"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.

What's cooler than being cool? Ice cold. Apparently.

I was told today that I am cool. By a tutor. And a class mate. And general consensus of silence, and inferred meaning when the room was told by the tutor that not one of us there was wearing clothes that weren't cool. Except him, he said.

I disagree on almost every count with everyone who said these things this morning. I never considered myself to be associated with the c-word. Most of the people in the seminar I would call any number of things before I arrived at cool.

We've hit a snag, you see,

Welcome to twenty eleven TV- already letting you down

It has recently come to my attention that people actually read this blog. This may, in part, be due to a tendency I have where, immediately upon completion of a post I'll sling a link up on Facebook. I know that the surprise I felt when I realised people read some of those posts, and possibly even, through reckless abandon, looked at some of the previous topics of inane dross, was due to the fact that despite attempts to attract attention to my ramblings all posts and links were entirely assumed to be ignored.

With that said, to those of you who have read Binned Pages and Ink Stains in spite of either knowing who wrote it, not knowing who wrote it (I'm not sure which would bring a more negative slight to your opinion of it) or my poor self-made public awareness campaign, a hundred percent appreciation if aimed in your direction.



Along with several apologies and the semi-sincere assertion that you don't have to read it just because you know me. Along with the voice in my head screaming that yes, in fact, you do. All that guff and bollocks aside, back on with the grumbly mentality, the prickly exterior, and on with the show- the latest baffle-induced experience of the world pulled apart and sprinkled liberally with barbed comments and anger. And we're back with the source of many rants, past and potential- the idiot box, and the quality of what is piped onto it.

Murder victim didn't clip toenails before dying- entire world notified

So. A young woman died, correction, was murdered. It's very sad, yes, and horrifying for the parents and boyfriend, not least because a) the first they knew about it was when she went missing just days before Christmas and b) the entire nation was alerted just about every half an hour by whatever news updating service they use, with incredible detail on the investigation and inane facts which, while helping the detectives, meant diddly squat to the audience.



Now, weeks after they discovered her body, the police are issuing the press with details of every single development still. Why? In the hope that some amateur detective will have a flash of Holmesian deduction, stare into the middle distance the way Hugh Laurie does when you're about four fifths of the way through an episode of House, and ring them up with the case solved?

New Year's Resolutions- what's that all about, and why bother?

So we're over a week into January. The brainless and the spineless have had enough time to set themselves unacheivable goals and then break most of their several A4 pages worth.

A-Ring-A-Ding-Ding- Happy New Year!

Sorry, too grumpy a point with which to start the glorified beginning of the New Year? Well, be that as it may, I still really don't understand why we congratulate each other and ourselves. Why celebrate the date at all?

Christmas, to me, is no longer about a baby being born on a dubiously researched date (anywhere from September to February, dontcha know) but about showing the people still on this mortal coil who I happen to not entirely dislike how much I don't entirely dislike them. New Year, surely, should be the same thing. Showing people you don't entirely wish to murder for being irritating how much you don't entirely wish to murder them (that is, showing your friends who they are) should be what we affix an abitrary date to. Get rid of this "happy new" bollocks. On average, you'll have at least 80 of these chunks of moments. That's over twice as many little white calcium blades you've got in your mouth. Just put that in your perspective pipe and have a puff.



The thing I really don't get about the New Year idea, the whole resolutions thing, is why in the modern world we keep this bloody tradition going.

"It's goodnight from you."

Good god. I apologise in advance for this, but it's another TV rant. This time, concerning another recent programme but I'm on the side that wishes it was never aired. Me and my uncle, and I hope many, many other people- we agree on this.

The One Ronnie.

Just look at the talent drawn in, all solid in their own right, to distract us from the fact that it was just a recycled show.

Lionel Blair
Rob Brydon
Charlotte Church
Jon Culshaw
Harry Enfield
James Corden
Jocelyn Jee Esien
Miranda Hart
Robert Lindsay
Matt Lucas
Catherine Tate
David Walliams
Richard Wilson

If that isn't an act of "ooh, look at the shiny! But don't look behind the curtain!" then I don't know what is. No, really. I'm fairly sure that the amount of acts thrown at the show to see what stuck is the epitome of a distraction. If it isn't, someone please correct me or I'll go through life thinking that.

And look at who was drawn in to write the sketches, all based on "formulae" that The Two Ronnies already tried, to much funnier and much more memorable success (to the point where they have now, in many cases, become flogged and over-repeated- Four Candles anyone?). That is all that the show was- repeats of old sketches, with the puns pulled out and filled with updated versions. "Eggs box £3.60" just doesn't work in place of "plug, rubber, barfroom. 15 amp." The Barker magic was missing. Instead it was cobbled together from the pens of these people-