The Shit On TV These Days Series overview- Outcasts.

Good lord. Location: South Africa. Budget: More than most BBC drama years. Outcome: Eh...

Okay, I have watched every episode of Outcasts. And it yo-yoed between mediocre and awful. Why? Well, it all got a little out of control to be honest, after what was a frankly painfully slow pair of opening episodes which established the world and the people in it with the speed of a geriatric gastropod and the all the detail of a senile account of an event which happened in the individual's infancy. The main thing to blame for the whole show being a disappointment, really, was the writing.

It's a shame that a nation which has brought Doctor Who and Being Human (at least, before it too became overstuffed with ideas in the third series) to the international table still suffers and can't do decent sci-fi drama justice in the way that the States do. Look at Battlestar Galactica, for Christ's sake, then look at Outcasts again. Not only is their a a lot lifted from the Americans' series, it's been copied and mimicked badly.



And it was a decent premise, really-

“Patience is waiting. Not passively waiting. That is laziness. But to keep going when the going is hard and slow - that is patience.”

Hi. Me again. You know, the bloke who was moaning about not being able to get at money that's sitting around with his name on not two hours ago. I ended that post with the news that I was going down to the tax office to try and " 'ave it aat" with them.

That went well. My request/ obligatory confusingly worded form has been submitted, a polite gesture akin to saying "Hello, excuse me, that money over there with my name on? Yes, that reasonably moderate pile? Well, could I have it?".

The problem is the lady who works there, who was very helpful, informed me that it could take up to three months before I hear anything. Lovely stuff. So once again it's been dangled just above my reach and then hidden in a see-through box.



It's not that I haven't expected to be poor. I'm doing an English Literature and Creative Writing degree, clearly I have to accept that at some point I may end up in a doorway with a bowler hat and the toes of my boots missing. I just didn't expect it to be while I was still studying for that degree. Perhaps I was naive.

Still irritates me though.

"Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it." -Terry Pratchett

The wealthiest person is a pauper at times compared to the man with the satisfied mind.

Money. It's a funny thing. It's the root of all evil, according to those who misquote the Bible. According to those who quote it properly, it is the love of money which will bring about the doom and fiery fate of your eternal soul. According to ABBA it must be funny in a rich man's world, and Pink Floyd would have you believe it's a crime, a gas and a hit.



It's no end of trouble, is what it is. When you can't get your hands on it, anyway, and there's a stash somewhere with your name on just PENDING, hanging around in the ether waiting for someone at a desk to press a couple of keys and make it yours. Jonny Cash (and Jeff Buckley and Bob Dylan) all sang about the man with the satisfied mind being better off than a fool with a hell of a lot of money. Which I agree with, sort of.

Getting a bit of perspective

It's been an interesting couple of weeks at uni. The annual rigmarole of the six students' union Sabbatical/ Full Time Officer/ Full Time Executive Officer/ Unaccountable Overlords has wheeled around again, and for the second year running I've been on the frontlines of campaigns etc and deep in The Thick Of It as part of the student newspaper's coverage. There's two things that need to be said straight away here- one, people act as though they really are in the the level of power and importance that is featured in Armando Ianucci's program with Malcom "Rip your bollocks off" Tucker, and two, because people act like these elections are much more than they are, it's great in terms of news stories and filling pages, not so great in terms of reenforcing your faith in humanity.

An ode to that friend- we all have one.

So you've all settled into your seats in the cinema ready to watch the latest serious drama, the sort of film you have to listen to the dialogue of to keep up to date with what's going on. Or, you've done a hard day's work out at your job or your college or on campus, and you get in late expecting to be able to slump in front of the telly. Or to use the living room to read.



And then the friend appears. Not that they haven't been there all along. They don't appear visually, but aurally they suddenly emerge. Right when you thought that maybe, just maybe they would sit and enjoy what they're doing, or what they're watching, quietly.

That is the moment when they decide to pipe up and start making noises. They might choose the tensest part of the film to start up a conversation. "Oh! That's what I was going to ask you..." they shout, as they sit forward and completely drag your attention kicking and screaming away from whatever you're trying to pay attention too.

"We must not promise what we ought not, lest we be called on to perform what we cannot."

Look at the title. Those are just some of Abraham Lincoln's wise words there. The topic of promises, particularly those told unto you by the television, particularly those told to you by the adverts on television, are what I'm focussing his quote on. Aptly, I feel.

Yes, this has a very similar branch of thought to a recent series (still on-going) by the great Charlie Brooker. Subconsciously, I surmise that his way of thinking has somewhat inspired this, in that it opened my eyes to looking at things on the box in a hideously new light which crushed most of what they show under its own weight. I do think that it needs to be said, though. And so, to sum up what'll be covered here today, it involves adverts, promises and smoking. And Lincoln.

Cardiac-related, elusive intangible feeling based grumble.

Yep, it's the fourteenth. You know what that means. It's the annual "Look at how happy we are compared to you" day, featuring every couple in existence fighting it out in one huge deathmatch of love. A friend of mine recently wrote an article discussing this yearly competition. It's most enlightening. You can find it here, and educate yourself. I encourage you to do so.

Now, this post is not going to be a huge rant about Valentines Day per se. At least, not directly. Woe betide I should argue against it, for then given my status as a single man, a bachelor if you will, my argument would be mooted by the fact that I would be removed from view and categorised in the "bitter and alone" camp. Fine, let them go ahead with their day of dancing, romancing and other things ending in -ing.

She says "I'm coming home for the summer".

She says "I'll be back soon".

Despite the fact that the elusive group of people who try to sell you stuff are using The Molloys to try and make me buy Richmond sausages, thus switching allegiance from the Sainsbury's Basics frozen "I can't believe it's not meat" camp, I'm a bit obsessed with the song. If you've not heard it, look up Meet Me There.

It kind of sums up easy listening, long hot afternoons and relaxing in the moment not having to worry about anything, which is great for me at the minute. The heady, slightly hazy feeling that memories of early evening barbeques and being able to just wear shorts conjure up is embodied, for me, by this song.



Which brings me on to today's topic, class. Dreaming.

Last night, I had a dream. This in itself, whenever anyone says it to me, forces me to switch off. They might have had dinner with Noel Edmunds in front of a volcano, but dreams have that unique and intangible quality that means I couldn't care less no matter how you felt; it is inexplicable. I could understand perfectly if you read the first sentence of this paragraph and switched off. Please stick with it, though. I'm not going to describe the dream in great detail, and I'm not going to force you to tell me how interesting it was.

The main thing I'm interested in is the fact that I can remember it.

2011. A good year for film.

Well now. What a palava. There are some people who believe that the Mayans' refusal to carve another millenia or two on their big stone calendar on the wall until they absolutely had to signals the end of the world in 2012. If they are right, cinema is going to make sure that the last two years are remembered fondly in the ticking seconds as fires rip through the heavens and the earth shatters.

There are a lot of things to be excited about in the next twenty two months. Here's a frank preview of what the dying days of cinema will hold (again, if the ancient civilisation's decision to stop being organised so far ahead of when they would need to, say, book hair appointments holds true as apocalyptic).

In defence of wordcounts- and my "lack of effort" because of them

My undergraduate course is all about writing. Being a creative writing course coupled with classes and modules in English literature, this is to be expected. It means that every week I am submitting two thousand words of raw material, often worked over a little more than just being whacked out on a page, which gets pulled apart by my peers, some of whom can write with miles more clarity and quality than I, and a few who seem a bit dud.

Caffeine-fuelled and firing on all cylinders- it's only the first part.

This is fine. A thousand word limit for each submission, and sitting two modules, is absolutely manageable. Reading everyone else's work and critiquing it, pulling it apart, suggesting switching parts around and pulling other bits, expanding endings or brutally breaking open beginnings, it's all do-able. It keeps me in practice editing, and it keeps me entertained as I read through the good work, harassed as I wade through the shit.

But don't expect me to wade through more than I have to.