...or was that toast? Did I have breakfast?

Sidetracked. Some things never change.

Myself and 10 of my friends went on holiday to - shock horror- Magalluf. Can you believe it? 11 teenage boys threw a dart at a globe and managed to hit the most popular destination spot for those who find themselves in the limbo that is the year between secondary education and university. A place where morals and supervision go to die. What are the odds?

But don't let that fool you. We were responsible mature adults who looked out for each other and didn't cause a stir to the local populace...mostly.

We stole tables from various hotel rooms to give us one large one, the centre of which was reserved for our salad bowl which we periodically filled with random assortments of alcoholic beverages as per the rules of the glorious game "Kings" or as it's also known "Ring of Fire"

This game actually led to the expansion of my vocabulary with words such as "chunder", "chundering dragon" and "oh my god please help me my insides are on fire I'm going to die" making new and interesting additions to my dictionary.

Now, the law and my pride prevents me from discussing any further details of the trip. Any enquiries you have can be addressed to my lawyer who will swiftly use many technical phrases and legal jargon to confuse and disarm you with the ultimate message being "shut up and go away".

What else...oh yes

ALL OF MY FRIENDS HAVE LEFT ME

Well okay that's not strictly true. They went to university. Most of them are in Belfast, some went to Derry, hell some of them are still in Ballymena. But it leaves me with little chance to distribute my dangerous habit. A habit that is detrimental to both myself and those around me. A habit that could lead me to an early grave. Something I got hooked on when I was 15. One day everything was normal and then BOOM. Addiction hit me like a freight train.

When I was fifteen years old I got addicted to talking. Not just talking mind you. But producing unhealthy amounts of bull shit and terrible jokes that proved to be detrimental to my health and the patience of those around me.

I like to think I'm pretty good at it too. But of course that mightn't be true. It could be my ego. Or my penchant for bullshitting. Or it could be my ego AND my penchant for bullshitting teaming up in a super villain-esque tag team to rid the world of any remnants of my virtuous nature still in existence.

This gift of the gab will eventually cause everyone around me to leave. Oh they'll say they tried to help.

They'll say

"how can we help someone who doesn't want to be helped?"

They'll say

 "James for the last time you aren't funny. You're annoying"

 To which I will reply

"For god's sake I made one pun about Thursday and thirsty! Put the knife away!"

My mother has quite the temper.

I will bear this burden until the end of my days. And by "burden" I mean "blessing". And by "end of my days" I mean until September when I will move to Scotland for university and meet new people who's patience meters have not been tainted and forever damaged simply by being in my presence.

It's fun to bother people.

127 Days

I want to take a moment right now to talk to you about Father Time. Because I have nothing better to do and a lot of time to do it in.

Which is all his fault.

For the seven years I attended secondary school I have wished and begged and pled for more time - more time to finish assignments, more time to study for exams, more time to catch up on my reading and of course more time to sleep my lazy ass back to enthusiasm.

And that crotchety, night-shirt wearing paedophile beat me in the face with his "be careful what you wish for" clock and cursed me to live at home for another year while all my friends get to move on to university.

I have to wait an agonising one hundred and twenty seven days until I can finally experience true independence, when I will leave the country and make a fantastic plethora of mistakes that will haunt me for years to come in ways I can't yet fathom.

It's going to be amazing. But there is still this massive wait before I get to travel off to unseen lands. And by unseen lands, I mean Scotland. Which I suppose isn't exactly unseen. I mean on a good day you can see Scotland off the coast of Ireland (where I live), which is only like a 12 mile gap. But there's all that water in between. So my family can't get to me. Thank sweet Christ for the Irish Sea.

Now I should maybe preface what I'm about to say with the fact that I love my family. I really do. But I've spent a lot of time with them already in my life and I firmly believe that a person isn't supposed to spend more than 18 consecutive years with their families or their primal instincts will force them to tear each other apart. I don't want to fight my family! There are five of them and I know I could take at least four of them. My dad has a bad hip and my mum and two of my sisters aren't quite blessed in the muscles department.

The main problem would be my second oldest sister, Eimhear. She has rage on her side. Plus she does sports! How am I supposed to compete with that? She would kick the ever loving crap out of me, and my religion prohibits my crap being outside of me in any other fashion than pure and simple defecation in one of Armitage Shanks pristine whites.

So obviously I can't stay with the family too much longer, but I don't have much of a choice. I've had to busy myself. I could get in shape! I could learn a language! I could get a jump on my Psychology course for next year and do some independent learning!

Because, as a great man once said:

When life gives you lemons, be glad it was just lemons and your parents weren't mugged and killed in an alley way

- Bruce Wayne 

As I write this I am surrounded by various objects that represent the different hobbies or interests I've adopted over the last year in order to kill time. I see the weights I bought to get into shape, which I then put down when I realised weights are heavy. I see the psychology text book I bought because I thought it was really interesting when I flicked through it in the shop and have since not opened. I see stacks of books waiting to be read which I haven't since I discovered the joy of Pirate Bay and Game of Thrones.

I want to kill time, I really do. But he's a tough bastard and I've been saving my energy for the post-apocalyptic wasteland science fiction novels and movies have assured me is bound to happen sooner or later

"But James" I hear you say "why don't you just get a goddamn job and quit whining". Well aren't you just a lovely little thing. You see, I do have a job. I stock shelves in a budget supermarket type place. I'm pretty sure my official job title is "stock bitch". So, unsurprisingly, like 70% of the world, I hate my job and thus time is eternal during my shift.

Another way Father Time has screwed me over.

But I guess there's not much I can do but gnaw off my arm trapped between the rocks of time and make a movie about it. The arm in this metaphor being my laziness, the rocks of time being the time I have to wait to leave this godforsaken hell hole and the movie being...I don't know, a colourful spin on my "tragedy" which I can use to make money?

I'm bad at writing...