Agoraphobia

And so once again that time of year has come. Fairy lights lining the streets, nights closing in ever earlier, and bugger me if it isn't freezing cold outside. Dark in the morning and dark when I leave work, daytime sunshine outside is a tease, taunting me with its warm glow as I sit at my desk hammering away at an icy keyboard as my fingers slowly seize up from the cold.

In the evening, why would I want to go outside? Keep inside and warm, and a whole world of entertainment is at my fingertips. And so it's a marathon of art films, new albums (via Amazon and iTunes, natch) and, for the first time in a while, video games.

I'd forgotten this simple pleasure. The worries of the world dissolve when you can hold, in your sweaty palms, the ability to take a small yellow rat, summon the power of lightning and use it to explode a Giant Evil Robot. Cackle in glee as you mercilessly plug poorly-realised archetypal villains in the face with an excessively loud blast of hot lead. Squirm around in fear as you bat the fat zombie woman off your neck long enough to take a swing with that fire axe you found lying around in the preposterously outdated water well round the corner. Smile as you see her head pop off and rather more than eight pints of blood come flying out of her neck.

Video games invariably get a lot of hate thrown at them. As with cinema and rock 'n' roll before it, the fantasy provided by these simple games proves an easy scapegoat for explaining away societies' problems. Rising unemployment, a domineering drinking culture and an increasingly disenfranchised populous are, of course, minor factors in catalysing the spread of violent crime when compared to a teenager unloading his stress by shooting a few badly pixellated zombies in the face in front of his television. Or a child imagining he can race around a cartoon world on his little kart, flinging bananas and storm clouds as heralds of simple and impermanent death.

Violent video games are the new video nasty, and in many cases the publishers of these games couldn't be more pleased. As the exile to VHS allowed the development of a truly independent film industry spawning classics such as the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Cannibal Holocaust, The Evil Dead etc., as well as establishing a proving ground for future mainstream directors such as Peter Jackson and Guillermo del Toro, who started with schlock zombie horror and ended up directing Lord of The Rings and Pan's Labyrinth respectively, so too have studios such as Rockstar games, makers of the Grand Theft Auto series, flourished under their initial classification as outsiders.

The truth of the matter is these games are no more dangerous in precipitating violent culture than the many generations of equivalent controversies that went before them. In no way is this more in evidence than a consideration of the one of the most passive and frankly boring computer games ever created.

Microsoft's Flight Simulator was a flagship application for many years, and remains probably the least offensive computer game ever created. Yet it is also the most closely linked game to the single most violent and despicable act of terrorism of the 21st Century. In the same way that it would be preposterous to accuse Microsoft of training al Qaeda, so too would it be completely inappropriate to fling accusations of encouraging youth violence at what is, at it's core, a fledgling creative industry.

Ultimately video games should be treated as what they are - games. They do not encourage political doctrine, they do not promote violent lifestyles. They are the homeground of the geek and the techie, and they open their arms to those with a desire for a winning combination of fun and sloth. If we really want to deal with the rising problem of violence in society, we need to look to the root cause of the problem, not what is at worst an unfortunate offspring.

Anyway I must be off. The bloodlust is rising and there are banks to rob, police to kill and zombies to mutilate...

It's Only The End Of The World

Hysteria is a strange creature. It spreads, a virus, infecting everything it touches. A virus, yes, but one that feeds on a conscious surrendering to the apparently inevitable. The most rational mind becomes gripped by the desire to give in and follow those around it as they slip into despair. The nauseating and reassuring feeling of falling suddenly. The human impulse for calamity beyond personal control.

Economic turmoil is a factual eventuality not because capitalism is a flawed structure, though it is, but because the collective being of civilisation is a coward and a fool. It fears its own weaknesses and thereby succumbs immediately to them. Its sight is narrow and self-involved, and never looks beyond the present. It never sees further than the near past and does not consider the yet-to-be.

A scapegoat is always to be found. Rich bankers sucking the system dry and lining their pockets with the residue. Irresponsible investors throwing aside acumen for chance. A tactless media whipping up frenzy in a bid to stave off the growing spectre of irrelevance. The truth is that all of these are symptoms of the human virus. Capitalism is the distilled form of the most vulgar and strong of human impulses - the need for success. The need to rise above the rest. The perverse notion that the individual is the driving force behind everything. That one person can stand alone in victory.

If the sudden downturn in global markets shows anything, it is that the individual does not exist as a distinct entity. All of us are affected. As the drunken headiness of success crashes in the gutter to spew out the half-digested notions of charity and economic and social responsibility, the weakened state is infected with a hysteria that impacts every person it touches. Those at the top slip on the edge of a precipice, and those at the bottom shelter from the debris that rains down.

As with violence, greed and jealousy, panic begets panic. A recession is not the apocalypse, but if confidence is the life force of a globalized economy, and hysteria the cancer that eats it away, then brace yourself for a shock. This dead meat is going to start to stink.

Sexy Boy

Accuse me if you wish of not understanding the feminine mind, but I reckon there must be nothing as attractive as a man with a head cold. Quite besides the stream of soothing ooze that flees your foggy brain through the scenic route of the nasal passage, there are a multitude of often overlooked aesthetic benefits.

When I have a cold, my eyes insist on lubricating themselves to excess, becoming itchy and watery. A fetching red blotchiness ensues, that softens the gaze and comes with an appealing tearfulness. It tells all the girls that you're that caring, sensitive guy they've been dreaming about.

A swelling and scratchiness in the throat can imbue your dulcet tones with a sexy husk, as your singing voice morphs from ugly Welsh lady-boy Aled Jones to manly god of cool Tom Waits. Coughing will work wonders here - the looser the phlegm, the more gargly the voice. And gargly just screams sex appeal.

Cough enough during the day and you'll undoubtedly start at night. An unhealthy lack of sleep will hollow out your eyes, highlighting bone structure and accessorizing those pink, tearful orbs. Blow that nose hard, long and often, and a reddish hue will soon appear. This will make it look like you've been knocking back Irish whiskey. Women love hard-drinking men.

If the coughing, sneezing and choking becomes too much, you may get quite a severe headache. That pained frown will tell all maternal man eaters that you're a tortured soul who needs saving by a good woman.

With all of this at your disposal, you'll be a killer with the ladies. Just remember guys, fresh breath is paramount! As you move in for the kill, know that there's nothing more appealing than the sweet aroma of mentho-lyptus cough sweets.

In The Cold, Cold Night

Finally get access and time enough to blog. Feel as though there is little point relating anything but the tragic story of how my simple dream of a new job and a new home fell apart. The story of why I am now living in a garden shed. The story of how I was attacked by a nine inch high canine on my quest for a toilet break.

The story plays out like this; its Monday the 5th of November, and I'm starting my new job. It's on the other side of the country to my home town, and the short notice has meant I'm staying in a basic hotel, breakfast not included. I had arrived into the town on the previous night to a cascade of fireworks for bonfire night, which somewhat alleviated the stress of carrying my own bodyweight in clothes along the two-mile hike from the train station. Somewhat.

My first day goes well. My boss is nice, as is her boss and her boss's boss. The team I'm set to work in are all friendly. I sit in a state of constant terror, natch, frozen in front of reams of text I can barely comprehend. Constant assurances are hurled at me that I'll "pick it up soon". They're probably right. Evening came and morning came; the first day.

Second day is a easier. Find out where the toilets are, strike up (albeit stilted) dialogue with who I guess I should refer to as 'my colleagues'. Crack the odd joke. No-one seems to notice; this is probably a good thing. The hotel is depressing, but I am buoyed by the fact that on Friday I will be moving into my own brand spanking new flat, furnished and lovely. Evening came and morning came; the second day.

Third day, fourth day, fifth day - all fairly similar. I'm beginning to understand how this real world thing works. Only problem being my housing plans have fallen through. So three more weeks in a hotel, oh the ecstatic joy you can imagine I felt!

To save a bit of money, I stay in a bed-and-breakfast. Unfortunately, the only room I found was in the garden shed. Bathroom facilities are in the house, it's below freezing outside (and possibly in here) and whenever I stick my head outside a troop of tiny yapping dogs go crazy for my (albeit delectable) ankles.

Epilogue
I spend three weeks in the hotel. I finally move into my flat at the start of December. It takes all of that month to get a phoneline installed (possible upcoming rant post about the hideous evil that is British Telecom call centres I hear you say?). It takes most of the next month to get a broadband line installed in my flat, and I take another six weeks off from blogging just for good measure (read: fear).

Anyway, I'm back now.

Going Missing

It has been, to say the least, a tumultous three days since last I posted here. One spent in frenzy, one spent recovering, and today spent with the weight of the future dropping once again squarely on my shoulders. And yet, in a delightful twist in the tale of fate and flat-hunting, everything has fallen neatly into place. What a pleasant surprise, especially considering the near-disaster that Wednesday was.

Three flats to look at, in three towns. The first in what has been described to me as a "sleepy little commuter town" outside London. More like "town of the dead, or those soon to be so". To say that the flat and building felt like a retirement home was not an exaggeration. I am twenty-two, and refuse to live in a flat that comes furnished with a ceramic pig, a communal garden shared with pensioners and a faint but persistent stench of stale urine.

Flat number two was a first-floor place in a building so new that not only was the carpet still shrink-wrapped, but I was informed the third and fourth floor weren't actually finished yet. Astronomically expensive but just oh-so-nice. Which didn't exactly prepare me for the third and final property.

Now, I know estate agents (or realters if you like) don't have a reputation for desperately spilling all their proverbial beans on you, so I assume when you walk into an apartment to view and your guide says "it's not gonna take long to look round" that it's going to be small. But, dear God, why? Why did anyone think that building something so tiny was a good idea?

So maybe it was small and cosy? No, why bother with that? In fact, why bother with a cupboard (in this furnished flat) when a curtain in front of a wall full of holes and with a stick jammed in there will do just as well? No need for an oven either, just this stone-age microwave that looks like it will cook anyone stood within half a mile, that'll do.

And it's really not worth re-painting the walls. Blood red and lime green is a classic combination. And the dust and filth take the edge of the headaches anyway. And to be honest, with this smell you'll probably just go outside more often, so who cares if the sofa should have an attached Hazmat sign?

You'll never guess which one I went for.

Devil's Haircut

I am frequently perplexed by Russell Brand. Anyone outside the UK who is reading this is probably thinking "Who?" - so I'll explain a little.

Brand is Britain's most current comedian, and by that I mean - without passing judgement on his level of fame or ability - he is certainly the most iconic of the crop of comedians to come to prominence in recent years. Sporting ridiculously large hair, women's jeans and a permanent colour scheme of "black and more black", the sex-maniac and reformed heroine addict uses a Dickensian wit combined with a delight in controversy to great effect.

I subscribe to his (incredibly popular) BBC Radio 2 podcast, having done so since he abandoned 6Music, and usually listen to it at night, stifling the laughter that always escapes me by forcefully cramming a corner of duvet into my mouth. Over an hour of hilarious interviews and tangential rants, and featuring weekly staples such as the phonecall to Noel Gallagher, and imploring China to "get out of Tibet!", its a dizzying mix of high- and low-brow humour, with a healthy dash of left-wing politics.

Which is more than can be said of Brand's new programme on Channel 4, Ponderland. Television has never been Brand's strong suit. While Big Brother's Big Mouth was a great forum for his fiery banter, The Russell Brand Show, a sort of mutant talk show, was a disaster (witness the painfully dull interview of Matt Lucas and David Walliams of Little Britain fame).

Ponderland is even worse. With no sideman to play off, the programme is simply a monologue delivered by Brand to camera, with occasional interludes in the form of stock footage from the pre-VCR era, mostly public service announcements or cheap documentaries. Brand rambles incoherently on such sweeping subjects as "Romantic Love" and "Childhood and Adolescence", and the audience, presumably dosed up with laughing gas, or maybe just on a day trip from the lunatic asylum, roar with laughter to the most banal of puns.

There is the odd moment of genius. Brand phones his own father to ask him to grade the colour of his genitalia using a paint samples board, on the basis that "dad's have browner willies". But generally you sit there praying for Brand's sparring partner Matt Morgan to turn up, and give the entire thing a little grounding. He does not.

A true original, it remains to be seen how far into the future Brand's career will stretch. But I sincerely hope that any future forays into television comedy can capture the brilliance of Brand's unique radio work. Brand can excel in a loose format, but needs to be tethered down occasionally, or God help us all.

Fan Mail

And so there is yet another postal strike in the UK, meaning there will be no post going in or out of my house until next week. This is annoyance in itself, cutting off my supply of DVD rentals which are the source of movies for the Sure Motif, and is designed to drive me more insane waiting to hear from various prospective employers.

Plus, going by the decorations starting to go up in the high street shops, I'd better be thinking about sending off my Christmas cards.

Charmless Man

Listening to Jonathan Ross ingratiate himself when interviewing celebrities is a frequent, painful occurrence. But watching Friday Night With Jonathan Ross this week was too much to bear, as his slobbering sycophancy was burbled over Beth Ditto in a baffling display of inept adulation.

The infectious exuberance of the Gossip front woman somehow maintained my interest in what was otherwise a cringing dialogue worthy of Ricky Gervais. Ditto should be applauded for her feminist, fat-and-happy, out-and-proud stance, but in an interview like this surely praise should be reserved for her talents, instead of the tabloid-friendly labels so frequently applied to her? Her phenomenal singing voice, fierce political ethics, her lightening quick wit (which merrily ran rings around Ross's own mithering pantheon of innuendo); none of these were mentioned. Ross did touch upon her status as a fashion icon(oclast), but was far more interested in tired stories of squirrel-eating.

The lowest point probably came when Ross realised his usual flirtatious interview technique was unlikely to work. He daintily ran away from Ditto's comment that she prefers the "ladies who look like boys". Sycophancy failing, he then switched to flattery, claiming he finds his wife more attractive when she is carrying a bit more weight, as if this rescued Ditto from any embarrassment she might have about her own size. Not only is this patronising, it is also a serious distortion of the truth - Jane Goldman, Ross's wife, could at most be described as voluptuous, and certainly does not approach Ditto's frame.

Note to self: must research and write post about film critics' wives. Jane Goldman is a wonderful oddball, and I believe Mark Kermode's wife is a leading academic mind on soft-core porn. Maybe Barry Norman's wife was a Page Three girl...

All of which leaves only reinforcement for my opinion that Ross should abandon BBC 1 for perhaps Channel 4 or BBC 3, where he could cater for the niche market that he better suits. He is too talented a presenter to be re-programmed as yet another personality-free prime-time clone.

Oh, and have a shave!

Throw Away Your Television

Television is a strange and dangerous beast. Strange, because it confounds expectations, despite never being anything other than predictable. Dangerous because the uneasy comfort it provides is an opiate, a sucking tentacle wrapped around our mind, placating and digesting.

This morning was good. I got up early, ate a bowl of pecan and oats cereal. Had a shower. Teeth brushed, hair (sort of) combed, I sit in front of the computer and progress. For the first time in a while, I feel I'm getting somewhere. Short breaks here and there to read the news never fully interrupt the flow.

Its just after one, and I decide to have lunch. I'll watch a bit of telly, I think. Scrubs is on at half-past, so I'll make my sandwiches to eat then. Kill a bit of time first, and come my appointment with the grey, imposing structure in the living room, I'm sat, food in hand, ready for a thirty minute treat in the middle of a productive day.

Only its never thirty minutes. A tiny bit of channel-hopping and one episode has become three. And I don't even want to be here, its just a sickening compulsion, a hypnotic trance that I slip into, broken only by the lull of a four minute advert break. This in itself is a further ploy; get some crisps, have a banana, put the kettle on, glass of coke. I consume. And then I can't move, I'm just stuck there.

Television can be a wonderful thing. Educational, partisan or unbiased, entertaining, a conduit for information or analysis, a great way to watch films cheaply and easily. But as an accompaniment to eating alone, it is a sweet and sickly poison.

Anyone Can Play Guitar

I don't know how many of you out there play a musical instrument (or for that matter, if any of you actually bother to read this blog, which I fear is spiralling downwards in a diminuendo of wit and relevance). However, my estimates tell me that for every ten of you, approximately 9.3 will play the guitar. To which embarrassingly mundane list I add myself.

It wasn't always this way, you know. I once played the recorder. I used to dabble on the piano. I even got a couple of grades in that one. But generally, I like my own musical pastimes to be easy, so I'm reduced to simply bashing out a few thunderous chords as fancy takes me. To hell with this coordinated hand motion crap, I'll just arrange my fingers in a claw-like shape and then moronically mash my paws on the keys like Chris Martin. Its easier.

Then, about 18 months ago, I decided that I wanted an instrument that was more painful to play, and would constantly, infuriatingly drift out of key. So, after a brief fling with an ancient nylon-string that constantly found new and exciting ways to break both itself and the skin on my fingers, I bought a steel-string acoustic.

Now the guitar itself is very nice, plays well. But good grief, who decided it would be a good idea to make such a dangerous, awkward instrument?

When a piano gets too much (or too little) use, its strings become warped, some of the felt will harden, you may lose the odd note. They develop a sort of honky-tonk charm as they lose their tuning, and if you ever do need to adjust anything, its perfectly acceptable to get a professional out. These wonderful little gremlins will arrive, toolbox in hand, open it up, play it for half an hour, twiddle this and polish that and - presto - you're done.

Not so with a guitar. Firstly, it is socially unacceptable to get someone else to replace your strings for you. What are you, a girl? Secondly, it goes out of tune about every 25 minutes, and sounds crap when it does. After carefully tuning the thing for 12 months, careful never to put too much strain on it, my G-string finally snapped. Oh, the excitement. Forget the fact that the bloody thing nearly took my eye out when it went, and just consider the emotional, physical and financial pain I went through to get the little bastard ship-shape again.

Firstly, I took the decision to replace all the strings, since they'd been on there a while and had collected a repulsive amount of my dead skin, which is apparently green. So first up was to identify the correct strings (80/20 Bronze Lights), order them from Amazon (just over a fiver) and wait for them to turn up. When finally they did, I had to remove the old strings (though not all at once, or the guitar will snap or something) which is where I started to run into problems.

So, you have to loosen the string at the tuning end, fine. Once that's free, you need to 'gently pull out the bridge pin' at the other end and then you're done. Gently pull? Ha, I think not. Pin, I think, is a misleading term here. Perhaps "nail" would be better. Or those things that you put into drilled holes to screw stuff into, the self-expanding impossible-to-remove ones.

A herculean struggle or five later, involving two pairs of pliers, several wedge-shaped bits of card, two bleeding fingers and a pile of bloody tissues to match, and about two hours of fruitless googling to find some sort of insider's trick, I'd managed to change the first five strings. Putting the new strings on had proved easy enough, if a bit tedious (imagine winding down the window on your car, only it takes you ten minutes) and I was all set for a victory lap on the final string, with my guitar miraculously unharmed.

Well, after much teasing, tweaking, ramming my hand into the inside of the guitar (cutting my arm on the 5th string in the process) to try and push it out, the final pin began to budge slightly.... and then snapped in two. I let out a scream of rage something along the lines of "AeeeaaauuuuuaagggghHHRGHH!" and fought back tears. So close, only to fall at the final hurdle.

New set of bridge pins, about £3, in a lovely pack including a completely and utterly useless bridge pin remover. As effective as a chocolate fireguard. I was still in quite a pickle though, as the bottom half of the pin remained wedged in the hole, about half an inch in, and with nothing for me to grab hold of to pull it out. They're the wrong shape to push through into the guitar, so it was a case of loosen some of the strings, reach in and push it out with a penny. A neat trick learnt from several how-to websites, and completely useless.

After about half an hour of trying this, I reached some sort of "damn it all to hell" moment (though perhaps not in those words). Keys, garage, dig around in the back. Power tools. The drill. Drill bit, plug, turn it on. About four good attacks and the little pin, my arch nemesis, crumbles into the inside of the guitar. The new pin fits nicely, and thankfully not quite so snugly. Victory is mine.

I Wish I Could Have Loved You More

Yesterday was spent at SeaWorld Orlando, a delightful place full of all things aquatic. It is much harder to try and put into words the spectacle of watching someone ride on the nose of a killer whale than to watch it, either in person or on video. As such it was very tempting to upload some of the video I took yesterday onto YouTube and then put that on here. But I'm not doing that, because if there's one thing I've learnt from the bizarre success of Carol Smillie, its don't mess with the formula. Also, I'm on holiday and can't be arsed.

Anyway, SeaWorld, the first theme park I've been to on this visit, was a refreshing change from the Disney parks I'm used to in Florida. That's not to say it is better, but it was certainly less hectic. Much of the time was spent sitting down in the shade watching various shows: dolphins, false killer whales, birds, sealions and real killer whales all took part in entertaining and often spectacular shows. There were also quite a lot of zoo-like areas, with large environments for animals from penguins, polar bears and beluga whales of the arctic to alligators and manatees native to Florida, and everything aquatic in between.

Out of a party of six, only two of us (self included) felt inclined to try the "water-coaster", which was a laugh; it was a strange mix of log flume, roller-coaster and simple boat trip, and was most memorable for a terrifying 60 foot drop at a 60 degree angle - scary, trust me. None of us really fancied the seven-inversion supercoaster tacked onto the side of the park.

I left the park with a feeling of satisfaction and without the exhaustion that usually comes with a day in a theme park, especially when the temperature is above that of blood. But on the trip home, the lingering feeling I had was one of doubt. Was it really fair to imprison all these animals and make them perform tricks for us?

I have no doubt that the company owning the park, Anhauser-Busch (a beer company who also own Budweiser) invest a lot of money in care and conservation. Indeed, the park itself is littered with signs promoting conservation and highlighting their own role in this field. But ultimately I suspect its all just lip service, designed to silence voices that cried out in desperation when SeaWorld was found to stock dolphins bought from controversial sources in Japan. Voices that repeatedly point out the vastly shortened lifespan of the imprisoned Orca. Voices that I'm inclined to agree with.

I enjoyed my day at SeaWorld, very much so, but I doubt I will go again. The bitter taste I now feel has taken the edge off an otherwise enjoyable experience, and I don't much feel like supporting an at best environmentally-neutral organisation. Especially not at seventy dollars a pop.

Maps

As mentioned previously, I'm off to Florida on holiday this Thursday. This of course means that I should be readying swimming trunks and sunblock for packing. What it actually means is that I'm wasting my time between lounging in the sun trying to build a base tan (in the hope that I don't spend the entire first week looking like a pickled beetroot) and exploring my destination on Google Earth.

I'm firmly of the mind that this innovative programme is probably the best idea since Calvin the Caveman decided that, rather than attempting to scare pigs to death with girlish screaming and waving of the arms, it would be best to throw a pointy stick at its flabby flanks. Of course, all great ideas have terrible side effects, in the one case the most horrible, awful idea for a meal imaginable, and in the other the production of yet another fantastically compulsive, complete and utter total waste of time.

The problem with Google Earth is that it has the appearance of genuine utility, whilst actually hiding a shamefully simple concept under dazzling implementation. There is actually very little you can do with the programme. It can produce from-here-to-there directions, but without the simple interface of various equivalent websites this is less useful than it seems. Links to hundreds of websites and Wikipedia articles are present, but you're unlikely to find yourself reading about anything you're not already familiar with. The ability to type in any location and 'fly' there and view squillions of uploaded photos of famous landmarks is not useful; the same function is done far more effectively by Google's own Image Search. Fly to the top of the central pyramid at Giza and you'll find a photo of some random guy in sunglasses. This is not education.

Ultimately, the appeal of the programme is its "wow" factor, and it is here that it scores most points. It really is cool to look at the grand canyon, zoom into the three-dimensional topography and wander around a bit. Or to go to Tokyo and let the skyline fill up with skyscrapers as it streams the content in. I took the above photo in Grindelwald, Switzerland. It would take those of you with Google Earth only a couple of minutes to fly there, zoom in, level the camera and shuffle around to recreate my picture.

But herein lies the problem. You won't be there. To be nauseatingly sentimental, you won't feel the cool wind of the Swiss Alps, or the warm heat from the summer sun. You'll just see an albeit impressive, blocky representation of a real place. You gain nothing from the experience, and that is extremely frustrating.

Back On The Farm

Reports of an outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease hit the news yesterday, with so far one isolated case identified at a farm in Surrey, affecting 60 animals. Cue widespread hysteria and story after story of government ministers flying back from holidays to shield Britain from this apocalyptic storm in a teacup.

Forgive me if I'm dismissive of this disaster-to-be, but I never really understood the fuss the first time around. The 2001 outbreak of foot-and-mouth in the U.K. was, until the 11th of September that year, the biggest news story I can remember since New Labour's landslide election victory in 1997, and dwarfed the extended campaign of fuel protests from 2000. The outbreak clocked up an impressive 2,000 cases, which resulted in the culling - i.e. slaughtering, burning and burying - of around seven million sheep and cattle. Those who remember the outbreak may think this fair enough, and the epidemic was eventually stopped, so perhaps it was all a success? However, there are two crucial points to consider.

Firstly, foot-and-mouth disease is, in most cases, non-fatal. Symptoms include a high fever, blisters in the mouth that cause drooling, and sores on the feet. Animals will typically lose weight for several months, and milk production in cattle can decline. A very small minority can suffer inflammation of the heart and death. Essentially, the real damage is to a farmer's income; quantities of milk and meat that can be produced significantly decline in the short term, although in the long term they will rise again since the majority of the animals survive.

Secondly, there was at the time a policy of non-vaccination. An effective vaccination exists, but was unused due to vaccinated livestock being ineligible for sale abroad. It was decided that the damage to the economy would be far less if infected cattle, and all those with any possibility of contagion, were destroyed. The logic in this is baffling.

Farmers work in a tough market in Britain. Milk is constantly sold at a loss which the farmer has to pay. After the B.S.E. crisis in the 90s, British beef has sold terribly, if at all, abroad. Cattle are generally insured only in the case of death, and so there would be no compensation for farmers suffering financial losses due to vaccinations. As such, the National Farmers Union put pressure on the government not to adopt a policy of inoculation.

In the current outbreak, I sincerely hope that a policy of vaccinate-and-compensate is adopted by the government. While it will have to fork out substantial amounts to farmers whose cattle is vaccinated, the money lost from British meat exports - hardly a booming market - will be far less than the crushing blow delivered to the tourist industry last time, as the national parks were closed down for months.

And lets not forget that this would save the unnecessary slaughter of millions of innocent, often healthy animals.

Hammer Horror

Finally got round to buying Resident Evil 4 for my Wii today, after reading various claims of it being the "best game ever". I realise this happens a lot more than it should really, but after only an hour, I have had to shuffle off to the relative nirvana of my blog. Not through terror. In fact quite the opposite.

I was hoping to have my skin merrily crawling off my bones. I was expecting every appearing zombie would have me running for the door. I was certain I would at least let out the odd childish yelp of fear. Instead, I was presented with a sequence of decidedly mundane events.

The game opens with an interminably long opening cutscene, scream-free. Fact: driving is not particularly scary. Its okay, I think, as soon as I get control of this fella there'll be nasties hiding round every corner, desperate to jump out and give me the proverbial heebie-jeebies. But that would be too obvious. No adrenaline pumping opening chapter, no stonking mission statement of terror that tells me that anything could happen here. Instead, I get a nice wander through a little "European" village. Surely packed with terrifying beasts though? No. Packed with slow moving villagers with pitchforks. And spades. Terrifying I'm sure you'll agree.

Well maybe I'm supposed to talk to them? Build a sense of dread? Isn't that what The Wicker Man is about? Maybe not; still on my to-see list.

Well anyway, no I can't talk to them. All they do is shuffle grumpily forwards, like children going to ask the teacher for more paper, muttering in some incomprehensible dialect of - I assume - Spanish. They sound Bulgarian. They provide little more than target practice for me as I just stand there and dispense with one after another by shooting them two or three times in the head. As fun as this is (because I aim by pointing my Wiimote), it all feels a bit empty and "training level"-esque. And not the least bit terrifying. I suppose it is quite funny when their heads fly off.

I've never played a Resident Evil game before, so maybe I should be grateful that Capcom have thrown me a gentle introduction. I'm sure I progress I will no doubt become hooked, and will have to eat this post. But frankly, I bought this game to be scared, and won't be satisfied until I become little more than a quivering pile of jelly in the corner, screaming for my mummy. Or soil myself.

Heaven Help The New Girl

Sorry, but this one's going to be a bit of a rant. If you've seen the nominations for this year's Mercury Music Prize then maybe, like me, you might take issue with some of the choices.

Okay, so maybe Jarvis Cocker, as much as we love him, was never going to get on there for the fourth time. And no, Fields' album didn't really live up to my expectations. Everyone's sick of Damon Albarn, so maybe that's why his supposedly untitled side project didn't get nominated. But for me, there are two major omissions.

Firstly, where the hell is Patrick Wolf? Surely his manic third album deserved a spot of recognition from a panel supposedly appreciative of a range of musical genres; instead they nominate insipid scenesters like The Young Knives, New Young Pony Club and The View.

But if there's one album that really deserved and needed a nomination this year, it was Someone To Drive You Home by The Long Blondes. Achieving near universal acclaim on its release last September, this brilliant album only managed to crawl to number 41 in the charts. The publicity gained from a Mercury nomination would introduce what should be a hit album to a much wider audience. I'm frankly baffled as to why it did not receive a nomination.

Maybe its because the cover looks like it was designed by a blind, stupid, friendless five-year-old.

The Magnificent Seven

This is the seventh post on Curious Quill, and seems like a good time to talk about Shichinin no samurai, or Seven Samurai to me and you, Akira Kurosawa's masterful epic from 1954.

I watched this on Wednesday as part of my pointless DVD marathon, along with the last two episodes of the Dekalog as described in the previous post. I'd also rented Ran which I didn't get round to watching; I reckon one three-hour epic about samurai in ancient Japan is enough for one evening.

I had no idea that slow-motion had been used as early as 1954. I mean, it wasn't like watching an inane, plotless, self-indulgent and deeply unsatisfying Michael Bay film, all of which are crammed to the ears with needless slo-mo sequences, but there were a couple of bits in there. (Incidentally, don't expect a review of Transformers on Curious Quill. And no, I couldn't be bothered to link to the Bad Boys films.)

Anyway, Seven Samurai was a complete delight. For a film of its length, I was astonished how engaged I was for the full three-hour duration. The characterisation of the eponymous heroes, as well as a spread of farmers and villains, was astonishingly strong, and the script sharp enough that I imagine even the most subtitle-intolerant could be swept up in the story.

Watching the film reminded me how much I love Japanese cinema. I can't claim to have seen much - this is so far my only Kurosawa, and I've seen a few Miyazakis and a couple of horror flicks. I also have eight Takeshi Kitano films on DVD, they are my comfort food. It would be pointless and belittling to characterise all of Japanese cinema with one simple characteristic, but I do think the best films contain some intangible quality not found in Western cinema.

Promise the next post won't be so cinephilic.