Using this as a place to showcase my 30 minute script assignment. This version is completely awful due to it being totally unedited. The formatting screwed up during export too, so it’s going to be pretty hard to read, sorry

ext. Sidewinder club. night.

The Sidewinder club in Brighton is in the full swing of a typical friday night. A rabble of noise can be heard down the street, and punters are lined up attempting to get in. Some do, others don’t.

dalmar

(V/O)

My name is Dalmar Xasan. I was born, and for the most part raised, in Mogadishu, the capital city of Somalia. You may know my country from that movie with the helicopter crash. I have vivid memories of hiding under a table for the best part of 24 hours waiting for the shooting to stop, but somehow I doubt Ewan McGregor would have considered a script like that. My family lived in a small apartment downtown and spent a decade scraping together enough money selling scrap metal so myself and my younger brother could be bought passage to England where, we were promised, we would live out our lives in security and prosperity.

ext. dream house. day

An idealistic vision of an England in which DALMAR and his brother, TABAN are stood besides a large house, next to two well polished sports cars, beside them stand two trophy wives. Cut to:

int. sidewinder club toilet. night.

Inside the club’s male toilets, we see DALMAR, clad in clothes that attempt to create a facade of style, despite clearly being cheap. He is only in his twenties, but holds himself with a level of emotional maturity that sets him apart from many of the similarly aged people in the club. He stands behind a makeshift stall near to the door, which is covered with an array of personal hygeine products and confectionary items. From the main dancefloor, a typical club tune blares. Dalmar leans against the somewhat dirty toilet wall and sings, his voice is nothing special.

dalmar

(singing awkwardly)

Freshen up for the poonanny, poonanny, poonanny!

Some club goers pass by amused, others with a hint of sympathy, Dalmar’s voiceover continues again.

dalmar

(V/O)

As you can see, this was something of a white lie.

A EXTREMELY DRUNK MAN passes Dalmar and attempts to let loose his potent wit.

drunk clubber

Alright mate! Nice song!

Dalmar smiles weakly and nods, hoping the man will purchase one of his wares. He doesn’t.

dalmar

(V/O)

Still, I suppose at least no one is mugging me at Kalashnikov point for a pack of batteries.

Dalmar goes back to staring at the wall, cut to:

int. club toilet. late night

Dalmar is packing up and preparing the leave. The club is largely desolate, with only staff remaining. Dalmar finishes placing all of his items in his bag, he hasn’t sold much, sighing, he slings his back over his back and walks out of the club.

ext. city streets. late night

Dalmar drives his car – a small, beaten up hatchback – back home to the nearby town of Worthing. We can see that he is tired and frustrated. The radio quietly plays jazz music as he cruises along an A Road.

A montage of driving scenes follow, ended by him pulling into his small apartment and preparing to go inside.

int. dalmar’s apartment. late night

Dalmar closes the door behind him and throws his keys on a nightstand before walking towards the grimy balcony that overlooks the city. His younger brother, TABAN, is stood on it smoking a cigarette. Taban is much more the typical young man than Dalmar, with a degree of carefully constructed rebelliousness and a more casual dress style.

Dalmar

Hey Taban.

taban

What’s up, brother?

Dalmar begins taking off his jacket and shoes.

daLMAR

Same old night spent stood knee deep in piss and vomit, singing about genital organs wondering if I’ll make enough money for us to pay our heating bills. On the upside, there’s a dead fox down the street we could probably barbeque.

tABAN

(Laughs)

You are far too negative, Dalmar. We’re doing alright for ourselves. Britain is a land of plenty.

daLMAR

The only thing I see that is plentiful here are sexually transmitted diseases and poorly priced drinks. We’ve left one rat infested shithole and entered another one, but this time, the rats wear baseball caps.

taban

(Takes a drag of his cigarette)

Don’t you think you’re being a little melodramatic? Most of our countrymen would kill to get out of Somalia, and you’re here complaining about over priced Jagerbombs. Don’t get me wrong man, overpriced drinks are an issue I feel very strongly about myself, but I learn to sit back and occasionally take something at face value. You heard about those ICU dicks and their sharia law? We live in a country where a woman can walk down the street wearing a miniskirt and not be labelled a whore. Isn’t that comforting?

Dalmar sighs, leaning heavily against the bars of the balcony. Beneath him, a police siren is heard distantly. Taban flicks his cigarette off the balcony and, sensing a lack of reply from Dalmar, walks back inside. We pan away from Dalmar as he sits thoughtfully on the balcony and time lapses to:

int. Dalmar’s apartment. day

The balcony is empty, food packaging and ashtrays litter the apartment. Dalmar, evidently tired, sits on the sofa reading a lifestyle magazine, as he narrates, we see the pages he is flicking through – They display overpriced clothing and furniture items.

dalmar

(v/o)

Somali culture is heavily diluted. Through thousands of years, different religions, societies and factions have occupied the land and have left their own individual stamps upon it and it’s people. This ranges wildly from genetic lines and great Mosques to bullet holes, but it always alters things just a little bit. British culture is very similar, but in it’s own way.

Dalmar twitches nervously before putting his head in his hands. Cut to:

ext. worthing high street. day

Dalmar, walking down a busy highstreet, continues his internal narration.

Dalmar

(V/O)

(Cont.) Walk down a British road fifty years ago, for example, and you will see a picture of post war society, a people beaten and bruised, but defiant in their efforts to rebuild. I have always admired hardiness. Walk down that same road today, and chances are you’ll see glass fronted insurance offices, chains of Starbucks and McDonalds, and all you can drink watering holes. A matter of years after the Norman victory at Hastings, England’s upper classes were speaking French like true natives. In comparison to our social history, this was not a slow and gradual process. Western peoples are much quicker to adopt change. Perhaps that is why they prosper.

Dalmar stops off at a supermarket and enters through the automatic door.

int. Supermarket. Day

The supermarket is a jungle of aisles and bright lights, with an assorted rabble of people inside. We see Dalmar’s confusion and frustration at trying to shop, and hear a cacophony of random noise from his passers by. Babies crying, people talking into phones, bleeps from checkout machines.

Dalmar continues walking through the buzz of shoppers. Occasionally, he places something into his trolley, barely looking at it as he does so.

Finding a place away out of sight, Dalmar leans his head against one of the shelves and closes his eyes.

int. dalmar’S APARTMENt. early evening.

The Alarm clock reads 7:32PM as Dalmar hurries around getting ready for work. From out of his room comes Taban, who himself is getting ready to go out for the evening, if for pleasure, as opposed to business. In the background, Taban talks on a mobile phone, we do not hear the other side of the conversation.

tabaN

(On phone, heard distantly)

So, we’re still set for tonight? Uh-huh… Yeah, man… Should be cool… We can hope… Haha… Maybe we should come down to Sidewinder and piss off Dal… Buy some lollypops… Hahaha.

Dalmar throws him a dirty look which he shrugs off. Taban grabs a cold slice of pizza from the fridge and begins to eat it messily as he leaves the apartment, slamming the door noisily behind him.

int. club toilet. late night.

We see two clubbers, one male, one female, snorting cocaine from a toilet sistern. They tilt back their heads inpleasure before kissing sloppily, in the distance we can see Dalmar, looking on concerned.

dalmar

(V/O)

In my line of work, you get used to seeing people in the toilets doing what they’re not supposed to be doing. Most of the time, it’s sex, other times, it’s drugs. If it’s a really good night, you’ll see a fight. If you’re going to the club as a patron, it’s generally best to steer well clear of it all, but for the poor bastards who toil away there, it’s expected of us to actually lift a finger and stop it.

Dalmar awkwardly approaches them, clearly unsure of whether or not to intervene. The HIGH MAN sharply turns his head towards Dalmar, breaking his kiss with the woman, who lets herself fall back against the toilet wall.

dALMAR

(Unsure)

Excuse me, I don’t think you…

High man

(Interupting him)

What is it man?

HIGH MAN sniffs and arches his back, eyeing Dalmar up.

hIGH MAN

C’mon man, what have you got to say?

dalmar

With all due respect, could you not do that in here. I-I could lose my job if I don’t report it.

hIGH MAN

You gonna go crying to the police man? Fuck you! I just came here to have a good time, not to be judged by some fucking uppity purfume guy.

The HIGH WOMAN snorts in agreement. The man punches the stall door.

dalmar

Look man, I’m sorry, I just…

Egged on by the woman, the high man continues his tirade, standing up jerkily, his eyes diluted.

high man

You got a problem with what I do, huh? You reckon you’re better than me, do ya? At least I don’t make my money standing in a filthy club toilet selling shit to people who don’t want it!

Dalmar begins to walk away with a look that says “Fuck it”

high man

You don’t even come from here man! Go the fuck back home if you don’t like it!

Dalmar turns around, clearly the high man has touched a nerve. The high man’s girlfriend starts laughing brashly.

dalmar

Do you know how difficult it was for me to get over here? My parents had to lie, cheat and steal just to earn me and my brother a place in a fucking shipping container!

high man

(Kisses his girlfriend, revelling in the argument but failing to see how much his jibes sting Dalmar)

I ain’t stopping you from catching another back to whereverthefuck youcamefromistan!

Dalmar has clearly had enough, in the space of a moment he sucker punches the high man, sending him spiralling back into the toilet stall. His girlfriend looks on shocked.

dalmar

Fuck you, you stuck up knuckle dragging piece of hormonal shit!

Dalmar turns to the man’s girlfriend, who is staring on.

dalmar

Why don’t you fuck off as well, you spoiled, uptight whore!?

high man

You fucking… Fucker! I’m gonna have your fucking job for this, you god damned savage!

The man leaps towards Dalmar, knocking him to the floor with a single punch, his girlfriend cheers loudly as other club goers look on fearfully.

In a cocaine induced haze, the man climbs on top of Dalmar and begins to beat him brutally, ignoring his pleas. The beating is unrelenting. After a short while, a group of bouncers burst into the room and push both men apart forcefully, evicting the high man and his girlfriend with several rough pushes out of the room.

int. Club manager’s office. early morning

Dalmar is patched up, the tissue around his nose stained with blood. His expression is reminiscent of a child being scorned by an angry parent. The nightclub MANAGER stands near to him, a bundle of caffeine induced stress attempting to hide a received pronounciation accent behind a mockney one. It is clear that neither of them have slept, outside, walkie talkies are heard.

manager

Provocation or not, Dalmar, it makes a bad impression if our staff are punching people out in the toilets.

dalmar

With all due respect, I may have struck the first blow, but you can see with your own fucking eyes what he did to me!

mANAGER

That’s the problem though, as you said, you struck the first blow. While he’s been taken into police custody, he could technically claim that his initial actions were in self defense.

The manager steps away from his desk. Dalmar mops at the blood around his lips and nose with the tissue.

manager

(Cont.)

I mean, hell, Dalmar, you saw the ruckus that this all created. That guy kicked up a storm, the police were called, and when they found out that drugs were involved…

The manager runs a hand through his hair, sighing with exasperation he hands Dalmar a fresh tissue.

manager

They let me speak to you because I told them that several of my staff witnessed him beating you, not you throwing the first punch. Problem is, there’s about five witnesses that saw the whole thing… I don’t know what to make of this, but I think it’s best that for now you don’t come into work for a while, wait for the dust to settle, eh?

Dalmar cradles his head in his hands.

dalmar

(Clearly troubled)

Look man, I know that what I did was stupid… And, I know that a lot of people are gonna judge me for it, and if you think that I’m… Not ready to be put back into society or something, then fine. But please, let me do something, even if I have to mop specks of vomit off the floor at six o’clock in the morning…

The Manager’s phone rings, he picks it up.

Manager

Hello? Yeah… Sure… Okay, come right up…

He hangs up and continues.

manager

I’m sorry, but I just can’t deal with controversy right now. You’ve been under a lot of stress, it doesn’t take a shrink to see that you’ve not had an easy life. But, I’ve got enough shit on my plate at the moment without you flying off the handle over some drunken, hepped up moron and his stupid bitch… I’m sorry, Dalmar…

dalmar

(v/o)

“Shit on my plate” – What a charming metaphor. At this point, I have two choices. Either I tell the coked up charlatan in front of me just how I really feel about his run down piss cellar of a nightclub, not to mention his particular brand of sexual pervasion, shown by his habit of taking the drunkest girls from the dance floor up to this very office to “check the new sound system” or I get on my knees and grovel to him about how much I need the pay and go home unsuccessful and ashamed. It’s crunch time.

An awkward pause, Dalmar looks up as if he is going to speak, but doesn’t.

manager

(Cont.)

I’ve called your brother, he’s gonna take you home… The time off will do you good.

dalmar

(v/o)

Damn, missed the chance.

A knock at the door. The Manager walks over and opens it, Taban is stood there. Reluctantly, Dalmar stands and leaves – Ignoring the manager on the way out. The manager and Taban nod to each other before Taban and Dalmar leave the room.

int. Dalmar’s Car. Morning

Taban is driving, Dalmar sits dispondant in the passenger seat. He is unresponsive to Taban’s constant dialogue. On the radio, a club anthem plays.

taban

Just to let you know, man, that guy was a total jackass. I think my mate Scott knows him. He told me he was a total jackass. It was about time someone laid him out. Of course, seems that you came off a little worse. Oh well, rematch sometime?

Taban laughs at his own affectionate jibe. Dalmar doesn’t.

taban

Stupid thing, toilets in nightclubs. Stalls, that is. People only use ‘em for fucking and dosing. No one is retarded enough to take a shit in a nightclub. I mean, I guess if you *really* needed to go, but then why would you go to a fucking nightclub if you had diahorria anyway? That’s just an accident waiting to happen, man. Point is, no toilets mean no fuckheads doing Coke, means no random acts of violence. It’s a vicious circle.

dalmar

(Deadpan)

Are you high?

Taban laughs and continues driving, but doesn’t answer.

A beat.

dalmar

(Regarding the music)

Turn that shit off, I’ve heard enough of that to last a lifetime.

int. dalmar’s apartment. night

Dalmar sits alone in the bedroom, the lights out, his face illuminated in the blue light of a nearby neon sign. The sounds of a party can be heard coming from the apartment.

dalmar

(v/o)

And so I was left without a job. For how long, it was difficult to tell. As investigations into the attack continued, I did what any self respecting twenty something with a weight on his shoulders and a sudden increase in free time would do. I procrastinated…

Outside, Taban’s voice can be heard. We only hear his side of the conversation.

taban

(o/s)

I can get that easy… It’s difficult to say, really mate… Fuck, man, I don’t know… You know I’m not *that* serious about this… Yeah, Dalmar is in trouble, but… I see… I’ll consider it, man…

Dalmar lies back on the bed, sighing.

ext. city street. day

Dalmar walks down the street, shuffling past others that are walking in the opposite direction.

dalmar

(v/o)

I figured that the more time I spent watching mind grindingly dull daytime TV and feeling sorry for myself, the worse my condition would be become and so, taking the advice of my brother, I decided to get out and make good of my free time, whether I wanted it or not.

As he finishes his narration, someone blindsides him and almost knocks him over.

dalmar

(v/o)

Of course, this would all be easier if I could sleep.

int. Library. Day

The library is a jungle of books. A forced, almost awkward silence drifts through the room as Dalmar skims a copy of National Geographic, for the first time looking truly happy.

In the background, a child bursts into tears, but even this doesn’t distract him. We see the magazine cover, it’s an special on East African History.

He takes a seat next to a woman of around his age, with reasonable good looks hidden behind tired eyes and a weary demeanor. She takes a look at him which he returns, if a good five seconds too late.

As Dalmar and the woman continue exchanging stares occasionally, an old man coughs loudly, startling the both of them.

Seeing this as an excuse, Dalmar chuckles slightly in the direction of the woman, who smiles back.

Settling down, the old man grumbles and walks away. Building up the courage, Dalmar opens a line of communication in hushed whispers.

dalmar

(Whispering)

Hey there.

Emilija

(Whispering)

Hi.

dalmar

My names Dalmar.

emiLIJA

Emilija.

dalmar

(Gestures to the book she's reading)

You reading F. Scott Fitzgerald?

emilija

(Smiles)

The Great Gatsby.

dalmar

(v/o)

A book about social seclusion and emotional pain. Sounds about right.

dalmar

It’s a classic.

Emilija nods and there’s an awkward pause.

dalmar

(cont.)

How long you staying here for?

dalmar

(v/o)

And that wasn’t creepy at all… May as well just go and ask for her cup size while I’m at it.

emILIJA

Oh, probably until closing time. I like the peace and quiet.

dalmar

(v/o)

Shit, was that a hint?

emilija

(Realises her faux pas) Sorry, that wasn’t a hint.

dalmar

Haha, that’s quite alright.

dalmar

(v/o)

Fuck yeah! Get in!

Dalmar smiles, and they lock eyes for a moment until another awkward pause forces them both to go back to their respective books.

dalmar

(v/o)

It’s very uncharacteristic of me to flirt. I’m not a naturally passionate or impulsive person. This is why what I am about to say to this random woman I’ve only just met in a library is very strange indeed.

dalmar

Emilija… Would, would you like to go grab a coffee or something when you leave? I was planning to leave about the time you did… I mean, not that I’m waiting around for you or anything. It’s just, I don’t really have anything planned and… Well, I’m quite a lonely person.

Dalmar cringes at his last sentence.

emilija

Are you always this smooth?

Dalmar smiles sheepishly, his expression that of slight disappointment.

dalmar

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked, it was creepy.

emILIJA

I didn’t say no. I’d love to hang out with you. Let’s just hope I don’t wind up in pieces by a roadside, eh?

Dalmar laughs, perhaps a little too much.

int. library. early evening

Time passes, and the two are packing up, ready to leave. Emilija places items in her bag while Dalmar rubs his eyes.

dalmar

So… Coffee?

emilija

I’ll be honest with you, I’d prefer something a little stronger.

dalmar

Espresso?

emilija

(Chuckles slightly) That’s awful.

dalmar

Yeah, I know.

Emilija finishes packing her bag and they stand and leave together, Dalmar holds the door open for her, then lets it go and it shuts with a bang.

int. pub. evening

We see beer draining from a glass as Dalmar finishes another drink. In a booth next to him sits, Emilija, with a half full pint. On the table lie several discarded glasses. The pub is reasonably quiet, with the lights of the city shining in through the partially closed blinds. We join Dalmar and Emilija half way through an in depth conversation about film.

dalmar

There’s nothing wrong with the film per se, it’s the fans that get me. All you need to do is take a look online and you’ll see a hundred forum threads from spoilt morons blabbering about how much ass was kicked, and how they gave it to us *douchebags*. I mean, it’s not too hard for the US Military to kill a thousand scared, untrained civilians with rusty old Russian assault rifles.

emilija

You take Ridley Scott films too seriously. You gotta let that drop.

dalmar

(Takes a sip) Yeah, maybe… So, what’s your story?

eMILIJA

Aww hell, I guess I’ve had enough cheap beer to tell you. I hail from Serbia. My father took full advantage of the fall of the Soviet Union and managed to raise a sizeable fortune in the import/export business. My family settled into a newly forming middle class and, for a time, lived in reasonable comfort. We were prospering, even though our countrymen weren’t. We kept our heads low and tried to ignore what was brewing in the world outside our large, country house.

Emilija takes another sizeable gulp of her drink.

emilija

(v/o)

Then, of course, the effects of the war reached us. As I say, at first we tried to avoid it as best we could. But one by one, my brothers went to war. Once Zoran, the second youngest to me, died at the hands of some Bosnian rebels, my comfortable existance fell around me. My oldest brother, Jordan, he… He changed. The violence, the bloodshed, the horror, it transformed him. He went from my loving, protective brother to a racist, genocidal maniac. At home, things were the same, my parents’ once loving relationship fell apart when my father decided that his love for his country outweighed his love for his wife…

Emilija faulters for a moment, as if she is about to break down. She composes herself.

emilija

(Cont.) They would sit in the kitchen for hours, arguing about everything they could, hurling crude insults at each other and acting like they were the only two people in the world while there was so much suffering going on around them…

Dalmar gazes on introspectively.

EMILIJA

So, my father went to command a militia and me and my mother were left with nothing. The only news we got from the rest of the famiyl wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t really any surprise when my father and Jordan were found guilty of war crimes. Apparently they held quite a lot of respect for his unyielding hatred of Bosnians, and their effectiveness in killing them. They were dubbed by the UN as high value targets, and were declared guilty… They found them both hanging from their cells soon afterwards, can’t say as I’ll miss them…

Emilija sniffs loudly. A beat.

emilija

God. I’m sorry, I’ve only just met you and I’m talking like this… I must be drunker than I thought. It’s just good to get stuff into the open, I hope I’m not being self obsessed.

Dalmar

No, no, of course not. I’m just, rather taken aback is all. I’m not used to such honesty in my line of work.

Emilija manages a weak smile, which Dalmar awkwardly returns.

dalmar

(v/o)

There was something about her that was undeniably endearing, and it could be said that Emilija felt like a mirror image of me. A less whiny, more down to earth mirror image of me, but one still the same.

Emilija and Dalmar drain their glasses and exchange a look. There is a degree of tension in the air, but Emilija quickly breaks it.

emilija

Oh good, look at the time. I should really be heading home. This very unlike me, meeting a guy and going out drinking, not to mention mumbling out my life story like that. Hope I haven’t made an idiot out of myself.

dalmar

Not at all… Are you sure it’s not too late for you to heading back alone? You could crash round mine if you’re okay…

emiLIJA

Is that you making moves?

Dalmar looks up from his empty glass, a sudden urge of confidence building as they walk out of the pub.

ext. Pub. Night

dalmar

(Flirtatiously) Do you want it to be?

emilija

(Sweet but firm) I’m not going to sleep with you, Dalmar. You’re nice and everything, but I’ve only just met you, and I’m far from being on the pull. Sorry.

Dalmar’s look of disappointment is visable, but it’s clear he understands.

dalmar

(v/o)

And like that, it’s over. I’m not the type to blindly pursue sex, that was always my brother’s game, but to say that I wasn’t disappointed would be a flat out lie.

dalmar

I wasn’t trying to take advantage…

emilija

I know. I’m not judging you, I’m just not in the right frame of mind to commit myself to one night stands, especially with men I meet in Libraries, seems kinda polarised.

dalmar

Can I walk you home?

emilija

I’m getting a bus, Dalmar. Chivelry isn’t worth £2.50.

dalmar

Oh…

emilija

Goodnight, see you around.

Emilija kisses Dalmar on the cheek before walking away, leaving Dalmar siluetted against the dark, rainsoaked street.

dalmar

(Speaking Arabic: “Son of a bitch!”) Eben El Sharmoota!

int. dalmar’s apartment. late night

Dalmar enters his apartment, somewhat disappointed but built up by his encounter with Emilija. Taban, and a shifty man, MIKE are sat at the cheap coffee table discussing something. Dalmar approaches them quizically.

dalmAR

Taban?

taban

(Nervous) Oh, hey Dalmar! Meet Mike, Mike, this is my brother Dalmar.

Mike grunts at Dalmar, clearly more interested in whatever he and Taban were doing before Dalmar entered the room.

taban

Yeah, me and Mike met at a club and we’re just chilling out here for a bit. T… Told you you should get out more Dal, it’s good for the social life.

dalmar

My social life is fine, brother… Are you okay? You seem kinda, tense…

taban

I’m fine mate. Just been a few heavy nights, right Mike?

Mike rolls his eyes, reluctant to join in on the banter.

mike

Yeah, totally. Hefty.

Dalmar looks on with confusion, but shrugs it off.

dalmar

Right, cool.

A beat, yet another awkward silence.

mike

I’m off now, Taban. So you game?

Taban nods.

mike

Cool. See you soon.

taban

See ya, man.

dalmar

It was good to meet you, Mike.

mike

(Emotionless) Yeah, same mate.

Mike leaves, Dalmar takes his place on the sofa.

dalmar

He seems nice, in a creepy, detached, passive aggressive sort of way. I see why you hang out with him, he must be a blast on the dancefloor.

taban

(Defensive) Hey, Mike’s alright, man. He just comes across as a bit… Abrasive.

dalmar

That’s an understatement. So, where have you been lately? You’ve been like a Ghost.

taban

Says you! I’ve been working. Ever since you got your arse suspended I’ve had to be the breadwinner around here.

DALMAR

And how have you been doing that, dare I ask?

taban

(Frustrated) Pulling double shifts at the fucking burger van. You could show a little more thanks, man. I’m sweating my arse off over poorly cooked, indigestable hotdogs while you mope around all day.

dalmar

You’re right, I apologize. I’ve just, been kinda mixed up lately.

taban

D, you’ve been mixed for as long as I can remember. That’s your problem, man. You’re too caught up your issues from back home. We left Somalia behind a long time ago, for better or worse. You need to drop the tormented immigrant act and learn to appreciate what we have. We’re as British as any of the stoners and hedonists you rant about all day.

Dalmar shrugs.

dalmar

Maybe you’re right, but I just feel like I’m a guy with two Nationalities and no identity. We can wear clothes from Primark, eat out at Little Chef and kill our brains with reality television, but that won’t stop some ignorant racist on the street labelling us as putrid outsiders just because of the way our accents sound.

taban

We barely have accents, bro! This is what I’m talking about! You’re so whiny and melodramatic about everything. You think I see my future in flipping burgers? Life isn’t some life affirming, Hollywood pic produced by some air headed faux-liberal with a hybrid car and a bag full of dirty Californian money he pretends to feel guilty about. Sure, we were promised infinate opportunity and plenty here, but we the truth isn’t always that shiny, is it?

Taban angrily sits down, giving Dalmar a moment of self reflextion.

dalmar

     (v/o)

My brother and I often squabble, one of us often proves the other wrong and we often walk away pretending to have taken something from the whole chirade then revert to our old selves moments later. Maybe I did what I did because I wanted to get away from my brother or maybe something in his angry tirade actually got through, but for some reason I genuinely felt inspired at that moment. I knew at that point that there were two things I desperately needed to do.

dalmar

I’m having an early night, Taban.

Taban looks up, having calmed down.

taban

Why?

dalmar

I’ve got a big day ahead of me tomorrow.

taban

(Distantly) You and me both.

int. LIBRARy. day

We see Dalmar and Emilija stood in the library lobby. Clearly Dalmar has just asked something very important.

emilija

No.

Dalmar’s face drops, his previously enthusiastic expression now one of self loathing cringiness.

dalmar

Oh.

emilija

Not that I don’t appreciate the passion in inviting me here on the spur of the moment to deliver a insanely long monologue about your feelings for me. But I’m a girl of my word.

dalmar

     (v/o)

Okay, so the first thing I  desperately needed to do didn’t work out so well. Still, there were a lot of hours in the day and another task, and this one involved anger! Now I just had to dodge the torrent of bullets unleashed in the wake of awkwardness from asking out a woman I met 24 hours ago and failing massively.

dalmar

God, I must look so pathetic. Sorry to waste your time.

emilija

(A little too enthusastic, given the circumstances) Oh, not at all! In fact, I have a pamphlet to give you.

dalmar

(With glum sarcasm) If it’s for the Golden Dragon massage parlour, I’ve tried it. It’s an actual massage parlour.

emilija

How romantic. No, it’s something to do with your life, here.

She passes him a brochure for a small, little heard of university.

emilija

(Cont) They have courses in English, and History…

dalmar

I’ve never even heard of… Is this a real city? You’re not really setting the bar high, Emilija.

emilija

(Sighs) Sorry, but Oxford never got back to me. Listen, it doesn’t take a therapist to see that you’re unhappy, torn apart, even. You’re not in the best bargaining position, but you can get grants, at least you’d be doing something productive.

Dalmar puts the brochure in his pocket, other things on his mind.

dalmar

Yeah, you have a point. Sorry to be so ratty. I’ll definitely consider it… You wanna get a bite to eat or something?

Emilija considers for a moment.

emilija

I would, but… I’m needed back home.

dalmar

Ah, fair enough… Who are you seeing?

EMILIJA

(Pauses) Hope to see you around…. I… I had fun last night.

She gives Dalmar a slight hug and walks out of the library. Dalmar stands alone. Fade to:

int. Sidewinder club. evening

Dalmar walks brisky past the bouncers and heads through a crowd of clubbers. They dance wildly and aggressively, forcing Dalmar to make some constructive shoves to get past.

As he climbs up towards the manager’s office, he is stopped by a bouncer, the same one who broke up his fight earlier.

bouncer

Dalmar? What are you doing here?

dalmar

I’m here to see the boss. I promise not to assault any crackheads or anything.

BOUNCER

Look, man. I think what they did… What they’re doing to you was pretty fucked up, but I really don’t think you should be going up there. Especially if you’re gonna do anything stupid.

dalmar

I’m not looking for a fight. I just need to get something into the open. I wouldn’t normally ask this of you, but please let me through. I’ve worked here for 3 years, three spirit crushing years of my life spent standing in a foul smelling toilet singing crap to myself watching flies buzz around just wishing I could go home and go to bed, but knowing this is the only way I can vaguely support myself and my brother. Can’t I have one word with the guy deciding my future?

The bouncer puts his head in his hands, clearly uphappy with the decision he’s making.

bouncer

I am gonna get in so much shit for this… Fine, go through.

Dalmar begins to walk, he turns.

dalmar

I appreciate this, Joe.

The bouncer nods slightly and Dalmar continues.

bouncer

Wait.

Dalmar stops in his tracks, turns around. Curious.

bouncer

(Sighs) The manager is the guy who decided your future. Not deciding. It’s over. Thought I’d break it to you, instead of that coked up prick. Sorry, mate.

Dalmar snorts, unsurprised.

dalmar

Eh. No shock. Thanks again.

Dalmar continues into:

int. club manager’s office. night

Dalmar walks in through door to see the manager, Taban and Mike. They are sat around a table which is covered in money and a large number of ecstacy tablets. Mike and Taban have clearly broken the “Don’t get high on your own supply” rule.

taban

Oh, hey brother!

dalmar

(Taken aback, ignoring Taban) Fuck, looks like the party’s kicking off in here.

manager

How did you get in here?

dalmar

Joe let me in. It seems that unreliability in your staff is here to stay.

MANAGER

Then I’m guessing you know that you’re no longer an employee of…

dalmar

I do, and let me be the first to congratulate you on making such a exacting downsizing. To be honest, friend, I was going to hand in my fucking resignation anyway. You’re nothing but a drug peddling perverted piece of plankton, and Taban, I don’t even know what to say to you…

Taban violently stands up, explosive anger tainting his fast, stuttery speech. He is clearly far gone on the drugs.

taban

Well, that’s a fucking first! You always seem to be the man with the calculated cynical put down and the downbeat demeanour. That’s always been your fucking problem, D. Through rain or shine, hail or sleet, war or fucking peace, you will always be there to be a stuck up depressive little shit!

dalmar

Better that than a hedoistic, self medicating brat too wrapped up in the club scene to give a shit about the world around him. You’ve always been an escapist, Taban, you were always the one to hide in the bedroom playing king of the castle while our neighbors were killing each other, while our relatives were dying!

Dalmar hit a nerve. Taban jumps at him and pins him against a wall.

taban

You think I enjoy my life? You think I felt brave burying my face in the cushions while dad was shot down on the pavement, trying to save his family from our so called liberators? You think I felt content shaking with fear as he bled out in the sand? You think I felt like king of the fucking castle curling up into a ball for the last decade, seeing his lifeless body every time I close my eyes? I don’t enjoy this fucking life. In fact, I hate it, I hate all the neon signs, I hate the thumping music, I hate the whores and rabid cunts that pollute the dance floor, and I fucking hate that feeling like my brain cells are popping everytime I wake up in the morning! I hate it all, Dalmar, but it’s all we fucking have!

Dalmar

We don’t need to life like this, you can change… You don’t need to sell drugs…

taban

(Spits, interupting) Don’t be fucking naive. You’re the reason I sell drugs, if you could get your self righteousness to yourself and stop decking stupid people in club toilets, I wouldn’t need to make up the difference selling E! You brought this on, you ignorant fuck! You wanna play boy scout and save me from falling? You should have thought about that before you pushed me.

Taban pushes Dalmar to the floor, walking back to the table.

taban

Go on, get the fuck out of here. Go spout your bullshit and try and carve a fairytale out of a nightmare. Just remember me when you realise the fairys started shooting up a long time ago.

Dalmar slowly gets to his feet, dusts himself off. He considers talking, but falters and leaves, not looking back. Taban screams out and shoves the money and pills from the table.

int. sidewinder club. night

Dalmar is steaming, he descends the stairs from the office, as he does, the bouncer from earlier accosts him.

bouncer

Dal, what the fuck was going on in there? I thought you said you weren’t gonna…

Not even making eye contact, Dalmar shoves past the bouncer, who ponders questioning it, but instead walks into the office.

Not even trying to remain polite, Dalmar pushes his way through the club towards the exit, causing a trail of destruction and spilt drinks on his way out. He pushes open the club’s door, not noticing the lack of bouncers to see:

ext. sidewinder club. night

Outside the club are several police cars and two vans. A large group of people, including the bouncers are stood watching, being pushed back by officers trying to corden the club.

Dalmar’s expression turns from anger to shock when he is caught in the flashlight of an Armed Response Officer pointing a gun at him. After a surreal moment of tension, he is ushered towards the barricade with the rest of the onlookers.

A sizeable group of armed officers approach the front doors of the club, forcing them open with a sharp kick. Screams and shouts are heard from within and Dalmar runs a hand over his poorly shaven stubble, his face caught in the lights of the police cars.

We hear Taban’s monologue from earlier over the muffled sounds of chaos.

taban

     (v/o)

Life isn’t some life affirming, Hollywood pic produced by some air headed faux-liberal with a hybrid car and a bag full of dirty Californian money he pretends to feel guilty about.

The officers drag Taban, Mike and the Manager onto the pavement and force them down, cuffing them with cable ties. Taban, overwhelmed by the drugs and recent events, breaks down into incomphrehensible blubbering.

taban

     (v/o)

Sure, we were promised infinate opportunity and plenty here, but we the truth isn’t always that shiny, is it?

The officers shine flashlights onto him, dragging the three into a van. Dalmar, unable twayear anymore, turns his face away as it drives away.

He removes something from his pocket, the brochure that was given to him earlier. He scrunches it up in rage, his hands shaking. Emilija is heard in the same way Taban was.

emilija

     (v/o)

It doesn’t take a therapist to see that you’re unhappy, torn apart, even.

Slowly, he unscrunches it and stares for a moment.

emilija

     (v/o)

You’re not in the best bargaining position, but at least you’d be doing something productive.

CUT TO: BLACK

I have decided to upload my travel journals in parts, as opposed to my original idea of uploading it all at once. It’s a bit like feeding foul medicine spoonful at a time, instead of risking vomit by swallowing it all at once… Also, yes, the title is hugely ripping off Tony Hawk’s “Round Ireland with a Fridge”. Sue me (or don’t, as the case may be). Here we go:

Round Europe with a Hangover

The first thing you’ll notice when arriving on the continent is the differences in attitudes amongst the people there. The British people (the English especially) have a largely deserved worldwide reputation as rude, arrogant, anal retentive and generally socially less than perfect. The reasons for this are not known, perhaps it is the awful weather, perhaps the bland food, perhaps the institutionalised inbreeding amongst both our affluent and impoverished combined with the loss of one of the world’s most expansive empires and the fact that the red, white and blue semen stains the United States has left around our government’s mouth just won’t come out in the wash has put a dampener on our national mirth. Either way, it was easy to see why the English people have always been regarded as boring and monotone when sitting in a London coffee shop, discussing with my travelling companions the notion that of all of us, I am probably the most likely to hire a sex worker, according at least to Charles’ grandmother. I was, however, informed that in the event of this, I should shop around for a better deal. Unfortunately, all of my efforts thus far at typing “cheap whores” into price comparison websites had been returned with error messages. Oh well, someday.

I feel obligated before continuing to outline exactly what I was doing in Europe in the first place. I have recently left sixth form college, and being a shallow dilettante that likes to pretend to be well cultured, a tour of Europe seemed like the logical thing to do. Also drinks are cheaper in Eastern European council estates, even if you might get shot consuming it. It’s no secret that I’m not the most well grounded person on Earth to be undertaking such a journey, and many people had understandable, if somewhat depressing concerns that I would make some god awful mistake that would lead me down a path of ruin. The way I saw it, this trip was more than just an excuse to vomit on a war memorial like so many other brain damaged British louts had done before me, it was a means of exploring the limits of my independence, a 50/50 leap into the unknown. In retrospect, this was a rather naïve and pretentious way of looking at a holiday, but naïve and pretentious are two words that summarise me well, so I’ll roll with it. Of course, another reason I had for travelling was to serve as inspiration for my writing, fuel for which I have recently found myself deprived of. Whether this is just plain laziness or something deeper is up to you to decide, but travelling is recommended as a way of curing writer’s block, so I pushed all thoughts of Jack Torrance aside and decided to give it a try. I’m aiming to be as honest as possible, although my delusions and eccentricities may taint the finished product. One thing is certain, I will be trying to cover just how the mind of a travelling teenager works to the best of my stinted ability, so it may not all be glamorous or happy. Wow, just like in Skins!™

Something else I must mention before continuing is that due to unforeseen illness, I could not stay for the full 20 days of the trip, leaving instead a few days early so as not to invoke rage in my companions through being ill while they wanted to have fun. It’s difficult to have a good holiday when someone is puking on your sleeping bag, in short. This is hugely regrettable, but I’d like to think that leaving early allowed for a better quality of time for my comrades. I’m a charitable fucker like that.

By the time we arrived at St. Pancreas it already felt like we had traversed a mountain. In this case, a mountain made up of London’s very finest scents of sweat and urine, with a summit covered in greasy food and greasy people. It always baffles me just how busy London appears to be, my native town of Brighton, with a population of around 253,500, feels like a village in comparison. I suppose many would say it is. It’s always interesting to see the diversity of a train station in a capital city. Holiday makers and immigrants from all over the world can be seen, some of them even look happy to be here, although I’m sure that’ll change the moment they see the homeless filling the streets, or the moment a drunken moron howls a racial slur in their vague direction. Either way, I had little time to dwell upon the delicate racial makeup of great Britain, I had a Eurostar to catch. The biggest obstacle I had to overcome was getting through post 9/11 customs as a scruffy looking bag of nerves without an unwanted, 9mm enema. Indeed, I was stopped due to my neglect of the removal of my wallet, something an official about 3 meters away had told me was not necessary. It begs the question, when two people within easy talking distance of each other tell me differing information, are we properly prepared to tackle the ever present, unseen menace of Islamic extremism, something so terrible and dangerous it only manifests itself every few years as a socially isolated loner’s desperate and tragic act of hatred, something Caucasian socially isolated loners have been doing for years with much less press coverage.

Aboard the Eurostar, I was positioned next to a fellow Brit who congratulated me on having chosen to travel by inter rail, and expressed an envy of the adventures I was going to drift through on my travels. Feeling an immense sense of relief at this fellow tourist not knowing that chances are the journey would be spent mostly drunkenly stumbling around subway stations trying to remember which country we were in, I bought myself an Orangina (a drink shamefully pulled from mainstream circulation in the UK) and settled into the seat, pausing only briefly to mock Charles for buying a chardonnay “just because he could”. Many shrill Inbetweeners style cries of “Special chardonnay fwend!” followed, accompanied by many childish, but probably more original comebacks. Largely travelling on the Eurostar is a comfortable but somewhat monotonous experience, as once the amazing thought that you are travelling underneath the bottom of the ocean wears off, along with the typical daydream of immaculate German terrorists conducting a hijack that only I (and a quirky, but less adept buddy character played by a washed up ex rapper) can unravel you generally find yourself… Well, a little bored. Nice though the flash of the French countryside zooming past can be, one can get the same experience by drinking a bottle of tequila and dragging your face along a freshly mowed lawn. Either way, the speed of the train ensures that the journey is over moderately soon, and sure enough my companions and I crawled off of our inter country chariot and found ourselves in Brussels…

Back from Europe now, beginning to type up notes. It’s a gruelling process, the words aren’t coming out as easily as I’d like, it’s worrying.

Should be up soon, with any luck.

- Tom

Just a couple of things. First of all I feel it prudent to mention the Beards Awards that took place today (well, technically yesterday, I tend to lose track of time and find myself posting at 2 in the morning) and for which I was nominated. It was, and I say this without a hint of sycophantic deception, truly astounding to hear the variety and sophistication in what was read ou in both the winners and runners upt. I didn’t walk away with anything for my catagory, but I feel that the best (wo)man won, so no complaints there. My £10 worth of book vouchers will be put to good use in a brand new copy of “My Booky Wook” which I intend to incinerate in an attempt at warding off evil spirits. Evil spirits with stupid, matted hair and irritating voices.

Secondly, and moving on more towards the bullet point of my post tonight, I will be away travelling from the 4th to the 25th of July, attempting to navigate Europe on a shoestring budget (anyone know why they call it a shoestring budget? Surely “a cardboard box budget” or “a buckfast budget” would be more recognisable?). My exact ports of all call are not set in stone (I generally leave it up to my travel companions to handle the organisational side of things, while I prefer to sit back in a slightly drunken daze and pretend I’m Hunter S Thompson) but suffice to say I’ll be spending my 18th Birthday in Amsterdam (oh dear). Anywho, I intend to record my trials, tribulations and experiences on the continent in a travel writing style (I’m hoping the places I visit will also inspire me to actually write something creative for the first time in weeks, too) and anything I do get, I’ll edit and try and post up here, so keep tuned.

Anyway, I should probably be off now, just thought I’d inform y’all of my plans for the future.

Like Jack Kerouac without the homophobia,

- Tom

P.S. For anyone that is interested, I’m now twittering on www.twitter.com/codewordnerd, so check it out

Anyhoo, being the computer literate sensitive douche I am, I decided to chronicle my experiences so that future generations can… well… see what I wimp I was.

Now, unfortunately I missed the open of the festivities, which included popular Brightonian carnival games such as “Chase the idealistic teenagers with the horses” and my personal favourite “Mace the hippie”. Stories speak of attempts at knocking over Police Trucks and the defilation of McDonalds branches (we brits sure know how to do revolution). Anyway, the effects of the demonstrations could be seen across town. The police were everywhere, the station, the streets, they even had guys in full blown riot gear outside most major banks. In my opinion, the way to overthrow a capitalist government is to target the decadent higher up powers-that-be, not to smash up an HSBC and scare a few old ladies, but hey, what do I know about the pumping leftist underground? I wasn’t even drunkenly picking fights or anything…

Once I arrived at the rave/demonstration/accident waiting to happen I was staggered by the sheer size of things. I had no idea that so many people had turned up, and considering the nearest I had ever come to a protest is the DVD of Billy Elliot, I wasn’t used to seeing so many protestors. The eeirest thing about it all is just how much the crowd mentality effects you. I mean, I was slightly biased towards the protestors anyway, what with my fear, loathing and morbid interest in the modern military industrial complex, but there’s something about the anarchic rhythm of a mob that can get to even the most timid of men (just look at me). It’s a dizzying mess of emotions, in the space of seconds, my mood changed from total and utter terror at the very real probablity that the police could initiate a baton charge at any moment (some members of the crowd I spoke to were pretty pissed about the G20 beatings) to an immense desire to take to the streets with an AK-47 in the name of sweet lady revolution (ironic as the protests were anti war). Obviously, these are foolish fantasies, but they were still alarming, and I realised that however mediated you seem, people are very impressionable. Thankfully I’ve always had a strong left wing bias, and could never bring myself to support any right wing movements, but it goes to show how passionate people can get over the behaviour of the pack.

The other staggering thing is the sheer diversity of people that were attending the demonstration. Things seemed divided into multiple groups: The people that knew why they were there and genuinely wanted a peaceful protest, the people that had no idea why they were there and wanted to get pissed in front of police officers, and the people that wanted a fight. I swear blind that I saw people in Combat 18 jackets there, despite the fact that the demonstration was meant to have a leftist bias. This brings me onto another point, it seems to me, and far be it from I to criticise, that many of the people there were behaving in a manner unbecoming of those with a virtuous cause. I understand hedonistic desire, but I don’t think that disrupting the daily lives and routines of innocent people with needlessly raunchy behaviour is going to get many people on their side. Bare in mind this isn’t always to put forward the message, but is sometimes just to intimidate and empower, which is exactly what the people they claim to be undermining do. Obviously, only a very small minority were causing trouble, and many (including myself) just wanted to express opinion in peace. I mean, I have no qualms with the police, as I say, abominations should be decapitated at the source, not prodded with pokers until they bite back.

I actually got speaking to some of the people involved, and it was amazing to see the sheer vitriol directed at the police, sheer anger that ranged from understandable to seemingly random. One man claimed to have attacked a senior police officer at a previous rally with a paintball gun (fired into his face) in retribution for the beating of a friend, another spoke of a close friend being knocked to the ground in the pavillian grounds for getting to close to the corden (an innocent being brutalised on property built by the Royal Family – How very fitting) and one gentlemen was discussing with me at length a series of videos showing police officers being mauled and maimed in various riots – and expressing a desire to repeat some of them. The worrying thing is that this person wasn’t a thug or a yobbo, he was in his ordinary life a very normal person.

One thing I think we can all gain some degree of contentment from is how this has opened people’s eyes to the horrors that weapon’s manufacturers such as EDO MBM Technology conduct within the limits of a city that prides itself on liberalism and progression. If there is any justice in our society, the powers that be will listen to the people and will intervene to try and put as much of a bung in the operations of these kings of conflict. I know that it will be hard, and I know that they have power on their side, but it’s better to try and do something than to sit back with our fingers in our ears sedating ourselves with creature comforts while the unfortunate wither and rot around us.  Call me stupid, call me naive, but that is the main reason I put in an appearance today, plain and simple humanity. Demonstrations and gatherings can be amongst the only ways to voice opinion that will be noticed by those at the top, I just hope that everyone present understood that.

Overall, and speaking as someone who does not attend these regularly (mainly due to lack of organisational skills) I found it to be a dizzying experience that felt like teetering on a knife edge, a place where the boundaries between genuine commitment to a noble cause and a poorly cooked excuse for grown people to act like animals are extremely blurred. I do wish to act against the horrors of this world throughout my life to some degree though, and this has been an enlightening (if not untarnished) experience.

I had more to say, but in time honoured tradition I’ve gone and bloody forgotten it. Feel free to leave comments, it may spark up some memory.

Fighting the good fight,

- Tom

Upon recently watching an excerpt from a Stewart Lee comedy gig on celebrity novels and autobiographies, I decided to explore this theme myself (namely by reiterating the points in a less humorous, less eloquent way). Celebrity books have always held a certain place in my mind, somewhere towards the back on the same level I consider cockroaches and gang rape. It honest baffles the mind to behold drab, dire, irritatingly self indulgent books written by the latest talent less nobody desperate to gain as much press coverage as possible. Examples include fictionalised accounts of irritating lives such as politicunt (sorry, couldn’t help myself) Bill O’Reilly’s hilariously self indulgent novel “Those Who Trespass” (Trespass on what, I wonder? The Democratic Party’s headquarters?), so-simple-a-Daily-Mail-reader-could-read-them novels like The Da Vinci Code, which takes a needless, paranoid conspiracy theory and turns it into a needless, paranoid novel. The worst thing is celebrities three or four years older than myself writing autobiographies about how hard it is making money and dripping recognition when you’re a talent less, useless, uncouth non human with a cocaine and hooker addiction and a BTEC in procrastination from a college nobody has heard of, while your former collegemates struggle to break even in whatever drudge they call employment. There are books by Russell Brand in which he flaunts his heroin addiction, seriously. It’s pathetic.

The biggest insult is how these books are smeared into the faces of anyone visiting a mainstream bookshop like Gulliver’s Yahoos rubbing faecal matter into those they deem inferior. More shelf space is wasted in major bookshops with the latest insufferable celebrity arsewipe than with any other kind of novel, magazine or technical manual. It’s not like there’s nothing decent to publish, there are simply countless writers (myself probably not included) with the ability and drive to produce some of the greatest books set to paper, it’s just that subtlety and integrity don’t sell as well as some Radio One Disk Jockey massaging his success in playing the same record every 15 minutes between dribbling out one liners about the girl he copulated with the previous night. The public like to point the all-too respectable finger of accusation at the supposed moral decay we’re all existing under, blaming everything from immigration to teenage culture. Maybe the problem doesn’t lie so much in teenagers themselves, but in lack of genuine stimulation in this shallow world of meaningless words splattered onto wasted trees?

Rambling incoherently for the greater good,

- Tom

First of all, I would like to bring to light what could be seen by many to be a rather obvious topic, the inauguration of Barack Obama, the 44th president of the United States of America. I’m sorry if this is late, I apologize if every single blogger on the web has spewed out empty thoughts on this matter, but the straight, simple fact is that a great number of people (myself included, to an extent) thought that we would never see an African American standing on the steps of the White House, being sworn in as leader of the world’s most influential superpower.

This leads me conveniently on to what I feel was something of a talking point for the ceremony, the issue of race. I mean, of course it is a great thing that the American public has shown it’s decency and grasp of equality by voting in a black President, but the televised inauguration was riddled with what I considered to be needless references to the colour of his skin. Yes it was something that should have been mentioned, yes his rise to power against all odds was something that should have been celebrated, but to mention it as much as they did somewhat undermined exactly what they were trying to glamorize. The fact that a man who fifty years ago wouldn’t have been able to get a respectable job could become the most powerful man in the country the same as anyone else. By commenting on it so much, they almost turned it into an attraction, an advertisement for modern American liberalism. Perhaps I’ve spoken ahead of myself, I mean, they didn’t comment on it half as much as I thought they would, and it is a major feat. It just hope that Barack Obama is remembered as more than just “the first African American President”, I hope he is remembered as “A competant, strong willed President” with the issue of his race backlighted in favour of what the man actually does during his term(s). Whatever happens, the ceremony was beautiful, and clearly touched hearts and reached minds around the world (some excellent pictures from the day can be found here – http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2009/01/the_inauguration_of_president.html).

I apologize if that made no sense, as ever I tend to spurt out my thoughts without really thinking them through. Consider it the written form of cinema verite… Or gibberish, depending on how much you like me.

Now, I feel it prudent to mention the ongoing military action (or, as some would call them, crimes) being waged by the Israeli Defense Force in the Gaza Strip. This is a topic that most people have some sort of opinion about, and I myself have been questioned time and time again on “who I support” in this conflict, as if it were a football game.  Because of this hollow ground, it is with a degree of moderation I attempt to write this: I have been following the events in the Gaza strip closely, as the politics of that region, as well as the history of the State of Israel itself, interest me. Perhaps this could be considered trivialization, but the situation could be explained using the example of a small child that has received nothing but disdain and scorn from every social group that they attempted communication with. Eventually, this child is going to grow bitter, angry and disillusioned, and will seek security and, to an extent, solitude. Once this is granted, the child will become the monster it was formally tormented by, and the cycle begins again, with the exact same symptoms of anger and faked superiority that were exhibited by it’s tormentors. It is about this time we must realise that the monster did not create itself, we did.

Of course, this comparison is weak in places, I doubt that the state of Israel’s military campaign could be stopped with a reassuring hug (although I suppose it’s worth a try), but what I am trying to point out is that yes, the military action the IDF is conducting is a crime, maybe even a sin, and of course it should be hindered and stopped as soon as possible, but have the Jewish people not been subjected to equal horrors throughout history? It is all to easy to write an entire country (or people) off as a token “Evil Empire” without seeing the bigger picture. While many senior members of the Israeli government are ignorant to this very same picture and serve only to exacerbate the already uncontrollable tensions in the Middle East, the source of the problem also lies within the ranks of Anti-Semitic, extremist groups. I have spoken to a Israeli born friend who declared themselves to be Jewish only to receive boos and hisses from their classmates which is, frankly, disgusting. It is because of this that when asked what side I support in this ironic but somehow fitting war for sacred ground, I reply “The innocent”. The harmless citizens, Jewish, Muslim, Christian or Non Believer that are just like each other, struggling to get by in a world tearing itself apart due to the actions of the powerful and insane.

- Thomas “Why can’t it all just be a theme park?” Harrison

People may be wondering why there has been a distinct lack of depressing, self indulgent nonsense on the BHASVIC floating around lately, which is mainly due to me becoming stricken with unshakable writer’s block. At present, my biggest problem isn’t not wanting to write, it’s not knowing *what* to write, or how to express it. I’ve spent the last 45 minutes staring into a blank word document, hoping that just one mediocre sentence would form itself from the caverns of my thought. In typical procrastinotic (is that a word?) fashion, this has led me to start thinking about the nature of writer’s block. Obviously it could most simply and literally be summed up as a lack of creative energy in the mind of a writer, but being stuck up and quasi intellectual, I like to see it as something more.

If you will humour me, consider creative energy as a village water pump in a desolate village. As long as the water is flowing, the writer can be nourished, and can enjoy the wealth of abundance, but as soon as something prevents the flow, everything in the writer’s life can grind to a holt. Perhaps the image of the average casual poet sinking into a downward spiral due to a lack of Myspace blog material is somewhat overdramatic, but I know that many times a lack of inspiration has served as a catalyst to a general bad mood. Now, when the writer searches for their ration of inspiration, they find nothing, not even a single drop of ability. Quickly, confusion turns to full blown bewilderment to complete and utter despair. The problem is, however much you force the pump, you still get nothing. You can punch, kick, prey or scream at the thing for as long as you want, it’ll all become counter productive, the only thing that will get the waters of ability flowing again is chance.

The moment you are able to write again seems like a feeling of rebirth, you can lie awake at night dreaming of the opportunities for expression. You sit and write for hours and hours, sometimes shutting out the typical facets of existance completely and only after you’ve finished creating fountains of thought do you sit back and realise that what you have written is meaningless. The waters you have been given have just drained away into nonsense. You were just so absorbed in being able to bring pen to paper (or fingers to keys, as the case may be) you didn’t realise that what you were putting was, for want of a more subtle term, complete bollocks… Then, where do you stand? You’re stuck right back where you were when you were to begin with, with a lingering thirst for creative contentment that cannot be quenched.

Perhaps it’s only me that works this way, but I think the horrors of writer’s block are something that we all deal with at some stage. I apologize if everything above here made no sense, I guess it could be considered a spewing that I hoped would cure me of my impediment.

A genuinely fluffy person really,

- Tom

The other, less dramatic problem could be that Obama turns into the American Blair, in that he is all talk and no action, and will lead the country further down the road that Bush sent it marching towards. This is possible, but at this stage it is impossible to draw any conclusions, one way or the other. I’m trying to remain optimistic though, at least the world’s most influential superpower isn’t being co-led by a woman who believes in witches…

What do you all think of the situation?

- Tom

One of the things that irritates me is just how much the coverage mentions the colour of Obama’s skin. In about 30 minutes I heard an uncountable number of references to his race. I mean, I understand that the fact that he is the first African American (well, half African American) candidate to run for the presidency and succeed in getting this far will be on the minds of many voters (influencing them either positively, negatively, or not at all) but does the media really need to mention it every time some overweight, nylon suit clad, just-left-of-Mosley political “commentator” (or shit stirrer, depending on how sugar coated you want the title to be) opens his mouth in order to disecrate the opposition’s wealth as a human being?

One of the reasons this election is so vital is that if the vote goes to the Republicans and McCain dies in office (choking on a Murray Mint or something), we’ll have potty Palin running the most militaristically powerful country on Earth. We can expect wars with anyone remotely left of field, or right of field in a way the CIA disapprove of, or anyone that Palin feels is sheltering that baby deer she failed to execute last year. If this is the case, and the presidency falls to her in this manner… Well, may China have mercy on us all…

I will cut this non sensical rant short (at the same time ignoring the fact that in the above paragraph I was being just as slimy and underhanded in my criticism as the Bill O’Reiley clones I mentioned earlier), but I will say this. We are on the doorstep to what may go down in history as one of the most socially and historically important US elections of all time, a time that could shape the nature of the next decades. Let us just hope that the rightful candidate wins (in case the BBC needs any clarity, that’s the black one… *sigh*)

Oh, and just in case things do go to hell and we do end up locked in a second cold war, I wish to point out my usefulness to our new Chinese masters as a fresh member of the widespread blogging community, which will make an excellent propoganda tool… P-Please don’t kill me…

Tom “ask not what your comments can do for you” Harrison,

- Tom.

EDIT: Sorry to keep blabbering, but this is just too hilarious for you all to miss. Some flag waving, blindly patriotic American has decided to make a montage of pictures that show how much America “rox”, and then put it to Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA”. He even goes so far as to acknowledge just how bizarre this is. Oh, don’t read the comments if you want your faith in humanity to remain intact.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=7oVzHm_S0-A