Reflections on a terrible year

I am not one for tradition. Marriage, mortgages and Christmas cheer are all foreign concepts to me. But for some reason, when it comes to New Year, I do feel some need to follow the custom of reflection and resolution in an attempt to somehow better myself. There's no harm in trying to break bad habits, even if it is in vain. So following this mod of reflection, let's face it, 2011 was fucking terrible. It started with the worst Winter months in living memory: absolutely no sunlight paired with continual rain and damp for eight long weeks. I have never really considered myself prone to seasonal affective disorder, but two months of grey, wet weather is bound to make even people on Prozac feel shit. Not least because one illness seemed to follow another through the entire period. By the time March came around I was certain that this was going to be the worst year ever. The weather had persuaded me that nothing good could come of 2011, that the sun was never going to reappear, that it was utterly impossible to find a job, that 2011 was going to be one extremely long rainy day spent indoors watching DVDd and drinking Lemsip, occasionally glancing hopefully over the window but seeing nothing but this:

Thankfully, this wasn't the case. Eventually the weather changed and we were blessed with some glorious Spring weather. This made me jump at the opportunity to emerge from my hole and venture further outside than just to the corner shop to buy tea and biscuits. It was also around this time I began the BBC Book Challenge, essentially a "100 books to read before you die" thing. At the very least, this could distract me from the ongoing disappointment of jobhunting: applying for countless positions, attending various interviews, and then ultimately hearing nothing back from any. This did not help my motivation at the beginning of what was sure to be one of the worst years of my life. So I replaced disappointment and frustration with books, which cost more but gave my pointless existence some semblance of purpose.

After the amazing Spring weather, we entered a typically English Summer. It rained, and it rained... and then it rained some more. Torrential rain, thunderstorms, water literally cascading from the roof. With the exception of a couple of days in June, the temperature never got very high. I'm not really sure how I feel about heatwaves. I mean, there is a strange novelty in stepping outside one morning and feeling as though you have been transported to the Mediterranean. But I suppose the novelty of being inside an oven wears off after a short while and I am left praying (obviously not actually praying) for storms. And there were lots of storms...

2011 was also the 5th consecutive year of moving house. Worse than ever before, the stress of it all made me feel like a masochist. Why do you do this to yourself, every single year? The district we had pinned our hopes on, despite being affordable in Spring, was suddenly way out of our price range, along with the extortionate cost of deposits, and that properties stay on the market for an average of about 36 seconds in London, made it all a pain in the arse before it even began. And then, we tried to move by public transport. I hear you, why the fuck would anyone do that? It seemed like a sensible idea at the time, but how, I have absolutely no idea.

Shortly after moving six miles closer to central London, my work placement started. This had its highs and lows as I have mentioned previously. The placement itself lasted two months, but I continued volunteering there on an ad hoc basic rather exasperatedly. Officially, I resumed weekly meetings with the condescending club at the Jobcentre, which began what was sure to be a steady decline towards the end of the year. The debate over whether to continue working very few irregular hours or call it quits and return to job-hunting in earnest has been my main concern these past three months, and I never did come to a decision. Since I am now being paid, I figure working irregularly is better than not working at all. 

When the lights and decorations go up and December comes round, I think about this:

The Three Disappointments of December

• My birthday
• Christmas
• New Year's Eve

December is an all-round messy month, for a number of reasons. It starts with my birthday, which this year consisted of 6 of my friends staying in my rather small 1-bed apartment for 4 days. Literally climbing over one another to reach the fridge and having to join a queue whenever you need to pee is not an enjoyable way to spend a weekend. I planned the weekend that we would spend as much time out of the house as possible, but this did not go down well. It seems that most of my friends, instead of spending their weekend in London actually doing things in London, would prefer to just sit in front of the TV. I did not foresee this, I did not understand this, and after much complaining and bickering I pledged never to try organising anything ever again. It was meant as a threat but it was probably considered a relief. I spent the next week in bed sulking over what a failure the whole thing had been. But the one thing that did succeed, as always, was being drunk from Thursday through to Monday, which was a taste of the rest of December.

After two weeks usually spent in bed recovering comes Christmas. I have learnt from 2010 to avoid the West End as much as possible in December (and mostly November as well), because it is sure to raise the natural levels of rage in one's blood, be it through hordes of stupid people with 65 bags on each arm, the tacky, kitschy Christmas decor, or the horrible Christmas music, which is played everywhere, 24 hours a day, and haunts my dreams. After much deliberation, I crawled back to stay with my family in York, remaining completely sceptical on the way there. On the 25th I stayed in bed reading until early afternoon so as to avoid the explosion of consumerism happening in the living room. This avoided the general feeling of disdain that Christmas morning brings. The wonderful books which I received, and never being without an alcoholic drink, actually made it enjoyable. So the Christmas of 2011 will be remembered as one of the better ones, but again, being drunk for an entire week has severe negative effects.

New Year's Eve has definitely gained a bad reputation. Last year, due a public transport fail, we were still stood shivering in a bus stop at midnight, and ended up spending £40 on a taxi to finally get to the club, which itself, costs something like £30 a ticket and a further £5 per drink. The club was just good enough to outweigh these failings, but spending £50+ on one night out is something I will never feel okay with. The year before that I went to a house party, in which everyone fell asleep by 10pm, and the year before that I don't even remember. So this year we took a "no frills" approach; we'll go to the club that we always go to. Being members, it cost a mere £10, and thankfully, the bring-your-own-booze policy and drinks prices at the bar did not change because of the date. This meant that at midnight we were on the dance floor with a bottle of champagne listening to the countdown, rather than sat in a bus stop. I would consider this a success.

No matter how successful or unsuccessful these events turn out to be however, December is just one long binge. And when it's over I feel like shit. It's inevitable, as is January being crowned "most depressing month of the year". For the first few days I barely got out of bed, so acute was my sense of shame as I recovered from a very prolonged hangover. Because of this severe hangover following the disgraceful behaviour of December, it is no surprise that people make a desperate attempt to change their ways. There is always something we could quit, or do more of, or do less of. Especially after a year as shit as 2011. The only resolution that I have come up with so far is to drink less, but since I go various festivals every year; 3 days of drinking, getting drunk, and getting completely wasted, this could be a difficult one to keep. But (and this can ultimately summarise my entire outlook for 2012) we'll see how it goes.

The Horror of Fandom

I recently came across something horrifying. Something so discomfiting that I am once again questioning my existence. An event so mortifying, I felt nauseous, as if a close family member had just been brutally bludgeoned to death in front of me... Whilst pottering around my Goodreads account, I noticed a tab at the side asking me to vote on what I thought were The Best Books Ever. I thought, go on, why not, a bit of harmless fun. But upon clicking, I was faced with the horrifying scene just mentioned. Number 1 on this list was Twilight by Stephanie Meyer.

My first reaction was to look around me, and check my apartment for hidden cameras, a part of me knowing that this was some kind of Truman Show style set up. When I couldn't find any, and I once more sat down at the computer, the reality began to sink in. 7500 people did actually believe that Twilight was the best book ever written. My stomach made an uncomfortable movement. I realised simultaneously both that, contrary to my presumption that I had absolutely zero faith in the human race, I had actually retained some, and that had just lost it. All of it. And I don't know if it will ever return.

Once this had passed, it gave way to frustration. I am aware of Twilight's fandom, but I had never thought that people actually consider it good. I thought that it's basically like McDonald's: thousands of people get some sick pleasure from it, but they know deep down that it is rotting their insides. Apparently, I was horribly mistaken. Although I have never actually read this book-shaped piece of excrement, I feel I am perfectly justified in condemning it so vehemently. Here's why. Despite the advice of friends, I sat through the first three films of my own accord, and I've read a few pages of the book, enough to come to the conclusion that it is artistically, stylistically, theoretically bad. As I looked at that image sat at the number 1 spot, I began to get angry. Why such an impassioned reaction? Well...

I believe writers have a duty to make a difference, to write about things which will change the way people think. I like Virginia Woolf. I like Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte. I like Thomas Hardy and Leo Tolstoy. Why? Because they all had progressive attitudes towards the plight of women and feminism. They used their writing to promote much-needed change at a time when women faces objectification and inequality as a part of daily existence. In the 1800s women couldn't work, at least not in the way men worked. Marriage was often the only available option to them: Women couldn't inherit, and when they were married any money they had was instantly transferred to their husbands. Essentially, they needed a man to be a part of society, and once they were married, they were property.

So it makes me writhe in my skin to think that now, in the 21st Century, now that we have achieved what those writers wished for, what the Suffragettes fought for, what the women at the Ford manufacturing plant went on strike for, is being pissed all over by some backwards mormon moron with a major case of penis-envy. And the worst part of it is that Stephanie Meyer has made a difference. Somehow, this sexually repressed cretin has thousands of young girls wanting nothing more than an abusing boyfriend to serve. Not exactly what I had in mind.

Indeed, I said I haven't read Twilight, because the idea that such an anachronistic emblem of regression even achieved publication is nauseating, and I would like nothing more than to see Stephanie Meyer and her atavistic omnibus thrown into a time machine and shipped back to the 1800s where they belong. Or lynched.

I guess the most frustrating part about this craze is the debate (or lack of) surrounding it. Ask a person why they don't like Twilight, and they can give you a list of reasons. Ask a person why they do like Twilight and you can hope for a response along the lines of "It's just amazing" or "Because Edward is sexy". It's all good to open up a discussion about something, but when the people on the opposing side have only a handful of braincells between them and feel the need to giggle and cover their mouths like coquettish invalids every few seconds, it loses much of its appeal.

Wuthering Heights

A couple of weeks ago I got around to buying Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, after a friend recommended it. It was on my enormous to-read list, but never very high up, since I didn't really know anything about it. Two weeks later I have been to see the new film adaption by Andrea Arnold and even listened to the song by Kate Bush. In a word, I have become slightly obsessed with it.

Right now I am reading Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility, and after reading Wuthering Heights it is a bit of an effort, given that Austen is arguably a much more stereotypical 19th Century/Victorian novelist, concerned with class, inheritance, romance, marriage and aristocracy (more on this in my next entry). But Wuthering Heights isn't stereotypical by any sense of the word. I'm never really sure what to expect from the books I read at the moment, because I rarely know very much about them. I'm just going through a list of the 100 greatest novels of all time because the BBC and the Guardian, amongst other places, have told me I should. So Wuthering Heights was a surprise...

One of the first parallels I drew, despite the 200 year difference between them, was Wuthering Heights and Shameless (or, to an extent, British drama in general). Essentially, a couple of families entangled in love, sex, arguments and violence. One of the most frustrating things about reading classic literature (particularly Austen) is the concern with propriety and appearances. Pages and pages of interior monologue regarding one of the female characters debating whether or not to say hello to one of the male characters, and running through all the repercussions that it could lead to. Seriously? Was life in 19th Century England really this frivolous? This can be portrayed with hilarity, but it is still a huge relief to read something from the same era which doesn't place so much (if any) focus on propriety.

Wuthering Heights revolves around the connection between the two main characters, Heathcliff and Catherine. I won't go into any great detail retelling the story, because anyone who is interested can get a much better account from Wikipedia. Primarily, the narrative focuses on their emotions; passion, love, jealousy, betrayal, hatred, most specifically the betrayal Heathcliff feels when Catherine marries their wealthy neighbour, Edgar Linton. The majority of the novel focuses on Heathcliff's ongoing search for revenge against Linton as well as Hindley, the abusive eldest son of the man who adopted him. Heathcliff is one of the most remarkable anti-heroes ever created. Almost every decision he makes, every action he takes, every sentence spoken, is violent, aggressive and manipulative. And yet I felt a huge amount of empathy towards him because of the way he had been treated. His suffering is portrayed as such that no matter how despicable his actions, they seem justified. He's even kind of sexy.

It has been apparent for some time now that one of the things I look for in film and literature is a certain level of bleak. It is why I like Charles Dickens, and it is why I like a lot of art-house and independent films. Wuthering Heights is bleak. Oppressively so, as the turmoil, grief and ongoing war of the characters never really wanes. Almost all of them die. Some of them are simply left to wither away because no-one cares about them enough to help. And this is further embellished by the setting, which is one of the most iconic and unforgettable aspects of the book, and one which Andrea Arnold really develops in the new film adaption. Rough cliffs, desolate moors, windswept trees; rain, snow, storm clouds. Unlike the characters in Austen's novels, there are no balls for the characters to attend, no society to consider, no expectations of others to suppress their feelings.

I see that I have digressed into a book review, which wasn't my intent...

When I saw the poster for the new film adaption of Wuthering Heights, it spurred me on to buy and read the book before going to see the film. Reading the original first just makes more sense to me. If you watch the film first then all those hours spent reading the book later won't be as enjoyable, because you know most of what's going to happen (I have recently read Jane Eyre, but I watched the new film first so I knew exactly what was about to happen all the way through it). Anyway... After already establishing a love for the book, I was now even more excited about the film. I'd seen Fish Tank by Andrea Arnold, so the idea of her doing a period adaption was intriguing to say the least. But the fact is, Arnold's style of directing is exactly what was needed.

Raw, passionate, powerfully atmospheric, and unforgivably gritty, it remains completely faithful to the novel, yet so far removed from traditional costume drama that it feels completely new and original. I cannot recall the last time I saw a film with such cutting attention to detail. The hand-held camera drags you down into the mud and zooms in on every blade of grass, every drop of rain, every hair. The focus blurs in and out, now on the characters faces, now on a beetle crawling through the grass. The only soundtrack is the wind howling into the microphone, a tree branch rapping against a window, a horse breathing, or the constant drip of water. Mist, rain, moors. Every aesthetic wonder of the book is pulled into focus and studied in detail.

I think this is a lesson in how to make a great adaption. And proof that an art-house approach works surprisingly well with a genre that usually takes the big-budget, star cast approach. Atmosphere and imagery are two of my primary concerns with films, and not the computer generated type (fuck CGI of all kinds). Many people find an elaborately designed rendering of spaceships, cities of the future, and imaginary worlds displayed on the big screen as the height of aesthetic capability. But if I'm honest, I'd much rather watch films that take a unique look at the things which already exist: fields, woods, and even urban landscapes (but one's that haven't been looked at before, because I'm sure I'm not the only one who is bored to death of seeing the New York skyline). And as the cast, unknown or TV actors, couldn't have been better really. Usually, films which use an all-star cast (the types where the trailers spend more time listing the big names than actually showing a preview of the film) are going to be narratively shite. And films that use unknown actors tend to have a much higher quality concept. If you are making a film set in Yorkshire, for God's sake use actors from there. Don't hire a big name like Anne Hathaway to completely fuck it up.

Since I read a lot, I see a lot of adaptions of the books I've read, and unfortunately, this is usually a disillusioning experience. There is nothing more frustrating than going to the cinema to see the film adaption of one of your favourite books completely ruin it (A primary example being Harry Potter) through bad acting, a bad script, changing things, or omitting them completely. It was about 30 minutes into Wuthering Heights when I realised that it was already one of the best adaptions I'd seen, and there was a flood of relief that for once, they got it right.

Impressions of Classical Art

When you are happy, or sad, or just generally pissed off, you have a lot to write about. But when you feel numb, you don't have a lot to work with. In fact, even picking up the computer to try to write something, anything, feels daunting. For at least the past month, I have had an overpowering feeling of "What the fuck is the point?" Other than occasionally going out and getting hammered, I haven't done much of anything, and the weeks have seemingly blurred into one long stretch of disillusioning not-much-of-anythingness. At some point I realised that getting drunk and sleeping until midday was making it worse, so I stopped drinking. And a few days ago I got bored of sitting in the apartment doing absolutely fuck all, so yesterday I decided to take a very long walk into the West End, and ended up in the National Gallery for the second time this week. I spent over 2 hours in the 1250-1500 section, and finally found something to write about.

A rather shaming confession of mine is that, up until this week, I'd never actually stepped inside the National Gallery. Even though it is right there in Trafalgar Square, and I have passed it more times than I can count, I've just never had the urge to go in. This is probably because my opinion of art is almost the exact opposite of my opinion of literature: namely, that modern art is far more interesting than classic or archaic art. And this was somewhat perpetuated by my long perusal of the pre-16th Century section of the gallery. Essentially, this is what I saw:

Jacopo Di Cione - The Crucifixion

Countless depictions of the Virgin and Child or Christ crucified, many of which were altarpieces like this one. Whilst walking around I had a distinctive sense of deja vu. It seemed as if every one of the 16 rooms contained at least 2 Virgins and at least 1 Crucified Jesus. 32 virgin portraits and 16 dead men nailed to crosses. Simply put, too many. It seems to me that life in these times was an extremely depressing ordeal indeed. Spending most days looking at graphic portrayals of a man dying on a cross, and being shamed if you've lost your virginity? I'll take sinful modern culture any day. It did get me questioning the idea that religion has been a huge comfort to people in centuries past however. Notice the little angels collecting the blood that pours from Christ's wounds in that picture above? Yeah, comforting, okay...

Religious criticism aside, it seems that my opinion of literature and art are not that dissimilar after all. It is hard to deny that classical art, like classical literature, required a lot more skill than the stuff around nowadays. For one thing, it's not even imperative that you use a brush to paint anymore. Hell, just throw the paint at the canvas and call it an abstract self-portrait. I certainly do not agree that modern art requires no skill (for the most part). But I do agree that when it comes to classical or traditional art, for want of a less cliched phrase, "they don't paint like that anymore". One example of this is the Arnolfini Portrait (1434), which caught my attention for quite some time. And no, not because it is featured in the intro sequence to Desperate Housewives.

The Arnolfini Portrait - Jan van Eyck

Admittedly, that is where I recognised it from. But that is not what kept me stood there looking at it. Like many of the paintings I saw yesterday (despite the depressingly repetitive themes), the skill of the artist and the minuscule details in the painting are awe-inspiring. Whether it be this, or that it stood out as unique amongst the majority of overt religious paintings and altarpieces, this is one of the paintings that I remember, and which I will go back to see again.

Probably one of the reasons I have put off going to the National Gallery for so long was because I wasn't really expecting to like anything in there very much. Van Gogh? Overrated. Cezanne? Crap. Or so my conception was before actually going inside. The majesty of traditional art galleries can be discouraging to people like me, who are used to the cold white rooms and industrial spaces of galleries like the Tate Modern. But once you realise that you are not the youngest, or the most uncultured person in there (by a long way), the feeling that you are out of place wears off, and you can actually enjoy the art. Okay, so pictures of ugly virgins holding wrinkled little goblin Jesus babies aren't really my cup of tea, but there's definitely enough variety to work around those unfortunates.

I'm often accused of being a traditionalist, albeit jokingly. And I find this rather laughable because I always considered myself one of the least traditional people I know. When I decided to finally visit the National Gallery, it was with a mixture of apprehension that I would hate everything, and with curiosity regarding whether I would prove to have more traditional tastes than I first thought. Well, since I have only explored one section of the National gallery (and this being the section that I will probably appreciate the least), that is still up for debate. For now, I would say yes, some of the paintings I saw in the National Gallery were absolutely brilliant. But I still think Van Gogh is overrated crap.

Summer is over. Thank God.

Usually by the time September comes around, I have put the shorts and sandals back into boxes and pulled out the jumpers and scarves. Not this year though. No, this year, towards the end of September, we had a 30 degree heatwave lasting into October. This got me thinking about personal preferences and, more specifically, why I loathe summer.

By mid-September, when the weather seemed to be cooling down a bit and I was actually able to close my windows on a night, I started looking forward to the six months ahead. I think it's safe to say that the majority of people appreciate the change in seasons, and by spring I usually welcome a bit of sun to warm things up again, but the novelty of Summer wears thin extremely quickly.

I can see the positive aspects: there is the sun (which is great, to an extent); drinking outside in beer gardens; festivals and garden parties. But that's about as far as the pros stretch. Because alongside these you get heat so oppressive that you can't sleep (not to mention the sauna temperatures on the London Underground, making travelling akin to torture); swarms of insects; and huge crowds of people, everywhere! Frankly, I just don't get it. At the first sign of sun in spring, people strip naked, cover themselves in oil, and spend all day sprawled out in a field like some sort of desert lizard. Do they like cooking themselves? Or hearing their skin crackle? Where does this obsession with baking oneself stem from? Vanity? Self-harm? Thirty minutes in the summer sun is enough to scorch my deathly pale English complexion and leave my skin itching and uncomfortable, so when people talk of laying out in the baking heat in a bikini, I have to wonder why they hate their bodies so much.

We almost lucked out on it this year. Save the one day in June when the heat in London was around 33 degrees, it has been pretty mild all Summer. So when September came around, I felt a sense of relief, but also the feeling that I had been cheated. Surely that's not it? But that was pleasant, and even enjoyable. So what is going on? Summer isn't supposed to be like that... Just when I started to become accustomed to the earlier nights, and the cold mornings, the bitch came back with a record-breaking Autumn heatwave.

I tried to make the most of it, I really did. The first Saturday in October, when the temperature was still around 30, I decided to go for a pleasant walk around Hampstead Heath. There was a walk, but the pleasant part never happened. Instead of peaceful open space, there was swarms of people; naked, half-naked, drunk, smoking, generally ruining my plans (as usual). We managed to climb to the top of Parliament Hill but the views were somewhat marred by the crowds. When the sun is shining and the weather is hot, sitting in a park and enjoying a bottle of wine or a couple of beers is a lovely idea. But it's practically impossible: there is bound to be some tossers who decide to play football next to you, making that glass of wine suddenly look very precarious; or a screaming child destroying your plans to relax with a book; or just the amount of people, making Brighton Beach and Hyde Park look like battery farms. No, Summer can go fuck itself.

It's now October. The leaves have started falling from the trees, the weather is cooler, there is that smell of Autumn in the air. I have felt pretty shit recently (hence the lack of posts), but one thing that has made me feel better is the change in seasons. I somewhat idolise Winter, probably in some sort of mental protestation against Summer. But last Winter was awful. Apart from one week in November/December, it didn't snow. It just drizzled for 3 months. And the poor insulation and heating in my flat (along with the fact that I was unemployed and spent most days sat at home freezing to death), made it an overall crappy experience.

Despite this, I love Autumn and Winter. I love seeing the trees change colour and shed their leaves, I love bonfires and fireworks (even though I don't necessarily agree with the celebrations on the 5th November), the frosty mornings and the crisp winter air, wrapping up in gloves and scarves, drinking mulled wine at the markets, ice-skating, coming in out of the cold and getting warm by a fire. And not forgetting, snow. I suppose it comes down to aesthetics; everyone has their own idea of what is beautiful. Some people think fake tan is beautiful (Lord only knows why). Some people think the vibrant greens of summer are beautiful (and I don't necessarily disagree with this particular aspect). Personally, I don't think there are many things better than snow, ice, and winter landscapes. I just become 5 years old when it snows, and have this irresistible urge to go and run around in it. And on top of the aesthetic aspect, seeing the country grind to a halt, acting as though this bizarre occurrence was completely unexpected, has a comedy value all it's own. But it rarely snows, so winter can be disappointing.

I am determined to enjoy this Winter. I can't see myself suddenly enjoying all the Christmas tack, but I can make the most of the markets and the booze. I don't like being cold all the time, but I can probably afford to heat my flat this year. I am always hoping it will snow, but even when it doesn't, I still enjoy the dry, sunny, extremely cold days spent outside. Summer is overrated. You can have your wasps, your sweaty heat, your annoying crowds, and your disgusting barbeques. I'll take this over Summer any day:

No, I'm really not loving it.

A while ago, as I was walking home from work, I passed the McDonald's on Old Kent Road, and with a feeling of disgust, intended to go home and write something about it. As it happened, I got distracted and forgot about it, but I'm sure I can remember the gist of what I wanted to say...

I don't understand McDonald's. Or rather, I understand it, I just don't understand the popularity. It really is a disgusting place. And yet hordes of people cram themselves into the tiny little buildings for a box filled with some sort of decomposing substance, which I certainly wouldn't consider food, any more than I would consider polystyrene food. The only real difference between the two being that polystyrene is probably healthier.

Everything, every single thing about McDonald's is oppressive. The minute you step through the door, you inhale the toxic stench of the place, and develop a layer of grease on your skin. Stay in their for longer than 30 minutes and you break out in acne. Wade through the crowds of fat people, screaming children with ice cream (or whatever it is that McDonald's passes for ice cream) smeared over their faces, and mouthy tracksuit wearing teenagers. Once you get to the tills, you are asked "can I take your order" by someone who looks as though they are about to die, which is no surprise given the fact that they work week long shifts for about 50p an hour. You choose something from the menu which, when it arrives, looks kind of like the picture, if the burger in the picture had been run over by a truck.

And the punchline is that McDonald's now calls itself a restaurant. Either the definition of restaurant is, or has become seriously lax, or not enough people are questioning this status. In restaurants, you don't stand in a queue for ten minutes and receive your meal from a conveyor belt. In restaurants, the staff are polite and take your order once you are seated. In restaurants, you can buy liquor (though I'm not sure a liquor license would be a welcome addition to McDonald's)

Other than the staff salaries, all of these criticisms are on a cosmetic level. So I am yet to mention McDonald's human and animal rights notoriety, but I think everyone is aware of this so it needs no explanation. When I was unemployed a friend said to me, "you can't want a job that badly, because you haven't tried McDonald's". My response to this would be that I haven't tried prostitution or drug-dealing either, because I'm not quite ready to take all of the ethics I have accumulated since I was 12, and throw them out of the window. I understand that in this economy many people are willing to take anything for a wage (good for them I guess). But to work at McDonald's I would be like Faust, only instead of selling my soul for knowledge and wordly pleasures, I would be getting minimum wage and humiliation. The primary figure in this simile being the devil.

I think the only perk of working at McDonald's is a discount on the food, but I would sooner eat a brick. Returning to the products themselves, like almost everything exported from America, they are unhealthy, unethical and I am going to have to assume, addictive. Unless people enjoy eating burger-shaped slabs of fat, and subsequently gaining weight, I'm going to assume that there is some other factor involved here (I'm going to point out here that McDonald's does have a healthy option; brown salads which went out of date about 2 weeks ago, essentially only on sale to make the mentioned slabs of fat look more appealing). Most people have seen, or at least heard about, the documentary Supersize Me, so everyone knows to some degree what goes into a McDonald's burger, and the fact that the fries do not decompose (so when I said it wasn't real food it wasn't actually hyperbole). People know about the ethical violations. But they still eat there. So I am forced to the conclusion that McDonald's contains small amounts of heroin. Like the heroin addict, McDonald's consumers know that they are wreaking havoc on their insides, but this is outweighed by the fix; those minutes of grotesque bliss in a dingy doorway. The harsh truth is that McDonald's is a drug, and Ronald McDonald is its kingpin.

Karma

I have noticed that my blog posts have been rather... eclectic lately. In other words, they deteriorated into aggressive rants for a period. I'm not sure if this is a bad thing, but either way, I'll try writing something more lighthearted today. If not in subject matter at least in tone...

I mentioned a while ago that I was currently in the process of taking legal action against the landlord of my previous apartment. This has gone on for some months now. But I received an email yesterday informing me that a decision had been made, the decision was final, and that neither party could take the matter further. This was perfectly fine by me, as the decision was that I should receive my deposit back in full, as opposed to having £915 deducted from it, as my landlord proposed for "damages". This was a much better result than I was expecting. I thought the deposit protection company would probably meet the demands of each halfway, and deduct about £400 from the deposit. But evidently, my cynicism has been proven wrong. At least on that front. This rarely happens, so I still stand by my cynical outlook fully.

As a friend pointed out, the reason that such compulsory deposit protection companies exist in the first place is due to the number of landlords who attempt to extort huge amounts from the deposits of their tenants. I like to call this financial rape (though this doesn't sound too catchy so maybe I'll think of something better). The way I see it, this is so they don't have to use their own money to pay for the upkeep of their shitty properties. Double glazing and a new boiler would have been a start, since not many people are half-reptile.

To revert back to my cynicism for a while, I pose the question: why do people have to be such wankers? Why do people insist on justifying my misanthropy. This isn't how it happens in films. In films people like me have a wondrous experience with a purely altruistic bunch of people which changes their whole personality. But this is reality I guess...

So why is every person on the planet in some way out to swindle, extort, or otherwise abuse everyone else? I know people are crap and annoying and everything most of the time. But I still understand that treating other people like idiots, or otherwise generally abusing them, is frowned upon by general society. So you don't do it.

But apparently, you do. When I think about it, everywhere I look everyone is out to screw everyone else as much as they possibly can without being reprimanded for it. The food you need to buy to survive is priced ridiculously high to profit the supermarket chains. The energy companies, the water companies, the music and entertainment companies, are all in business purely to draw as much profit from you, the consumer, who is forced to pay their ludicrous prices. This is a piece of plastic, inside another piece of plastic, with a 5 page booklet inside, and it costs £12 fucking 99? And you people who make those stupid piracy adverts actually wonder why we download things illegally? Then there are the banks where you have to keep that tiny amount of money, who charge you £50 for using a reserve that you never even asked for. And more than that, who caused the financial crisis which we are all paying for in the first place! But do the banks take responsibility and admit they were wrong? What a ridiculous fantasy that would be. If sexual rape is is punished severely, why isn't financial rape (I can't come up with anything catchier)? Just because you aren't physically slapping someone in the face, doesn't mean you should do it metaphorically.

It's not even a case of human beings being inherent arseholes. It all comes down to money. As Tony Soprano so perfectly states, "That's what is comes down to isn't it? Motherfucking, cocksucking money" (forgive me if this quote is slightly incorrect). The thing that everyone wants, but few people have. The thing that a few have masses of, but which the majority have very little of. It's not a modern philosophy. The French Revolution happened for this very reason. But whenever those little hiccups known as recessions occur, attention is drawn to the fact that most of us have no fucking money. The fact of the matter is, most of us are adhering to these austerity meausures so a few greedy wankers can go on holiday with their bonuses.

So it must be said that it genuinely comes as a surprise to me when something happens to contradict this opinion. The decision of the deposit protection agency surprised me. I was expecting a bad result, as I always do. But instead I received the best result I could have hoped for. This hasn't happened for a very long time. It's almost like karma, if you believe in that crap. But it didn't exactly contradict my opinion... My theory is that my landlord's mortgage was riding on the rent from that apartment, but they couldn't find a tenant to move in after us, so the deposit deductions (coincidentally just short of a month's rent) were an attempt to cover their mortgage (or otherwise pay for the overdue refurbishments in order to get a new tenant). I guess that would mean that they are in a bit of a jam right now. Maybe I could buy into this karma stuff after all...

However, as my friend rightly pointed out, the only reason for these compulsory protection agencies to exist, is the fact that everyone, if left to their own means and decisions, is an untrustworthy arsehole.