Poem: 'Spring'

by Nick Graham

Skeletal hands on a dark winter’s night,

Silhouetted on the moon,

Grasping at the elusive darkness,

For a final desperate time.

A golden orb among the clouds,

Shafts of sunlight filter down,

They strike the twisted boughs of oak,

And ignite a blazing emerald flame.

The flame takes hold,

Then assumes a form,

A slender pane of bottle green glass,

Curled and lobed to please the eye.

Bursts of jade among the forest,

Backlit by the gleaming sun,

An explosion of colour,

An explosion of life.

A common scene across the land,

Accompanied by a lively soundtrack,

A cacophony of mewling cries and squeaks,

The new-borns’ chorus - the herald of Spring.

Glorious weather,

All sun - no rain,

A colourful land,

Full of life.

Dreams of the future,

Of things to come,

A hope among the wind and rain.

The promise of Spring.

Read More

New Single: 'Pictures' by This Way Up

George Chapman presents a new single, 'Pictures', by his band, This Way Up:


'Pictures' is the title track from my band This Way Up's debut single, which we are releasing later this month to follow up our 2011 EP 'The Game'. However, as you can see (below) we have chosen to record and release a music video for the song to drum up a little bit of excitement before the single's official release on the 20th April at the Wight Rock Bar, Ryde. After this date, the song (along with its the B-side, 'Best Intentions') will be available on iTunes and on CD.

Despite the fact that two of the band - myself and Rob (lead vocalist/rhythm guitarist) - seem to spend more time on the mainland than on the Island, we'd certainly love to consider ourselves Islanders. As anyone who's familiar with the Isle of Wight could easily gather, our filming of 'Pictures' exclusively on the streets of Ryde and Newport (not forgetting the brief detour to Culver Down, however!) goes some way to expressing our connection to the place.

Through forming (and disbanding) numerous bands during the four years I spent at middle school with Rob, we always aspired to do our utmost to become part of the eclectic and dynamic local music scene. Even now, we still get the same sort of buzz writing material, rehearsing it over and over, and seeing it come to life in the studio as we always used to. That said, the real treat still remains playing alongside some great Island acts (such as Goodbye Stereo and The Operators - please check them out on YouTube!), and the exciting feeling that we're contributing just a little bit to the musical diversity that first captured us eight years ago. 

Our new video ('Pictures'):
 

Also, listen to George Chapman's single, 'Best Intentions'

Read More

Revision Breaks: Stopping Yourself from Going Mad

by Lucy Cole


(source: naturalrunningcenter.com)



We all know exams are stressful, and that the only way we will really succeed is if we put the work in. But we look with trepidation upon that dreaded pre-exam revision period; that time where you spend your days inside, sat at your desk, looking out at the sunshine and the children playing in the street and wondering if an education is really worth this painful and endless boredom.

Well, I’m afraid to say that it is, and even if you never have to use titrations, or think about Freud’s dream therapy ever again, the certificate you receive from that exam will open up opportunities to you that are denied to your uneducated counterparts.

So now that we have established that this period of extreme boredom is inevitable and inescapable, our next step is to search for something to alleviate this brain numbing disease. Each and every one of us has something we enjoy doing to relax, and whether its reading, walking the dog, shopping, cycling or painting, these activities are so important when it comes to revision. In order to motivate yourself through the next half an hour or forty-five minutes you need to have something to look forwards to, a reward that will make you forget the painful hour that you have just suffered and draw your overworked mind out of its shell to experience something outside of your revision notes or the inside of your bedroom. 

For me this activity is running. It is the only thing that gets me outside in the fresh air, and it is something that I love doing. Doing exercise not only relieves stress and helps you sleep (both of which I have issues with during the exam period) it also has a number of health benefits, something which I am sure you are all aware of! I try and run every day for about half an hour, and I always look forwards to this time to myself, free from outside pressures and expectations.

I am very lucky as I live in an area surrounded by country roads, and thus am able to enjoy the view whilst not having to worry about too many people viewing me (not a particularly enchanting picture I can promise you). However, I realise that many are not this lucky, living in towns or in areas where there is not as much privacy, but for those of you who aren’t brave enough to face exposing yourself to the public in your jogging shorts and scraped back hair, there are endless other activities in which you could get involved, such as exercise classes, or videos that you can do within the secrecy of your own home.

So there is a way out of the boredom and unvarying endlessness of revision; all you need is an activity that will take your mind off it for a while and give you something enjoyable to look forwards to; you just need to find the one that works for you.

Also Read: Coping with Exam Stress, What is the Point of Exams? and Is There Any Point to Mocks? 

Read More

Photography: The Face of the Moon

by Tony Hicks

(photograph taken by Tony Hicks)

Rupes Recta is a linear fault, or rille, on the Moon, in the southeastern part of the Mare Nubium22°06′S 7°48′.The name is Latin for "Straight Fault", although it is more commonly called the Straight Wall. This is the most well-known escarpment on the Moon and is a popular target for amateur astronomers.

When the sun illuminates the feature at an oblique angle at about day 8 of the Moon's orbit, the Rupes Recta casts a wide shadow that gives it the appearance of a steep cliff. The fault has a length of 110 km, a typical width of 2–3 km, and a height of 240–300 m. Thus although it appears to be a vertical cliff in the lunar surface, in actuality the grade of the slope is relatively shallow.

Read More

The Voice of Reason: Part II

The second, and concluding, part of a short story by George Neame

We reached the chippy on Swanville Road. As expected, the boys had their backs to the grimy, graffiti-ridden wall, with a cigarette in one hand and alcohol in the other. They saw us approaching and a grin spread across JP’s face as he puffed out a huge stream of smoke.

    ‘Well look who it is,’ he said as we walked closer, ‘Mister ‘you’ll never get a job’. He looked Jonathan in the eye. ‘How’s mum and dad?’ he asked with a sly wink.

    Jonathan exploded. He raced forward unveiling the glimmering knife and plunged it unforgiving into JP’s chest. My knees weakened as blood flowed from the wound, the teenager screaming in agony and collapsing as more and more red swamped the ground. Jonathan turned to Scary Joe, who in a state of shock had failed to escape, and leapt on him, once again sinking the knife into his torso and giving it a sharp twist for full measure. Jonathan retreated to where I stood, watching as the teenagers writhed on the ground clutching their wounds, screams reverberating off the buildings. I knelt on the floor and began to cry. Watching the boys slowly bleed to death before me forced tears from my eyes and my whole body began to tremble. Jonathan tried to comfort and reassure me, he was shouting at me to run, but it was all too much. I collapsed onto the ground and my mind went blank, the sight of blood flowing down the road like a biblical flood still spinning inside my head.

    When I came to, we were in the back of a police car. Our wrists were bound tight in handcuffs. Once the car had stopped, they dragged us inside. The lights inside the police station were blinding, my head still recovering from my faint earlier. Two large, tough policemen grabbed Jonathan by the shoulders and started forcing him down a long corridor. My head was still filled with a torrent of blood as if Jonathan’s murder had been permanently burned onto my eyes; the corridor he was being dragged down was all red to me, and we were swimming in a sea of scarlet.

    ‘Please don’t hurt him!’ I shouted

    ‘Hurt who?’ the taller of the policemen growled. ‘You’re delirious.’

    ‘Seriously, he’s mad. They had him tested, he’s mentally unstable,’ I called.

    ‘He’s right,’ Jonathan cried, ‘I am! Honestly!’

    The policemen shared a perplexed look. ‘Maybe he is mad,’ one said.

    After the policemen had talked with some more senior policemen, we were led into a small room that was brightly lit, with a kind but severe-looking woman at a desk. She introduced herself as Dot, the prison’s psychiatrist. She was middle-aged, with long brown hair that flowed down her shoulders, her eyes were deep blue and her lips were swathed in red lipstick. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes her flowing hair was the blood rippling down the pavement and the lipstick on her lips was the blood seeping from Alex’s chest. The clock on the wall behind her seemed to tick slower and slower, until it appeared to stop moving altogether.

    ‘What’s your name?’

    I was sceptical about telling this woman my name. Did I have the right to remain silent? I looked at Jonathan. ‘My name is Jonathan,’ he said, so I told her my name. She gave us a quizzical stare.

    Why did you kill the two boys?’ she asked next.

    ‘Because they murdered my parents,’ Jonathan replied.

    ‘I didn’t.’ I responded, defending myself. ‘Jonathan did, because they killed his parents.’

    An hour or two later, we were at yet another table, in yet another brightly-lit room. Jonathan sat in the single chair, whilst I peered over his shoulder at the paper in front of him. He seemed unfazed by the experience; where I saw blood, pain and death, he saw only vengeance. We were the only ones in the room, but the walls were paper-thin and we could hear snippets of the conversation outside.

    ‘He’s insane,’ said the woman, Dot, who had been asking us questions earlier. I could tell from the harsh way the consonants left her mouth, but the smooth way she elongated the vowels. I presumed she was talking to a policeman.

    ‘I got his records from the general hospital. They have had him examined before.’

    ‘And?’ asked the policeman.

    ‘He suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder. He has a split personality. That’s why he talks to himself, that’s why he both admits and denies the murders.’

    Poor Jonathan. I knew he was mad, but I never knew he was that mad. Talking to himself? Thinking he was two people? I peered over his shoulder again; he had been asked to write a statement, about why he killed the two boys.

    He put his pen to the paper, and began to write. He had always been a good writer, interested in books and school. He even had a corner of his room dedicated to all his work. I read what he wrote as the first line of his statement poured from his pen.

    ‘I should start by telling you about my best friend, Jonathan,’ it said. ‘He is a murderer.’

Read More

The Voice of Reason: Part I

The first part of a new short story by George Neame

Date: 25/02/2001

Station: Garamont Road

Detainee Reference Number: 1058930

The following is a statement written by Mr. Blake (b.1987) following the murders of Joe Shipman and James Parker on Swanville Road. Mr. Blake was found at the scene when police arrived and wrote this statement at Garamont Road Police Station the evening of the incident:

    I should start by telling you about my best friend, Jonathan. He is a murderer. The psychologists at the prison declared him to be ‘deranged’. ‘Psychologically unstable’.

    It was Monday night that he told me about his parents. The road was full of police cars and the ear-splitting wail of fire engines. The night was dark and there were few streetlights in the area, so the houses on either side of the road were lit up only in the quick flashes of red and blue that pulsated from the emergency services vehicles. I could smell burning, what’s more, I could smell the burning of human flesh, a horrendously warm and bitter stench I’m positive I will never forget.

    Jonathan was being engulfed not in flames, but by the tight, constricting grip of an overly-protective policeman. He was trying to console the poor boy, to reassure him that everything was going to be OK. I could tell that Jonathan above all people could tell that it was not going to be OK. His house was being sprayed relentlessly in jets of water from the fire engines, his eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks still wet with tears.

    ‘It killed them,’ he said, the words barely struggling from his mouth. But he stayed strong. ‘The fire. It killed both of them.’

    ‘Your parents?’ I asked, though this was almost certain by the fact that he had no brothers or sisters. He nodded. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I told him, and embraced him in a childish, consoling hug. Of course, childish would not be too inaccurate. We were only fourteen.

    He sobbed onto my shoulder. I could hear his titanic sniffs even against the background of the pandemonium and cacophony of noises echoing around us. I asked him when it happened. How did he find out?

    ‘I came home from school at five like usual. The house was already in flames; I could see the smoke and light a mile away and ran home, praying it wasn’t our house. But when I got here there was already a fire engine outside, and the fat policeman who told me they were dead.’

    ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said again, starting to cry myself. ‘Hey!’ the policeman shouted to Jonathan. ‘Don’t go wandering off on your own!’ But he wasn’t alone, he was with me. We stayed in each other’s arms for about five minutes, until the water cannons ceased and the policemen started ushering the gathered crowds back to their own homes.

    Wednesday. Jonathan’s grandmother’s house. He and his parents often had intense arguments (who could blame them? They had a child who was ‘psychologically unstable’) that usually led to Jonathan staying with other relatives until things had cooled down. For this reason, he had his own room at his grandmother’s house, a permanent place where he could keep his belongings, for whenever the next time arose that he would have to stay with her. We sat on his floor as he told me the news.

    ‘I found out who did it.’

    ‘What?’

    ‘I found out who set my house on fire and killed my parents. It wasn’t an accident, someone murdered them.’

    I was shocked, astounded. Who did it? Why? How did you find out?

    ‘It was Scary Joe and JP; the college boys that hang out near the chippy on Swanville Road. Danny told me, said he saw them running up to the windows of my house and pouring petrol in from those bottles you have in the back of your car. Then they got a lighter out and ran away, before it all started burning.

    ‘Why did they do it? Have you told the police?’ I was full of questions; they were rolling off my tongue like blessings off the lips of a priest.

     ‘I don’t know. I’ve only seen them once or twice. I’ve never even talked to them. Have you?’

    I told Jonathan that I’d seen them before, that I’d had a conversation with them just days ago.

    ‘I was coming home from school with my books tucked under my arm,’ I said. ‘They spotted me and started calling me names, saying I was a geek and calling me “four-eyes”’.

    I had always been the more academic of the two of us. Jonathan was more practical, I was more intellectual. My books were precious to me, whereas I don’t think Jonathan has any books. I looked around the room. I was his only friend, so I visited a lot. I even had my own corner of the room. By the window there was a desk, with pictures of the friends I had at my old school, a pile of books, stationary neatly arranged and my school work tidily ordered by subject title, A-Z. A ray of light peered between the black curtains, shining on my cactus plant. Jonathan agreed to water it and keep my corner of the room clean, provided I visited him regularly.

    The rest of the room was dark and dismal, the room of a 14-year-old tyrant. There was no sign of life, no books, just a disturbing array of stuffed animals, fake skulls and half-eaten sandwiches. The food was going mouldy, clothes were strewn across the floor, everything was a mess. It’s no wonder the people at the prison thought he was strange.

    ‘What happened?’ he asked.

    ‘I started shouting at them, I told them they were nothing but uneducated delinquents who weren’t going to get anywhere in life’.

    Jonathan swore. He had a vile habit of swearing that always bugged me. ‘But I still don’t get why they would attack your house. I guess they probably saw me going there a lot and presumed it’s where I lived,’ I insisted.

    Then Jonathan told me his plan. He hadn’t told the police about Scary Joe and JP, he was worried they wouldn’t believe him, and he would never get revenge. I tried to talk him out of it.

    ‘Don’t do it Jonathan, seriously! You’ll get arrested, you’ll get locked away for life!’ Tell the police!’

    ‘They killed my parents,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’m going to kill them, I don’t care if I get arrested.’

    ‘Please Jonathan! You’ve got to understand, you can’t become a murderer! What will I do?! I’ll lose my best friend!’

    Jonathan smiled, that cold, sadistic smile I knew all too well. ‘You’ll get arrested as well,’ he said. ‘Because I’m going to kill them, and you won’t be able to leave me. You’ll stay with me the whole time, trying to persuade me not to’.

    He was right. Night swept over the city as if a giant hand had brushed across the treetops and extinguished the light like a candle, and Jonathan prowled the streets, a sharpened kitchen knife in his right hand that he had stolen from his grandmother. I trailed behind him, trying to stop him all the way. ‘Please Jonathan,’ I begged, ‘I’m begging you Jonathan,’ I pleaded. But his mind was set. Tonight there would be blood; there was no doubt about that.

Read More

Lil Wayne: Simultaneously the Best and Worst Rapper in the World

by Neil Chhabda

(image source: Wiki Commons)

Over the last five or so years, Lil Wayne (real name Dwayne Michael Carter, Jr.) has become an immensely popular figure in the world of music. Not only has he released a series of incredibly successful albums including, ‘Tha Carter III’, but has also launched the careers Drake and Nicki Minaj, who themselves have gone to sell millions of albums. Despite these accomplishments, most music fans and critics would argue that Wayne is largely talentless and his music is not only consistently  abysmal but in some places, downright obscene. Personally, I too am divided in my opinion of Wayne; I believe that he is both one of the best and worst rappers in the world. Let me explain why.

The core reason that I believe Lil Wayne is one of the greatest rappers in history is because of his incredible work ethic. Lil Wayne never stops working. Everywhere he goes, he’s constantly recording songs: in his cars, on aeroplane flights and even in the shower.  He even managed to record a complete, decent album while in prison. Furthermore, Wayne constantly preaches about, and attributes his success to hard work. In fact, he recently suffered an almost fatal seizure due to stress. Moreover Wayne is incredibly unselfish and has donated much of his time and effort on his own record label, ‘Young Money Entertainment’. Through this label he has made underground artists Drake and Nicki Minaj into global superstars, and signed fresh young talents such as Lil Twist and Tyga. Helping others, and working hard are the attributes that are associated with any good role model. Recently, Lil Wayne passed Elvis Presley as the male with the most entries on the Billboard Hot 100 chart with 109 songs. Wayne’s dedication to his work and his passion for the genre are unrivalled by any other artist, giving him an almost legendary status among today’s rappers.

Additionally, Lil Wayne has released some excellent songs such as, ‘Lollipop’, ‘6 foot 7 foot’ and ‘She Will’. ‘Tha Carter III’ won the Grammy Award for Best Rap Album and was nominated for Album of the Year. Some of his songs are just unequivocally catchy and infectious and his wordplay is undeniably clever. He was one described as a “nonsensical genius”, because at times he produces moments of brilliance. With his unrelenting work ethic and moments of brilliance, it can be argued that Wayne is one of the best rappers around.

Conversely, it could be argued that Lil Wayne is quite possible the worst rapper to ever walk the Earth.

Most of  the time it’s impossible to comprehend his words, and when he has to sustain a note, he often uses the auto-tune effect whereby a computer essentially maintains the note for him. It’s often been said that when he raps, he sounds like he’s either crying or suffocating. Furthermore, he’s consistently bad. For every twenty-twenty five songs he releases, only one or two are good. In addition, he doesn’t write down any of his songs; he claims that he says what comes into his mind when the background music starts. As a result, his lyrics are often completely nonsensical, ridiculous and ludicrous. In fact, some of them are nauseating, and should never be repeated.

To emphasize my point, here are some examples;

"I'm hot like dogs."

"Speeding like a cop behind me, tryna catch-up with this girl like some 57 Heinz."

"My flow is sicker than a patient that is HIV Positive."

"My girl is prego [pregnant] but I don't want it, so I'll cut it out like Joey Gladstone."

"I'm not only hot like stove, but I also cook like it's cousin, oven."

"I'm hot too, baby girl I'm soup"

Conclusively, Lil Wayne has several qualities that you will find in all good role models, and is a talented artist. However, most of the time his lyrics don’t make any sense, assuming you can work out what he’s saying in the first place. In my opinion he is a decent artist, and if he wrote his lyrics down and thought about them a little bit more, he could become a respectable rapper. Recently he released a new album called ‘I am not a Human Being 2’ and the title of the second single is “B***es love me”, so maybe my hopes are a little bit too high.

Read More