The bitter cold in my room is beginning to worry me.  Can you freeze to death from prolonged sessions in a mildly cold room?  I ask myself that question now as I drink coke and plough through this writers block.  Coke is awful, evil capitalist superpower dragging my morals across the floor as I take each sip.  I don’t particularly care though, I care about Newcastle, and Simon Sheffield, and history, and Tom Cruise.  Can all these things be represented through my early lonely university experience?  I ask myself this question as I put a second jumper on to clothe myself from the dread.  The coke is nice, yet I can taste the sugar more than usual.  Perhaps it’s because I’m having one of my transparent periods, where everything seems clear.  My typing hands are possessed by some writing demon, a friend inside me I don’t see often enough. Or an enemy I’m at war with.

I can see out of my window two men across the bridge.  Are they workers?  Honest people, that actually contribute to society?  Possibly electricians, the white box they are circulating around looks full of electrics.  One of them is on the phone.  I wonder what he’s talking about.  Probably how they are ill prepared for the job at hand, but still require payment. Are they lazy or righteous?  They’ve gone inside to what I envision is a much warmer building than the one I’m sat in. Although it has warmed up a bit, thanks to my ability to switch the heating on.  I can hear the coke fizzing still.

Continuing to stare out of my window is meaningless; I need to get out there.  Talk to people; not let my anxiety control me.  Who would I talk to?  The homeless guy outside the old baths?  He doesn’t scare me like the rest of them.  There is a patience too him, an enormous sense of experience.  He doesn’t need your change; he’s had your change.  I finished my coke.  This is far more rewarding than my university course.  A foundation year. What a joke I am, what a failure, what a reject.  Maybe not that last one, I am sure I have some fans out there. Selasi from Kenya reads my blog on a library computer that he commutes to after his school day.  He is a well of Kenyan, adopted by rich parents, saved from the Nairobi slums.  Lived through turmoil and now he enjoys my witty rhetoric on a Woody Allen film.  This is my dream.

Shall I research for this?  Is my goal to plunge through page after page in the library?  I’m not entirely sure what this is.  Is it real, or am I just asking myself too many questions.  It’s too abstract, too indefinite to be called anything.  There’s no need for a title or a description.  My teeth hurt from the coke, I’m regretting drinking it. The plan was to write about the new Daniel Radcliffe films, and it’s transformed into this.  I have sat down at my laptop and metamorphosed into some languid poet. Or a fool.  The sentence before the last probably doesn’t make any sense under the microscope.  The green pen of the a-level marker would ruin those few words, and then write a series of ‘poor comments’ in the margin.  Thank god that’s over with.

I have 11 minutes left until I have to start getting ready to leave.  Or meet.  Or whatever it is I’m doing.   Putting a time limit on this makes it all the more exciting.  Will this ever be read?  Another question that will probably never be answered.  A question that will be lost in the stratosphere of my subconscious when I delete this in 10 minutes.  That was a fast 60 seconds.  I’ve always had this notion of time passing at the same rate as normal; making it easier to suffer through three periods of German when I was 14.  However now I see time for what it is.  A traitor.  Someone we put so much trust into for them only to kill us.  I’m going to stop now.





The idea of seeing Super Hans live is a dream to me.  He is the single greatest sitcom creation in history.  Peep Show would not be the same without him, and as an insane fan of the series, I jumped at the chance to get a ticket to see the drug addicted musician live.

It’s such a bizarre concept.  A side character in quite a niche sitcom goes on tour.  What will it be?  A comedy set or a DJ set?  In the end it wasn’t really either, and became a mix of hilarity, a really varied music set, and a mad night out.  The crowd were clearly all massive Peep Show fans like me, and when Hans finally strutted on stage like Liam Gallagher, the place erupted. Suddenly Red Stripes went flying as Matt King melted into his most famous role in television.  Then, the laughter came, because you can’t help but laugh at the funniest guy in history as he prats around in his fur coat.

And, it’s interesting, because where does Super Hans start and Matt King end?  About 5 minutes in, it didn’t matter.  No longer was it about fitting the gig into some contrived category, but an utter chaotic triumph.  A remix of ‘Lets Dance’ by Bowie played and it was like being in a rave, never have I heard such a heavy version of that song.  I mean credit to the actual musicians here, especially the DJ bouncing behind the front man, who dropped banger after banger.  Not to say King didn’t do anything, it was just more about being the character for him.  At one point pretending to play the guitar opening to ‘Fools Gold’ by The Stone Roses, before throwing it to the side a few seconds in to continue to float about.

Effectively, it evolved into a blend of a stage play with a bassline, with King getting more and more involved with the people gleaming up at him.  The crowd being amazing, with mosh pits forming, chants beginning, and the shouting of ‘This is Outrageous’ was always followed by the shouting of ‘This is Contagious’.  What more can I say about a brilliant experience.  Peep Show fan or not, there is no way anyone would not find joy to bouncing around to Super Hans.  He is a hero of the millennials, myth, a legend, and this tour will answer no questions, but will certainly raise a few heartbeats.



Side-note: After this, me and my flatmate went to a club in Newcastle called ‘theCUT’ which had it’s indie night on, also pretty cool.

I have writers block.


Do I even like poetry?

No, you just think that you do.

I think that I like it.

Describe liking something.

I can’t.

No-one can.

Maybe I do like poetry then.

You don’t.

Stop telling me what to do.

Grow up.

Has this become a poem?

Grow up.

I’m grown.

You’re not acting it.

You don’t even exist.

I exist.

In my head?

In everyone’s head.

Like a parasite.

Like a warning.

A warning about what?


Everyone has problems.

­ Exactly.

Side-note:  More like ‘writers laziness’.

Why the Ryder Cup is the Greatest Sporting Event in the World.


The occurrence of this comes quite posthumously, as the Europe teams dominance basically died at Hazeltine on the weekend.  There are no doubts in my mind that the American team crushed us.  And as irritating as the native fans were, the golf that was played was unbelievable.  Near enough every single member of the US team was on fire, and leaps ahead of the European team.  Now, we all know the reason for this (Brexit), but I’ll save that for the moment, and attempt to describe the feeling the competition gives me, which I hope is achievable even if you don’t like Golf, or joy.

Golf is literally the worst sport in the world and if you’ve seen Robin Williams bit on it, you’ll know what I mean.  To play, it’s painful if you’re rubbish, and I’m 90% rubbish, so rounds of Golf just turn into stress for me.  Watching it is the complete other end of the spectrum, because suddenly everyone is really good at it.  Moment after moment you are blown away by the skill of the professional player, and when it comes to the Ryder cup, everyone turns it on a little bit more.  There is no prize money, thus everything is fuelled by pride and competitiveness.  The best way to describe the passion of it all, is to go through the golfers slap.  It’s effectively a ‘lo-five’, except the two players hit each others hand extremely hard. They hole a long putt, win a point for the team, then proceed to hit each others hand like they’re trying to punch a door through.  Yet they don’t feel a thing, as the adrenaline pumping through them numbs the pain, and if you’ve tried this with your mate, it really fucking hurts. There numbness amplifies, and you find yourself sat on the sofa feeling the same as them.

Sport at the highest level is always riveting, but there’s something about the Ryder Cup that is so intense.  There is a similar tone with a massive football match (I’m talking Liverpool/AC Milan Istanbul champ league), a tight Wimbledon final or the Ashes.  I’ve realised that the breathtaking entertainment comes the rivalry, which is weird.  It’s weird because Europe vs the US isn’t really an old fight, there is no old enemy feel there.  Then they start playing Golf against each other, and a deep sporting hatred is born.  Before you know it, Rory Mcilroy is screaming back at the American fans to keep quiet as he holes a long putt.  It is just sheer passion, passion that arises from hitting a small ball with a club.

I’m glad Europe lost.  The competition is heightened even more now that the teams are more balanced.  Also, we deserve it, and it will hopefully be a secret message that we should have never voted to leave the EU.


Side-note:  The second greatest sporting event is of course the Kabaddi world cup.