Author: jnorth

I was awoken by the searing pain of the ground pressed against my cheek. Quickly I arose. My feet failed me as I collapsed once again toward the ground as it gave way for me. It was after this I realised it was not the sole fault of my limbs that I had once again reaquainted myself with the earth, but that the earth itself had taken a degree of the blame. I was currently kneeling atop a dune of sand.

I caught a handful of grains to affirm this, the sand burned against my dry hands falling back whence it came. I squinted, permitting small cautious steps as I turned to inspect my surroundings to which alarmingly had very little to inspect; I remarked that I might as well stand atop any of these dunes as I would observe the exact same thing, oceans of sand stretching further than my eyes cared to glance and my legs cares to venture.

I tried my hardest to traverse the dune elegantly but found myself sliding rather than walking to its base. I squinted ahead of me, deciding that since I had no recollection of how I got here every direction held an equal chance of salvation, or indeed an equal chance of hopelessness. After scaling my third dune, there was little to mark my infinitesimal progress other than the shallow footprints I had left in my wake, my mind could muse only on how magnificently barren this aureate  wasteland was, and how much longer I could endure it. Beneath my feet there were no signs of life, no cacti, no insects nor desert foxes nor armadillos nor vultures harbinging my inevitable doom. Nothing. Nothing but me and a seabed lacking in a sea to provide for it.

This desert was distinctly prosaic, it shaped itself like a child trying to shape icing on a cake, however it now suddenly felt as it the candles had been lit. The disheartening symmetry of this sand prison seemed to have kept me in a feverish stupor, something I was dispelled from as I choked on the dry air; the signet of the midday sun. It had begun to feel as if the scorching flames were not only being toted upon my shoulders, but shone below me also, as if I was traversing a desert of mirrors the size of sand grains.

I felt the weight of my body as I trudged through the thick air that snaked around my visage, convecting in the midday sun. I felt the ground beneath me clinging to my footsteps, claiming what it knew was soon to be part of it. I had forgiven the desert for being so stark, I could not think of a single creature that would wish to share in this burning embrace. My legs once again failed me, and my eyes followed them. I admired the dazzling orange of the sun as it screamed at me from behind my eyelids, and its glow faded to black.

I awoke to a comparative haven of hospitality; the ground beneath me no longer burned, but kept a modest heat from the sun that had once tried to turn these lands into glass oceans. My eyes needed not to squint at I stared up at the sky now dyed fuchsia and midnight purple, the sun no longer bellowed its deafening roar but instead the night filled itself with another sound entirely; chirps of insects that sounded like crickets echoed between the basins of sand and the rustlings of animals filled me with hope. And the idea that I was not entirely alone inside the hourglass I have been confined to invigorated me, and made me resolute in surviving the sun’s return. I sat upright, retreating my hand toward my chest as I felt the tickle of an insect march across it, going about its business unmindfully. As I reinspected my surroundings, the once desolate desert had come to life now that the sands had become less punishing; ants patrolled their quarters, woodpeckers flittered overhead, and as my eyes adjusted to the dark, a silhouette of a ferret like creature could be made out in the distance clawing at the sand in search of something. The clicks and cries and scurries and chatters of the animals flowed amongst the amber valleys, filling the night air with life and my heart with promise of leaving this place.

‘There is nowt wrong with slang’

 The article written by Belinda Webb argues that, as put rather obtusely by the title “there is nowt wrong with slang”. With specific regards to Emma Thompson who had started a campaign against the use of sloppy slang. The writer’s protest to the campaign is based half in personal attacks and half in fallacy. Belinda Webb is glorifying colloquialisms and their detrimental effects on the current generation’s articulacy; and this is what I will be responding to in this article.

“That epitome of Hampstead luvviness, Emma Thompson, has apparently started a campaign against the use of sloppy slang and street talk”. In the very first sentence Miss Webb has made a personal attack on someone because they are trying to promote articulation and urge teenagers to express themselves with a broader vocabulary. Great going. She then goes on to say “what’s to be expected from a Cambridge graduate?” Attempting to alienate Thompson because they have been accepted and then graduated from a prestigious university; so far Webb has proved nothing but envious resentment of those who are able to express themselves intelligibly.

Miss Webb continues to state “it [slang] demonstrates an inventiveness and quickness of thought…a language on the go, evolving not just from one generation to the next but from one year to the next.” The writer’s phrase ‘language on the go’ seems an apt description, as these colloquialisms are indeed, going. Their impermanence is staggeringly obvious, however there is no progression or ‘evolution’ as is said by Ms  Webb; these words are fleeting at best, and frivolous sub-communicatives at worst.

Belinda Webb then uses Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting to postulate that “British literature is served well by slang – it can energize prose.” This I am in agreement in with the writer; slang can indeed enrich our written and in some cases spoken language. However the over extolled slang that is borderline invasive of teenagers vocabulary is forcing out its etymological relatives for vapid and improper counterparts. Slang is an addition to the English language, not a replacement.

The sub title of the article is also something that particularly struck my attention, in which Belinda Webb chooses to write “Emma Thompson of all people ought to know that Shakespeare’s slang became part of our everyday language” this statement, of course, is true. However, Shakespeare was able to effectively and eloquently express himself using standard English, or in his case old English. His use of slang did not allow omittance of his vocabulary to accommodate such colloquialisms. There is also a strong tinge of hypocrisy in these words, as the writer implies that Emma Thompson “of all people” is knowledgeable of  slang and its applications throughout history. The writer states this while simultaneously arguing that no one person can judge whether colloquialisms are socially acceptable. It certainly appears that her argument holds little legitimate ground. And even less sensical.

“What Thompson et al may be put out at is feeling out of touch with the reality of this younger generation” This quote is one of her barrage of flawed sophisms that shook me the most. Not only is it another personal attack on Thompson, reducing Webb’s argument back into the realms of uneducated squabble, but it is also offensive to this “younger generation”. Webb is generalizing the entirety of the current teenage generation, but implying that colloquialisms are our “reality”. If Miss Webb is in any way fighting for the empowerment of the teenage age group, she has certainly done quite the opposite. Webb also states that “They [teenagers] may not consciously know this is what they are doing but they are seeking a language that represents their reality, and a way of creating a private space for those with whom they identify.” This quote is one I find the most encompassing of Webb’s opinions on slang; that is is something to be revered and encouraged, which in some cases is very true, and slang can be used to create literary masterpieces, but the “reality” is that this simply is not happening. Those using slang on a daily basis will quite unsurprisingly use it to talk about things they would discuss on a daily basis; it is not quite the catalyst for a language revolution that Webb depicts it as.

The writers tumultuous babble appears to wane into reason and humility toward the end, with her closing statement that of “I am not saying language is a substitute for “standard” English, but it should be recognised and capitalised for what it is – a love of communication of and inventiveness of speech…” Which is indeed agreeable, however Webb still continues to greatly romanticize slang and its modern application to language; perhaps we could encourage the youth to creatively incorporate colloquialisms into language as Shakespeare did if we gave the current generation the articulation to do so, just as Shakespeare did. Then perhaps, Miss Webb’s asinine glorification of modern slang would perhaps seem less sophistic.

Children who play videogames are more violent

 First of all; no. This is one of the most frustrating assumptions to me, largely because it makes no logical sense; would you blame a game of lazer tag for promoting war? Or wine gums for encouraging alcoholism in teens? No you wouldn’t. Because it’s ridiculous to accuse an inanimate object for the decisions of a sentient human being.

 It is, for the most part, an opinion of parents who want to protect their children from “harmful” media. But in reality they are digging themselves a larger hole; the more they try and place their kids in a cellophane bubble, the more fervent they will be in their inevitable escape. Kids are naturally curious. So what happens when you take away their access to answers? They find other ways of accessing it. The parents have in fact left their children ill prepared for the reality that will meet them when they become independent. To me, at least, this seems more like a disservice than any form of protection.

 That’s not to say that at a young age media does not have the ability to influence a child’s philosophies and values, but a parent blaming a video game for their child growing up to be a serial killer? That’s inexcusable. It seems we have forgotten who truly has the most influence of their child; the parent. If they have not brought their child up with enough intelligence to know the difference between Call of Duty and real life then they may want to consider not producing any more offspring.

 So to conclude, using video games as scapegoats for poor parenting is inexpiable. A violent child is the produce of poor morals taught by bad parental figures, not Super Mario, not Battlefield 4 and not fucking Angry Birds. Age ratings suggest our minds are like sponges, perhaps they are, but not empty ones. We are all, and I mean  all capable of deciphering the difference between a Kill-streak and a Mass murder. Maybe it’s time to give the next generation a chance to truly and freely be the next generation and not a carbon copy of the previous one.

In his article, Brand reflects on his interview with Jeremy Paxman, in which he is queried on his unorthodox political stance of complete abstinence from voting altogether. Claiming that, contradictingly, the current system is too flawed to warrant his attention and the economic disparity between the rich and poor is something to be immediately addressed. Brand comments in the article that his interview was commended because he had “articulated what they” presumably meaning the public who share his views, “were thinking”. This is perhaps true, but the points stated are nothing innovative, and have been articulated many times before, however the main difference between Brand and those who have also spoken his views is the guileless manner in which he voiced his, and to an extent my own, views on the bizarre runnings of this country.

It is very easy to take up arms alongside Brand, especially when he talks of politicians such as Boris Johnson “simpering under a makeup brush” which portrays a very vivid picture of the insincerity associated with politics. As a person who is not yet allowed to vote, I am discouraged immensely as Brand gives his take on how “The only reason to vote is if the vote represents power or change. I don’t think it does.” And that “We deserve more from our democratic system than the few derisory tit-bits tossed from the carousel of the mighty when they hop a few inches left or right” the emotive language creates a feeling of being robbed of a functioning government, and more importantly one of powerlessness to change that; Brands emotive language is akin to that of propaganda in prose and in effect.

Brand’s article, while maintaining an aloof composure within his writing, makes very direct and serious arguments, calling democracy as a whole “irrelevant” and that “it is our responsibility of be more active if we want real change” these rather contradictory statements occur in the very same paragraph. It seems that Brand encourages both passive protest of the government through abstinence and a simultaneous, radical revolution. Or perhaps the more likely alternative, that Brand wants an article to be agreeable to those dissatisfied with the government, of which there is a large amount, and one that will draw positive publicity to him.

Brand also seems all too eager to place the blame solely on the politician’s shoulders, which in part is a fair verdict. It is undeniable that the governments acts have not been with the whole interest of the people they “serve” as Brand puts it, but as much as “it’s their job to be serious” it cannot be said that citizens have no responsibility for the country they live in; we’ve passively condoned their behaviour for a multitude of reasons, perhaps the most difficult to come to terms with is that we are not so fervent in our dissatisfaction that is gives us cause for wanting change, let alone acting to create change in the near future. It seems that Brand, for a lack of a better word preys upon this token desire for democratic amendment, but neither Brand nor his sympathisers have reform on their agendas.

Christoph struggled to make sense of it all. His body lay limp on the floor as the lift lowered him back to the ground floor; the effects of the drug were begging to take effect. He closed his eyes, trying to collect himself. If he could just get home and leave this all behind, maybe it would blow over. No, he thought. That was a naive thought; he was now accomplice to the murder of the most powerful person in the world, there was no walking away from this. The elevator dinged, announcing he had reached the ground floor, daylight forced its way through reluctant cracks in Christoph’s eyes. The doors slide open. It took him a moment to process the sight he saw before him. Christoph’s heart both sank and jolted; the lobby that had been swarming with people not 20 minutes ago was now silent. Blood flecked the ground and walls, bodies littered the pristine marble floor, their torsos sprayed with bullets. In the center of the lobby, walking with an eerie calmness toward Christoph was the mysterious man dressed in black.

Christoph mustering all the strength he could, scrambled to his knees, but lost his balance and fell out of the lift clumsily onto the floor. “Relax, Mr Newter. If I wanted you to come to harm I would not of written you that helpful note.” The man explained.

Christoph felt angry, for the first time since he was entangled in this debacle he felt genuinely angry. He had not wanted to play any part in whatever cause the events that had transpired were trying to achieve. He did not want to murder anyone, or lose his friend. And yet he had been thrown into the center of things. “So. What are you?” Christoph said scornfully, “Terrorists? Insurgents?” He questioned, his hands balling into fists. The man laughed, “No-no, I do not believe I am any of those, nor are my followers. We might be likened to something in the way of…divine intervention…” The man replied.

“DO NOT GIVE ME THAT.” Christoph screamed, “You are not gods of any kind! You are not holy or invulnerable I have seen one of you die! You are corrupt politicians at best and cowards!” Christoph vented, shaking with rage but his eyes watering. “If we can be killed, why does that not make us gods? Are we not able to create and destroy? Do we not preside over this world? The ground you are lying on is built in the name of a god, this very building serves as a temple. Just because we are not immortal does not mean we are not at least in some way akin to the gods.” The man versed, his usual expressionless face gave no indication of his intentions.

“We. You say ‘we’ as if you are a god also.” Christoph pointed out. In his internal rage he had not fully connected the disjunct dots in his mind. The man laughed.

“Christoph, I thought it was obvious; I am Hades.”

Christoph froze, his anger extinguished he could only stare speechlessly at the figure dressed in black. “W-”

“Why?” Hades interjected “That is a longer story than I care to get into, but it is fair to say many people other than me wished death upon the totalitarian rule the ‘Advocates’ had over this dominion. Your friend Arty was one of them…although in the end he failed in his job. Either way deliveries today have been made to each of the remaining advocates, some couriers knew of the contents of the packages, some, like you, did not.” Hades explained.

“So what now?” Christoph asked, beyond shock or surprise.

Hades let out a smile for the first time since Christoph had run into him,

“It’s a new world, Newtie. Try not to get in my way and you might end up alive.” Hades turned and walked toward the doors, Christoph tried to struggle to his feet but fell. “The pill I gave you should wear off soon; nothing serious just an emetic and a weak sedator. I have some loose ends to tie. Some of the advocates are alive and I need to fix that.

Goodbye, Christoph.”

Christoph watched Hades walk out the door onto the street, he tried to keep his eyes open but their weight was too much and fell out of consciousness. To awake in a new changed world.