Disconnected Dribble

I have been tasked with writing 10 points on survival. 

This tasking came about during a brief discussion based on the recipient of a frivolous “you’re a spoon” accusation that was handed from one individual to another. This comment has no bearing on the following, and I am not clear on the exact conditions of said comment, but I can assure you, I have lost no sleep on it. But after interjecting into the said negative comment/gesture, a plea for mediocre help was issued.

This unfortunately was not a cry of help to fend of lions with laser shooting eyes, or to stop jungle fever induced diarrhoea, or to solve the mystery of Sherlock Holmes as he obviously plunged to his death in the last episode, but some how manages to waltz about merrily, or be it lurking behind a tree, after his doctor friend. I mean really, surely there should have been a dirty splatter of his innards permanently marking the floor that stopped his friend saving fall. On that note of people falling to their splattery death, In Bruges has similar circumstances of jumping to an inevitable death to save the hide of his friend dearest. However on this occasion there seems to be an indication of poor quality control in the craftsmanship of the metal pistol that is shattered upon impact, which is in contrary condition to owners skull which remains resiliently wholesome. 

Shifting back from beating that bush into submission, the help orientated plea was to evidence a path of success during the last term of an undergraduate course. Even I’m bored of it before writing it… It could have been about surviving capture of a enraged gorilla that has masterminded the take over of Checkers, or how to undermine the privatisation of all European roundabouts so they all go clockwise in a bid for international consistency, or how to destroy the growing hedgehog empire that seems to plague our back garden. No, this is how to navigate those final bitter, burden heavy, social free, contorting, anguishing, unrelenting, mind screwing, challenging, stupefying, brutal…..lovely months. 

Well the truth is, I don’t know. It’s a blur. Maybe not a blur. It’s a mixture of un-spectacular to the outsider, but unforgettable moments to the insider (me). They’re boring moments of getting three cups of coffee for three because you made a joke with the vender. It’s about staying an extra 23 minutes after kick out to finish the never used section. It’s about the night guard coming round the studio at 2 in the morning handing out peaches just to help everyone through the night. It’s the entirely forgettable moments…that somehow are stuck in my head. So here is the top ten tips to triumph.

1 – Have short nails

I can’t think of much worse than having a broken nail at 2:30 am, compounded when you haven’t got any nail clippers. You’re dealing with the impending doom of definite failure that all the effort your pouring into this piece of crap you're supposedly designing is going to fall on it’s arse. You are struck with the idea that you would have been better off being a chippy straight out of secondary school, that all the money that you would have made from working straight away would easily balance out the money you’re going to get after graduation. It’s made even worse because you know you’re not going to graduate, you’re going to be stuck with £27,000 worth of debt, a bitter taste, friends all moving onto better things, and you're going to be doing the same job you left when starting here. You're dealing with the reality that this is all for nothing, that life is too short and you’re a failure, you're dealing with the life crushing realities that you’re having a midlife crisis at the age of 23 and then your nail rips. You catch it on the zip of your bag and it slices ungainly towards the nerve endings in your fingers. 

With the mental capacity of a coke influenced anarchistic teenager, you decide to deal with the problem immediately, and continue the rip down to remove offending splintered nail piece.

In the heat of the moment you have removed half your nail, you’re in agony as the pulsing nerve endings pulsate brilliantly in the face of your moronic compulsions. Whilst a plaster hides the immediate problem, your hand is rendered useless for the days to come. An irritable persona encases your every move, and you have lost the ability to work constructively.

 It’s a disaster easily missed. Cut your nails.

2 - Don’t cut your nails

You haven’t got time to be wasting cutting your nails?! It doesn’t matter what dirt you have trapped under there, and long nails make for good pincers to tackle those multiplying spots that occur during the times of oily stress.

3 - Make love to the security guards

Don’t make love to the security guards. There should also be another point that says don’t do everything that you’re told, but that sounds far too serious and meaningful for the ill ramblings of an idiot. 

In fact, get in bed with all the staff, it's just good sense. They’re the ones that make that place work, and they’re the ones that can cut the corners, get you to the front, take you to the front, put you at the front...get you a free biscuit, sometimes they even dunk it for you…and biscuits are good. Who doesn’t like biscuits? Because biscuits come with tea, and that’s my next point

4 – Make love to tea

Don’t just know about tea, read about tea, see about tea…you have to love tea. Love tea and drink it. There is nothing better than the sight of a steamy cuppa ready to be dunked, and then drunk. If there where ever to be a uni survival pack, it should include nothing else, not a tin of baked beans nor a condom - but a mug, a box of tea bags, Milk (I suspect UHT in case you buy this pack a couple of weeks before you go to uni), and a spoon.

Tea is better than watching kittens eat Rupert Murdoch, I know this hasn’t happened, and I wouldn’t want it in reality, but as this is a place of fiction, i am allowed to imagine it.

Tea is a friend that no friend could ever be. It’s warm and lovely, it doesn’t talk back, it helps you to make other friends, it acts a distraction from work, and helps as a fuel for you to tackle work. Anyone that mocks tea has no place to comment further, as they have lost the morale high ground, and should be extradited without trial, without question, without appeal, to Norwich.

5 – Have biscuits to hand

Have biscuits to hand, so you can dunk them in tea. To see how good tea is…drink it. To see how tea is relevant, read point 4.

6 – Hamas is relevant

Talking from a creative perspective, knowledge of just about everything still isn’t good enough to make lovely work. Talking from a non-creative perspective, knowledge of just about everything makes you Steven Fry, and I don’t want to be Steven Fry.

Knowing about just enough gets you just about known. Read up, because knowing a little about Hamas may come in handy when you least expect it.

7 – Quote the shit out of films

To do so, you need to watch films, to watch films, you need to take time out of work. To take time out of work, you need to have a break. To have a break, well according to Nestle, you need to have a Kit Kat, now apart from their less than reputable reputation for screwing over the third world, I couldn’t agree more with Nestle, because Kit Kats are great, unless you don’t hear, because it might sound like kick cats. 

...I would start with Top Gun, it’s a great one for a sing a long, cheesy lines, and worse repeat film cuts.

8 – Stop reading this and get on with your work!

9 – Make sure you have a brother that is several years older than you are and that has done the exact same course as you, with the same tutors, in the same uni that knows what you’re getting into and can guide you through and support you in the harder times

This takes an uncongenial amount of preparation that I am as of yet, to comprehend. It involves hoping to have a bigger brother, which means wishing for something before you’re born, which as far as I know, isn’t possible. But then I thought Transformers 3 wasn’t possible, and they still made that.

10 – Love it
Love it

Not sure any of this helps, and for those that have for some reason continued to the end of this un-flowing array of disconnected dribble, read a decent blog for heavens sake.

Two hours in Victoria and this is what you get...

I’m walking around Victoria station, waiting at Charing Cross, lingering at Waterloo, sprinting up the causeway to London Bridge, drifting outside Euston, cursing my delayed train at Hither Green, yearning for shelter in the snow covered and blustery platform of Dulwich, I’m sodding bored, desperate, uninspired, emotionally shattered, and want anything other than to be peering into the WV show rooms that blight my view from Haywards Heath Railway station. One un-inspirational station to the other, they’re all different, they all have their place, and they’re all, frankly…rubbish!

There seems to be no respite from the dull drudgery that has found undisputed sanctuary around our stations. They stink of the same nothingness that is echoed in the Barrett home developments from the tips of Scotland to the seas of our southerly shores, to the…well, every Barrett home development seems to lack any sense of creativity. The word ‘new’ only seems to be chanted in their HQ when there is demand for fresh toilet rolls. As for charm in our stations, it is too few in our remaining depots and mainly to be located in the countryside and far reaching lines rather than our ringed suburbs and inner city stops which are frequented most…frequently.

This is where I’m quite confused…

 

Whilst I will heed and bow to the delights of St Pancras, glammed up for its new status as international stop point, a glitzy smooth and Sauvé entrance door to London central, it is our other grisly beasts, that while don’t have ‘international’ on their placards, play host to thousands of wide eyed travellers every day. For our international guests, it is these stations that they first lay eyes upon, it is the gateway to London and I couldn’t think of anything worse…well that’s a lie, I could think of plenty worse. Margaret Thatcher for starters, being water boarded for seconds, having your fingers chewed off by a starved mouse for thirds, buying a packed of wine gums with just green ones in for fourths…actually, maybe there are plenty more “worse” things…but then if I went on like this there would be no point to this hopefully point full blog...just a thought, loosing a company owned book on the train is pretty annoying.  

Back on the stations, there seems to be an overwhelming discouragement to have people waiting in a place that by is nature, asks you to wait. You wait for your train to arrive, wait for it leave, wait for you’re friends, your family, your colleagues, your girlfriend. You’re waiting for the faster train, the next train. You’re waiting more because a snow flake touched a near by stone…hundreds of people waiting.

So the logic of removing every chair, stall, bench, any horizontal service from knee height up that remains relatively clean, excluding coffee stained metros and old McDonalds’ cups, seems a little odd at first. But that’s just a small aggravation of an irritating repetition of unimaginative design executed by the lords of these grand warehouses. 

Trains, the journeys they took, the steam they bellowed into the roof tops, it used to be a place of wonder. Harry Potter doesn’t use an electrical, or even a magical powered train to transport him to Hogwarts, he jumps through a solid brick wall to take him to a magical hall of grand archways, Victorian brickwork, rich red carriages, and a gleaming, beastly, beautiful train that beats and shouts it’s way to its destination. It was an event! The buzz of the people about to board for their adventure away, luggage being hauled, people waving, crying, singing, falling, hugging, shouting, kissing amongst a rabble of others doing pretty much the same thing. It was a celebrated moment, and the magic shouldn’t be lost. 

It’s a still a moment to watch people arrive and depart. To see people leave forever, for a day, for a couple of hours, for holidays, work days, wedding days. But our love affair with the train, the station and the whole event has been ripped so unkindly away and we’re left with consumerist crap, from the Upper Crust, Nero, Burger King, Costa, everything that you can find every where else. 

Shame…

These places are the kings of golden opportunities, and we are most, and whole heartedly, steaming past them on our quest to be somewhere faster. Victoria station is reamed with places to have people stop and stair, to share a coffee, to linger with an old love affair, to delve into a book, to have one last lunch with a distant living brother. They scream out to host the tales you’ll one day bore your grandchildren with. Yet we allow them to host the very worst of what’s on offer…another chain store that promotes the age of the generic, and stamps in the face of the independent charm. I’m not one fore living in the past, but most adamantly not wanting to cherish the current.

How much does your building weigh Mr Esposito?

Buckminster Fuller, or Bucky to the few, once asked his under the wing compatriot of architecture, how much does your building way? Mr Foster was duly stumped by the question, but with his much envied handle on the profession he commands, within a day he was able to answer.

As an employee of Foster and Partners, I live and work in the shadow of the companies’ commander and chief with the aspiration to be as dedicated, as skilful, as phantasmagorical as he is. But after watching the film of which is entitled by the aforementioned question, I was able to answer in seconds out stripping my hero in his ability to answer so promptly. (Below is me trying to be him...poorly)

The answer was zero, the building weighs nothing because it simply does not exist. I haven’t a house to call me own, nor a rented place that I would regard as home. I’m in a state of limbo with little in the way of a positive and stable direction. With the step into the wider world from the general safety of a life of study, the requirements of moving out, finding a job, and learning the trade in the workplace is a reality for most. But London is starting to bring up some rather challenging hurdles, ones which I’m stunningly tripping over on a regular basis.

The cost of rail travel is constant metro daily number to be brought up by journalists, bloggers and commentators a like. The draining plight of the commuter, the unacceptable standards of morning rush hour, and the increasing cost to endure these daily pleasures. But it is the housing of these people that is most troubling.

Whilst the cost of travel is increasing, it is the cost of housing that is kicking me in the face, hard, over and over again, right in the face, in the nose, stamping all over it. My quest these past few months has been turned to the location of suitable accommodation where I can work rest and play, and have a couple of pennies left over for a near frozen pint of Irelands finest, a packed of Rolos, and a vegetable samosa form the those ‘local’ shops that frequent our underground stations.

But as simple as the desire for adequate accommodation at a fair price might be, the staggering rise in rented accommodation is frightful. But worse than the cost of spare rooms where you may have to remove your lifestyle from a selection of luxuries, are the spaces where the less fortunate find themselves. During my hours flicking from page to page of hovel after hovel, the reality of peoples living conditions in this ‘world leading’ city become troubling rather than frustrating.

With rooms at £70 per that offer little more than a single bed, two stoves, a sink, one cupboard and a shared bathroom in an attic, I would argue a case of there being something wrong. Now at this point I would love to offer up a solution, a joyous revolution to the housing crisis that is seeping into the city. Alas, I have nothing…

… and with all things written on staggeringly large issues, there a far wiser, smarter, and ingenious people to listen to, read about, and question than the Saturday afternoon rattling’s of a confused boy.

Twitter me this

Since the start of the new year there has been much to talk and gripe about, the blistering cold days have started to breach our wintery attire, the FTSE could still do with a stiff drink and a Viagra or two, and Prince Charles is talking. But an old fad has nestled onto my phone as a new thing to indulge in.

Twitter has led me to broaden my lust for information from the worlds of design, satire, F1, and any traveller that has a touch of wit and charm. But more unfortunately, it led me to immediately keep a distasteful watch on ‘followers’ and how this may…or as it turns out, may not grow. Apart from the steady flow of quick links to a vast array of pornographic web sites from @sexy_cindy43 who really likes my abs (I have none), the following is small, but a niche market is perfect for me. No burden on perfection, of pleasing a mass, but there was niggling desire to get a big name ReTweet, or commonly known as a RT.

So I set out in a late night task of @ing some of the big guns, but primarily Mr Fry, the national treasure, the crown jewel of QI and ultimate twitter king. But my problem was that I had nothing of interest for him to bite. I needed to create a hook, a beautifuly dressed nuanced gem, full of delight, humour, insight, intelligence, and flow all in the limited 140 characters permitted. I had nothing…nothing, not a drop of anything...and eventually this was blurted out.

“is it a myth that three the story of the three hedgehogs from Rotterdam forged their way to devils dyke in a glorious fashion?”

What was that? What was I trying to achieve…as it happened nothing was aforementioned and it was a failed task. But it led me to a new place, a new venture to pursue…what did happen to the myth of the three hedgehogs? How did they make it? Where did they stay? What tools did they use?

It’s all to follow in the next entry….until then please follow for more failed attempts of RTs @petresposito

Pooh and Daniel

In just over 48 hours I was taken to a place that I can assure you, I don’t like going to, neither do I believe that I will be able to avoid it again. Like a bear to honey, or be it, the one bear, whinney the poo to honey, I will arrive at this point with absolute certainty. The sheer disgusting and totalitarian state of exhaustion got the better of me on Thursday. After spending two nights at a university library, working, clicking, deliberating, nursing another can of cancer giving stimulant, weary eyes started to close, hands started to twitch on their own accord, and ever surface began to look more comfortable than a 5 star king sized, turned bed with a chocolate on top, preferably a rolo chocolate. And to what avail, well, a sheet of mediocre work that Tigger himself could have produced with a pencil nailed to his tail with him bouncing around like a kid on E.

The evening however turned into something more successful, more honest to the stories of pooh, piglet and donkey. Tired, distressed, agitated, and a little sweaty from the disgustingly warm environments of our critting environments, I took an adventure, with brother in lead, to the cultural and historical depths of Exhibition road, South Ken. Our final destination would be to the Geology Centre for a talk by an architectural great, Daniel Liebeskind. I won’t even attempt to regurgitate the things he said, or jest at the points he was trying to make. And yes I was listening! Get the video, watch it, love it, watch it again, buy his book, then watch it again, then tell everyone, then watch it with them, and then bask in his delayed glory….for a second, then realise that his style is the same….everywhere….everywhere…in-fact, yeah, everywhere, bud sod it, I will be shallow just this once and enjoy his architecturally stunning sculptures, and I think you should to.

A Promise

Fury with ones self is a common occurrence in the ongoing battle fought between you and....well, you. A sense of despair with your mind running a riot with ideas, fulled with concepts and theories from the latest Frame Magazine or Monograph, or the daily ritchual of Dezeen. But the problem is, none of these ideas seem to materialise themselves..pen in hand, paper in front, the simple task of putting the two together should be easy as falling over, alas, it isn't to be. Your held back...by what?! is it arrogance, to much pride that you wont allow your self to be criticised. After all, if there is nothing to look at, how can anyone judge it?!

I'm not sure this is always true, but maybe I'm just protecting myself...of course, being judged is no wild brown bear that could slash your feet, or a bee that could sting you in the eye, or even an elephant that could sit on your face, but its certainly something that everyone is a little fearful of...

They say to overcome any fear, you must face it head one....stair down the barrel of a gun....pee into the wind! You must take it by the horns, thrash it around, beat it to a pulp, conquer that that you never felt you could conquer. Kick it, embrace it, brake a porclin jug over it, tackle it to the ground and make it submit under your directions!!!! Think William Wallace, Nelson Mandela, Bob the Builder....can we do it? of course we bloody can....so today i leave you with this, a promise to be open and frank, to show my work to the masses (or few, as followers are only at 3), be it shameful or whimsical, effortless, pointless, great, or weak...and allow you to comment, applaud, and critic.

Strange Beginnings

Today seemed like as good a day as any to start what i hope to be a fruitful, engaging, and perhaps strange attempt to share through the ever tested medium of "the blog". I'm not sure what i wish to gain from doing this, especially as i have a readship of the lonely few....me. So as i write i am in fully conciousness that i am the only one to read this. So whats the point you may ask? you?...i'm asking a question to no one. What is the point i may ask? well there is no point now, but sod it, some dreamy man from pengium publishers may stumble accross my blog whilst trying to research the latests ASBO connundrum. It may become one of those serrindipitous moments where he asked his secretary to look up "ASBO", where she miss hears him for "ESPO", without hesitation, for she fears to question her boss, she types in the miss heard pronounciation, and stumbles across said blog, the Pengium man is passed a printed documents of my blog, and bobs your uncle...I have been discovered...hurrah!.....Hurrrnoooo. For you see, i'm not that lucky, and also, i have made a clear sexist steryotype to the roles my charachters play in the discovery of me...no well founded publisher would invest in that? or would they....? Time of course, will play its roll, and in due course, we shall find out.

But i suppose this has been no real introduction to who, or i guess, what i am. A dare not say that i am a student of design, as the mere mention of student would suggest a care free attitude, not learnad of the world, insicure, stupid, pathetic, drunken lout....the usual. I will admit, i cant spell, and i rarely check, so for this i can only apologise. But i will stand by the fact that i am not your typical student, and i'm not the "High rennaisance man" of Bristol, neither the gentlemen from "Gap Yah", i am a Student of Architecture, working a 95 hour week, content on exploring, understanding and questioning the things i know and see. The problem however, is that i explore insignificant things, i dont always understand, and the questions i ask? well...we need not dabble in that one.

But i can only hope, as i listen to the awe inspirinig tune to Gladiator, that as this Blog is to progress, the exploring, understaning, questioning....it will arise in spoons, spades, trucks....any sized container of moving the metaphor. So i leave you for now, with a smile, a jaunty wink, a pat on the pat notion...