Holy Roller Novocaine

Has anyone else heard about this God theme park that's supposed to be being built in Yorkshire? It is genius. According to an article in Wednesdays Guardian, mad woman Andrea Webster has already blown £100k of her own cash on the project and throughout the course of Holy Week is expecting a million christians to donate £144 each.

Now excuse my cynisism, but this idea is bollocks. Considering that only 50% of the nation understand the Easter story, this has to be one of the worst times to plan such a farce. Perhaps a better time for this park would have been the dark ages, when the excitement of the proposed holy roller coaster based on the story of Jonah would come from the fact that you would be relying on god to save you.

Much like the drafting in of celebreties such as Bono to promote Christianity is going to have no effect on the youth of Britain, the idea that this park will make the Bible exciting and more appealing to youngsters is a joke. This is simply cynical way of prying more money out of the misguided segment of the country to fill some neo-capitalists pockets.

In my mind a real Christian, rather than blowing £100k on her ego, would invest the money in something that's going to help someone, like the NHS, or a cyanide pill.

Damn you 56k dial-up!

I'd just like to point out that while WoW does work on 56k, it only does so with mega death lag of doom. Looks like I'm stuck with Metal Gear 3 for the next two weeks then.

Hands up if you're going to die soon

I received a particularly unwelcome leaflet through my front door today. More unwelcome than say, a booklet telling me I'm living in sin and must convert to some crazy cult (ie Mormanism) or my eternal soul will be damned forever (I am an atheist with Buddhist sympathies by the way). This leaflet was encouraging me (if I'm over 50 and therefore likely to be dead within the next 20 years) to make or change my will so that it favours The Institute of Cancer Research (I would link but I don't want to give them any attention).

Essentially, if I was over 50, there is no way I'd leave anything to these murderous assholes if my life depended on it (which it may, ironically). The reason? Well for starters I'm not an evil sadist who thinks it's ok to give an innocent animal, usually a stump-tailed macaque, a debilitating illness to prolong my own life, I'm not a lich after all. For mains, I have Buddhist sympathies which basically means I believe in reincarnation, that all life is equally valuable etc. so killing a monkey is the same as killing a human. And for dessert, well, they can piss right off.

The only thing I would ever leave them is a life-long legacy of crippling debt and a loaded gun so they can research into the percentage chance of a human surviving a self-administered bullet to the head.

What really made me laugh about the whole thing was the complete contradiction in terms the leaflet provided. In the first paragraph, in fact it's the first sentence, it states that failing to create a will will cause unnecassary problems for your family, ie all your possessions and money will go straight to the government rather than to your family who, lets face it, are less likely to spend it on bombing the Middle East.

Then on the third page it's telling you to forget your family and give them your spare five grand or that original Constable you have stashed in the attic for a rainy day. So in summary, they're telling you to look after your family by giving them nothing but a hefty funeral bill.

The real point of this rant, though, is for god's sake don't give anything to cancer research charities. Don't even spend money on the petrol required for a Molotov cocktail to chuck through their window. Ignore them and, hopefully, they'll all go away.

I have seen first hand the horrible effects of cancer research. I used to work for world famous ape rescue centre, Monkey World as the lemur keeper when I was 16. Often when I finished my shift I would go down and chat with my colleagues at the 'stumpy' enclosure. Most of these macaques had been rescued from research laboratories like those run by the numerous cancer research charities and were all in a bad way. They all looked so depressed. They had been chosen for testing for no other reason than that they were not as easy on the eye as say a squirrel monkey is. They had been tested on because they were ugly.

While I accept that cancer is a horrible illness, is it possible to justify taking five lives to save one? I know that my Buddhist outlook makes me think in these terms, but to put it another way: if all of your friends who were not particularly aesthetically pleasing were taken away and given cancer to save one monkey, how would you feel? You wouldn't exactly be jumping for joy that's for sure. Especially if you were one of the ugly friends.

Driving home for Easter

Well, I've made the brave journey home from Farnham to Bloxworth and now I'm happily benefitting from the joys of family life.

These joys being, of course, regular hot (and more importantly) nutritious meals which I don't have to cook myself, having all my washing done for me (and ironed for the first time in ages) and generally being able to sleep without a lethal weapon by my side.

All of which would be truly legendary were it not for the lack of broadband. Anyone who may have read my previous posts will know that I have a problem. I am hopelessly adicted to the joys of the internet, particularly the new era of gaming that has come with it. I am (whisper it) a nerd.

At home we don't have broadband. Not because my Dorset family is afraid of this new-fangled witchcraft and believe there is a catch somewhere. No, in fact Bloxworth has long been enjoying the delights of electrictity and running water since Jimmy the hamster was brought in to run in the wheel that powered the turbine down the road in 1968. It's simply because BT haven't yet considered us yokels far enough evolved to comprehend broadband internet.

Instead we have 56k dial-up. This means that whenever my mum needs to make a call, or is even expecting a call, internet access is banned. It has taken me a grand total of two hours just to gain access to my blog today. I thought the coast was clear, clicked connect, and after less than three minutes an irritated voice sounded from down the hallway: "Who's on the internet?" I twitched as the anger started to build, I'd pre-booked 'net time yesterday, she knew I needed it. Calming myself down, I disconnected and went and hid away for an hour while she gossiped on the phone. Fair enough, it happens, but when your dad has to step in to defend your 'net time second time round because you're about to get booted off again (after less than two minutes) because your mum wants him to phone the bank, it seems a little silly.

So anyway, I'm here in this tiny village, with access to none of my virtual friends, with no Xbox Live and most importantly, no World of Warcraft. This is like cold turkey, but it's worse. At least junkies can visit their local dealer and get caned any time any place. My addiction stems from something I can't have, broadband. Two weeks without my alternative reality, without escapism. What am I to do?

It does, however, say on the box that WoW is compatible with 56k modems...could I be saved?

Episode III: Revenge of the Cynic

I was reading a piece on Guardian Unlimited about the Portrait of the student as a young swot and feel it is important to point out that we're not all as godly as those they chose to write about.

Perhaps the most glaringly obvious mistake they made while researching the piece was failing to interview a first year student. From my experiences in what some might refer to as a university (I don't), I have seen a very different picture, from first years at least.

The first house I lived in during my first year was made completely untenable by two of my fellow residents who insisted on getting smashed off their faces literally every night, being as loud as possible, getting up at 3pm and taking class A substances in our kitchen.

This certainly doesn't add any weight to their notion of the student as a young swot. I am being harsh, though. There was a significant proportion of the good to go up against the bad, and suffice to say, most got through to the second year. The thing is, you only really get the real bums in the first year, which is very much an exercise in sorting the wheat from the chaff. The guy who always watched DVDs and played games is gone, as is the tit who spent most of his time chain smoking gaspers.

Look hard enough, though, and you will find the ones who slipped through the net. The accomplice of the spliff chuffing monkey boy, one of the two who made my life hell for my first term, and the odd one who got away with a piss poor result in a vital exam.

Call me a competetive bastard, but I would have liked to have seen more people ejected from their courses after year one. But it seems this uni is too soft on such issues, particularly on my course where it seems virtually impossible to fail. Maybe it's because my standards are too high, or maybe it's simply because it's a poncey art college.

Charidee begins at home, not on the high street

I watched BBC Comic Relief last night. And I do mean watched. I was up until 4am, compulsively absorbing all they had to offer like some kind of comedy sponge. It struck me that this is the way to make people take notice of the world, and the awful torment many people go through in Africa, and the UK. Interspersing the comic genius of godlike titan, Simon Pegg, with genuinely moving films that brought me to the verge of tears, and still do now just thinking about it. This will make people actually want to give, not because of some guilt trip, but out of genuine compassion.

Thinking about this not only made me give, but also made me think about the approaches of other charities. Generally they do good work, with the exception of course of Cancer Research UK, who are a shower of bastards (but that's a rant for another day), but their methods of raising funds strike me as a bit wrong.

Everyone has been accosted in the street by someone in a bib with a clipboard trying to persuade you with your hard earned, or borrowed if you're a student, cash. But it's not a one off payment of couple of quid like it used to be, it's £10 a month or more. While most of us will happily pop a pound in a collection box, we generally don't want to be emotionally blackmailed into giving away our bank details. And for what? We've just given them over £100 a year (which is about the same amount I spend on Christmas presents) out of a feeling of guilt. Comic Relief make us laugh for a one-off payment of however much we can afford, street charities make us feel guilty for a constant stream of cash, straight from our bank accounts.

That can't feel good. It's true that money's money, and when it's being given to those less fortunate that's great. But it must be like being payed off by the Mafia to not testify against them. It's emotional blood money. It's going to a good cause, true, but with so many guilt trip merchants shamelessly preying on those who don't have money anyway (like us students) how long will it be before they have to set up a charity to support the givers?

Oh Christ, I'm a crappy journalist

I almost had a heart failure last night. I found myself watching Channel 4 News, which was bad enough, when I heard Jon Snow announce that the IRA had caused outrage (again) by saying they would 'shoot' the murderers of Robert Mugabe.
"WHAT!" I cried. "Mugabe's dead! When the hell did that happen, why didn't I know? I'm a shite journalist! And why do the IRA want to 'shoot' his assassins? They're heroes!" After I calmed down and took the time to watch the footage of 'Mugabe's' widow, I realised she was white...and Irish.
The illusion was over. I felt even more of a fool. Robert McCARTNEY. Woah, I know about that, it happened ages ago. That's ok then. Is it? Not really... this guy is dead, he was innocent, and me and my housemate had just spent the last ten seconds laughing. At our own foolishness, of course, but laughing nonetheless.
What the IRA were offering was not a solution but a quick, easy escape route for themselves so they could feel better without truly vindicating McCartney's widow. A high profile court case was not what the IRA needed, but equally breaking the ceasefire agreement wasn't going to help anyone. It's lucky Mrs. McCartney wasn't looking for a quick fix to the situation.
It all ended on a high, though, when my housemate, who is also a Journalist and so will remain nameless, piped up after the story: "Who's Robert Mugabe?"

A whole lot of nothing

Haven't posted for a while, but then it is the weekend and therefore time to disengage my brain and cease functioning like a normal human being. It has been a weekend well spent, though. I've designed another three pages of Sketch magazine (the Surrey Institute of Art & Design mag) so that's coming on fine as well as taking up most of my time. I'm no designer, but I have to say it's looking pretty good so far. Other than that it's been a bit of a World of Warcraft fest which has seen me spend two and a half hours just running across the world to pastures greener and little else. In short, everything is ship-shape and if every day was like this, I'd be a very happy man.

Tickling injustice with the stick of angry

The problem with maitaining a blog entitled The Angry Dome is that the name suggests the blogger is angry all the time. Unfortunately this is simply not true, particularly at the moment. How can you possibly be angry when the sonic delights of Bloc Party are filling you ears? Oh wait, now The Others are on...politically motivated noise indie railing against the middle and upper classes? Brilliant, here we go...
While not entirely inspired by The Others, I found myself deep in conversation yesterday and putting the world to rights with someone I barely knew, somebody I met after seven or eight pints at the bus stop last week and decided to see again. Her being a struggling writer (think Daisy Steiner, Spaced fans) who is also a vegan and a Green party supporter, me being a pro-communism indie kid who hates pop culture, we had loads to rail about. Agreeing on everything, of course, and disagreeing with everything society can vomit up, the bile was soon flowing liberally. We soon found a moot point however, and both ended up sitting on the fence on one issue: terrorism and when it's right to put someone under house arrest with no solid evidence. At what point is it right to remove rights and liberties? Does skin colour, religion or nationality justify incarceration? Of course not! But why is it our government deems it to be in everyone's best interests to take away these people's liberty? Conversely, what about when it's too late? When someone detonates themself on a bus, killing twenty people, there's nothing that can be done save to condemn their actions and apologise to the familes of those who lost their lives.
Help me draw a line.

Ketamin for everyone...

It's so cold in this house...
Where to start? Well first of all I'd like to say how saddened I am about the recent death of Arthur Miller. He was a legendary playwright whom I will sorely miss. I have great memories of studying Death of a Salesman at A-Level, particularly of watching the film, featuring Dustin Hoffman and acting it out (for some odd reason) in my English Literature class.
In other news, I can't say I'm surprised at the recent scandal about the abuse of immigrants at Oakington, it was going to happen. I'm in no way condoning the abuse, but you've got to accept that some people are unable to cope with the high levels of stress that go with a job like that, and the immigrants, since they seem to be regarded as the scum of the earth in this country at the moment, are an easy target at which to vent this frustration. The only surefire solution I can come up with to guarantee that this kind of thing won't flare up again is prescribing both staff and detainees a healthy dose of ketamin. Unorthodox I know, but they'll be completely unable to abuse eachother, sexually or otherwise, if they physically can't get up. I suppose it would all go wrong when they are unable to feed themselves and all die, though. Oh well.
In personal news, my World of Warcraft addiction is still rampant. I am compelled to spend every spare second of my life playing the damn game, which would be fine if I didn't frequently find myself awake at 4am fishing...
I'm not feeling my best today. This is completely down to the fact that I decided to help myself to two hefty mugs of strong proper coffee five minutes before bed last night, but I blame the government for not warning the public that this much caffeine is guaranteed to keep you awake until 5am and unable to function as a normal member of society the next day.
What is keeping me going right now is the beautiful art-rock peddled by Bloc Party, who in my opinion are set to be ten times bigger than Franz Ferdinand with songs like 'Helicopter' and album highlight 'Positive Tension' sounding so much better than 'Take Me Out', and that's coming from a Franz fan. If you want my advice on up and comers, and even if you don't, my advice is to check out the sublime Nine Black Alps for scuzzy indie delights like 'Cosmopolitan' and The Subways for Von Bondies style rawk with a British flavour. Remember you heard it here first, unless of course you're an NME reader in which case you heard it here second.

Over and out...