tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70344830289024127322024-02-18T22:15:49.591-08:00It's/now/or/never/trevor.benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-83988716547275928962015-07-31T09:48:00.003-07:002015-07-31T09:48:36.102-07:0030,000 words on Earth <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">We excel at treading our own individual orbits, intrinsically afraid of allowing ourselves to drift too close to another’s, to fall into the clutches of their gravity. For if we fail that, if we reach that event horizon, we are destined to drift helplessly towards one another until, inevitably, our masses collide and we obliterate each other completely. It is only the fortunate ones that create a satellite, a moon perhaps, that will continue to exist as two separate yet intimately connected bodies waltzing eternally through time in perfect harmony: companions in desolation.</span>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-39600690518105204082015-01-05T16:21:00.002-08:002015-01-05T16:21:50.350-08:00Article 2.0<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #500050; font-family: Calibri;">I feel for the countless sex and violence starved 14 year-olds destined to be disappointed on Christmas Day when they discover that the present under the tree they’ve been secretly wet dreaming over isn’t the new, next-generation version of Grand Theft Auto but is in fact a bumper DVD of E4 and Alex Zane’s Rude Tube. A frantic, scrambling, undemocratic unwrapping of Russell Brand’s Revolution, a Gap sweater in salmon pink and a box of ethically questionable Nestle chocolate renders this year’s hoard a ‘hopeless, irrevocable, fucking disaster’. It’s The Time of Year when grossly hypocritical, ITV parents encourage their teenage boys to ‘read more’ and deny from them ‘glamorised’ violence and their raison d’être: drinking low percentage alcohol and finding creative and debauched ways to dispatch of digital prostitutes – whilst masturbating.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #500050; font-family: Calibri;">If the UK’s parents stopped ‘liking selfies’ on Facebook and paid attention to the real world they’d soon realise that print can be much more violent and dangerous to a child’s social development than a satirical computer game ever could. Weekly, it seems, the front-page of any given newspaper reads: American (plus Others) beheaded by so-called IS in video on Youtube. The Mail Online is even kind enough to share the link. This is pure, unadulterated, hateful violence freely and encouragingly available without an age restriction - and without a critically acclaimed, in-game radio soundtrack featuring multiple stations and unreleased content from the likes of Flying Lotus and Gilles Peterson. Not only is the mass media forcing violence upon us, with the use of cleverly alliterated, media friendly nicknames it’s glamorising it too. Guaranteed 70% of teenagers will find the clip online. 0.07% will search Skyscanner for the cheapest route to the Caliphate.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #500050; font-family: Calibri;">Witnessing an old school pal </span><span style="color: #500050; font-family: Calibri;">beheading real-life humans in a Mad Max style desert showdown because they’ve seriously misconstrued some ancient PRINT is enough to disturb even the most socially damaged of British kids.</span><span style="color: #500050; font-family: Calibri;"> <span lang="EN-US">It makes spending the anniversary of Christ’s birth getting pissed on Buck’s Fizz, curb surfing a Bugatti and knifing animated hookers in ultra high-definition seem positively and cathartically utopian.</span></span></div>
benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-86315222072166727292014-04-18T06:01:00.003-07:002014-04-18T06:01:52.404-07:00Kate, a documentaryHere is a link to a short doc I made about a friend of mine called Kate who is leaving to go to home to Australia. <br />
<br />
https://vimeo.com/92262002benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-70069835339708426712014-02-26T09:16:00.002-08:002014-03-27T12:34:18.547-07:00'East': On relationships<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Alice and I, we are
in what society loosely calls a ‘relationship’, though, in the greater scheme of things,
we are just another example of one pair of castaways on neighbouring islands,
amongst a dizzying network of similarly proximate and undersubscribed land masses, choosing to
exist just close enough to one other to share that occasional, familiar and fleeting
moment of human impression that subsides, if only briefly, the absolute and professional
loneliness of being. </span>
<br />
<!--EndFragment-->benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-81999767468241197342014-02-14T09:30:00.002-08:002014-02-14T09:30:49.473-08:00Do You Like DVDs?<br />
I don't think I could count 10 Things I Hate About You.<br />
<br />
There are ten things about you I Love, Actually.<br />
<br />
Like when you bought me Chocolate, with Audrey Tatou.<br />
<br />
Or those 500 Days of Summer we spent Clueless in Notting Hill.<br />
<br />
There was The Break-Up, The Proposal and then The Holiday too. <br />
<br />
Even at My Best Friend's Wedding when they said, She's Just Not That In To You;<br />
<br />
I was lost, delirious and Sleepless in Seattle<br />
<br />
But you showed me The Notebook and said I'll be Julia and you can be Hugh.<br />
<br />
We had our time in Casablanca and stuck our toes in the sand<br />
<br />
But it's over all right? I'm with Brad now. I just told him - I Love You, Man.<br />
<br />
benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-7758227746160578592013-12-14T04:13:00.000-08:002013-12-14T04:13:21.834-08:00A film I shot and cut from November 2012 - December 2013https://vimeo.com/81875751benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-15612443792936122342013-08-30T07:16:00.000-07:002014-01-25T10:06:24.596-08:00A section from 'East'<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s lunch time and me, Aaron, Kingsley and Adrian, our new,
‘intrepid’ legal guy from Cape Town, are sitting around a table at the
Hawksmoor. Kingsley’s been telling an anecdote about how he sealed a deal with
a massive client by getting one of the account girls to go back to his hotel
room in Seattle. Adrian grins at the account and I can see that the expensive
merlot has stained his perfectly straight, white teeth whilst a miniature chunk
of rare, sirloin steak is wedged between two of his teeth. I look
over towards Aaron who’s seemed distracted all day; whether it’s to do with me,
or something that happened last night, I don’t know, or particularly care, but
every ten minutes he reaches down to check his phone, sometimes replying to a text
or, I imagine, looking at social media. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
imagine myself in relation to the universe, an insignificant speck against a
backdrop of eternity, sat at lunch, with three other smudges of matter infinitesimal
in the vastness of history, talking about nothing, of no relevance to anything
or anyone who means anything. Like a passport photo stuck in the Library of
Babel, aligned in rows and columns along an infinite wall, with the passport
photos of everyone else who ever existed separated into chronological order by
date of birth; one emotionless face in an impossible sea of expressionless
faces. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ben…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hm? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going back to the office.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The office?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah. I want to finish off that idea.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK. Shall I come?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t mind if you stay. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aaron
gets up to leave. Kingsley nods and continues his conversation with Adrian
which seems to have drifted to the quality of prescription drugs in South East
Asia. After a few seconds I mumble inaudibly and move towards the toilet. I
wash my hands and splash water against my face. There’s an abstract painting on
the wall that reminds me of an African child from a Comic Relief pledge film. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alice is making me look at her recent work. It’s a book
cover for Penguin Books, a novella about a man who lives a quiet life in the South of
France. She’s used gentle brush strokes of green, red and yellow against a
blank, white background. She says it’s supposed to represent the simple warmth
of the man’s tale, though I doubt she’s read even a third of the book. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My art director says that they need to be less considered. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They’re nice, I think they look great. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes but are they more… careless now?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In comparison to my earlier ones?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alice
fumbles with a pile of graded craft paper and produces a similar illustration.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More careless? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know. I guess... <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alice
sighs and puts the work down. She opens
the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine, offers me a glass, to which
I refuse, and then pours herself a large one. I’m starting to feel tired but I
worry that if I say that I’m going to bed I’ll upset her so I move over to her
and put my arm on her shoulder, which doesn’t quite have the affect I was going
for and feels more like the comforting of an older relative. Alice doesn’t seem
to notice however and puts her arms around my waist affectionately. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How was work for you? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was fine. It was good.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What did you get up to?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Worked on the Gillette script some more, went for lunch at
the Hawksmoor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alice’s
phone rings. She raises her hand as if to say, ‘sorry, I’ve got to take this.’
So I leave her and go upstairs and sit on the bed and try to try to stream an
episode of Breaking Bad on Alice’s iPad, but it starts to make me feel
nauseous. I switch off the lights and put the Ulysses audio-book on my iPod and
listen to it through headphones, with my eyes shut, at next to no volume.<o:p></o:p></div>
benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-8302134778261250602012-11-05T18:38:00.002-08:002012-11-07T04:38:20.383-08:00The New and Original Way of Thought<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br />
Adam had always wanted to alter
the world.<br />
<br />
He wanted to affect how people thought. How they lived. But, to do this he would have to gain empathy. And he knew well enough that
empathy was a difficult thing; the thought of untying his big, battered boots and
slipping his size 13 feet into Mrs Patel Next Door’s silk slippers made him
feel, uncomfortable. However, it was empathy that Adam knew he needed to
acquire, and inspire in others, if he were to establish (as he called it) the
New and Original Way of Thought.<br />
<br />
For if he were to achieve it he would first have to slip perfectly into Mrs Patel's silk slippers, and he would have to
let others slide gracefully into his big boots, too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br />
Now, Adam was a normal
person just like you or I, he was no messiah, no higher authority, no leader of
men - he was merely a simple man who was bored of routine. But during the
first few days he pushed himself and his mind to the absolute limit. He did
things he would never have dreamed of doing, in order to see if what he
believed in was actually possible. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br />
It started with shock tactics:
small, unrelated events that aimed to force people from their comfort zones and
pry-off their knock-off sunglasses, just for a second, to really see something
unusual. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br />
On the first day he went to his
local funeral directors and began to shave. He started with his hair and his
beard, then his eyebrows and body hair. He removed all of his pubic hair last, left it in a pile on the floor and set a match to it. This horrified those
that witnessed it, especially Dorothy; the moustachioed ninety-something who
was flicking through a cremation catalogue at the time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br />
On the second day he went to a
nearby public school and shot heroin in the playground to the bemusement of
over-privileged, inexperienced children. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br />
By the third day he had burnt all
of his clothes and spent hours wandering around London in the nude,
occasionally stopping to masturbate whilst looking through office windows at
the private perverts: contemptuous, but secretly aroused. Adam spent most of
that night and the next day in a cell where he refused to talk to the police
unless he’d had an Arabic translator present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br />
“I am on a mission from God,” he had
said to P.C Brown during the arrest. She was new to the force and Adam knew it,
he wanted to make her sweat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br />
“Suit yourself,” she replied,
shifting nervously “I’m an atheist, but I still gotta to take you to the
station.” When Adam felt her grip around his forearm he let out a piercing squeal
right into her ear, which was enough to make her stumble backwards in shock. Adam
had made a break for it but a more experienced P.C Daniels eagerly guided his
baton to the back of Adam’s head and sent him crashing to the pavement: Knock Out.
He received a caution for indecent exposure and was released the following
evening, probably because of the swollen welt on his head and the dried blood
all over the holey white plimsolls they gave him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br />
Adam turned back to the police
station when he was outside and removed the borrowed shoes as soon as he could,
they didn’t fit him. He threw them into a puddle and walked the long walk home, disheartened and contemplative for the first time since his
experiment began. He pondered the events of the last four days, and suddenly
felt stupid. How could he, Adam West, without money or influence, alter
anything? Who would even want to empathize with a shoeless, idea-less moron? Why
bother challenging the system at all? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br />
So, with that, he cast aside his
recent ideals and returned home a new man. A cup of tea, a couple of chocolate
digestive and the Evening News: he was back to reality - A bus had turned over
on the A295, there was a recent spark in the debate over Euthanasia - the usual
meandering focal points. But then, in the dieing seconds of the broadcast, up
popped Adam, bright as day, naked and glorious on the television screen: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br />
“A man has made the headlines in
Central London this morning,” came the reporter’s voice “with a naked salute to
office workers. Officials say it was due to the effects of class A drugs, but,
after amassing over a million hits on Youtube already, bloggers are calling him
a ‘cultural revelation’, his acts ‘masterful’, and one writer went as far as
saying ‘Why can’t more people throw off the shackles of society like this?
Today this man made a profound political statement. He has truly changed the
way I will continue to live my life. ’”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br />
And at that, Adam made a large,
humble smile, popped on his size 13 slippers, and switched over to Eastenders
on BBC 1. He had achieved, absolutely, N.O.W.T.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-91059870552276091812012-11-05T17:50:00.000-08:002012-11-05T17:50:05.699-08:00Months Past
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I was born. I grew up here and there, and
was educated by various mothers and fathers, and a multitude of teachers and
tutors. I remember myself at 18, not much of a man, a boy in a costume, a man’s
costume, that didn’t much fit, thinking about what it would be like to be a
Hero, or someone wonderful. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">You don’t grow
up on your own. It isn’t something that happens fast or slow, or noticeably. It
takes a hundred thousand people to make a man - Two hundred thousand if your
parents made you wear sun cream and sunglasses. My parents died in a tragic hot
air balloon accident when I was just a baby. Six or seven or so. They had been
surveying the countryside with their implements and their big ideas, saving the
planet was the agenda, or some other such pressing matter, when a malfunction
caused the canvas to set alight and my parents dropped into a cloud of flames,
ceasing to exist at such and such a time in August, or September of 1994, in an
area of outstanding natural beauty. ‘Protected’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I wasn’t aloud to come that day, I had
more important things to do, like arithmetic and literacy hour. Had they known
that that was to be there last day on earth would they have taken me along? So
they could see me, their only son, one last time before they perished? Probably
not. They probably wanted life for me. Life. To grow and develop and sprout
into a Hero, or someone wonderful. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">The way it
turned out, if I was a Christian, I would imagine they’d probably be sitting on
a picnic bench in heaven looking down at me and saying to themselves “maybe if
we had had a little longer with him, he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would
</i>have grown into someone wonderful.” But as a son of science, I’m sure their
eyes and brains have long since decomposed, and that they’d of hoped I wouldn’t
be childish enough to believe in imaginary men in the sky. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">Atheism doesn’t
offer much for the imagination. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-37982499272387232652012-03-14T11:43:00.001-07:002012-03-14T11:43:32.763-07:00Falmouth Unpackaged.4 /// 5 HIT WAP<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">There are some things in this world that we just can’t predict, prepare or plan for. Like the tornadoes that ravaged the American Midwest this weekend wreaking havoc and causing untold destruction. Or the unprecedented blow to liberalism and free speech that came when the government ordered bailiffs to remove the Occupy protesters from outside of St. Paul’s last week. Or even that a human as completely inane, so unbelievably and inherently preposterous as Boris Johnson could be given the mayoral responsibilities for one of the most influential cities in the world. For four years too, quite possibly eight if he gets reelected in the coming vote. I just can’t imagine for the life of me why? It’s like giving a half and half man-ape the ‘Let’s Go To War’ button with a banana symbol and a dollar sign on the front of it and putting him in the White House for eight years… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It’s our actions that define who we are, and our actions can often be unpredictable. As, for example, spending £1million pounds on one London bus defines Boris Johnson as a know-nothing-neanderthal who only got the job because he told Cameron that if he didn’t get it, he’d out the time they got drunk and messed around in a dormitory during their heydays at Cambridge. Just as David Attenborough didn’t become the world’s leading naturalist by sitting in his garden and attempting to mate a stray cat with a neighbor’s daughter’s guinea pig. He did it through sharing the screen with a family of African Silverbacks, orchestrating some of the most iconic wildlife footage ever conceived and not giving a shit about any of those exotic diseases like malaria, river blindness or jungle aids. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The psychological makeup of the human brain is so complex that it can make us want to do strange, often highly irrational, things. If it can make you want to hug a 500lb gorilla that could just as easily make a hat out of your spine, and spend a small fortune on a rectangle on wheels, what else could it do? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">“</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mystery over Mylor sponge eater.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">A whole lot of other weird shit too, apparently. So a story in the Packet says there’s a dental nurse in Mylor who’s been chowing down on cleaning products. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Kerry Trebilcock, 21, claims to have munched her way through over 4,000 sponges and 100 bars of soap since she contracted a rare condition called, pica, in 2008. This is the disease that makes people crave to eat stuff like car tyres, soil and even light bulbs (probably a diluted version of what makes McDonalds seem appealing) and, I kid you not, she’s quoted as saying, “One day I will beat this and be able to have a shower or do the washing-up without feeling hungry.” At least she’s got the right attitude I suppose; all she needs is some confidence, a little self-belief and maybe a trip to a professional doctor to get her off the stuff, however Kerry did add that she</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> still has “a one-inch square of sponge and three teaspoons of organic soap with each meal.” So whereas her addiction to soap and sponge is waning, she’s not completely clean of the habit, she’ll be the one at the Chain Locker with a pie and chips, and half-pint of fairy liquid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-67225358717587487692012-02-16T14:23:00.000-08:002012-02-16T14:23:19.353-08:00Falmouth Unpackaged.2 for 5 Hit Rap Magazine<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Almost everything in the papers these days is about money, or more precisely, the lack of it. We’re supposed to applaud this Stephen Hester guy for setting precedent and refusing his £1 million bonus from the RBS despite the fact that he’s still getting the £100,000 a month or so in his salary (from the taxpayers!). He only did it because of the overwhelming amount of political and media pressure placed on him, have you seen how much he looks like a severely depressed, post-accident Humpty Dumpty since he did it? I’d give him an I’m-not-actually-a-twat badge if he could survive just one week in London on a student’s allowance. As if the MPs have the right to preach about the value of money as well? Those out of touch, often-sweaty politicians were all too happy working out how much it would cost in expenses to stage a swimsuit contest with the Middleton sisters in the House of Commons, just a few months ago. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Carrying on with the theme from last issue (comparing the ‘real’ news in the mass media, to the beautifully meaningless stories that can be found in the Falmouth Packet) I want to use this section to comment upon how ridiculously irrelevant the mass media has become, how farcical this zeitgeist of fear actually is, and how there’s so much in the world to enjoy if you just use those little, beady things attached to your face and look around. It’s a salute to those stories that really, actually matter, to the stories that touch you on a positive emotional level and not just a we’re-going-to-mind-fuck-you-because-you-can-read one, because that’s just not what it’s about. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">I chose this story because, contrary to journalist law, it immediately made me smile. As I’m sure it will do to most of you. Except maybe first year students. And sober people. The headline: </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">A year after being devastated by fire, the final touches are being made at The Pandora Inn before the historic pub opens its doors once more. </span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Like a phoenix, seemingly mirroring those iconic images of burning shops in the London Riots, the Pandora rises triumphantly from the ashes. Even amidst this ‘debilitating’ recession, a little Cornish pub in Mylor can dust off and pull itself back to its feet - meaningless in the greater scheme of things, but totally more relevant to you than an obese guy at the bank. Isn’t it? Tell me your not going to get out to The Pandora the first chance you get? Yes </span><span lang="EN-US">things may be tight, and yes, maybe you don’t have the cash to get that sweet flat overlooking the harbor, but at least you’re in Cornwall, and at least you got a couple of pennies to have a Sunday Roast in a truly beautiful spot. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-72604523380186966422012-02-16T14:21:00.001-08:002012-02-16T14:21:32.690-08:00Breton Interview - Spindle<a href="http://spindlemagazine.com/breton/">http://spindlemagazine.com/breton/</a>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-37229417599862636432012-02-01T10:40:00.001-08:002012-02-01T10:41:22.633-08:00Falmouth Unpackaged - Article for Falmouth based 5 Hit Rap magazine<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">It seems now more than ever that the media are adamant to portray themselves as dishonest, bloodsucking parasites with a thirst for human misery. Whether it’s the perpetually printed stories of nursery related gang stabbings, constant news reports reminding us that the Eurozone crisis has fucked our collective bank accounts, or just that Old Rupert Murdoch is masturbating to your sexy phone calls, they want to shock you into buying newspapers and scare the public into mental submission. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">The evil mass media!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">The closer you get to London the more horrifying the stories become, as if the capital were some sort of rapey black-hole that sucks all innocent life into a parallel universe of corruption and vice. And the thing is London isn’t that bad, England isn’t that bad, the world really isn’t that bad. It’s when you look to smaller, local newspapers that you actually realise that England isn’t on the brink of anarchy, it’s as dull as looking at David Cameron’s face. So I asked to write a regular section in 5 Hit Rap Magazine that looks at that most prestigious of Cornish publications, The Falmouth Packet, to show the world that England isn’t a cess pit full to the brim of racist, knife-wielding peadophiles, it can actually be quite a regular place with mundane day-to-day goings on and a hoard of amusing cultural oddities.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">I’m just going to jump straight in with an article I found a couple of days ago to highlight this exact point - bearing in mind this is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">news</i>, in an actual <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">news</i>paper. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">The headline read as follows: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A girl was forced to call 999 after getting her foot stuck in a railing in Falmouth this afternoon. </i>I mean isn’t that just beautiful. You’d think that was some sort of ironic joke if you saw it in the Metro or the Evening Standard. The poor girl; had to be rescued by the fire brigade, cut out with specialist equipment, obviously humiliated by the ordeal, so what do The Packet do? They tell the whole fucking town! It’s unbelievable. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Who remembers when the gas tank blew up on the docks last year? That was massive Packet news, the whole of Cornwall went mad, people were evacuated, there were explosions and smoke and fire and people crying. Sounds pretty dramatic right? Well, with all that in mind one of my friends lived next door to the docks, Railway Cottages, didn’t even wake up, she literally slept through the biggest Cornish news of the year. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Whichever way you look at it the big papers have to fabricate and exaggerate to sell, whereas local papers just inform you about what’s been going on around you. I think what I’m trying to point out is that you can buy into all the media hype, you can fear for your pension and you can constantly look over your shoulder for that bespectacled psychopath with a dildo and a machete, or you can just find humor in the subtle things and try to enjoy what you see rather than worrying about what you<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>read. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-52681854263055029012012-01-24T05:57:00.000-08:002012-01-24T05:57:15.613-08:00Zulu Winter Interview for Spindle Magazine<a href="http://spindlemagazine.com/zulu-winter/">http://spindlemagazine.com/zulu-winter/</a>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-76229617858067773392012-01-10T04:47:00.000-08:002012-01-10T04:47:17.025-08:00Article on Clockenflap Music Festival for Spindle Magazine<a href="http://spindlemagazine.com/clockenflap-festival-hong-kong/">http://spindlemagazine.com/clockenflap-festival-hong-kong/</a>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-34076735752371508072011-12-17T08:04:00.000-08:002011-12-17T08:08:15.153-08:00HO KO phone video edit on Vimeo<div style="text-align: center;">TerribleQuality/Shaky/Jetlagcure </div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://vimeo.com/33822061">http://vimeo.com/33822061</a></div>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-12159889506143322352011-12-09T08:13:00.000-08:002011-12-09T08:13:28.584-08:00Blog posts for Ivy Press<a href="http://www.ivypress.co.uk/2011/11/17/maestros-de-bras-avian-architecture-in-espana/">http://www.ivypress.co.uk/2011/11/17/maestros-de-bras-avian-architecture-in-espana/</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.ivypress.co.uk/2011/11/18/experience-the-beauty-of-belief/">http://www.ivypress.co.uk/2011/11/18/experience-the-beauty-of-belief</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.ivypress.co.uk/2011/11/18/lets-get-political/">http://www.ivypress.co.uk/2011/11/18/lets-get-political/</a>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-64395767475682081772011-12-09T08:10:00.001-08:002011-12-09T08:10:38.152-08:00Youth Lagoon review for Spindle Magazine<a href="http://spindlemagazine.com/youth-lagoon-the-year-of-hibernation/">http://spindlemagazine.com/youth-lagoon-the-year-of-hibernation/</a>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-26628707856668882552011-09-06T17:01:00.000-07:002011-09-06T17:01:38.616-07:00<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 10pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">After an hour and bite or two we’d found Vondelpark. It was odd though; the people seemed distant, like they were all waiting for a train to pull up, the children too seemed transient and even the bicycles had disappeared. The sky was peach above us, with silver clouds and faraway birds skimming across the treetops. I laughed. Will rolled up another joint. With such skill and care did he fold and lick and spark the thing, I was awestruck, and as he smoked the plumes of smoke rose and rose above us, flashing mauve in the eerie mist. I laughed again, lay back on the cushion of freshly cut grass and watched the kaleidoscopic light drift in an out of sight.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">“What’s wrong with you?” </span></div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I wasn’t sure why, it must have been the way he said it for, out of fits of laughter, I couldn’t spit out a word. </span>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-71765705236294390932011-08-28T02:39:00.000-07:002011-08-28T02:39:56.432-07:00<span style="font-size: x-large;">numerousnesses</span>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-33870997740642064562011-08-28T02:34:00.000-07:002011-08-28T04:35:26.595-07:00The (Dis)order of Time.<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I can still remember the first day I set foot in the plastic amphitheater at university three years ago. I was younger and more naïve, for sure, but I had an underlying confidence in that it was a beginning, no one expected too much, there were one thousand eight hundred and twenty five days left until I had to emerge enlightened into the ‘real’ world. We were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">there</i> to be educated. Things seemed simple, straightforward, organised. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Don’t let the calendar fool you, guys,” Nigel, our course leader had said, “time is going to fly by.” We all nodded in disagreement, of course, for we were not stupid, we knew how long three years would really last, it was a whole seventh of the time I’d already been alive, and it felt like a lot. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">But today, as it usually does, time crept up behind me, slapped me on the back of the head and whispered “Get your act together, boy, you’ve only two weeks left and a load of decisions to make.” Time <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">has</i> literally flown by and, if anything, I’m more confused now than when I started. I thought time would have given me answers, but instead, I find myself in the present being bombarded with questions of the future when the past seems to have all but eluded me, and I only wish I’d taken old Nige’ a little more seriously. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I often find myself asking, “How do you measure time?” In seconds and minutes, rotations of the sun, heartbeats, sleeps, or, more simply, your consciousness’ awareness of time, how much time you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel </i>has gone by… “It feels like forever since I’ve seen you!” “Seems like only yesterday that you were born!” … For Isaac Newton, time was a dimension, like space, in which events occur and therefore something that can be scientifically mapped and proven. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Though, for philosopher Immanuel Kant, time is neither an event nor a ‘thing’ and thus is not itself measurable nor can it be travelled. He believed that time is merely a fundamental intellectual structure that allows humans to comprehend sense experience, an idea that helps us understand the world. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">So when I try to contemplate time and make sense of my time at university, what I have experienced, how I have changed or grown and, most importantly, where it leads me to next, I find myself flicking through an unfinished autobiography that is becoming increasingly illegible with every page. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">So how do we individually understand time? When looking back over my days at university, and back I must, it is easy to say that I attended that first lecture on the 24<sup>th</sup> September 2008, or that I spent much of that year with my head over a toilet seat rather than over a desk, in fact, I could probably tell you exactly what I was doing each month until now, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be accurate because just like youthfulness, memory deteriorates over time. The ancient Greek philosophers mused that humans were walking backwards through time, forever watching what has been but never what is to come.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This ancient idea is summed up by the modern concept of the <i><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Arrow of Time</span></i>. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">We are moving forward through time but we may only see backwards, </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">this is why we don't see a spilt glass of water jump up and go back into the glass or a broken egg reform itself. I mean, ask yourself why your childhood pet now more resembles a potato than an animal, or why that book you can’t put down got thrown out with the rubbish, or why even your dad can’t hear a word you say anymore? The answer is entropy: it’s the universal law that, with time, matter will probably fall into disorder and </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">it is purely because we are doomed to see only the past (and that past is forever deteriorating) that we as humans allocate so many hours attempting to organize and make sense of our histories. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This is the humorlessness of the Arrow of Time; the inevitable, perpetual constant that time will move forward and not backwards, allowing us to regret things that we will remember forever. Allowing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> to regret not having used these three years just a little more efficiently. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Chronology and the past, then, are a large part of how we perceive time. I am not surprised to find myself sitting here because I can order the events that lead me to this point; I woke up this morning, I walked to the car and drove to the library. Before that I had ate tortilla wraps and watched Liverpool thrash Fulham five-nil at Craven Cottage on T.V. Before that I had to dash from university to let a meddlesome estate agent into the flat… and so on. The further I go back, however, the less detail I can recollect, only certain moments or places, and what’s more, the time that has actually elapsed seems to dissipate too. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Think about it. How long was it since you ate last night? How long does it feel? When history and memory are our only real gauge of the past and, as empires and dictators have shown us, history can be held to ransom by those in the present, and if memory too is insufficient, can the past really tell us much of time? I mean, how long does it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel</i> like since I started university? Certainly not three years by the clock or the calendar. It feels like no time at all. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">So if it is the past, then, that allows us to organize time, it is the present that allows us to experience it. Very much, in this postmodern age, our capitalist culture focuses on the individual’s experience of the present. We are taught from a very young age, urged even, through media and advertising to exist for the moment. Companies, for example, can now signify complicated emotions such as desire in sensational adverts that take only a few seconds to register, implying that these complicated emotions are as quick to achieve as spraying on the latest Calvin Klein cologne. Everything is being miniaturized, personalized and “revolutionized” to the extent that, at any point in time, we have the technology to be connected to everything and everyone else in the world. It used to take months to send word to Australia, now it’s matter of milliseconds. Globalization and consumerism have warped society’s sense of time; everything has to be quick and snappy. Fast food and online banking. Time certainly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> money. If the world is perpetually moving faster, then surely so is our sense of time? And surely that’s why, so often, the old, riddled with entropy, get left behind? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">For Kant time was immeasurable, and though the argument against this is painstakingly obvious, our timing system <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">isn’t</i> perfect. Leap years, for example and the UTC, the GMT and eastern and western time. What about all the recent confusion with daylight savings and America moving their clocks back a week early? It proves our system of mapping the light of the sun is imperfect, and thus, our concept of time is imperfect too. The present, then, lies very much in the self’s own consciousness of it. Sleeping and dreaming are the most explicit examples of our skewed perception of time. Time felt dreaming couldn’t possibly represent any amount of minutes or attoseconds<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7034483028902412732#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">[1]</span></span></span></a>. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Or, imagine two men who are exactly the same, one sleeps a lot and dies at sixty, whereas the second one sleeps very little and dies at fifty-five, which one will have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lived</i> the longest? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Music, to me, is one of our greatest links to the flow of time, for it illuminates, even embosses the present, and that’s because it reflects our own internal clock - the beating heart. The tempo of music is measured in beats per minute, BPM, just as the heart is and that’s why you can really feel a beat. You can predict when a song is going to break down or speed up because rhythm is inbuilt within you from birth and that’s why different music can be satisfying for different emotions, upbeat when your exited, slower when your exhausted. I’ve spent countless hours listening to music over the past three years, in all manner of situations, and its ability to affect the senses truly makes me feel the present. This is no more apparent than when I’ve been at music events or festivals. You can see people dancing, feel the pressure of the bass, and hear the rhythm and the beat, all in a single moment, and it really allows you experience the flow of time. But maybe it’s because I was enjoying the present so much, that I forgot to plan for the future. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> So if we consider that the past allows us to organize time and the present lets us feel time, then where does this leave the future? Maybe it is how we truly understand time, for if we couldn’t imagine anything ahead of ourselves, we wouldn’t be human. The fact that we can process our thoughts into words and ‘plan ahead’ is what makes us different from all other life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Language has taken place of instinct. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">But just like the immediate past, the immediate future is not out of grasp. I can vividly picture myself walking to a shop and collecting the ingredients for a meal, then cooking and eating it, it’s as easy as walking out the front door, but it is those years ahead that we find impossible to imagine.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> How often have you wondered what your life will be like in ten years? For me this question, now (with university done and dusted), is all the more grating because I feel like I’m at the edge of precipice looking down into a chasm in which I can’t see the bottom. Should I jump straight in headfirst or lower myself down carefully, or just hang on the edge for all eternity in the same place? I have so many options in front of me that it’s becoming a double-edged sword. I could see and do amazing things, I could live a happy and fulfilling existence, but I could also make one wrong decision and end up flattened by a flatbed lorry tomorrow, or worse, get stuck behind the tills at Tesco’s for the rest of my working life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> If we delve into the realm of religious thought however the future can be an entirely different beast. If one believes in fate or a Divine Plan, then our decisions are less important because whatever happens we will end up in the same place and the end of time. The belief in reincarnation, too, skews our concept of the future and bends the Arrow of Time into a circle, a cyclical life. Nietzsche often considered the question of Eternal Return; that the universe has been recurrently repeating itself and will continue to do so through infinite time and space, that we will relive our lives over and over again forever, like a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Groundhog Day </i>but much, much longer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> So I come to a point where Time itself is just as illusive as it ever was. I can reflect on a hazy past but I cannot hope to predict the future. When even just looking at this piece of writing, I try to consider how long it has taken me to write it? Is it the time I’ve spent physically writing it, or thinking about it? Or is the time taken for me to go through the education system, to have learnt to process my thoughts and understand the world enough to bring me to this point in which I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i> write it? Whatever the answer is, time will forever be fluid. The past can be bent or confused, the present can trick us and the future is just a mystery. So all we can do is… be prepared to accept that we will never master time, I guess. Or believe in some form of eternal return, but even Nietzsche himself called the thought of it, “Horrifying and paralyzing.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> These three years have gone by without me realizing but when I really think about it, I’ve taken a lot from the experience, I may not have a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">divine</i> plan, but at least I’ve got a choice. After seventeen years of education; GSCE’s, A levels and now a degree, it seems that overall, after all this time spent learning, I find myself highly informed, but a hell of a lot more confused. </span></div><div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7034483028902412732#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">[1]</span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US">10<sup>−18</sup> of a second – Shortest time now measurable. </span><span lang="EN-US"></span></div></div></div>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-33110116964008331072011-08-05T11:02:00.000-07:002011-08-05T11:02:18.330-07:00A sun rises for the final time.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlE0vAatJvD1UHgz6Cy0Tsh0vwumvsgUkCwaRwlz4jhKdP3qhMW4_2y8CXiYXYJSRfnikr7YswyJN5CThOy1n8DutadGyEw5RaN6XKgRQ2MvzJTb-y3Y4ofH8YAzbUtMob-92ri2qDNl8/s1600/6A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlE0vAatJvD1UHgz6Cy0Tsh0vwumvsgUkCwaRwlz4jhKdP3qhMW4_2y8CXiYXYJSRfnikr7YswyJN5CThOy1n8DutadGyEw5RaN6XKgRQ2MvzJTb-y3Y4ofH8YAzbUtMob-92ri2qDNl8/s1600/6A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlE0vAatJvD1UHgz6Cy0Tsh0vwumvsgUkCwaRwlz4jhKdP3qhMW4_2y8CXiYXYJSRfnikr7YswyJN5CThOy1n8DutadGyEw5RaN6XKgRQ2MvzJTb-y3Y4ofH8YAzbUtMob-92ri2qDNl8/s1600/6A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlE0vAatJvD1UHgz6Cy0Tsh0vwumvsgUkCwaRwlz4jhKdP3qhMW4_2y8CXiYXYJSRfnikr7YswyJN5CThOy1n8DutadGyEw5RaN6XKgRQ2MvzJTb-y3Y4ofH8YAzbUtMob-92ri2qDNl8/s640/6A.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWTdtrMlRoD5Tob4CKZh6rNQGPbQwZwAS0qUIDk8LEH7sTNbRiYpNuo_BJJa99W7r_T7tZnd71iNO0YLBVlrlkEYSqGKgy11GKiZCJNwmwqDv62g69d8c2WqROaqDoHS8wfSe0msvZGOs/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWTdtrMlRoD5Tob4CKZh6rNQGPbQwZwAS0qUIDk8LEH7sTNbRiYpNuo_BJJa99W7r_T7tZnd71iNO0YLBVlrlkEYSqGKgy11GKiZCJNwmwqDv62g69d8c2WqROaqDoHS8wfSe0msvZGOs/s640/2.jpg" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNQ1TDbQvy078ofbLRtjcER8emDZnvC87mJk7TmkyPlfYp_jqfefSDmCjUOENNo2pNhbnKplSab_840iRotaPDUOEmLXBFkVHuLaZzgjVVziktssFLlrh7-hlJ8zZsFMm_tB5vhkrZ45g/s1600/7A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNQ1TDbQvy078ofbLRtjcER8emDZnvC87mJk7TmkyPlfYp_jqfefSDmCjUOENNo2pNhbnKplSab_840iRotaPDUOEmLXBFkVHuLaZzgjVVziktssFLlrh7-hlJ8zZsFMm_tB5vhkrZ45g/s640/7A.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-12553542491517405252011-06-22T06:46:00.000-07:002011-06-22T06:46:01.409-07:00Clawing At Dreams<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">It’s not often that you’re granted the opportunity to ditch all your worldly responsibilities and travel Europe with a group of lads, let alone off the back of someone else. So when the invite made its way down to me in Cornwall, I reveled in the chance to <s>go to Europe for free</s> spend a week reviewing a European tour with the Brighton based Tall Ships, a band on the “cusp of greatness.” </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">It all started with Falmouth</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">. Tall Ships, the Tour and this tall tale. Two years ago Ric, Matt and Jamie played their first gig at Falmouth University’s Woodlane Campus bar thanks to now Tour Manager Sean Clarke, their own homegrown Simon Cowell. It was at this show that they first supported Tubelord, a band they would go on to tour the UK with and share the successes of the Big Scary Monsters label. Two years and two EPs later they were preparing to set off on their second European tour, and (after losing a car along the way) I was going with them. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Obviously the ‘quality’ time I spent with the band revealed to me a lot about their characters and it would seem unfair to review the tour without a mini-intro to each of our musical heroes- </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Ric</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">- The front man. Devilishly handsome yet admirably modest, this Arian heartthrob <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">prevented</i> us from taking advantage of a free bar.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Matt</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">- He’s the leather jacket cladded, sunglass wearing rock star: A cool-as-you-like bassist whose online presence kept us connected throughout the tour. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Jamie</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">- They called him The Princess, whether ironically or not, this drumming sensation hit the symbols hard, but the mattresses harder.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Sean</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">- Tour Manager. A man of many talents (driving, managing, graphics), he got us where we needed to be on time, in style and with an air of creative-nonchalance. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Grimble</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">- At present there exist no words in the English language adept enough to describe this man. His role, however, was Vibe-Tec.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“013” Tilburg, Netherlands. - 3<sup>rd</sup> March</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The early morning drive consisted of crammed equipment, bad smells and squeals of excitement from the guys whenever we stopped at a service station they had been to last tour. En route I’d asked Jamie what to expect on the whole and he replied- “Tantrums, fights, loutish behavior, good and bad performances, wanking in showers… and that’s just Grimble.” Trust me, with conversation like that the six-hour drive and ferry to Tilburg flew by. CDs plastered the outside walls of the huge, black venue giving it an amiably tacky appeal, with the likes of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The National</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rise Against</i> soon to play there. An exhausted Tall Ships defiantly opened up the stage, playing a dynamic and energetic set that whipped the locals into a frenzy, just in time for headlining act <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Spokes </i>to dazzle them with a blend of huge, post-rock, Mogwai-esque sounds. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Asteriks” Leeuwarden, Netherlands – 4<sup>th</sup> March</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This ex-prison had to be my favorite venue. The old cellblocks had been painted bright yellow and blue and each individual cell had been transformed into an art studio; the reception was now a café and the mess hall had been turned into the music venue where Tall Ships performed. One of the most inspirational things about the place was the fact that it was run by volunteers with a passion for music. A rogue sound technician and a smoke-happy, effects guy highlighted the snags with volunteer work however. Despite this, the boys wowed an expectant middle-aged crowd with their eclectic, audio-visual performance, whilst Grimble and I watched in awe (and Sean commanded the merch stand), even managing to get a few of the has-beens to bust a step or two. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Bazart” Den Haag, Netherlands – 5<sup>th</sup> March</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“So where do you fit in then Grimble?” – “Well, imagine Tall Ships are like a beautiful puzzle of the Dutch countryside, I’m the piece with the windmill on.” Short drives between cities and venues were each mini road-trips unto themselves and the quasi-ironic lads-on-tour vibe kept us giggling and teary eyed between shows. We were greeted at the Bazaart by, quite possibly, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">worst metal band ever </i>doing a sound check… or their set… we weren’t quite sure. Opting to avoid the atrocity, Sean, Grimble and I sought out a coffee shop and greener pastures. We returned to T.S rocking an empty room (other than staff and the support acts) and so, in effect, we got our own show, with Ric even managing to slip in the lyrics “Grimble is precious” into ‘Books’ which (after the previous excursion) we appreciated, a lot. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Patronaat’ Haarlem, Netherlands – 6<sup>th</sup> March</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Ah this one was, hands down, the best show they played. It was a free, 5 PM matinee show on a Sunday that got pretty hectic. All the locals were drunk, the tour promoter was there and an extravagant compere in slippers and pinstripe trousers was screaming “Tall Shipsh!” and “Foul Mouth!” between long rolling Dutch sentences. They absolutely killed the set; it was pulled off immaculately, in time and the acoustics of the café-sized venue were perfect. The audience were up and dancing and so appreciative of the music, which was so nice to see after the disaster turn-out of the last gig, they didn’t know what to expect and Tall Ships blew them away. At the climax of ‘Snow’ Jamie dragged the snare into the centre of the dance floor, spread a channel in the audience and started a drum roll, to which Ric hung his guitar over Matt (it all looks so unrehearsed too, as if they’re just jamming), then he continued to build up and loop the sound. By this point the crowd didn’t know where to look, puzzled and exited, then, ever so casually, Ric sits on the drum stool before crashing down eclectically on the symbols. It’s a show for sure, and the crowd loved it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Café Video” Ghent, Belgium – 8<sup>th</sup> March</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Two sunny days in the architecturally spectacular city of Ghent rounded the tour off perfectly. We’d been hooked up with a charismatic little hotel for both nights and spent the last 48 hours in Europe ambling around the cobbled streets and sipping coffee against the background of canals and castles (wow, that even sounds like a Tall Ships song title). I recorded a little conversation with the boys that gave some audible gold, courtesy of Jamie Bush – King of the Interview. The final show had such a relaxed vibe to it, the people were young and friendly and I even signed an EP for a couple of fans who’d been star-struck spotting Tall Ships in their local pub the previous night. These boys certainly have gone from clawing at dreams, to living them. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">It was an eye opening experience to say the least, but Tall Ships have certainly matured since I last saw them perform, they played every gig with a confidence and professionalism that I haven’t seen in the past and the amount of energy they create is astounding. I would go as far as saying that you cannot properly experience them, until you have experience them live, and with an album in development, a UK tour and a Bestival slot coming up in the near future, I would highly recommend checking them out if you haven’t already, because Tall Ships are going to be kicking up a storm of plate shifting proportions very, very soon.</span><span lang="EN-US"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></div>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-89559862782262655902011-03-23T11:37:00.000-07:002011-03-23T11:39:17.092-07:00If only you could see.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pw9fBoy-ga4LGnpvrZOIVQI8zx0NYkZGfquSC6b3eIVij5iHvVyM-31eIKRMB4I0VGoDKEGqkaTesav_Hf6T49EUHhB0LqXiOBH68749mBPf9OB-SHVC2Hs-TXIrY3q4SrpP2OPoy-o/s1600/Photo12_12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pw9fBoy-ga4LGnpvrZOIVQI8zx0NYkZGfquSC6b3eIVij5iHvVyM-31eIKRMB4I0VGoDKEGqkaTesav_Hf6T49EUHhB0LqXiOBH68749mBPf9OB-SHVC2Hs-TXIrY3q4SrpP2OPoy-o/s400/Photo12_12.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034483028902412732.post-89387154480107780412011-03-23T11:04:00.000-07:002011-03-23T11:48:58.609-07:00This is a place where everyone should go.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9gEt8aFhtf7dy5q25FZF4AOW3uMO1KjpecjTQYqPN_flefquS2beJ07k3cOcK8DcFmku1W1O9Ckg4TIt-uBlOBrC_vVkKWSS8fJinnpZcLZ2L4MeAE9hvvlrzVq9COBLpJyZFUtPHoLs/s1600/Photo05_5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9gEt8aFhtf7dy5q25FZF4AOW3uMO1KjpecjTQYqPN_flefquS2beJ07k3cOcK8DcFmku1W1O9Ckg4TIt-uBlOBrC_vVkKWSS8fJinnpZcLZ2L4MeAE9hvvlrzVq9COBLpJyZFUtPHoLs/s400/Photo05_5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I went some places,</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Jyp26ln5VTvL6JNNdeb-HaT-G-P7ANuevuhr5VzfwISpcTvm4gjZpB__47BUVOe4dploYLKBIrUu5K8RJRsQdNiqeNvwgLXy84oXwxubwW8iAKsG_dXRWBqRTr3Syq02rG-EoPBb000/s1600/Photo35_35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Jyp26ln5VTvL6JNNdeb-HaT-G-P7ANuevuhr5VzfwISpcTvm4gjZpB__47BUVOe4dploYLKBIrUu5K8RJRsQdNiqeNvwgLXy84oXwxubwW8iAKsG_dXRWBqRTr3Syq02rG-EoPBb000/s400/Photo35_35.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And saw some things.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfThvQuH4qA0RF2kjAoqsQSbivTwimhy2sXhc6_0n9nP8c5vi73lT6jZsdxPznMr07icEhAsROOTqeAEc2bhHn0BrFwwuTsp3O-P9BPOR7-q6pav-NM7yKdWaT3sNesU0jPdVPO1QI3cE/s1600/Photo37_37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfThvQuH4qA0RF2kjAoqsQSbivTwimhy2sXhc6_0n9nP8c5vi73lT6jZsdxPznMr07icEhAsROOTqeAEc2bhHn0BrFwwuTsp3O-P9BPOR7-q6pav-NM7yKdWaT3sNesU0jPdVPO1QI3cE/s400/Photo37_37.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">I drank a lot of coffee,</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6tulXOsizYlde8v2cyjTad97QxgtBW_G2oZhv9cojbVEGZvaxM-xVaYGONuielDoScJSOW7AwdOOFH4eRiHQSzGXlMbPMssYeEUVXp4CroH_lmWWJebmAXGidIFcOfRmr61iBRATY5fY/s1600/Photo14_14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6tulXOsizYlde8v2cyjTad97QxgtBW_G2oZhv9cojbVEGZvaxM-xVaYGONuielDoScJSOW7AwdOOFH4eRiHQSzGXlMbPMssYeEUVXp4CroH_lmWWJebmAXGidIFcOfRmr61iBRATY5fY/s400/Photo14_14.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> And listened to a band or two.</span></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCUHsRk6ZBP4ucn0cgJTUpOONCuYBTuYx5fs_Wmx-LHS7HUpYQCwGAlTpOAcVvF8TWn9UHp27YzBrm0JRCnVtxOm5emEDNHAZPVRg0tcai4wYtysX4XNJfsgrCuonCDOMgWXm7bPX3rs/s1600/Photo28_28.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCUHsRk6ZBP4ucn0cgJTUpOONCuYBTuYx5fs_Wmx-LHS7HUpYQCwGAlTpOAcVvF8TWn9UHp27YzBrm0JRCnVtxOm5emEDNHAZPVRg0tcai4wYtysX4XNJfsgrCuonCDOMgWXm7bPX3rs/s400/Photo28_28.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I ate a Belgian waffle,</span></div></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgok2YDqEyZ6QDoCfmnAdau79uGYQYsZJlo1osaHF0gPC8ReAGIBIMqKDh7Sevx1UTpDgZXnCMaIz5AC96Cvn2lA9HF7ri67u6wHNSNA-e4Vq3Kb4CnJrJXGrOPdtqZkwFI_immeWjK7oU/s1600/Photo31_31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgok2YDqEyZ6QDoCfmnAdau79uGYQYsZJlo1osaHF0gPC8ReAGIBIMqKDh7Sevx1UTpDgZXnCMaIz5AC96Cvn2lA9HF7ri67u6wHNSNA-e4Vq3Kb4CnJrJXGrOPdtqZkwFI_immeWjK7oU/s400/Photo31_31.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> And learnt some things as well. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGmh-OzziB2sv7NLRBXr_FlsR2s0QKrAGzUthMnGmG5QlHgkzE2JhxgW_jXj4vyAuB2EXU8S2_YcahGQDxkTB9BtGtM1tOvQX18kxBA_qrp71c8cTp7dZ_lKKBhnafUSzgRZbRT4tdWm0/s1600/Photo21_126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGmh-OzziB2sv7NLRBXr_FlsR2s0QKrAGzUthMnGmG5QlHgkzE2JhxgW_jXj4vyAuB2EXU8S2_YcahGQDxkTB9BtGtM1tOvQX18kxBA_qrp71c8cTp7dZ_lKKBhnafUSzgRZbRT4tdWm0/s400/Photo21_126.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tour, it seems, is a pretty good place to be.</span></div>benphetheanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01739789604170787849noreply@blogger.com0