"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.