Going Native

It has been another good long while since I've posted.  Again.  I've been busy, come on!  Also my computer is  very ill beast indeed, I'm quite lucky it's working enough to maintain a stable connection.

So, you know the tagline at the top.  Although perhaps I won't rant.  We'll go in reverse order though, just to keep the excitement ramping up!  

Standing at Can Alto 1 might well ensure that I am the closest Choral Scholar to the Master, but is far away from the poor end of the stall.  In fact, quite the opposite.  

Just last week I was finally allowed to assume the role of John the Baptist in Orlando Gibbons' most famous verse anthem, This is the Record of John.  I've only been singing Countertenor for 7 years, but after all that time I've done the most important solo to me in a Cathedral evensong.  Some things are just too important to miss doing, and there's one.  Perhaps it seems strange that for me, especially as a high Countertenor known for laying on recitals of American art songs, should put so much into this one verse anthem, but seeing as that solo was basically the reason I wanted to become a Cathedral Alto, I think I can be allowed to make a fuss about it.  The upshot is that I was allowed, indeed awarded the chance to perfom this mighty item, which I gave my best shot even though I panicked ridiculously when we got to the service.  Consequently I am on the whole less than happy, but through constant, positive reinforcement am slowly coming round to the idea that actually I did a really good job.

Other than that great and personal triumph, I have been doing pretty well, caning out hymns (because some things will never change) and generally giving as much oomph as I can, because...some other things never change either!  Importantly, I do not recieve complaints from the director, which as I always say, is a welcome change from my last appointment.

I haven't done much in the way of Organ playing though sadly, I am accordingly becoming a little rusty.  Speaking of rust though, the damp climate down here is an absolute killer!  My joints are no longer friends with me accordingly, but at least it's alot better than last year's embarrassment of incapacitation.  While I may have a hefty limp again, at least I can still walk.  The damp in the Scholary is at quite a low level, thanks to having an effetive central heating system (thank God...) at the least.  The constant drizzle means that laundry can be quite difficult to sort out, seeing as my room is so ill-organised that there is nary enough room to stand a clothes horse in here...  There is so much chaos in here that it is in constant danger of tipping the balance but I have it just under control.  I must do a large-scale white was though soon!

My life outside of my scholarship is somewhat looking up though.  I'll be taking up a full time job from the 5th of January at Truro School, as the Music department Administrator, on a temporary contract for the whole of the Lent term for starters, and then with the possibility of renewal for Trinity, and perhaps even full time!  This is very exciting.  I have been working in the Cathedral office since October, filling in for the lunch hour on the phones and passing messages on and being a general dogsbody, you know that sort of thing.  I have cut out several hundred church windows and stars for the Education Officer in order to fulfil the needs of various School visits, and also led a visit all by myself with children who have profound learning difficulties.  I was shit scared about doing that all on my own but came through and even scored some major points through the use of my signing.  Knowing a little bit of BSL can be helpful, especially seeing as the teachers spoke with the children in Maketon.  While I may well be happy with working there, I could really do with more to do and of course, some more money would be very helpful...

Of course, had I said that answering the telephone to random callers would terrify me (which of course it does), I would never have got a job in the office, and would therefore never have got anywhere near this gig at Truro School.  

I am, however, beginning to suffer from a...mutation of the vowels.  Remember how I spent three years in Norfolk without picking the accent up?  Yeah, not so down here.  I do say though, that I will never truly forget my grim northern vowels.  I believe my soft palate is the wrong shape to really sound Cornish.  Just like when I became an honorary Gog though, it is because I want to sound this way, rather than a concious resistance (like in Norfolk).  Anyway, I feel accepted.  I feel like I'm liked and I belong, which is to me more valued than silver or gold.  I will always remember my voice though, there may be some rounding out of certain soft vowels, but after a few jars I should once again regain my incomprehensible upcountry speech.   

But what about the first part of my age-old motto up there?  Well.  What about it?  Let's just say... that I have met someone who makes my world go round.  She's just so lovely, and makes me feel happier than I ever have.  We've been going out for a little while, and things are going well, and I'm seeing her very soon again.  And I'm really very pleased about this!  I feel really lucky.

This year promises to pan out, without a doubt, completely differently from the rest of my life and not just on a musical scale.  Things are looking up in a grand fashion, and, as long as I can answer the challanges as ably as I have been doing so, then I can hold my head up high and feel like a success.  Don't get me wrong, there's a hell of a lot of effort involved, but I know I can do it.  Precious little can really stop the amazing fighting Countertenor...

Vignette XXVI

It doesn't matter how much you fight. 

(It'll never be enough)

It doesn't matter how many times you pick yourself up. 

(You'll always fall again)

It doesn't matter how right you are. 

(There's always chance to be wrong)

And then one day they're all there.  And you come through.  And then it's all that matters.

Vignette XXV

I feel absolutely worn out.

Today has been an excellent day, however.

About bloody time.  What with all this furore as well.

There's a lot to be said for a good meal, and then the best singing a Cathedral can offer.

Shame the next fortnight's gong to be so unremitting.  You can't have it both ways though.

You heard the man though, I had the voice today. 

And I will in the days to come.  I remember what I am now.

Emergency Measures.

Here's a thing.  The University of East Anglia are looking to close the School of Music.  That's right.  No, I understand.  You need a bit of time to look this one up yourself.

I only graduated from UEA this year.  In another 3 years time, the last generation of Graduates will have already hung their gowns up and taken their tentative steps into their futures, without another year to fill their shoes.  I think that as many Alumni as possible should make the final graduation.  No placards, no protesting, just stoic solidarity.  

The School of Music is a somewhat unique place even in the relative oddity that surrounds the University of East Anglia.  This is not to say there is anything wrong with UEA; far from it.  The unique, brutalist architecture of the campus is recognisable all over the world, mostly thanks to the iconic Ziggurats of Norfolk and Suffolk Terraces.  The Houses of Britten, Paston, Colman, Browne and Kett are no less recognisable to those who have lived there, and the great flats of Constable Terrace and of course, Nelson Court are a welcome sight to many.  The pecularity of the student body produces some outstanding relationships.  There's a real cross section of society enrolled at this University, from the droves of Essex men and women, to the Internationals of every imaginable race, to the ends of our own Islands; this is not a place where droves of Private boarders are told to go.  This is a place where you choose to go, and I for one think it's a great place.  

Well, I won't think that so much soon.  Maybe.  There has been a Review carried out by a panel of senior members of the University staff.  Heads of Faculty, you know.  This review has been carried out, and its findings are in.  The Panel have found it in their hearts to advise that Music should no longer be offered as an academic discipline at the University.  I'll give you a minute to read that again.  Music should be dropped from the University, the department closed, the staff to find new jobs.  What will happen to the buildings?  Good question, most likely to be repurposed, but who knows?  The Chronology of this is very important.  The review Panel met in September, they have taken around a month to come to their conclusions.  The news was broken to staff 10 minutes before the students in the School itself.  The oficial release was posted on the UEA website on the morning of the 26th, at around the same time that Facebook and Twitter suddenly went downhill - no, they certainly didn;t crash, but the amount of extremely angry and simply distraught Muso's was both staggering and unsurprising.

The cut and thrust of the public face of this closure plan in funding.  Now, funding has always been and will be an issue, but the current plans of cutting funding to the Arts across the board and the massive hike in tuition fees means pennies are even tighter, perhaps even tighter than tight across the board.  According to the official release the University could no tafford to support the School of Music without "imperiling other, better positioned disciplines".  I'm sorry?  Do they not know the meaning of imperiling?

It appears from the report as well that the Music Department has been, in short, neglected.  The death of the Head of Department in 2006 created an interregnum in School leadership that has only been filled recently by the head of another department.  Not another faculty member, but from outside, but still in the HUM umbrella.  Of course this raises the question of why there hasn't been a new Head of Music proper.  It's a good point, and a good question.  There are indeed some hard hitting questions, but also quite a lot of ignorance.  We don't have "cutting edge" studios by any means, that's true, but the work produced by staff and students with the facilities we have is renowned for its innovation and high concept.  The work of the Sonic Arts series of concerts that are hosted in the Concert Room has also been been either dismissed entirely, or the reivew panel were not aware of it.  Sonic Arts host a range of Avant Garde Electronic performances, and some premieres.  Sorry it's a bit vague, but Sonic Arts was never really my thing.  This said, there are a lot of ardent supporters who deeply enjoy these events, and I would gladly hand the reins of this part over to them.

Throughout the report there is a general shrugging of shoulders.  I've said it before and I'll publish it now that I think part of the problem is that MUS has been operating in quite a different way to the rest of the University.  We don't have a Head, we don't have a strict curriculum, and there's something about our admissions policy that just isn't the same.  For saying that 9 years ago in 2002, the School was operating at the "margin of viability", we have done extremely well to maintain a solid and lasting reputation, and an enjoyable course taught by passionate academics.  We can't offer everything, because we don't have the expertise, which is far better than saying we can do everything and then not being able to deliver the greatest experience.  Swings and roundabouts.  As for our admissions?  Well, the grades thing is a little over my head.  As a rule though, we audition prospective students.  You can't measure talent or potential.  Sadly.  That's why we have the audition process.  Academic expectations are somewhat lower in MUS than the rest of the University however.


However, I fear that this is a done deal.  I've said this many times already, but it's all at the last second, perhaps even deliberately so, to avoid a successful rebuttal.  They are just going through the final, public motions of closing the coffin and nailing it shut.  There's going to be one hell of a fight about this, and sadly I am TOO FAR AWAY to really get involved, and that's a thorn in my side. 

For now though, as Ro-Jaws, the robot with the bigger bite says, SPREAD THE WORD JOHN.  There is an online petition here, the Facebook Group is here, and a very interesting article about wages, funding and fees from the Telegraph here.  Also, the outcome of the Review Panel can be found here as well..  There's also a Tumblr blog as well as the Twitter updates to take into account. If you want to, get involved.  I urge you to consider the facts on offer.  If you don't want to, and then we actually respect that, but just don't antagonise us please.  The School of Music at UEA cannot afford to become a martyr to funding cuts.  The slashing of Arts budgets is not on.  There's no similar cuts to Science or Sports.  That's it.


This should be the only subject of conversation for every member of MUS Staff, every UG and PG Student, and every Alumnus until the very last second.  It's going to bore everyone but we must make sure this is an issue that gets out.  There's been a token notice on the BBC news website, but that's only a token.  I hope you follow the link to the report on the University choosing to charge the full whack of £9000 from 2012, with quotes from Edward Acton throughout.  We need national coverage.  People need to be made aware of this.  If the Music School gets shut here, then where next?  The University of Exeter closed their music department down to build a new Hall of Residence, so for financial gain once more, but that was in 2007, well before the recent times of economic crisis.  What other departments are in danger of having secret reports filed on them, before being told at the last second? 



Perhaps though, like any good tyranny, the University will choose to close the Music Department down anyway.  Regardless of how successful our campaign, how great our support through the petition, both online and on paper, this may well be over.  To think this and give up is folly though.  We will fight for our department, we will support the academic staff who have done such a fine job before and will continue to do so.  this is far from over.

THE CAPTAIN'S COOKERY CORNER: VOLUME ONE

Hello friends, 

As I recently said, I am the de facto chef de maison of 20 Old Bridge Street.  For a few years now I have also held Thursday night as a time sacred to curries, ie those that I make myself.  As an exceptionally picky eater, I usually deal with food myself, in case anyone decides to do something that I'm not going to have, like a serving of peas, for example.  While my track record with green vegetables is notably poor, it slowly improves, but only in my own time.  

Anyway.  Today I made a particularly delicious stir fry, even by my standards.  I haven't had any oyster sauce since I got here, nor any hot chili sauce (God damnit Nandos!  Y U NO IN TRURO), but a bottle of light soy has done so far.  I usually cook by instinct, having built a working relationship with my knives and my boards and my utensils that I won't deal with anything else.  I always bring my knives, my pasta pan and my wok wherever I go (not quite attached at the hip but you get the picture).  But here I pass on my recipe to you.  Make sure you read it all the way through before you start.   

HAJIME!!!

Firstly, before anything else, make sure your prep is done or the hotter it gets the more you'll sweat just before the end.  At the moment, I make stir fry dishes with pork, but this ought to work with any meat of your choice.  Beef will be the fastest meal of all though, so only do this if you're definitely on top of it.  This one is a definite pork dish though.  There are no measurements, as I have never used any...except for the rice!  AHA.  Just use enough!  If you use too much or too little, then learn for next time.  I managed to serve 4 tonight, so just think about how many people you want to feed and change your amounts accordingly.

So.  To start with, finely slice your pork into strips.  This is a chow mein style, and it'll all cook quickly.  Speed is of the essence!  Next, cut off enough pieces of Broccoli and halve them.  If you are planning on using the stalk, cut that up just as, if not more finely as the pork (Don't worry about getting it identical.  Broccoli will take the longest time to fry after the pork though).  Thinly slice two cloves of Garlic, and put them to one side of the board.  Skin a medium sized white onion, and roughly chop it into slices.  With that all done, sort out your pans.  

Put your noodle pan on to boil.  I use a pasta pan, because I use a pasta pan for everything.  It's just a big pan with a stout handle, with a glass lid that has large and small draining holes in the sides, very useful.  I put in 5 nests of egg noodles earlier, but use however much you need, and then put enough water in to cover the nests and put it on a high heat.  If you put the lid on, it'll boil much quicker, but you might be busy by the time it starts to boil over, so think carefully.  Just before you do this though, put your wok on to heat.

Put your wok on to heat.  I said it again because you actually need to heat it.  None of this pussy-footing around.  Your wok should be approximately as hot as hell by the time you start cooking.  Put in a glug of oil, be it sunflower, vegetable or groundnut (the last of these being the best), BUT NOT OLIVE OIL.  UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU USE OLIVE OIL.  Olive Oil will burn and not taste especially great and ruin your wok.  Put it on the highest heat available to you on your hob/raging inferno.  

Once the oil in the wok starts to smoke gently, it's almost ready.  Let it heat up a little bit longer, and then get the pork in.  Slide it in off the board slowly (or as slowly as you can), because you don't want to spray the boiling hot oil everywhere.  You will notice that the meat will colour almost instantly due to the fabulous heat and the large surface area of the strips.  After maybe a minute, or when all the strips have begun to colour, add in a healthy serving of LIGHT SOY SAUCE.  Light goes in at the start of cooking.  When you have done this, add the Broccoli.  Adding more ingredients causes the overall temperature of the inside of the wok to drop ever so slightly.  Toss the wok to make sure everything gets covered in the soy.  After a while, add in tomato puree.  Add a load as well, and spread it around, coating everything in the pan.  Add a drop more soy to keep things moving in the pan.  Don't let it burn!  Let it cook out for a little bit.  We're moving towards service now.

The noodles out to be nearly ready by now.  I used a short pair of tongs to separate them, but feel free to use whatever you like.  Stir them round and make sure they're cooked.  Turn the heat off and pop the lid on.  Stir the contents of the wok.  Now, toss the onion slices in to the wok, and break them up with whatever you're using.  Make sure they also get coated.  Now, move quickly!  Drain the noodles, but don't get rid of all the water, you'll need a bit.  I hope you haven't forgotten about all that Garlic you had, because now's the time to use it.  Make a space in the centre of the wok and throw the garlic in.  This needs only seconds, as you only want to toast the garlic, and woebetide you if you burn it.  Once that's done, pour in the noodles.  The water you left in needs to go in as well, because it'll stop it all from sticking and make a little bit of sauce out.  Put in a bit more soy at this point, if you have any DARK SOY SAUCE now is the time to use it, but be sparing.  You don't want to overpower the pot.

Let the noodles cook in the wok, and toss regularly to make sure they get covered as well, and be careful not to let it burn.  

There is only one course of action left to you now. 

   SERVICE!!!

I usually prepare stir fry in this fashion.  Sometimes I have rice instead of noodles, and ideally I have bottles of fish sauce and oyster sauce to tide me over as well as chili sauces of sveral varieties to add to the flavours, colours and textures.  If I use a red onion, I add it slightly later to keep the fiercer flavour and the strong colour intact.  Red onions are my thing though.  All in all, this meal should take about half an hour to prepare and serve.  Always make sure you don't poison anyone, but the meat should always be done by the end just due to the sheer temperature.  

Anyway.  I hope that some of you might be brave enough to try this, and my following recipes at home, for yourself, your friends and family.  My house style is gutsy and slightly chaotic, much like everything else I do, especially my Countertenoring.  On Thursday, I will be opening the famous Curry House, and serving two distinct dishes, the first time I have done so in my whole life.  But I'm not worried.  I might make the first one on Wednesday, and then put all my energy into the second dish on the day.  No problem.  So!  Until next time!  

Western Civilisation

Alright.  After the last little brainwasher, things have calmed down.  Just a bit.  Way out here it's much quieter than even sleepy Norfolk.  Except for the near-constant Bach...

Allow me to accurately describe my situation.  I, a living Countertenor, have moved to Truro, deep in the heart of Cornwall, or KERNOW in the old style.  I now reside in a medium sized, three bed Georgian town house with three other people.  Just like most student housing, the front parlour has been converted to another bedroom (I do not live here).  I live with a Baritone, a Bass, and a Tenor.  WHY AREN'T WE A QUARTET UNDER ONE ROOF?!  More on that story later.   My room's ok, though, for saying I must now ascend and descend stairs.  It is vastly improved by being filled with my possessions, which therefore makes it second only to the miniscule kitchen that continues to shorten my life daily.  As chef de maison and also cleaner...er, de maison, I have been kept busy during my otherwise empty and unemployed days (well, afternoons) by keeping the kitchen and its contents fit for human use.  I accordingly do most of the cooking, and have gladly reasserted Thursday Night Is Curry Night, last Thursday being a pretty beastly Biryani that managed to feed 5 people.  God Bless the Captain's Curry House, and all who sail thereon!

In the mean time, I have relaxed my initial search for employment.  This is a double edged sword, for while money is especially thin on the ground if I rely on the Scholarship, but why bother depressing myself further?  I've got a couple of forms left to fill in (coffee shops &c), but after that I'm leaving it for a good three or so weeks until I really start again.  Hopefully this will help me out, as seasonal staff positions will be hiring, and maybe that Italian place will ring me back anyway.  

But what about my place?  You know, my place at the stall?  Well, I'm actually quite satisfied.  I am happy.  I am in the right place.  Look at what I am saying, and take heart dear readers, there's hope for me just yet.  No, seriously now, I'm pretty solid in my place.  I almost believe in myself again, and am doing quite well.  The Lay-Vicars in the altos are also astounded at my ridiculous breath control; not bad for an asthmatic with a partially collapsed lung (yes, I still think I have the lung problem because it twinges in the same place every now and again).  All those years at Derby and breathing exercises and sustaining legato American art song phrases have brought me a small benefit to say the least, and one which must be consistently built upon.  I'm working on my decibel reputation (almost derailing the end of the first phrase of the Schubert G major Gloria and the Lasst Uns Erfreuen incident) slowly but surely, keeping the bottom notes in focus and the tops ones from ruining me.  And I still haven't had a lesson down here, which is of course, terrible.  I got handed out the solo in Byrd's Second Service, which reminds me that for some reason I've been put on second alto.  Why?  What?  Where?  I have no idea, but Mr. Gray moves in mysterious ways, I don't doubt that he's done this for a reason...could it be though?  Could I finally be in line for the record of John?  The one bloody reason I wanted to be a countertenor in the first place?

Anyway, I sit on the north side, beneath the Organ case.  The Cathedral has 3 organs, the mighty Father Willis in the choir, which is absolutely bloody enourmous, a box organ that also resides in the main choir aisle, and the reanimated corpse of a 1750 Byfield Organ in St. Mary's aisle.  This aisle is all that remains of the original church on this site before the Cathedral  was built in the late 1880's, and the remains of the Organ that stood in the west gallery have since been installed in the northwest part of the aisle.  Now, it's obviously off-colour to refer to it as a dead body...but seeing as the specification has been changed from a small but complete IIIP/20 to a IIP/13, compounded with the tantalising specification left up on the NPOR and the small matter of my 12,021 word dissertation on Organs exactly like this one make me very sad that it has basically been turned into an Octopod.  At least the majority of the case has survived, and is an excellent example of the late Harris-Byfield-Byfield II style of cases.  Imagine if this instrument has been restored to it's original manual specification, with the addition of a mid-scale Bourdon to the pedals, much like the contemporary 1754 Snetzler Organ in Hillington, Norfolk.  Not only could it make a credible contribution to music in the Cathedral, but also would have acted as a base for historic performace practice.

Oh well.  Of course, things aren't always that simple, but it would have been nice, especially seeing as I'm used to nipping down to Colegate to work on the 1803 instrument they have there.

Oh yeah!  The Quartet thing.  Most of all, it comes down to the division of that I am a slave to that Barbershop sound, and the others are not.  That's it.  No recriminations, no name calling, nothing.  Just that one difference.  Unlike the others, I am no great fan of the King's Singers.  Well, definitely not like they are anyway.  Barbershop is a different ball game, and as my experiences have taught me, you just can't force people who don't want to lock chords together.  While I am only a rank amateur, I get offended enough when Barbershop is reduced to the description of "cheesy close harmony", seeing as it is absolutely neither of those things.  I might be able to sneak a bit of the old flavour into some arrangements.  I'm looking at 'Goodnight Sweetheart' as a definite candidate.  

So.  Getting better.  

Knock knock, it's the Abyss

You know, I can't remember if I've said anything about this before, I suppose it doesn't really matter as it's a relevant issue every fucking day.  Although I suppose you might get bored if every time I publish it's always about this.  But really, that's what my life is like.  If you've never been depressed, and (arguably) more importantly don't care about something that doesn't affect you, then get lost.  I'm serious.  You should leave, and that soon.

You're not going to like this.

I heard actually, that depression affects a ratio of one to every one person.  Everybody, at some time, will suffer in their life, but to what degree and in what respect will differ.  Sometimes, it goes too far, and some people choose to justify the mental anguish with physical pain, such as self-harm, killing other people, or even killing themselves.  But funnily enough, I'm not one of them.  Surprising, I know. perhaps we could finally get some eschatological verification if I was.

No, I don't talk about my depression very often, because, guess what you guys!  It depresses me.  I guess the trouble all started when...uh...well, actually it's been so long I can't even remember now.  Of course I always hoot on about my second year at univerity as the worst time.  Funnily enough, this was not just down to my precarious living arrangement but also my choral employment at the time.  Yes that's right.  The Parish Church or St. Peter Mancroft.  Arguably it would have been worse if I had never been.  I mean, my official position is never to wish that things had been different, or I would never have wound up wherever I did for the next thing &c &c, but maybe this one could have done with t a little more thought.  My time at Mancroft is the reason why I never claim to be a singer by trade, why I am prouder of my Organ playing than anything else, and why I have absolutely zero confidence.  It'd be like... the killer that got killed on the job.  Obvioulsy I love making ridiculous statements though.  However, enough with the jokes.  The only thing that Mancroft did for my singing was tell me that I was wrong.  If there was a mistake, it was always my fault.  My tone was always too strong and my consonants too big and it was always my fault.  Obviously I wish to paint myself as the sympathetic hero, but actually, I don't.  I'm not quite that stupid.  Why was I loud, and forthright &c &c?  Because I wanted to do my best.  I was taught to lead, so that's what I tried to do.  Take the initiative and use my greater experience of repertoire.  Not the best idea though.  Perhaps it's all in the execution.  Anyway, I was never good enough to do any solos until the last service, basically, and that was my fault as well.  How?  Well, I was told that I "should be subserviant" to the director, and that's an actual quote fact fans.  No merit based rewards there then.  I can take that though, being a stubborn little shite at even the best of times. 

Singing was all I was ever really good at (other than philosophy), and to have this unending stream of criticism, especially at that time, was somewhat harmful to one's own personal development.  Why the fuck should I bother carrying on, if everything I do is wrong?  Bit of a foregone conclusion there, eh?

Well, anyway, I decided to go back to University for a third year, and back to Mancroft for a second round.  I never quit, because I'm a) an idiot and b) the type to see something out to the bitter end, which is also why I went back to Uni.  I never for a second really thought I could rescue the clusterfuck of that second year, but gave it a shot anyway.  More on that and the result later.  The next and again most pressing item is of course the lack of employment.  Now, see here.  Turns out that this gig at Truro is exactly what it says on the tin.  We're Scholars to the Cathedral, and not employees.  As such, it's not technically a job, even though you have to put a hell of a lot of hard work into it.  At the moment we're doing a lot of things that I happen to know, but the only advantage this gives me is that I can watch more.  No technical advantage, nor musical advantage (remember my technique is terrible and I spent the last two years getting everything wrong), but just watching.  It's a speciality.

But anyway, just like the summer, I've been trying to find work.  And just like the summer, I've been having absolutely no luck at all.  Yesterday alone I made five separate job applications, for kitchen porter work and bar positions around the city, with no reply as yet.  Obviously I have no bar experience in a commercial sense, so it doesn't look good really, does it?  If you don't have experience you can't get the job, but if you can't get the job how will you get experience?  Ho hum.  Anyway, I suppose all I can do now is wait.  I can't even get JSA again like I did because my mother is my official representative or whatever the term is, so she has to be legally present for everything.  Even if I wanted to sign on again (which, financially is an excellent idea at the moment), I couldn't.  I must, therefore, survive on the stipend handed out by the Cathedral, a not impossible task, but far from desirable.  Also, I would have something else to do in the day than sit around drinking tea and waiting for the world to end.

And now I turn to what to do next year?  Obviously I can't be a choral scholar forever.  I am looking at continuing my education. However.  I have two major problems.  The first is my degree.  At a second class, second division, it's not exactly cutting any mustard anywhere.  Firsts or 2:1s are the accepted order of the day.  The other option is of course a performance Diploma, a little research into those however reveals the high cost of such an operation - somewhat out of reach for the poor and unemployed.  I haven't even done anything about singing lessons down here in case they cost actual money, an unnatural resource I seem to be fairly free of.  There's about 40p in my wallet, I suppose that'll have to do.

I'm almost out of my depth.  Almost.  I can cope with a daily service (just about, my warbling is holding out - in fact, I was told by my Lay-Vicar counterpart that I was "good" and "louder than both the past two scholars put together" so there's some mileage there I suppose), I can deal with the amount of music being put in front of me, and the fact that usually there's only an hour's rehearsal before it's done and then put away.  Singing is what I do, and doing it I am.  However.  It is the rest of it that I am struggling with, struggling being the operative term, and struggling being the right word indeed.  Without a Student Loan to top my overdraft up like the last two years, I feel pretty much financially helpless.  I want a job, but obviously I'm terrified.  I guess I'd be ok once I started, but it's just getting that start.  Going out and getting a job will always be nigh-on impossible I suppose, but I just want a fucking chance.  Obviously I am asking for too much. 

My favourite metaphor for how I feel is being punched in the face, every day.  I'd say try it but I know you don't want to; well boo hoo because I don't get any choice.  You can get punched in the face for a week, say, and still come up smiling.  Maybe it's funny, like a game: get up again and again and maybe you can earn another smack in the chops!  Brilyunt.  Remember, points mean prizes, right?  Well, extend the metaphor for ever, basically.  I can only keep getting knocked back by prospective employers, or my bank balance, or perhaps the unhealthy assumption that I come from a well-off background and have a rosy-looking childhood.  No, no, no and no.  Being so far from my frinds and family is beginning to hurt.  It feels like I am out here alone.  Of course, I am surrounded by people and services and whatnot and what have you, but I essentially chose to throw myself deep into unknown territory without a wingman, basically.

Of course, I am harking on to an absurdity, because this is exactly how I felt this time last year.  Actually NO IT WASN'T.  I was scared then, but hopeful and optimistic and above all, determined.  I am sorely lacking this fine character attributes today though.  Upset, uncertainty of the future, financial worries, absolutely everything.

POSTSCRIPTUM

Well that was hard.  That also took all week to write, in one everlasting draft.  But I had to.  I have been very bad at keeping this updated, I mean, I still have my little loveletter to SUDA 51 to write and I have noticed a predeliction for existentialist cinema that might merit discussion as well.  Services are moderately tough, but  I'm keeping my wits about me, and can't really say farer than that.  I have never been happier not to have perfect pitch though.  I sing every night of the week, but still have nothing to do in the day.  I haven't sung proper Barbershop since the end of term in June.  I'm just a little lost.  I have no idea where I'm going next, I have very little idea what I'll be doing tomorrow in fact.  It's all quite bad.  If I were a real person, I'd have this all figured out by now.  Or, more likely, know enough of the right people to get me there without having to think myself.  Oh well.  Such is my lot.

Knock knock.

TRU

Well.  two weeks in and I'm still alive.

Lapsed Songman and Organ Scholar Emeritus, now Choral Scholar of Truro Cathedral.  Looks good, doesn't it?  Feels pretty good too.  It's nice to be working hard again.  I say working hard, it's still just under 16 hours a week, and I haven't managed to become employed.  Harsh. It's not that I'm not applying, it's just that I'm not being employed!  This is the real world though, so it is folly to expect anything else...

I haven't written for a long time.  Once again, I've been getting used to this new and distinct reality, where rehearsal is brief and drink is expensive.  My bank account reads like it's almost a quarter past three in the afternoon, but minus.  I'm not stopping this, no way, but I have been somewhat distracted by the business of living, which as we all know is very annoying.

My abode is known colloquially as "The Squalory".  Looking at the Kitchen in its current state it's not hard to guess why.  Once again my masterful pot washing and cleaning skills are being exercised daily, also in as much as thanks to my dear mother, the spirit of a clean kitchen has been instilled into me from a young age.  My room however, is the usual incarnation of chaos.  I have a floor and hoover once a week, so it's better than last year!  See that it is messy but not dirty, cant stand it if it's dirty.  I'm sat here dying inside thinking about the kitchen.  GOD DAMN IT THE KITCHEN NEEDS MY HELP.

However, the singing is good.  I haven't had any lessons (no monies), but it feels good.  I need to find my edge again, but there's no use ruining things.  Below me lives a graduate of the Royal Northern, behond me lives an old boy from St. Paul's, and next door lives an ex-private boarder, with whom I seem to have formed some sort of subversive double act.  It appears I am become quite the stooge in my cynicism.

So.  Same Peb, different county.  Or country, if you are so inclined.  It's early days, but it's all looking up!  Watch this space. 

Disc 1

So I was fleeced. Voluntarily of course. But still fleeced.

EDGE Magazine may be one of the best publications available, but along with GAMEStm and RetroGamer, is one of the more...expensive takes on videogame journalism. I like it though, and every now anad again I feel the need to buy some class in. This month has a large report on Batman: Arkham City, so obviously I need to know all about it. It also has a nice article on 50 games that defeated by their own genepool (or something), high cult titles. There's also a page column about videogames and storytelling, with the recent L.A Noire as the example.

The cut and thrust of this column is that games cannot be a great storytelling medium. Anyone who has ever played a recent Metal Gear Solid title, especially with an hour and a half cutscene in MGS4 will have an opposite opinion. I too have a different opinion, especially after recent games. Well, except for the MGS schtick. I mean, seriously.

A lot of classic games have no story. Not really. The 'story' only exists in order to make the macguffin mean anything at all to the player; the best know formula goes like this: You, the protagonist (main character) must collect [item] and/in order to stop [bad guy] and rescue [whoever]. Let's roll out some well known action/adventure games and see how it compares.
In the Sonic the Hedgehog series you have to collect the Chaos Emeralds and stop Dr. Robotnik (or more recently Dr. Eggman) and save the world.

In any Super Mario game, you collect Stars/Shine Sprites/whatever (it is always stars) in order to stop Bowser and save the world/universe and rescue the Princess.

In the Legend of Zelda...You know what, I give up on this one, we all know how this works. Collect whatever mystical items needed to stop Ganon and save Hyrule and the Princess!

Metroid games see you repowering your suit in order to stop the Space pirates and sate your appetite for revenge/save the galaxy. That time you are the Princess. Ooops, SPOILERS!
Even HALO follows this simple and effective model...except I guess you don't collect anything that time. Right?

The story exists so you can keep doing what you're doing with an added difficulty curve. This is really what's missing from life, with no over arching plot to guide you (once you leave education anyway), and a difficulty curve that resembles a sheer cliff face, I often feel like a few scripted events might be helpful. But anyway, the true focus of the videogame is the player. It's why the protagonist is often silent, so the player can simply insert themselves into the action. Link has never had a voice actor beyond his grunting, and I for one hope he never will. As technology marches on, the ability to present a videogame in the style of a movie that you participate in every now and then has come to the point where people are even beginning to think of it as a viable option. Yes Metal Gear Solid, I AM LOOKING AT YOU.

Of course, at the beginning of the summer vac I purchased a copy of Metal Gear Solid: The Twin Snakes form Fleabay for a buy it now! brand new price. I haven't played The Twin Snakes for years, having only borrowed a copy from a friend when it came out new, and haven played the original Metal Gear Solid for even more years since the end of my PlayStation years. This is the remix made for the Nintendo's GameCube, a system which sails on into its tenth year of operation. This MGS is nothing short of God damn freaking hilarious, with more slo-mo blurry cutscenes than a co-directed effort from Zack Snyder and the Wachoski brothers. I mean, talk about the cutscene that follows the Hind-D battle. Jumping on top of a missile and returning fire with the Stinger? And the Snow Field? Where our hero backflips and lands exactly on the butt of the PGS-1 in order to flip it back into his hands and land the kill shot. And the opening of the fight with Vulcan Raven? WHERE DOES HE EVEN KEEP THAT STINGER?! Phew. The dialogue at times sounds like a bad B-movie (hello MST3K), and of course, there's a Ninja. WHO CAN DEFLECT BULLETS. The amount of time spent developing the ridiculous story through text only codec conversations and massively long cutscenes is absolutely unbelievable! The pay off, of course, is listening to David Hayter as Solid Snake. His voice is brilliant, especially listening to the "I am a world-weary soldier who's just a pawn" delivery. Colonel becomes Kernel (say it in the voice). Wonderful.

The true story of Metal Gear Solid reaches far into the past of its own continuity, which is where MGS3 and its ilk comes from, with the 'Legendary Soldier' Big Boss, Snake's 'father', who Snake kills (but doesn't kill?) back in the 70's. And in the Jungle. But there are still the titular walking robots, just to reassure us that it is a Japanese game saga after all. Sadly the same problem afflicts all of the MGS titles, and it is the overblown cutscenes. The use of the player directing an already developed charcter is not problematic; you as the player (like I do) will probably identify better with this hero of cynicism as he is rather than if he were a Link style blank face. Snake's character becomes more moralistic as the game (and the sage) progresses, as he understands that he is nothing more than a pawn in a cataclysmic nuclear wargame. He's just this guy, you know? A great plus for this first 3D title is its sheer believability. The Shadow Moses Incident (as the common parlance has it) takes place in 2005. Everything except for the titular Mech is existing technology. And the Stealth Unit. This is the thing, it could be true.

No, the problem is that the player can, and often does become disconnected from the game by being forced to sit back and watch rather than play so much of it. Even Hayter himself described MGS4 as an "18 hour immersive movie" rather than a game. Who the hell wants to sit through an 18 hour movie? I can hear something about Wagner's Ring Cycle, but this is no place to debate videogames as high art. The issues of genetic engineering and nuclear danger are well handled by MGS though. Presented in this believable context of a theatre of a modern, cold war, could one successful Black-Ops insertion end the threat like this? We'll never know. That's the point of Black-Ops.

But games cast in this fashion will never succeed in telling a story like this. Too much is out of the players' hands. Theres so much political waffle behind it, not to mention real film cut into the rendered scenes. I like it. It's a good story! It's very importantly plausible. Who the hell knows what happens up in Alaska if the US Government are behind it and don't want you to know about it? But sometimes it's almost as if the sneaking sections are unecessary. Or just breaks between the next marathon cutscene.

Tune in next time for my poster child of games as a valid storytelling medium. There's a lot of politics behind that one as well, but I think it's expressed better.

And anyway, it's all a matter of opinion, right?

TL;DR oh shit.

Cdom7

I'm never one to do things in an orthodox manner.

Now, I've been playing the Tenor Banjo, off and on for some 7 or so years. I own an Ozark 2102T, the 2102 range being a range of beginner instruments, the Tenor model costing a mere £150 on average. I first took up the instrument after hearing the Banjo solo from the title track of the soundtrack to the Anime film Metropolis. Loosely based on the manga of the same name by Osamu Tezuka, widely regarded as the father of modern manga, can be found translated by Dark Horse Comics. Tezuka is also responsible for Astro Boy, Kimba the White Lion (the source for The Lion King) and Buddha, a 14 volume account of the life of Siddharta Gautama, of course the Buddha. Anyway, the film version, directed by Rintaro, has a shit-hot soundrtrack, which opens with a Dixieland number, on the opening credits. Once the dialouge starts, the soundtrack fades out, and it is at this point that a Banjo solo starts. I wanted to play this solo more than anything at the time. I immediately petitioned my parents for a banjo. I didn't let up, which especially pleased my father (SARCASM)

So for Christmas, I recieved a Tenor Banjo, in a CGI Banjo bag. Wow. Actually, the lining of the bag soon ripped, which caused the bass side tuning pegs to become stuck. The thing about the art and science of tuning a banjo is that the change in position of the bridge and the pressure on the skin head means that all the strings must be fine tuned at once, making a restring a long-winded excercise. The Tenor model is tuned in fifths, namely CGda, the same pitch and tuning as the modern orchestral viola. The first string should therefore be A440. As a 9 gauge string, this is pretty high. Guitarists may recognise the 9 gauge as their first string as well. I like to string mine with Martin Vega strings, where the d and a are silver. Lovely jubbly. It can be a real life-shortener to tune the a up though, so I only replace my strings should one go, or once a year for the whole set. I put aside the 14th of February for this arduous task. See, I can have a sense of humour. This wide tuning, however, after some experimentation, I soon discovered was wrong for my chosen goal. After a year of following the excercises in the Mel Bay Banjo Method I had bought for me, I tried to play along with the solo...to discover the inevitable. The type of instrument used in the recording is presumably the Plectrum Banjo, tuned CGBd, with a long, 22-fret neck. The Tenor only has 19 frets. Hmmm.

My Banjo has somewhat of a unique feature, that of a perilously high action. Grim. Approaching and excceding the 12th fret becomes a nightmare proposition, even 7th fret on the lower strings can get a bit hairy. It's a shame, because it's actually got quite a nice tone for saying it's just a small open back. Even seasoned guitarist Mr. G. Smith of Oakwood was terrified and dismayed by the action. Its a matter of tuning though. The bridge is far away down the head to keep the tuning right all the way up. And Jesus Harry Christ have my fingers gotten soft! It's very painful , and the blisters are forming under my fingertips already. Why have I dusted off my Baby?

I want to play the Cello Suites. I can hear Herr Bach rising from his angry grave now, but turns out it's quite popular for Banjo players to take on the first suite prelude, particularly the iconic prelude (you know how it goes). I'm sure Cellists, not to mention classical music buffs and pretentious jackasses around the globe are grinding their teeth at the thought of their master, Joh Seb Bach's wonderful suites for the solo Violoncello are being rendered on such an instrument. Well who cares. I mean, seriously. Some idiot is always banging on about the inexorable nature of Bach, that he and his music will live on pretty much forever (helped by the great availablity of it on the internet, natch) due to some ineffable and architectural quality that carries on for all time...blaaaaaah. Whatever.

The Cello suites, are, unsurprisingly, very hard. Of course, they're idiosyncratically composed for the Violoncello...or are they? Various conjecture (or, my friend and yours Wikipedia) leads us to the hitherto lost instruments Viola da Spalla (literally Viol on the Shoulder, a smaller violoncello held by a strap to the player's shoulder) and the Viola Pomposa, a large viola/violoncello with a fifth string tuned a perfect fifth above the top a. This is specifically for the last suite, the D major, that according to three of the sources is "a cinqe cordes", with only one giving the exact tunings. There's a wonderful free edition on the WIMA that has everything which I'm using.

The G major suite is the most covered because it's technically the easiest. The prelude is very well known, and its a nice bit of Bach to roll out as a party piece. However, you'll notice that the action height on a 'Cello is really very low, as it your average internet Banjo players'. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear. Keep telling yourself it's good for your technique, and get on with it. The extra height gives extra punch, which allowed me to cut through the whole band in a UEA Grad Bar Jazz night. Tremolo solos as standard, and then block chords in the finest Dixieland style.

It's hard, and it hurts, but ultimately, the Cello suites are great. Fiendish, yes. I might have to purchase a new Banjo specifically for playing them. And what a shame that would be.

And the title? My tuning chord. it goes 0-3-2-3. Just think about it.

Vignette XXIV

I will miss you. I will miss you more than you can ever know.

I'll miss you, even though you made me feel like I didnt know a thing. You still treated me like a whole person,even though I never feel like one.

I miss you, even though it is you who has much left to learn. Think about your nickname.

I will miss you, even though I never had the courage to tell you. I never thought you'd want to listen anyway.

I miss you, even though you well and truly broke what I have for a heart.

I miss you, even though we never went a-waltzing like I always wanted.

I will miss you, even though I never really knew what was going off.

I will miss you, even though you said I was too good for you.

I will miss you, too. If I had met you at the start rather than the end, everything would have been different.

I miss you. You always called me 'bubby' and it always felt like everything was going to be alright when you held me.

That's just off the top of my head. I'm going to miss everyone, absolutely. Who are you?

Industrial Action

So, in a week of rioting and economic uncertainty, I instead choose to write about my failing technology. Mainly.

I managed to keep out of the riots, neither participating nor being attacked. Looks like I missed out on a new pair of trainers, or a new telly, or anything else that has been lifted by the pillaging hordes. The closest I got was a phonecall off my brother on Tuesday saying there was "a massive police presence in Derby", and that "there are a load of idiots coming from Nottingham on the buses, on the trains, the police are getting ready for trouble"... And then there wasn't. The copycat riots in derby consisted of two lads running into Argos, committing theft, and then running back out again. This caused the staff of Argos to panic, and close the shop early, which had a knock-on effect of the surrounding shops. And...that was it. Then in the early hours of Wednesday morning, there was a gang roaming around Alvaston smashing cars up, which is pretty usual for Alvaston anyway. And then that was really it. Thankfully there was no wholescale looting, no firebombing of police stations, no mugging...Well, no more than usual. Town's been quiet for the whole week, which isn't especially bad for Derby. A few peaceful nights have probably helped the general atmosphere. Now, I'm not getting involved with the politics of this situation. Not here, anyway. Having friends who have memberships to both the Labour and the Conservative parties, I have heard quite enough from both sides to convince me that we're all doomed, doomed I say, to die screaming as the future ceaselessly arrives constantly in our faces.

Anyway. I finally bit the bullet and backed up my personal files and had my computer hard drive formatted. That's right. I've finally got rid of that awful plague that is Windows Vista Business edition. Turns out that there was a little bit more than just Vista wrong with my system, as well. Something about viruses or some such, I don't know. Instead of just reinstalling Vista again, my dear and most helpful mother has instead introduced Windows XP to The Boiler, and I can say that it's been like this for not eve 24 hours and I'm very pleased with how it ticks now. I was initially worried that the new (old ?) OS wouldn't recognise the touchscreen, but actually there is an edition of XP for tablets and that's what I've got. Nice. I can flip the screen around without the machine screaming "NO NO PLEASE I CAN'T COPE" and instead just rearranging the icons nice and quickly. The keyboard dock is activated from the task bar, and switches on and off without shouting at me, and the handwriting recognition is pretty good for saying mine is barely legible. It is running rather a little hot at the moment though. I wonder.

What I would really like to get installed in this though, is of course Windows 7. I can't afford a new computer with it pre-installed, but hopefully it can cope. If not, I should think that XP can perform all the vital functions that I employ, such as surfing the internet (already using Opera 11.50, a little sluggish but a billion updates are streaming in as I type), word processing, keeping up my library of ripped CDs/downloads etc. Hopefully with some stable processing, I might be able to do some more, such as musical composition, editing tracks, and keep my blood pressure lower than the steam pressure requirements. HAR HAR.

Actually, if I can sort out this computer, I might be able to sort out my phone. Ah yes, my next essay in my love of clapped out technology. I have the poor luck to be in possession of a defective handset, a Sony W995 to be exact. Poor show old chap. Other than that, I'm pretty happy with what I have, because I like having an old Sony Ericsson phone, thanks, and I don't care how much you may or may not like that. Anyway, I wanted to sort out a new theme with a lovely flash menu...but couldn't, due to one or another thing. It's a bit boring, I won't go into it. However, to correctly implement the theme, I would need to get into the phone firmware. When I'm in the firmware, I can do almost anything I like. Update the software version, change the camera and speaker drivers...and if I mis-step, I could ruin the phone. If I sink about three days into the forums, I can learn how to do it properly, so I will. I might wait a while before doing so, because if I can get the Windows 7 upgrade, I'll do it after I reinstate my data, but at this rate, I'll be filling my HDD on the XP Tablet OS.

Vignette XXIII

Times are hard and times are poor and time is ever so slowly carrying on and one day the time will come where I'll run out of time but knowing me I won't have time for it and have a quick time out before realising that time's up!

You can have the time of your life without realising the time before time catches up with you and then you have no time at all and its time to go back but you want to spend more time but there isn't any time left so its time to go home really now even though you want more time but there isn't any time left but you promise there'll be another time even though you won't have much time but you'll be able to make the time and time and again you can spend your time there.

Or maybe you can spend your time waiting to know when's the best time because you agree to have some time but because you've waited so long there is no time left because it's almost time for the times to change so you have to tell them the time because the time's been and gone and then the time has gone away. If I had timed the amount of times this time had happened I'd have time to take the time.

Tick.

Tock.

Clock watching?

What a waste of time. It's time to say that it's not time well spent time instead to step back and think whether it's the right time?

Time to think again. Time to turn back the clock? There's never any time for that. Time to go. Time to call time.

GOGLEDD

Just call me...Mister Hawk.

So, the weekend before last was Grad, and all the grand adventures that were contained therein. Next weekend will be the Doctor's return to our sceptered isle's shores, along with Tommy from Bristol town. This weekend, however, is what can only be described as the most successful family holiday ever. Absolutely splendid...

Now, the last time I went to Wales, it was South Pembrokeshire to Tyddewi, or St. David's. I was meant to go again recently for an audition for a Choral Scholarship at the Cathedral, but I accepted the job at Truro a week before anyway, so that one got knocked on the head. In fact, had we had gone to St. David's we were scheduled to go up and see the rellies, but because I took the Truro job blah blah...

Anyway. Mother decided that it was time to go to Wales, and more specifically, Porthmadog. No, don't pronounce it as a 'g' at the end. Cue my useless protestation. I mean, seriously, I've never met anyone who's there before, I don't know them, I don't know the kids, I don't know if they'll like me, let alone whether I'll like them...

You know what, I had some bloody stupid worries before, but this one takes the biscuit. I've had probably the best weekend of my whole life. Seriously. Aside from the nigh-on five hour journey there, through the windy mountain roads to get there (where surprisingly the only radio station available is BBC Radio 2...?), it was absolutely bloody brilliant! It feels like I actually have a big family, and more importantly, a family who wants to know me. They're all mad (Anty Lou is certifiably insane for starters (but like that's a bad thing)), but they are ours, as much as they're like us, we're like them (more on that at the end). I spent the entire journey back thanking my dearest mother for taking me, and asking her if she was sure we couldn't stay for longer. If we hadn't have run out of clean clothes we wouldn't have come back, and I'm not even joking. Pub be damned, I'd have stayed there for ages.

Anyway. I've managed to be dragged away from Port (and indeed Penryhndeudreath, where I was staying with my COUSIN Lisa), but have managed to import a smattering of the accent. Just a little. Not to mention the speed! You see, I've been at University for three years in Norfolk, (and indeed, surrounded by southeners) and haven't come home with an accent...ever. However, two days in Wales, and I sound like a right Gog! I actually relaxed for a bout the first time ever, basically. THERE WE GO. For saying I met a bunch of people I've never even seen before, and their children (oh, the children...), in a strange place, I actually relaxed, that I could stop being so bloody uptight for a while! Hah! Although mother dear did make an interesting point about cadencing, and me being one of those musician types, that the melodious nature of the Welsh accent and inflections appeals to my nature as a musician (and more properly as a singer, I suppose). I can't stand southern accents, really. I don't care if you have one, in the nicest fashion, but it's not for me.

As ever, I have taken few pictures. It's quite a ball ache trying to get my phone and its associated software to work, especially when I'm very busy having a wonderful time. I can't actually stress how much I enjoyed myself, alright?! There's sufficient record of me being there though, and there is another place that I have promised to return to. I am in some danger of being spread far too thinly, what with my swanky scholarship and promising to be back in Norwich and now Port and Penryhn and I've got to come back home at some point and auditioning for the next place... But a promise made is a promise kept. This is a promise I can make that only relies on myself rather than anything else. Now, here's a little real-time development, for those of you who do not believe that I do these things without drafting, I've just looked up trains from TRU to PTM and PRH (look them up). The quickest is 9 hours, and the rest are about 12. I'll probably try PRH though, as there's only one change, and that's at BHM, so that won't be much of a problem. But seriously, NINE HOURS. Jesus Harry Bicycling Christ. Looks like I need to get in training for that one then!

Anyway, time to wrap this up. I'm still recovering from the last weeked, in fact the one before that was never recovered from properly either, and this one coming will be just as busy, so I'm very tired. Before I go though, allow me to explain to you uninitiates about the title. Welsh is a funny language. It's not like English at all, in fact I rather think it's a surprise that they even share the same alphabet. It is a modern type of celtic language, distantly related to the original language spoken by the inhabitants of the British isles before the dominance of the English language with its Saxon and Roman influences. It is very odd. There are many vowels which English speakers do not recognise and the most stereotypically 'Welsh' sounds, the ll (comparable to the hebraisch "ch" sound) and the dd (compare to the old english letter that looks like a d, the 'eth' (look it up)). I mean...You there! Englishman! Pronounce 'Dolgellau'! W stands for U as much as U stands for I.

As a parting conversation took place, the term 'gog' was introduced. It's a contraction of 'Gogledd', which means 'North' in thw Welsh language, as both a geographical term and a self-recognition of denizens of North Wales and the speakers of the North Welsh dialect and accent. I was told "We are gogs." by one of my cousins. Not "The people round here are gogs." Not "Us lot who live here are gogs." But "We are gogs." Not just those of us who live there, but them who returned to the Midlands on Monday. I am not a Welshman. This much is true. But to have been accepted and welcomed by not only my blood relatives, but their significant others and children as one of them makes me proud and happy and glad and all other sorts of wonderful emotion. I have a family there who want me, and may they also know that I want them as well. I find it massively amusing that I, a northern-sounding speaker of English (even though I come from the midlands yes whatever) have also picked up a northern Welsh accent and inflection.

Anyway, there's an old Chapel going in Penryhndeudreath, and only for 60 Grand. It's there now, so it's bloody tempting, buy a chapel, do it up, install an east end gallery and get a fine Organ on it (III/P, English classical style with chair case but full compass swell with a balanced pedal, great chorus sat on fine open and stopt diapasons with seperate mutations available alongside tierce-mixture and a mounted cornet BUT with a German-inspired separate chorus pedal but voiced together in an Old English style), and stay there. That's nice. I think I might retire in this fashion. It'll give me long enough to have a massively successful career, of course (har har keep trying Peb and you'll be king of the world at this rate) and complete all my studies and earn oodles of monies...so, yes! Not a bad master plan as things go I think.

Splendid.

Past The Post

So. I graduated.

Let it sink in. Roll it around, become familiar with this statement. I managed to cross the post, limping across in a blaze of deadline pushing insanity and first class performing. It happened, it's there, boom. I also happened to graduate at the bottom of the class. Ouch. I'm going to let that one sit for a little bit, even though it's stinking the place out. Obviously I should stop being upset about that and no longer care. I can, and always have been able to sing, an ability which is not for parading around and point scoring, but rather for the job of getting on with it and making music. I might be an unemployed waster as far as society is concerned right now, but I'll always be a self-employed musician. I'll always be my own boss at the end of the day, and how liberating that feels.

For the most part, I shall still be working for someone else. I haven't been able to find anything in Derby. I'm not surprised. I mean, if you look for a part-time job in the middle of June and can't find one then why are you even surprised? There's nothing til September. I even went in the Disney Store. The Disney Store! They get 10-15 people in every day in the summer looking for work. Imagine that! They don't hire until *drum roll* SEPTEMBER! And even then it's for christmas temp work. This is what will happen to me in Truro. I will apply for a job in September, and hopefully will have hit it at just the right time. Fit that in with my choral scholarship and boom! I'll be fine, for once. I'll be able to afford things like travel and books and music and CDs and drinks and driving lessons. I can feel like a worthwhile part of society!* But until then...the grind. Looking at my emails, every day. Looking at websites, looking at the job section of the paper, asking everyone I can, and handing CVs out everywhere. And all the same result. We'll put it on file. We've just taken on. We'll let you know. I guess it didn;t help that I was going around in a t-shirt, lumber shirt, sandals and cargo shorts with the pockets. Not exactly 'high-flying choral scholar postgraduate professional', eh? But anyway. I like that outfir. I have a lot of pockets, I can carry everything I need secreted about my person and not have to worry, because I know exactly where things are all the time. Yeah!

Anyway. Graduation. What the hell? I look like a right oaf. Not a bad term, but an Organists' term. I look brilliant, with my three piece suit and paisley bow tie. The hood is coral, thankfully an in-season colour...this season. God help me when it goes out of season. In fact, God help me when I hook it to my cassock, as Lord knows it'll clash dreadfully. Dear dear. Anyway. The ceremony was over in a flash. Spoiler alert for all those who are yet to do so, but it's really easy and you too will graduate smoothly if you just walk across the platform and shake the Vice Chancellor's hand. Done and dusted. Right. On to the festivities!

Only the human race could be so ridiculous as to celebrate a joyous occasion by ingesting large amounts of poison. Am I right? Alcohol, cigarettes, no to mention those who decide to partake in the use of recreational drugs (which may or may not be more harmful than the aforementioned alcohol and nicotine) all in the name of celebration. I personally managed to spend upwards of forty pounds sterling on alcohol alone, and that's just the Friday night, not to mention the curry as well. I also went out the night before (oh its not going to be a heavy one...), spending lord knows how much on Jagerbombs, Double Vodkas and bottles of...Carlsberg, yes, that was it. There is one photograph from that night, where I'm wearing a traffic cone on my head. On the other side of the road, two more of our party are on the way to liberating a sign advertising salsa dancing lessons. Out of shot, obviously, so there's no proof. Both of these items managed to find their way to that most infamous innercity Parish Church, that of St. Peter Mancroft. We managed to wind up getting ushered of of Havana at 4am due to the establishment closing, I mean honestly.

This was the end of the end. A non-valedictory event all the same, but still, the absolute finish to my undergraduate career. I'll never be an undergrad ever again, just to flash the blindingly obvious at you. All further study, even if I enroll on another bachelor's degree, will never have that profound sense of wonder mixed with seat-of-the-pants terror that accompanies the first steps in Halls. As a third year, I felt like king of the hill. As a second year, I was on the back foot. As a first year, I had no idea what I was getting into. I'll be back. Promises made to be kept, and I'll write.

Speaking of writing, updates continue to be sporadic. I apologise (of course), but things are always up in the air, and I am somewhat adrift of late. I spend my nights moping (natch), playing Killer7 (I haven't got a problem at all...), and watching videos of Alternate Reality Games. And then I don't sleep. These last two points may be connected. And this weekend we're going to Wales. It's all go, eh?






*This is rare.

Moto Perpetuo

I'm good at moaning. You know, it's a major strength, being able to poke and pick at my current situation and only see the worst. Like right now. In truth, I'm pretty comfortable, full of food that tasted delicious and 'relaxing' in front of the television. Although I never relax, it's endemic to...well, me. There's no such thing as casual Peb really, he's just a fabrication. Anyway. Moaning.

You'll notice that I spend almost all my time here moaning. I do it consistently, because I do it so well. Practise makes perfect, natch. What am I going to moan about today? Graduation? That'll do.

What is there to be unhappy about with Grad? First things first, it's the end of an era. This is the last time that almost all of us from the School of Music at the University of East Anglia who started in the September of 2008 will be together again. We had one who quit in the first week, one who had time out to have her baby and will subsequently return on the part-time course, and one who didn't qualify. But the rest? 2:30pm at Congregation Hall, 22nd of July 2011, together for the last time. It's the end of an era, the last time I'm guarenteed to be in Norwich. I've made my promises to who I hope turn out to be the right people, that I'll be back, but when that'll be is anyone's guess! Fare's expensive from the deep south, and I'll have to seriously book ahead, even with a railcard. Maybe I'm here to moan about the train fare. Not today, friend. Maybe another time. No, the distance is manageable and the fare is...well, it'll get me where I want to go, but other than that it isn't worth it, obviously. I rather like the train, actually. It isn't really that problematic, nice and quiet, nobody really bothers you, but it's the cost really.

Anyway. Grad. I have made plans. These plans are different to the plans laid on by the union. OH GOD I'M BOYCOTTING THE UNION. No I'm not, get over yourself. I said a very involved and emotional goodbye to the LCR on the last Tuesday of last Term. It ended at 5am, when I was driven back home by Kamei-san, after stopping off to fetch his camera. There is accordingly one picture from that night, on that very camera, funnily enough, where I look appropriately drunk, sporting my experimental chin warmer. I'm pretty attached to my beard, but not more so that it's attached to me. I need to give it a trim in time for the festivities to tidy up, but in light of my recent shearing it might be starting to suit me.

And pray, what are my plans? What do you think? Take a guess. Table for 8 at 9pm, The Spice Lounge, Norwich. Meeting at the Playhouse Bar at 7pm, and then onwards into the night afterwards. I think Vodka Revolutions, for copious amounts of shots, then a spell at Knowhere, and then to the inevitable location of damnation, Havan Bar and Lounge. Yes, the motto of my University is "Do Different", for all it's worth, and I'm doing everything the same as I ever have. I'm nothing if not consisetent, and therefore without it I am nothing. While I may claim from time to time to be a nobody, I am not a nothing. Sorry, got more self-esteem than that, but only just.

I am a little worried about the evening's entertainment. At the moment it feels like a bit of a knife edge, but that be exacerbated by my existing stress. I don't want any trouble, but I can't go anywhere without inviting it upon myself. There are 8 of us for the meal, and then who knows what'll quite happen afterwards. We'll see. But I will say this: I don't burn bridges.

And domestics? Still no job. No money. Not very much to go on. But...you know the drill. Keep going. There is no other option.

It's not your time

Once again, I'm concious of falling behind. It's been tough finding the time and the inspiration to write, and as my excellent friend, Mr. William Fergusson once said, "If you're trying too hard it isn't working." I had a half finished post...but it seems to have since disappeard off the face of the internet. Ponderous.

The biggest bug bear of late, just like this time last year, is trying to find a job. Now, I have a job for September. Yes, that's fine. That'll be my Choral Scholarship in Truro. But that is September. This is the middle of July. You will notice that there are at least six weeks between then and now. That's quite a while. In fact, that's a very long time when you're as deep into your overdraft as I am. I'm not in a position to disclose the numbers, but if you'd like to ask me in person I can certainly tell you that way.

Now. I'm one of the last people to say that money is the key to happiness. Far from it in fact. However, money is the key to...kind of everything else. Transport, food, drink...you know the drill. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Walking's free, but so's pain. See, this is getting pretty tenuous, because I'm pretty fucking fed up of being completely skint. Yesterday I did a CV run through Derby, just like last time, with my new and improved Curriculum Vitae, to much the same result. I don't want you to put my CV on file if you're not going to employ me! Why can't things be this simple? Either employ or not. Right? No. Sorry. Far too simple. And possibly fair?

Did I also mention that I went and signed on last week? Possibly the worst moment of my entire life. You know I've been rejected, insulted, dumped, drugged up bummed out ain't no one coming back for me, depressed, drunk, lost...ok, enough. But seriously, if you're a graduate, don't go to the job centre and sign on. Please, I implore you, this must be a last ditch option. There is no part of this...system...that inspires you to seek out decent work. In fact, it's pretty grim for staying on the dole. If I am to be met with the same patronising attitude that I was in applying for this 'benefit', I shall be throwing in the towel and hiding in a hole in the ground for the duration of the summer! Might be cheaper anyway.

I still haven't got in touch with the Organist at my local Parish. I'm not trying to, but effortlessly succeeding at putting this off. I know the guy, he's an old friend, I know the church, I know the instrument. No problem? In fact, the particularly acidic tone of the Gt. Trompette would be very helpful in this new French music J of N has st me. Not quite the Collins, but with plenty of body. In fact, speaking of J of N...

That man. That man and his politics. I don't know. I mean, I'm no 'treat-'em-mean-keep-'em-keen-Haggett' so I shall never truly understand, and I believe that his Modus Operandi is hidden even from himself, and certainly from that Contralto. Unfortunately, if I get asked a straight question I tend to give a straight answer. Whatever. He's still a good friend, even after his difficult if not impossible to consture blip at the end of term. He's putting us up at Grad weekend, and he's my co-architect of currying. I doubt there'll be another like him, especially down in the deep south. Also, curry in Truro is rather expensive. I'll be...oooo forced to flex my curry muscles and hone my skills. WHAT A SHAME.

I might yet still lose my temper. I haven't decided. I might try and stir up as much trouble as I can at Grad, I mean, it'll be my last chance for a while. Or maybe that wouldn't be cricket. Ho ho.

Anyway. Family Reunion is in the works. That'll be my tour for the summer, and a hard earned return it will be as well.

So. We'll see how this Vac goes. Just take it as it comes, eh?

Vignette XXII

Things are funny at the moment. Life's...well, life. It's tough. Trying to look for a job. Trying to stop spending money. You know? I've heard of no reat for the wicked, but this just ridiculous.

I think I've managed to sign myself up to a dating site. It works on your music preferences. So I was obviously a sucker for it.

Turns out there are no users in Derby. Or Truro. Or anywhere near Truro, for that matter. I never thought about signing up for an internet dating service. Well, I did. But I thought about not signing up. So. Looks like I'm still going to have to do things the old fashioned way.

Some things never change.

Vale, Campus

So here it is, the inevitable end-of-the-year-teary-eyed-remembrance. What? I cried? Haha, you bet I did. There'll be more tears as well, when I find the time to actually be upset. See, the worst thing isn't everyone else going, which is really very bad indeed, I mean what the hell, but instead the knowledge that you are the one who isn't coming back. Payback's a bitch.

The point is, I have managed to successfully complete a Bachelor of Arts Degree in the study of Music at the University of East Anglia, Norwich. Read it again, I mean, I had to several times in order to understand that I did it for myself all by myself...or did I? It hasn't always been a singular effort, and it's been squarely down to the involvement of individuals rather than organisations that have made the difference. Individuals represented by the choral scholars and the Organist of St. Peter Mancroft. Individuals represented by my immediate neighbours for this year in Nelson Court, various members of Colman House, and almost everyone I met in the last two weeks of term. What? Stick with me. I've met a range of people, a veritable cast of characters. I too have taken my place on the stage, calling roles from the Elder Statesman to Wicked Drunk and everything inbetween.

I look back on what I wrote when the year started, and see a man who feels unable to fit in with the depth of the responsibility when surrounded by the first flush of innocent Freshman youth. We all know the deal, right? A number of young persons seeking to quench their thirst for education are all bunged in together without having ever met in person before, and are expected to deal with it. And then sometimes there are old fogeys like me. I look now and am more pleased with my, er, general pattern. Aside from the usual gripes, I've been a lot happier on the whole. My direction is more positive, and I'm rather proud of myself thank you very much.

I do, however, still have a problem with living away from home, in as much as I bring too much with me. How much is too much? Right now, I genuinely fear that we won't be able to fit it all in the car. I brought four suits, including a hand made tuxedo, enough shirts to sink a dinner party, Jackets, Waistcoats, bows, ties and now also cravats. I effectively had enough to never ever wear the same thing twice. I brought seven musical instruments with me, notwithstanding my dulcet tones, and have more music now than I even realised I could amass.

Hiatus

So, that was 10 days ago. Since then, I've been to Truro and back to Norwich, drank copiously, pushed the strength of my digestion and other characteristic behaviours. I've been redrafting this as and when I had the chance, but writing in the Forum Library wasn't really my cup of tea, and I certainly didn't have the world's greatest amount of Internet access where I was staying. I wept for hours when they all went. I made my promises to come back, that I can and will keep. I gave my heart away, and to the right person; someone I can trust. I was going to give it to that Contralto, but the Waltzer cares for it instead. I have enough people who want to see me that when I go for a week I won't have to stay in the same place twice, in fact almost a fortnight's worth! I am very lucky.

Turns out that there really wasn't room for me to fit in the car, such was the grand collection. Everything came back with us except for a small chair on wheels, that has served me well over the past three years. There was simply no room for it! All the rest went home with mother dear while I tarried at Park Lane, NR2 for a little while, in which time I successfully auditioned for the position of Counter-tenor Choral Scholar ar the Cathedral Church of St. Mary, Truro despite suffering from Hayfever, Cat allergies and an horrific cold. Not a bad job eh? All in a day's work.

My tenure at Mancroft ended similarly to how it began, with a less than humane treatment from Madam Director. Oh well! I suppose it was always going to be that way. It appears that our professional differences will always remain, and hopefully I shan't suffer the like in my new Cornish appointment. Everything wrapped up at Spamcroft, really. Inevitable answers became apparent, and all's well that ends well...or something.

This is tough. I'm typing without a direction because I'm just so bloody upset about leaving Norwich. I'm tired of saying "I'm upset" and people replying 'Oh but think about that you're going up in the world and moving on!' Just shut up. I'd like to be sad for a while before realising the truth that yes, I am moving up and moving on. It's fine, I understand. I'll be back in a month for the graduation, and then I'll be back...well, whenever! I'd like to say that I'll always be back, but I might not be able to. I will return though, because I bloody well say so. Capisce?

So much more Drama

I've been trying to write a proper post for about a fortnight now. It's been surprisingly difficult, what with glorious victory on one side and abject failure on the other; pretty much like every day, right? Hah. It's getting tough now, as people are leaving the flat and I, of course, make my preparations to leave Norwich for pastures new. I can't even begin to articulate just how upset I am! Syllables cannot express my deep and powerful sorrow. I'm welling up even thinking about it.

This has been spurred on by my brother's latest effort. You too can find him, writing semiregularly by following the Fit To Practice link on the left hand side of my page. To be completely fair, this is going to be a lot more melodramatic than his, but whatever. That's the way it is.

This is going to be a rant about life, love, and the poor end of the stall.

My life continues! I have not died. Good show, old chap. I'm slowly but surely beginning to tell people about last year's suicidal tendencies, and not just as a shock tactic either. People don't know for a reason, but you know especially if some wag decides to mention killing themselves for the attention, it's nice to get a little context in. Not to mention the fact that a friend decided to take his own life not long ago. Committing Suicide is a very brave decision, actually, just like committing to anything else life changing. But it's just a brave to turn it down. Perhaps it was my mistake with the way everything went last year to have kept so quiet, but I did what I did because that is what I do. I don't bother you with my problems, instead I took to writing them up and posting them on the Internet which is what I'm doing right now. Writing about writing HOW META.

The last two weeks haven't been great though. One of my admittedly self-proclaimed best friends has taken to treating me like a poor acquaintance. Seriously, it's like I hardly know the man! There's been nothing particularly drastic, but put it this way, I haven't been out for curry since I got back from Exeter, he doesn't look me in the eye, and the handshake is now wetter than a piss sandwich. Allegedly, he is very upset because I'm going. Funny, but don't I get to be upset as well? Yes, I'm going for auditions and moving up in the world, but seriously come on! As if my departure to another city is going to effectively end a close friendship? Ridiculous. Friends come and go though, as I know as much as anyone, so perhaps things would have broken down, but there's no need to pre-empt, right? When a man goes from being your best friend, having been a tower of support in days past, with a solid track record of priceless banter to someone who doesn't even recognise you in the street? Fuck off.

Sigh. My end of the stall continues to be poor though, so don't worry! Everything is as consistent as ever. Basically, it's not a sunday service unless I get 'the hand' at least once. This hand is attached to and operated by the Music Director of the Church of St. Peter Mancroft, Norwich, where I have been for the past two very long years. There's nothing less gratifying than being told to pipe down week in week out, which is where half o the trouble last year came from anyway. But, I'm not overly bothered anymore. I haven't been for a while, because it's bordering on hilarious, having passed funny several weeks ago. We on the line, especially if I'm in a mood to cause some damage, can absolutely bank on me getting the hand. Not only are my top notes as strong as ever, they're getting stronger and I'm learning to carry this down into my full range. Even now when I decide to let rip, there's nothing anyone can really do about it. If I carry on to the stage, where I really want to be, there'll be no stopping me. Ho ho.

So. We've had my life. We've had the poor end of the stall. What's coming up next? You can have a prize if you guess. The prize is you get more to read, and even if you don't guess or guess wrong, I'll keep on writing anyway so you're not left out.

Things have been...how do I say...odd. I went all out and asked some ladies out that I had wanted to all year, when it boiled down to it...and they both cancelled on me. Haha no jokes, actual true story bro. So I asked one girl out a week ahead of time, and then she cancelled two days before we were supposed to go out, gave a tentative reschedule, and then cancelled that too. That was the start of the week. At the end of the week I was meant to be taking a girl down to the Playhouse Bar...eh, cancellation on the night. The actual situation is hella complicated, but involves me not being the right guy. As someone who finds it difficult to socialise and go out, even I was shocked. However, this is the way that you normal people get by, isn't it? Sometimes you just ask the wrong people and it ends this way. However. I am leaving my regrets well behind me now. I am no longer upset about it, because damn it I tipped the scales and asked, and I made my intentions clear enough, at least I would have hoped so? Here is a tip though, if I ask you to come to the Playhouse with me, ladies, it's because I really fancy you, and possibly even wouldn't mind taking you home with me. Basically. If I wasn't attracted to you, I wouldn't bother asking you out in the first place, let alone taking you to basically my favourite bar in the City. Right? Anyway.

Last night I went to the AMS Summer Swing Ball. Let's get this straight guys, I had the best time. I made some new friends, drank a hell of a lot, and danced with some of the most beautiful girls I have ever laid my eyes on. It may please you to know that I behaved myself, and was involved in no fights at all. I did dance with some people I would have loved to have been involved with though. The moment worth holding on to, for me, came at about one o'clock in the morning, as I took to the floor with the actual dictionary definition of beauty. Being the end of the night, and the end of the band's session, it was a swanky slow number. We danced hand in hand, leg in leg and cheek to cheek. I don't really know how to proceed with this bit, because it was all a bit ineffable really. For me, it was one of 'those' moments. She squared the circle: my whole world stopped and didn't start again until we let go, by which point I had discovered that my braces had come loose (you know you've had a good time) and I was shaking when I went to reassume my place at the table. She touched me in a way I can't begin to comprehend.
I lost her at the end of the night, basically. Not even a goodnight kiss for our eponymous hero, unfortunately. Tcham! Tush and tcham. I'm not actually that bothered though? I didn't get her number, or end up going home with her, and I'm not bothered. I have accepted that I'm pretty much a romantic failure. Basically! See, I had a wonderful time dancing with all the girls I did so with last night, and what need do I have to ruin it by clumsily propositioning them? That's right friend, I have no need.

Look at that. I managed to avoid getting too upset. Not for long though, as now it's only a matter of days until the end of this year. Joanna will leave on Thursday, and Georgia on Sunday. To put it bluntly, I have no idea how I'm going to deal with not having my flat living with me next year. I'll cope, because that is my business, but how I will go about it is another matter entirely. Adam's already gone! People are leaving for their summer, and then it'll just be my fellow spam scholars left. And then I'll go. And that'll be it for a long time. And that makes me so painfully sad.