Whimsical Musings of a Loon

When You Tube was in its relative infancy, I stumbled upon a video that made me laugh so much I spilt tea on my keyboard. The late 90s and early years of the new millennium was the beginning of the Internet video cult phenomenon, a time when footage would slip easily through copyrighted nets and the for-father to the iplayer age. I'd already discovered the power of the internet's time wasting capabilities - hours spent entertaining myself as a student building websites on geocities-  on Bargain Hunt's leathery badger haired David Dickinson; aging ex tennis players and their similarities to various zoo animals (of course my sites were hilarious [sic] and satire witticisms and not just er [sic]). I spent whole evenings looking up 'celebrity morgue.com' with my flatmates; finding out when I would die on deathclock.com; and conspiracy theories pages with flashing GIFs (the animated GIF - the comic sans of early internet elements - which naturally made any 'fact...

When it comes to literature, I am not usually particularly keen on spin-off books or novels based on classic characters. When I first read Jane Austen as an 11 year old, I was so captivated by the sparkling characters in Pride & Prejudice , so desperate to be part of their lives and learn more, I read a 'sequel' written by a modern writer. It was based on Elizabeth Bennett's married life with Darcy. It was one of the worst pieces of writing I had ever read, even worse than the deliciously awful Point Horror books I use to devour as a sort of pot noodle literature alongside the gourmet Austen. It was like a bad Hollywood sequel where the actors couldn't act, the director couldn't direct and script was was written with invisible ink on thin air. So it was with trepidation that I began reading ' Wide Sargasso Sea' . Recommended by a good friend of similar tastes and with whom I trusted with my cultural life, I took it up with the sort of enthusiasm of ...

At a late night post-rugby celebrational conversation on Saturday night mulling over "what is your favourite symphony", it occurred to me that chosing favourites when it comes to music, film, literature, art and culture is indeed, a troublesome task that can cause a lot of in-house conflict. Deciding on our favourites, our lists of what we consider the best or most enjoyable, seems for so many to define who we are. Author Nick Hornby wrote a book dealing with this very theme; High Fidelity , a tale of man's obsession with lists and favourites. Essentially, it is trivial. Who cares if we rank Neighbours above Emmerdale , or Quincy above Columbo (even if it is true...) but at the same time, it is always enjoyable sifting through the options. For me, it is akin to solving a crossword puzzle - works the brain, the outcome isn't important, but if you love these things, it is deliciously satisfying to complete. One area I often ponder is on the subje...

Sudden vast beasts wall the scape, Gone are greens, now reds do drape; Moist air so still, yet majestic, proud, Rocky streams gush force and loud. Bony trees, clawed and long, Mountain King Peacock struts and strong, Artery dry stones reach so high, They pathway up beyond the sky. The mist above clouds darkened dream, Crystal water so pure, barely seen, O now understanding why Eryri gave blame, Resplendent dramatics inspired Ray of Light, his name. I wish I was the mist that swirls the air, I wish I was the peak that towers to dare, I wish I was the force of beauty that all can see; I wish I was the feeling of so meant to be.

The autumn colours of gold and dark reds flitter through the Warwickshire countryside as the foliage rustles in the wind; creates a presence of eyes watching, amidst the arm-like branches that adorn the hedgerows and gardens of pristine red-bricked houses and snug thatched cottages. The bright sun betrays its November setting, yet the crisp bite in the air snaps at the skin mischievously. The atmosphere is drenched in the melancholic dregs of summer - the winter is soon upon us, the animals are preparing to hibernate, nature is about to shut-shop, the dying year has not long to live. This is Tanworth in Arden. A serene, small village that seems quintessentially English. It is, to music fans across the world, a special place, associated with one of the finest songwriter's the country has ever produced. Nick Drake. The tragic story of Nick's life and work has touched many people. Nick's struggling musical career, along with his battle with depression and ultimately prem...

Armistice day is the right occasion to pause and reflect on sacrifices made by others which have enabled us to sample many of the freedoms we enjoy today. It was studying Wilfred Owen poetry in school that captured my interest so painstakingly to World War I in particular. Amidst the black and white grainy photographs in history text books, it was difficult to truely relate to the horrors of the trenches, to the terror of the gas attacks, to the squalid diseased conditions and war of attrition that so many thousands of men faced daily. But the poems got you. The poems were sheer evocative gut-wrenching reality. Pictures paint a thousand words. But the poems painted a thousand pictures. At a time where we have media obsessed with celebrities, bombarding us with images and portrayals of a lifestyle which we begin to think we want; it is easy to be fooled. It is easy to forget the truth. We forget what has gone before us, we forget that life is about people and having good peopl...

The Guardian and Observer publications are running supplements featuring their "Greatest Films of All Time" in various sub-categories of genre. Deciphering culture greatness is always a contentious subject of classification. I relish perusing these types of lists; to criticise, to agree, but most of all, to observe why we, as humans and devourers of arts and popular culture, love listing these things in the first place (and subsequently argue about it like it actually means anything). I was intrigued to see one of my favourite films featured in the "Greatest Romance" section; Sofia Coppola 's most beautiful and wonderfully underplayed Lost In Translation . I was curious, because as much as I love the film, it never even occurred to me to even class it into the 'romance' film genre. Lost In Translation is a film that appears to divide many. It seems to leave many either completely cold, disinterested or feeling as if Sofia Coppola had snuck behind t...