The Facade, The Persona.

I am at least 10 times more neurotic than most of you know.

I hope that nobody reads this who will be directly affected by learning of my

neurotic tendencies, but then I have no idea what kind of person that would be.

Oh look, and now it's raining. Isn't that just perfect? I mean, I have spent all day reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (which, by the way basically goes 'Aren't mountains great? Cor, they're bloody great. And storms - OH! Whoops, just brought a mangled corpse to life... But look at those mountains!) and now I'm sat blogging the random thoughts that have come into my mind after stewing with Romantic literature for a few hours. It's raining. There must be some connection between these two factors, but I can't be bothered to find it, so overwhelming has my apathy become.

I went to London, it was very good. It was great. But it was also awful because I'm not always there, I can't always be there, and if I was, I might hate it.

-My moods tend to roll in cycles, of extreme contentment, perhaps even joy, to the basement of boredom and disillusionment. At the moment, I'm in a trough. Maybe it's the weather; maybe it's the absence of a purpose, other than to read and sleep, but I hope soon to be back at a peak, on a crest, looking down from an apex.

Although, from the apex, you never look down into the abyss; while from the abysmal, you constantly dream of the apex. And so am I doomed to live half in blissful forgetfulness, and half in a bored, dream-filled void.

Here's to the coming peaks... No, that's a lie. Here's to the depths of nothingness.

Sq.

Ennui sounds too good for what this is.

This might well be the most bored anyone has ever been.

It is not aided by the fact that my parents do not let me forget that I gave up my job, although do seem to forget themselves that I did so in order to focus on my studies, with their full support. Selective memory, I suppose.

Anyway, I want to do something crazy. This blog is by no means the way to do it, as I'm fully aware that my readership has depleted to zero and no-one gives a shit any more. Not that they did in the first place. This is self-indulgent, ridiculous rambling, and I don't know why I'm still doing it.

I think I'll move away. In a tent. Live in a tent for a few weeks just travelling the country. Alone.

The Passing of Branaghfest 09

As one of two attendants, and the main host of new underground festival 'Branaghfest', I find it is my duty to provide the one and only online review of the most up-and-coming film festival of 2009.

The idea for Branaghfest came from both me and a very close friend, after talking for at least an hour about the work of one Mr Kenneth Branagh. I had recently purchased 'Love's Labour's Lost' on DVD, and we planned to watch it, and perhaps some other Branagh films, at a certain time.

Who knew then that it would be so successful?

On the 14th of July, 2009, Branaghfest survived its first year as a festival, with two hardcore fans in attendance. The main events were Love's Labour's Lost, including DVD extras, Hamlet excerpts and and introduction filmed by Branagh himself. Complementing the event was salted microwave popcorn, a selection of squashes and juices, and an impromptu conference about the state of AS and A level English Literature education given by two professionals in the field.

We hope that Branaghfest 2010 can up the ante on 2009, perhaps showing a more varied selection branching out from Branagh's Shakespearean works; however, we mostly hope that there will be something new for us to savour, and we won't just end up watching episodes of Wallander...

Soon to be produced (might be): 'Branaghfest 2009' t-shirts. Only available to those who attended.

And remember, stay true to the Branifesto: 'Have Fun!'
Sq.

You'll never fail like common people, You'll never watch your life slide out of view...

Michael Jackson's dead, apparently.

I'll never forget the moment I heard (nb. Imagine that said in a non-upset way, more with a reminiscent, wistful smile); it was Thursday night, we were leaving the Queen's head after suffering Kap Bambino and enjoying the new Metronomy line-up, and kept hearing people say 'Michael Jackson' and 'Michael Jackson's dead?' and 'Michael Jackson's dead!'. The natural reaction in times like these is, of course, to assume that it is a prank, a hoax, and that is precisely what we did.

Everyone was saying it, still, so we asked a trader of wax flares, who informed us with a stony expression that Michael Jackson was in fact dead.

At that moment it didn't really mean anything. At Glastonbury festival, as I suppose it must be at most festivals, you don't really have any connection with the outside world, physically (obviously) but also mentally and emotionally. This news didn't affect me in any way, other than perhaps a few 'I don't believe it's which were entirely genuine. I still don't, really, but that might have something to do with the constant stream of photos of a living Jacko.

At the time I found out, I don't think any of us had a clue that it would turn into such a big thing. It's the biggest death since Princess Diana, for sure, and people have really gone mental for it, mostly to the extent of acheiving a collective amnesia in public.

That is to say, that many have stopped condemning him for being extremely strange and suspected of abusing children.

However, in private, we've all heard and even made jokes. Why do we feel this need to go back on ourselves?

Look at this:

When I visited Bristol Museum's Banksy exhibition (Banksy vs. Bristol Museum) this had been put up in the hallway which leads into the main exhibition. Next to it, as we waited to enter, was a man with a video camera asking passers by what they thought.

When it got to me, I sort of rambled about the jokes and things and how nobody said it in public, and then he asked this question:

"Do you think it's appropriate?"

I replied, after a short pause, that I felt that it was, and that it was good, and I liked it. It was painted 3 years ago, and before Jackson's death, nobody would have said it was inappropriate. What changes when he dies? If anything it becomes more relevant.

I loved the tongue-in-cheek candles and flowers below it, creating the shrine to the dead legend who's depicted luring children into his home. It was a great way to start a great look at one of our most revolutionary modern artists.

Go and see the exhibition, and stay true to your ideas, no matter who dies.

Sq.

Show me when it rains, The place you go to hide.

Wrench and a clench at my chest.
Whirlpools in my stomach and blood.
Dilated pupils,
Dry lips,
Fear.

Breath,
Two breaths,
Clearing noise in the brain,
Slowing torrents in the blood.


Sq.

It really, really, really could happen, When the days, they seem to fall through you, Just let them go.

This is Somerset.

It may be one of the dullest places for an 18 year old to live; the extent of the nightlife a JD. Wetherspoon in the High Street, and Envy up the road for Fridays and Saturdays- if you don't want to be drinking in your kitchen or garden.

Sometimes, it's beautiful.

Sometimes it's infuriating.

Sometimes it makes me miss everywhere I've ever been.

Sometimes I'm glad to be home.

But then I guess there are trees and sun everywhere, and my attachment, and hate come from fifty years of other people's decisions, choices and preferences.

Sq.

They came, They saw, They killed my faith in humanity and people with the same music taste as me.

Example & Don Diablo - Hooligans

'Where's all the Hooligans, The nasty music fans?' asks Example in his charming Cockney accent.

I feel compelled to answer that they were, for the most part, present in the crowds of Glastonbury festival last weekend.

I don't want to sound like an intolerant old biddy who has a problem with people enjoying themselves, but for me it seemed to go above and beyond the realms of acceptability.

On Thursday night, I lost all my respect for anyone with the same music taste as me. Perhaps my head was in a naive and romantic place where I believed that people who enjoyed the subtlety and intelligence of Maximo Park and Metronomy's music would be people I'd get on with. This, however, was proved to be spectacularly wrong by a throng of seemingly anaesthatised drones, punctuated only by the violent and inconsiderate groups of tall, hat-wearing, hairy sweaty men, often shouting 'Oggy', and 'Oi'.

On Friday, my faith was restored by a trip to the Park Stage, enduringly my favourite venue of the festival, to see the true romantics, Golden Silvers, on a rainy morning. My later trip back, to see the Horrors was similarly enjoyable, despite worries that their harder sound would attract a less gentle clientele.

On Saturday, my mood was punctured only by the somewhat out-of-place 'Woop-woop' which emitted itself during Franz Ferdinand's 'Outsiders' drum solo;



(Thanks to SpaceThisWatch for uploading...Ha.)

and the 20 minutes+ spent trudging into Shangri-La, unecessary I was sure. However, when I got in it was undoubtedly worth it, as I saw the exhilarating Africa Express soundsystem, and their riveting 2Hour jam.

On Sunday... The highlight for me had to be Blur, despite being next to a group of thirty-somethings who enjoyed placing each other on their shoulders despite obvious problems with balance, and extreme heckles from the people behind. During one song, the man next to me spoke so loudly that it impaired my hearing of the tune. I was not happy. My only sanctuary was, ironically, during the minutes he spent attempting to extract his girlfriend's tonsils, during which they frequently brushed me in their clunky attempts to move while kissing.

Unpleasant.

having written all of that, the great bits far outweighed the bits ruined by other people. Maybe I am destined to live alone with a cat, stare out of the window and get ratty when I can hear the noise from next door. But then I think maybe it's not too much to expect a festival such as Glastonbury to have a more laid-back atmosphere with more consideration for your fellow man. We were all in it together, but I just failed to feel the cameraderie I had known last year.

Expect more from me, now it's the summer holidays.

Sq.