Friday, 31 July 2015

A Tourist Or A Traveller?


I feel an oxymoronic distain for the huddling, sweat sprouting tourists that consume the Colosseum to an extent not even achieved by the Romans themselves. I felt trapped in a herd of culture craving sheep, but uncool sheep, with bum bags and seeping sun screen smears.  
     As I attempted to follow in the Vatican City slip stream as we were shown into the Sistine Chapel, I found my complaints arrowed and directed toward the others on their similar pilgrimages almost too contradictory to comprehend. The other sweat swaddled sheep have equal rights to marvel at Michaelangelo's breath grabbing brushwork as I. Although some choose to do so firmly plugged into headphone tours, which I think paradoxically detach a person from what splendour they travelled so far to experience.
     So what is the solution? Should no-one visit the major cities that are so inconveniently interesting enough to entice you onto an aeroplane. Paris, Rome, New York City, Bangkok: off bounds due to over population of tourists. Perhaps limit the number of part time patrons seeking a refreshing summer beverage of culture squash? Single file: tourists only enter city when another leaves. 
     There are of course equally incredible, eye massaging, brain boosting corners of this earth that comparatively remain untapped resources of the sweet, enriching squash that we could all disperse to. This is definitely a viable option, but people are fair in their desire to visit the more well known capitals. I certainly loved lapping up the tasty offerings of Rome, and wouldn't have jumped ship (literally and figuratively to another country) simply because other people are enjoying it too. Pizza is worth more than that to me. So whats a traveller to do? I suppose for now I will try to make my peace with the bum bag brandishers; learn to put a city loving invisibility cloak over all the neon tank tops and ear plugged people who congregate directly in front of the piece I desperately peer around to see.  

Monday, 13 July 2015

Midnight Mischief


 Saturday, 3am.Women limping, men pimping. Aching, bruised feet numbed by the body burning shots slung back before taking on the post party storm of stumbling clubbers. Men seemingly strutting home with their night's proud prize or sulking in the arms of their equally sexless chums.      
 Not being my usual willing addition to the pissed parade was oddly sobering during my excursion to the airport at this peak party time. I gleaned a new perspective of the drunken pilgrimages back form the holy temples, that take the from of clubs in this Scottish capital.
 A Night At The Museum film feeling takes hold when the statues- who during the sunny hours are tourist attractions, looked at from a respectful distance- are brought to life, transforming into amusing bull rides for groups of blurry eyed compadres. Rickshaws that provide family fun to meander the Edinburgh streets with, are now lad carts providing an environmentally friendly drag race for some home bound banter.
 It seems that in the night hours, social, even legal rules make way for a little bit of loose lipped fun after being kicked out of your favoured watering hole.You can get away with so much more midnight mischief when the day walkers are tucked in with duvets and dreams. May this nocturnal crew continue to utilise the empty eerie hours of darkness to the best of their beer goggled abilities. 

Tuesday, 30 June 2015

Mourning People.



 An illusive breed of human willingly wanders the dark, empty early hours of the morning. Grinning it's way though the slumber slaughtering alarm, relishing the exclusive company of cock-a-doodling cockerels whilst sipping at their sweetly savoured 6 AM coffee.
 These individuals are the recipients of much jealously, drowsily masked by a cosy blanket of sleep deprived hatred. This productively propagated human is, as you may have guessed, 'the morning person'. The kind of person who trustingly needs only one alarm in the morning, to which they will spring, jump, double tuck and land in their slippers, as opposed to the rest of us who are still in deep hibernation after the 19th nagging tone.
 Us nocturnal nappers of the iPhone generation will know too well the king sized alarm list labelled with increasing urgency. Beginning with a gentle kiss of the forehead request in alarm one, to alarm eight, where punctuation is in generous supply and caps lock, military demands are rudely thrown into your 7am start, “YOU MUST GET UP NOW SOLDIER!!!!!!!” It is a shame that the active AM-ers are reprimanded for their endorphin enlightened state, but to sleep seekers, their happiness is as inappropriate as if they were beside a funeral bed.

Saturday, 13 June 2015

Taking Britain With You.



Squatting, squishing and only just zipping up suitcases brimming with factor 50 sun defying lotion, label-fresh swimwear yet to discover it's purpose, our skimpiest milk bottle leg revealing shorts and - perhaps something else that should have been left at home - a very British attitude toward holidays. The stereotypical British sun seeker is often so desperate for some vitamin D, the Discovery D is neglected. Unfortunately, restaurants in the more popular holiday hotspots have catered to their foreign diners and started serving up our home comfort food- thus allowing the holidaymaker to leave their stomachs back home, in a warm bed of mashed potatoes and sausages. But it's not just our bellies that we blindly leave behind; there is also a total lack of culture craving. It is less about the country, history, language, food, people and more about the presence of a tepid ocean and some toasty rays. I'm not condemning this type of vacation; I totally understand the warm weather deprived desire for some contradicting chill time, you could say. However, I think our net could be cast to a more tropical ocean, finding that we can enrich our minds as well as our skin tone on our skyline scurrying. Take a warm wander to wherever your bank can allow, just take with you a slightly altered adventurous attitude.  

Sunday, 7 June 2015

The Last Haggis Supper (or your first)

If you've ever been to London and thought the sheer size and density was slightly overwhelming for your delicate city-scared soul, one might suggest giving Edinburgh a visit.
The capital city of Scotland is like the younger brother of London, the little Ben if you will. Your curious eyes will still witness the relentless variety of humanity that you would in London, the quaint and quirky shops filled with knick-knacks that'll have you drooling money, hoards of open-jawed, camera cuddling tourists photographing a name-less building in the hope that it's 'classic Scottish architecture'. I think the seductive appeal of Edinburgh may lie in the juxtaposition of the snapshot worthy Castle and the modern shops that eagerly await your wallets. Thus, feeding the hungry desires of the historian and the consumerist; a perfect recipe for a sweet and saliva- inducing city.
A particularly tasty moment from my excursions to the Burgh is the plausibility that you may bump around a bustling corner, seeking sanctuary in a wee cafe- with little expectation for anything more than an over-priced starbucks replica- and find yourself in the paragon of fascination. The anticipation that the next duck-worthy doorway you stick your head into will be the most pleasant and neuron stimulating experience yet is a one that is under-documented, but is a neon lego brick in the founding factors as to why I am moving there. But, if you're a well situated city dweller, you can still find your fix by injecting yourself with the multi storey shops along Princes Street that have befuddled me with their enormity on more than one product-drenched occasion.
A personal tip for the lost boys of Edinburgh; get your bearings at the top of the Scot Monument. When I clambered to its peak, I synthesised the theory that the creation got its name from the stair conquering visitors stating, "Great Scot, what a monumental view". This extra large scene takes a quite a few gulps to drink in, but is truly worth the Harry Potter like staircase hike. I hope this little blurb has been enough to convince you to take a tartan trip to the capital; if not, then go on the off chance that you might catch a glimpse of J.K Rowling squatting somewhere, scribbling ideas for her next book.

Independent Suicide?

 One's aim in life appears to be geared towards gaining independence. First, the unaided act of walking. When those micro-sized feet grip to the floor, supporting jelly-like legs. Striding towards the next chapter of your self-sufficient life, before inevitably splatting onto a cushioned bottom. Then, the 'bird flying the nest act' when you are completely liberated from your doting parents and launched into adulthood. That is of course until you've turned your last pair of pants inside out for the final time and your bank is emptied of all purpose, so a quick visit is made home for some brief assistance. This independence apparently is not only sought after in an individuals journey in existence, but in the process of development in a country. Scotland wants skip the baby steps and completely throw itself from the comforting (or some argue compromising) nest that has been the UK for so long. Is this a leap of faith that will result in Scottish wings soaring into the fresh, un-restraining air? Or is this the step-too-many off a multi storey building onto the unforgiving concrete. 

A Delicate Thread Of Desire

A shrill shriek echoed through me; terrified by my mere existence. It was delicious. See that's the thing, when you're consistently the cause of soul scratching screaming until you are constrained under some devilishly inescapable cover, you must learn to search and tightly grasp onto the bright side of a situation (even if you are swallowed by darkness under some sort of cup). My personal positive spin is the comforting knowledge that I possess a great deal of power. My fragile body has the capacity to make someone a hundred times my size cower in fear, as if they were a tiny frightened fly trapped in my web as a helpless snack.

I scurry the streets, clambering up walls of houses in search of a dry place in which I can rest for a few tentative days. But flies -fluttering, frantic flies- constantly buzzing around mysterious beaming balls of light, draw me into centres of rooms- into the danger zone. Through time and loss of relatives, I have learned that these towering shelters are unsafe. Within situates the most unkind and selfish monstrosities that walk this fruitful earth on their meagre two legs; the creature that goes by the label of 'human'. However, in the spider community they are more fondly known as 'arachnid-abolishers'. Despite their pale, garishly oversized and powerful limbs, they are still intent on wiping out my 'itsy-bitsy' species. I can trek in the freezing and fatal winds to sweetly perch in an empty corner to treat myself to dryness and safety for a short period of time to almost be squashed in an imperative instant.

My existence in comparison to my surrounding infinitesimal. My species have to avoid death at almost every exhausting turn because in a wet second, we could be gone. One raindrop could be the final, oxygen-depriving element that I encounter. Those powerful droplets of destruction can come pounding to the ground at any given moment, so we must remain alert for this wet assassin. It is surprising, with my fantastically long and elegant eight legs, I still struggle to swim. I frantically flail my extremities on the surface briefly, before descending to the hard floor like a perfect pebble.

Despite my incessant rant of my hardships, I have been rather lucky in my life, purely in the sense that I am still breathing. I fill my lonely days with one of the only things that makes me happy and keeps me sane. Webs. Spinning endlessly, swaying to and fro in a glistening blur of complete ecstasy. Like the delicate transparent wing of a fly, it is clear that I have an innate purpose to be on this earth; to create the breath-taking works of webs. Each design is different and unique; it is art (the flies just add an extra tasty decoration). However, such a creation can be instantaneously swept away in one selfish movement by these giant creatures. To them, my work isn't captivating creativity: to them it is unconventional and stereotypically hideous.

The knowledge that I am a constant irritation to those who have the unsightly task of looking at me is relentless, leaving me feeling low, as if I had the stubby legs of a lady bug. I feel as if I am dragging my worthless body around until the day those foul creatures decide to mercilessly end my solitary suffering, eliminating my imaginary threat. Although my shell-like exterior is darker than soil, it doesn't mean my intentions are too. My arachnid view on life is evidently not as advanced as yours, of this I am aware. Perhaps my wish to co-exist is far fetched, but consider this. I dream to live another day, in fear that I will be needlessly squished because I'm not ascetically pleasing to you, and I suspect that you feel no remorse in making me feel this way. However, if a fellow human told you that they felt this way, wouldn't you be ashamed of your species? Feeling utter empathy for the individual?


I may be deliriously droning on about my life, but in my current plastic consumed situation, there isn't much else to focus on. This is futile- as is my existence- you can't even understand a single word I am throwing at you. For every word I waste, precious energy is burned- I should simply sit, awaiting my impending death. For I am trapped, within a giant bowl, soon to be filled with fiery hot water; washed away into the portal of death. Drained; discarded. The words I have spoken, the thoughts that have flown and my talent of web-design will be lost, eternally. Helpless; the state I came into this world and fittingly, the way in which I shall make my grand exit. This imminent, inevitable death is something I have prepared myself for. I depart in the hope that I have made a dent in your dense view of my species- as spiders are spectacular. We will never be defeated.