Random Madhouse

BlackBerry Crumble (This is not a recipe)

2011-10-14T00:51:00.006+01:00

The world we live in is such that you either own a BlackBerry smartphone, or you know at least one person who does. This being the case, it cannot have escaped your notice that BlackBerries have been experiencing some technical difficulties over the past few days, due to a glitch in the network. Millions of users (who shall be referred to as Blackberrians for simplicity’s sake) across the world have been left stranded as their phones stopped receiving emails and instant messages, and Internet browsing broke down. Several reports are coming in of Blackberrian businessmen shaking their phones in frustration and yelling, ‘Not so smart anymore, are you, you good-for-nothing smartphone?! You might as well actually be a blackberry, then at least I could eat you!’ Hospitals have been inundated with patients suffering from LED-withdrawal symptoms and hallucinations, where they imagine the LED light on their phone to be teasing them with its alluring flashing light.

The outage lasted for three days, and Blackberrians were not impressed. On the first day, there was bewilderment. It was inconceivable that this key to existence, this divine device of unlimited potential, was not performing its usual wonders. On the second day, there was frustration. ‘The joke is over,’ thought Blackberrians forlornly as they woke to another day of cyber-loneliness. ‘If I have to have an actual conversation with someone today, then I’m going to sue RIM for torture.’ And on the third day, there was anger. ‘BlackBerry is rubbish!’ cried Blackberrians in the Twitosphere. ‘It’s time to take a bite out of the forbidden fruit! #AppleEatsBlackberry’.

The timing of this disruption is particularly unfortunate for Research In Motion, who are the manufacturers of BlackBerry smartphones, since it coincides with the death of Steve Jobs. Cue jokes about what Jobs’ first request was when he got to heaven, and how respectful it is of RIM to be honouring his demise with a three-day silence. What is more unfortunate, however, is the fuss that Blackberrians have managed to kick up about the service interruption. One angry customer tweeted, 'Dear Blackberry, u remind me of my EX. Unreliable, a big disappointment & good for nothing.’ Not only is this statement grammatically incorrect, but it is also a wholly unreasonable comparison. Let’s put things in perspective. For one, your BlackBerry has failed you for three days. What about the last 362 days where it has performed flawlessly for you, your every wish being its command? Sadly, it is human nature to forget the good and exaggerate the bad, to the point where we feel justified in extreme measures for trivial situations – the extreme measure here being to switch phones.

Now, stretch your minds back, if you will, to just ten years ago when mobile phones were the size and weight of a shoe, and were still thought to cause cancer. They were held at arms’ length when in use, which was only in emergencies. Gradually, however, we warmed to these odd, unattractive lumps of plastic and metal and realised the advantages of calling and texting. Even our older generations quietly accepted these hi-tech gadgets and the world was at peace (if you can ignore that annoying Nokia ringtone in the background). And then came smartphones and our slow progress in phone technology became an alien invasion of frightening force. Phones became an extension of our hands, their apps replacing several lobes in our brains and their instant messaging services rendering our mouths useless, except for eating and drinking. We became dependent on these contraptions and it’s therefore no surprise that Blackberrians were handicapped by the system crash. To put it bluntly, in five short years, intelligent human beings were reduced to dithering idiots clutching black, plastic rectangles. In true Pavlovian style, they were conditioned to react immediately to the red, flashing light that demanded instant attention whilst all else faded into insignificance.

During the three days that BlackBerries supposedly became useless, the phones could in fact still be used for calling and texting. Really and seriously, this is all you need from a phone. We don’t need to check Facebook and Twitter every five seconds, we don’t need to constantly ask our ‘friends’ what they’re up to, and then proceed to tell them our day’s events in excruciatingly minute detail. To be able to do all that from the palm of your hand is not a luxury, it’s an impediment. We are inhibiting ourselves, relying on technology to do what our brains are capable of and designed for. And before you begin to shake your head at the poor simpleton who wrote this article for not being aware of the delights that a smartphone can bring you, I should mention that said simpleton owns a BlackBerry, and she survived the outage. Perhaps that deserves a t-shirt, or at the very least a Facebook ‘like’ page. But now, if you’ll excuse me, the red light is blinking at me accusingly and you are no longer worthy of my attention.

Think before you speak…

2011-08-05T02:23:00.001+01:00

There are many phrases in the English language which people regurgitate without pausing to consider what they actually mean. In fact, I often wonder at the general garbage that spews out of peoples’ mouths sometimes (perhaps if I didn’t eavesdrop so much I would hear much less of it). But I digress. The definition of a cliché is an expression which has been so overused that it has lost its original meaning. Why, then, do people still insist on using it, and other such quotes?

Take, for example, the phrase ‘no one said it would be easy, they only said it would be worth it.’ This is complete tripe. Actually, I take that back because half of the quote is true. No one did say it would be easy - but no one said it would be worth it either. In fact, no one said anything at all. If anything, it was the tiny voice in your head that you most probably ignored when making a decision, which is now being shouted down with this phrase to justify that ultimately wrong decision.

Let’s take this quote literally, for argument’s sake. If you were about to make a monumental choice, but were somewhat weak of heart and were told that the path you had chosen was not easy, you would most likely back out. That’s nothing to be ashamed of – we’re human, and we like to make things as effortless as possible for ourselves. Alternatively, if you were a strong-minded individual, then you wouldn’t really be seeking advice in the first place, and even if someone did dare to voice this quote as their opinion, you probably wouldn’t listen. Furthermore, the definition of something being ‘worth it’ is entirely subjective. L’Oreal claims that we should use their beauty products because we’re worth it, but if a human’s worth is based on their shampoo, then I’m afraid I disagree.

There are a thousand other phrases which irk me, but I shall spare you the rant. I chose this particular one because people hide behind it all too often. It comes back to being decisive in the end. If you’ve made a choice, stick with it. The path it leads you on might be easy, or it might be hard; you might regret it, or it might benefit you in ways you never imagined. But for God’s sake, don’t cliché your way to justification of your choice – it simply isn’t worth it.

In my defence...

2011-03-23T23:56:00.002Z

It is said that our choices define us, and reveal our characteristics and personality. We all make different decisions and this variety is what makes life interesting. If everyone was the same we would all get bored of each other pretty quickly…or would we? In a society dictated by trends of ‘what’s hot and what’s not’ everyone is encouraged to look the same, eat the same, be the same. And if you’re not the same yet, you soon will be.

Different is not cool, and it’s not accepted. In some cases, it’s not even understood. We don’t like different. We treat it with suspicion, as we might treat a strange fungus festering at the back of the fridge. It will be subjected to much prodding and poking and attempts at removal, and eventually left alone once it has been ascertained that there is no threat or danger of invasion. As long as it sits quietly in the corner, we will treat it as some dysfunctional anomaly and ignore it.

Being different means standing out from the crowd. In most cases though, people who are different don’t want to stand out; they just want to be themselves. But to be unique is to risk social exclusion. Society does not understand why you would want to make your own choices when you could just follow the crowd and never have to think for yourself again. Life could be so easy!

As soon as you make a choice, you have to be prepared to defend it. From the car you drive, to the food you eat, right down to your decision to wear blue and orange stripy socks today, you will be questioned. And if your answers aren’t satisfactory then you will be put in the stocks of social status and humiliated until you conform. But conform to what? No matter what you do, you will never please everyone. If you have a Blackberry like half of the population, then the other half will tell you to get an iPhone. And if you have neither you’ll probably be sent to the doctors’ to check that you’re human.

Everything I’ve said so far has obviously been something of a generalisation but the fact still stands: we have to defend ourselves constantly in order to survive day-to-day life. We live in a tough, cynical society where the concept of accepting things at face value is inconceivable. I have never felt the need to justify my choices as some people do, and have always interpreted their self-absorbed wittering as a sign of insecurity. But increasingly I find myself engaging in this attack-and-defend tussle almost as a form of conversation and it is exhausting. It is sad really, that we feel the need to confront others just to make ourselves feel a little more confident about our own choices. So from now on, I refuse to defend my decisions – not because they can’t be defended but because they shouldn’t need to be.

British Muslim? It's an oxymoron

2011-03-23T23:03:00.003Z

Earlier in February, British Prime Minister David Cameron claimed that multiculturalism in the west had failed, particularly with regards to attempts to integrate Islam into the western way of life. I'm a Muslim who has lived in England all her life and I agree with Mr Cameron.

Islam is a strict religion by anyone's standards and has a set of rules which must be followed. England is a Christian country, at least by name, and whilst the religion of the state does not necessarily dictate what citizens can and can't do, culture almost certainly does. Certain traditions have become so ingrained in western society that they are followed religiously and any attempt to overturn them would have catastrophic effects, probably on a revolutionary scale.

Islamic rules and western traditions mix as well as oil and water. As much as you shake them up, they will always separate out and it is naïve to think, believe or try to prove otherwise. I'm being stubborn and closed-minded you say? Then let's take the example of drinking. Muslims don't drink (the good ones anyway). So no, I won't be coming to the pub after work, drinking a glass of wine to relax, popping open some bubbly to celebrate the business's latest success or doing shots at a nightclub to drown my sorrows in a chemically-induced state of calm. To most people who live in the west, this sounds like a nightmare. I'm not saying that anyone who's not a Muslim is an alcoholic, but you don't realise how much alcohol has become integral to existence in the west unless it’s forbidden to you.

But the question here is not why integration is not working. It’s why we want it to work. England is a Christian country and yet it is bending over backwards to accommodate its growing Muslim population. Huge, supposedly secular companies like Deloitte have developed Muslim support networks to give Muslims in the company a sense of community. They claim that it increases diversity and encourages acceptance of different faiths, not to mention that it is also economically beneficial for them. Heathrow airport has a prayer room and facilities for ablution. Funny, I don't see a temple anywhere...or a church for that matter. This is not a ridiculous proposal – I recently visited an airport in Canada which had a ‘multi-faith chapel’. It was a prayer facility for people of all faiths but was predominantly for Christians, in accordance with the country’s religion.

I don't want to sound ungrateful for what are clearly attempts to help Muslims fit in, but I can't help but wonder why. Saudi Arabia is an Islamic state and I cannot see it bending any of its rules to accommodate another faith, no matter how dominant it is in the population. You might want to bear in mind that corporal punishment is still legal in Saudi before you suggest that Riyadh open a chain of bars to make the expats feel at home. Even Dubai, which is perhaps the most liberal Islamic state to ever exist, has an Islamic prayer room at the airport but no facilities for anyone of another faith.

Perhaps this is the government's attempt to absolve itself of any responsibility when things go wrong. If and when, God forbid, 9/11 occurs on English soil, the government will be able to say, 'We tried. It is you Muslims who failed. We wash our hands of you'. And to their credit, they have tried. But it’s the typical case of give a finger and they take a hand. Britain relaxed its rules, allowing ridiculous levels of immigration and then took this one step further by trying to fit these immigrants into society. If they hadn't tried, people wouldn't have taken advantage.

The government has now realised its mistake, but it’s too late. They find themselves in a catch-22 situation - there's no way forward and certainly no way back. When the tyrannical dictator Idi Amin came to power in Uganda in 1971, he realised that his country was being run by Asian outsiders rather than the natives. So he ordered the expulsion of 80,000 Asians, which in hindsight probably wasn’t his wisest decision. The economy crumbled and the country is now far behind where it would have been had Idi Amin let things be.

Alcohol is just a minor example of why Muslims cannot fully integrate into Western society. If they wish to live in a non-Islamic state then they will have to compromise and come to terms with a non-Islamic way of life. They don’t have to adopt it, but nor do they have the right to impose their way of life on others. It is not impossible to be a good Muslim and live in England. It is difficult, yes, but at the end of the day it’s a choice. You can’t have the cake and eat it, even if it is halal.

World at War

2011-02-05T01:25:00.005Z

The sun rises

A new day

The birds sing

Hope

The skies lighten

Another day

The planes drone

Fear

Children play

See their smiles

Joy

Babies scream

Taste their tears

Pain

The silence shatters

The blood, it flows

But none of it matters

Because no one knows

Ignorance is bliss

An illusion of justice

Reality is an undreamt

Nightmare

Our world

Their world

One world.

Leave me alone

2010-11-29T01:12:00.007Z

We, as humans, hate being alone. We constantly want to be surrounded by people we know - we have numerous friends and family and failing that, we keep pets and treat them like humans. We fear loneliness, so much so that we have made it a taboo of society and label those who are content with their own company as 'loners'. Our craving for this constant company is undeniably proven by the success and strange addictiveness of social networking sites like Facebook. Several times a day, whether in the library, at home or on the train, we find ourselves repeatedly logging in to check notifications, browse the newsfeed and update our personal network with information about where we are and what we're doing. With every notification we receive, we are comforted by the fact that our friends exist and acknowledge our existence, hence ensuring us that we are not really alone.

We continuously text, call, Ping and BBM and yet, majority of these conversations have no point. They are merely to prevent us from falling into that dreaded state of being alone. Every contact with another person strengthens our safe, happy bubble of company that cushions us through the day. But it is inevitable that this bubble bursts from time to time and our source of cyber-company is stripped away from us. On the tube, when there is no signal for a phone, too much noise to hear an iPod and not enough space to read the Metro, an expression of fear creeps into people's faces. They will do anything to avoid eye contact, as though this in itself will condemn them to a lifetime of solitude. Instead, the same adverts are read repeatedly until the Mayor of London's latest mantra is learnt off by heart, and fellow passengers' choices of footwear suddenly become the raison d'etre. As crowds emerge from the underground, there is a collective sigh of relief as phones ring and invisible yet indispensable bubbles of popularity are re-established.

However, there is a paradox in this craving for company in that the art of proper, meaningful conversation apparently eludes us. It is not uncommon to find a group of friends texting rather than talking, or comparing Facebook profiles rather than having face to face conversations. We are becoming an almost robotic society, devoid of opinions because we do not allow ourselves the time to think and listen to our thoughts. What is hidden inside our heads that we are so afraid to hear? If we stop, just for a while, we might find out that what we fear does not actually exist. Just as we were liberated at the age of 12 by the knowledge that the boogie monster does not really exist, similarly we should free our minds now from the constraints of constant company that our lives today impose upon us.

Everyone likes to describe themselves as independent, but how many of these apparently independent people would be happy to go to the cinema alone, attend a party where they know no-one or simply sit alone at home with the phone line disconnected, the internet disabled and mobile switched off? The confidence to venture out into the world with only you and yourself for company is the true definition of independence. As one philosopher eloquently said, 'Solitude is strength; to depend on the presence of the crowd is weakness. The man who needs a mob to nerve him is much more alone than he imagines.'

Weren't me, Sir!

2010-04-30T23:56:00.002+01:00

Denial. It’s a common human trait. Let’s not lie, we’ve all done it at least once in our lives, and if you don’t agree then you’re probably in denial at this very moment. To accept the truth, to own up to our mistakes and admit that we were wrong is something that everyone finds hard, whether they be politicians, students, husbands or siblings (wives are obviously never at fault). Nobody wants to say they’re wrong. It’s fair enough really; we all like to be right – especially if you can prove someone else wrong at the same time. But sometimes, maybe we take it too far and we need to take a step back.

Often, friends and family relate incidents to me with such indignation that I feel inclined to take their side out of pure fear. But it sometimes happens that from my point of view, the other person was right and my friend is just being over-sensitive. If this is the case, I try to face my fear and gently point out that perhaps the other person had a point, or didn’t intend to offend. My suggestions result in one of three reactions: 1) subdued silence followed by eventual agreement, 2) a thoroughly confused expression followed by a repetition of the entire story since I didn’t seem to understand how unjustly they were treated, or 3) a slap across the face. Sadly, the third option appears to be most favoured.

I don’t blame anyone for this denial reflex, since I myself am guilty of it. When someone points out that I am at fault, I will fight to the death to prove otherwise. However, once the argument is lost, and I am gifted with the beauty of hindsight, I realise it would have been better to put my hands up from the start and save myself a lot of time, energy and embarrassment. The worst is when such moments are captured on video and replayed at family occasions. You watch yourself as a sailor might watch his final moments from heaven, sighing in frustration as he tried to rescue his broken boat instead of swimming to safety, resulting in his eventual death. Obviously, this is a metaphor and one would hope that the consequences are somewhat less severe in reality.

But what brought me to all this was of course, election fever which is sweeping across the country. On Wednesday this week, Gordon Brown denounced an elderly lady as ‘bigoted’. This was, unfortunately for him (but fortunately for the rest of the country) caught on microphone and so denial was simply not an option for Mr Brown. Yet we find that he cannot simply state, ‘Yes, people of England, I called this lady bigoted because I think she is. I do apologise, but this is who I am really. Don’t forget to vote Labour next week’. Instead, he floundered around claiming that he had ‘misunderstood’ what she was saying. Really, Gordon, you’ve lost these elections anyways. Do at least one honourable thing whilst you’re Prime Minister and accept it: you are the bigoted one.

Afrika!

2009-10-14T13:18:00.001+01:00

If someone said to you, “I spent two months of my summer volunteering at a school in Africa,” what would your reaction be? Speaking from experience, I guess it would be something along the lines of, “Oh wow! That’s soo amazing, it must have been so rewarding!” I did spend two months of summer in Africa helping at a school and yes, it was rewarding, but not in the way you think. There’s a huge difference in the attitude of volunteers to their work, and it’s noticeable almost immediately. There are some people who volunteer simply to boost their credentials and seem impressive for a while. There are others who really put their heart into it, they love every minute out there and they give all they can. As for me? I went to Africa simply to fill the long summer months with something more productive than facebook. I may not have gone with the intention of saving lives or changing the world, but I did go with an open mind. Had I not, I doubt my experience would have been the same…

Africa is a vast continent, consisting of 53 countries and a total population of over 1 billion people. I visited Tanzania, a country which lies on the east coast of the continent. Thanks to years of inefficient ruling, it is now one of the poorest, least developed and most aid-dependent countries in the world. Looking through the eyes of a visitor, I found this easy to believe but too many wealthy residents of Tanzania find it easy to ignore. I felt that the rich and poor divide, which is present across the world, was more noticeable in Dar Es Salaam than in any other town or country I have visited. Whilst Dodoma is the geographical capital of the country, Dar Es Salaam is its political and commercial capital. The city’s rapid expansion means that there is plenty of work, but sadly it’s a classic case of the rich getting richer whilst the poor get poorer.

Kibaha is a small village to the east of Dar Es Salaam. Here, World Islamic Propagation and Humanitarian Services (WIPAHS) has established an entire community with the intention of educating the youth whilst providing local residents with medical care and an opportunity for employment. On my first day, I was taken on a tour of the campus. As we passed the nursery and primary schools followed by secondary schools for girls and boys, I became increasingly impressed. The school buildings were large, relatively well equipped and it was clear that a lot of money, time and effort had been put into this project.

The biggest surprise for me came from the students. As I peered into one classroom, I saw the children listening attentively- no one was talking or staring out of the window. They all seemed captivated by the lesson. The moment I stepped into a primary class to be introduced, all the students stood up immediately and chanted ‘Salaam Alaykum Teacher’. (Salaam is both the Islamic way to greet someone and a general greeting in Tanzania). I had never seen such discipline before and I almost felt embarrassed at their politeness. Whilst walking down the corridor students would smile and greet me happily as though we were old friends although they had no idea who I was and I probably looked very out of place in my English clothing. In my primary school, such a visitor would only have received stares and whispers as she walked through the school.

There was also an orphanage on campus, for children aged 1-4. Although I’m not too sure what I had been expecting initially, I was surprised once more. As we approached the orphanage I could see around twenty small children playing near the entrance. As soon as they spotted us, they all cried ‘mageni!’ meaning guest in Kiswahili, and came running towards us. Each one made sure to shake my hand and greet me with ‘Salaam’ whilst the younger ones clamoured to be picked up and the older ones fought to hold my hand. As I soon learnt, this was their customary way of meeting people, and soon the sight of the young children running towards me was something I looked forward to every day. However, it simultaneously filled me with sadness because the fact was, these children were hungry for love and no other kids with a normal, loving family would run up to strangers and greet them so warmly.

When I began teaching, I noticed again how attentive the students were. All of them had a thirst for knowledge which was a stark contrast from students in England, some of whom only attend school to pass time and socialise. The scene in Kibaha was very different. Although the classes were far bigger, some with up to 43 students, the discipline was amazing. The students not only listened to and respected their teacher, but also each other. There was never any obvious bullying which made me realise once more how friendly everyone was.

The school was full boarding and for a fee equivalent to $2 dollars a day, the students were provided with education, accommodation and 3 meals a day. I was shocked to learn that the fees were so minimal but the bigger shock was that many of the students couldn’t afford it and their fees were heavily subsidised by the school. Compared to other schools in Tanzania, it was certainly one of the better equipped but it was not really comparable to the usual standard of English schools.

The most upsetting thing in all of this was the realisation of just how much we in the West take everything for granted. I have been paying thousands of pounds for my education since the age of six but I don’t think I have ever paid as much attention in a single lesson as the students in Tanzania. The role reversal is almost ironic- they want to learn but can’t afford it, whilst we almost have education thrown in our faces and yet turn it down, instead wasting our money on yet another pair of shoes or a night out that will be more harmful than helpful.

I soon realised that although many of the students in Kibaha were poor and some were also orphans, they were by no means at the harsh end of the ‘quality of life’ spectrum. My eyes really opened when I visited another orphanage in Dar Es Salaam. This one housed about forty young girls and boys ranging from four to 16 years old. Tiny bedrooms which were crammed with bunk beds and mattresses, were shared by around fifteen children each. One of the youngest girls there was called Fatima and the carers informed us that she had AIDS. Although she was being treated no precautions were being or indeed could be taken to prevent cross-infection. Besides sleeping, all other activities including meals, education and games took place outside in courtyard under the heat of the African sun. They shared this courtyard with goats, chickens and their excrements. On my first visit, a shelter had been put up to provide shade but I later learnt that this had been hired especially for the visitors and had cost the orphanage 25 000 shillings (£12.50); money which could have been far better spent on the children. When I returned to the orphanage at Kibaha, it looked like heaven in comparison.

There was also a medical centre on campus which treated students from schools across the region and local residents as well. There were two doctors, one of whom slept above the clinic and worked almost 24/7, often waking up in the middle of the night to receive and look after emergency cases. As he said to me, ‘I’m the doctor, nurse, sweeper and pharmacist here,’ since the centre did not have enough funds to hire adequate staff. In fact, the doctor often paid for patients’ medication out of his own meagre salary since neither they nor the government could afford it. However, as with the orphanage, I was to see far worse.

Ocean road is a long road in Dar Es Salaam which runs parallel to the ocean. Due to the magnificent views it’s a popular place to live for the wealthy residents of Tanzania. The road is lined with huge mansions, shiny cars parked in their driveways. But drive to the end of the road and tucked away in the corner you come to the cancer unit. A private clinic, the unit is hugely dependant on donations and help from volunteers as it receives minimal funding from the government. If they run out of cooking gas before the month is over, which they often do as they have to cook for over 200 patients, the government refuses to give them more and the kitchen workers must resort to using the outdoor coal stove.

The clinic takes in far more patients than it can cope with for there is nowhere else for them to go. Several cases are beyond treatment- the patients are simply waiting to die and you can see the acceptance of this fact in their eyes. There were men, women, young and old, some with tumours as big as fists, others with cases of skin cancer far worse than any I’ve seen in England. One woman who volunteered at the unit on a weekly basis introduced me to a young boy of 16 named Ali. When he was 14, Ali was diagnosed with cancer and travelled from Mwanza, hundreds of miles away, to Dar Es Salaam for treatment. He came to the cancer unit and was fortunate enough to have arrived in time to be cured.

However, the time the travelling and treatment took meant that Ali had missed out on a year of education and since he was an orphan, the doctors at the cancer unit offered to sponsor his education in Dar Es Salaam. Ali accepted but two years later, the clinic could no longer afford his education along with medication, sanitation and food for all the patients, so Ali was withdrawn from school. His final school year would cost £200, explained the volunteer. Here was an orphan boy, who could not even complete high school due to poverty, and up the road were people carrying around handbags worth far more that what Ali needed to finish his education and have a chance of a better life.

Many of the experiences I saw saddened and upset me. Some angered me- I questioned the justice of a world where money was so unevenly distributed and corruption ran through the government, crushing any chance of the situation improving. Yet amongst all the poverty, the death and destruction, there may not have been hope but there was happiness. No matter what situation the people of Tanzania were in, it was a rare moment to see them without a smile on their faces. Even if they had nothing, they were still willing to offer you whatever they could and their hospitality was unlike any other. I went to Africa to help people, but really they helped me. I went to teach, but instead I learnt. It wasn’t an experience that can be described in words but one thing I realised was that money definitely does not buy contentment and we in the West have completely forgotten what it’s like to be truly content.

Damascus in Pictures

2009-04-11T22:08:00.003+01:00

Souq Hamidiyya

Dome in Syeda Ruqayya

Interior designs of Syeda Ruqayya

Roof-top view of Syeda Zainab

Dome of Syeda Zainab

Diversity Fee Dimashq

2009-04-11T21:56:00.006+01:00

Damascus, the capital of Syria, lies to the south of the country and is considered to be one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world. I have visited the city three times, but it was only during my most recent visit that I actually toured Damascus properly. I saw it through the eyes of a fascinated tourist, albeit one who apparently looked like a native, rather than the eyes of a religious pilgrim. Not knowing the language of the place you are visiting can be a great hindrance, and this time I was grateful to have my sister as a translator as I toured the streets of Sham. Not only did it help me discover more about my surroundings, but her haggling skills also prevented me from having to pay the foreigner’s price in the souqs (markets).

The most obvious places to visit in Damascus from a personal perspective are the holy shrines of Syeda Zainab and Syeda Ruqayya. When I stepped into the mosques this time, I glanced upwards and looked away as I had done on previous visits. But suddenly, I had to look again when I realised that what I have always taken for granted is in fact a work of architectural and artistic brilliance. Arabic designs cover the ceilings, each one intricately intertwined with the next. Glittering chandeliers illuminate the shrine, their light reflected and enhanced by the mosaic mirrors which border the walls. In Syeda Ruqayya, the designs are somewhat simpler, yet still have a tranquil beauty about them.

I found Damascus to be a city of paradoxes where old and new, rich and poor, and religious and secular all came together in an absurd but intriguing clash. The area around Syeda Ruqayya is generally disorderly; you step out of the mosque and immediately find yourself in Souq Hamidiyya, an open-air bazaar. Every other shop sells the same products and it is not infrequent to find one shop-owner persuading you to buy his friend’s goods. For the most part, the shop-keepers stand outside their shops talking, laughing and watching the crowds but as soon as they hear you speaking English they will welcome you into their shops with broken English, wide smiles and high prices. Just a short taxi ride away from this chaos is Bab Tuma. This is the Christian area of Damascus, and also the more uncluttered part, where you will find designer shops, high-quality goods and fixed prices.

Perhaps the biggest eye-opener on my trip was my visit to Ardh Saeeda, literally translated as Happyland. A much-diluted version of Alton Towers, Happyland is the only theme park in Damascus, and also seemed like the most popular hang-out for youths. The crowd there is so different to that of Syeda Zainab, it is difficult to believe you are still in the same city, or even country. The atmosphere is much more relaxed: women without hijab are a common sight whilst boys and girls hold hands in a ring as they dance to the latest Arabic hit singles. As for the safety of the rides, it’s enough to say that I saw my life flash before me a few times!

Bab Tuma is situated relatively close to Syeda Ruqayya, but despite their proximity, the two areas harbour completely different cultures. Whilst the Muslims in Syeda Ruqayya flock to the holy shrine daily, and the adhan is called out five times a day, the Christians in Bab Tuma visit Church on Sunday and spill onto the streets at times like Christmas and Easter, commemorating the birth and death of Christ. Also next door to the shrine of Syeda Ruqayya is the Umayyad mosque, a place of importance for Christians, Sunnis and Shias alike. That these three separate faiths can live together peacefully and co-operatively was the one thing that struck me as most weird, yet wonderful, about Damascus and should be a lesson to the rest of the world.

Snow!

2009-02-03T14:13:00.002Z

I know it's not much compared to places like Canada, but it still managed to bring London to a standstill!

London's Lion

2009-01-31T16:46:00.003Z

Inside my head

2008-10-18T22:30:00.004+01:00

3 o clock on Friday, 10th October found me enjoying a heavenly Ferrero Rocher milkshake with a few friends at Tinseltown. Fast-forward one week, and 3 o clock on Friday, 17th October found me cautiously dipping my rubber-gloved hands into a formaldehyde solution in order to fish out a brain. That's right- a real, human brain. My first thoughts as I lifted it out were, 'this is kinda heavy,' rapidly followed by, 'I'm sure my brain is not that big!'

This was my first physiology practical of the term. Luckily, my enthusiasm was not curbed by the awful smell of the formaldehyde solution or the fact that we were surrounded by cadavers. Oblivious to all around us, my group and I spent a truly fascinating hour examining one and a half brains and identifying the various parts we had been taught about. At one point, the tutor came over and, using what looked like a knitting needle, showed us the nerve that would control tongue-waggling. I think that is when I suddenly realised that I was actually looking at a replica of the contents of my own head. As I opened my mouth to speak, my own tongue-waggling nerve would be stimulated, enabling me to pronounce words clearly. It was a strange thought... maybe a bit too strange for my brain to handle.

Bus talk

2008-10-11T13:36:00.007+01:00

Although commuters on buses and tubes usually maintain the 'stiff upper lip' image, every now and again someone will breach the rules of public transport and start a conversation. This often causes shock waves amongst fellow passengers but I find that it acts like a refreshing breeze in a somewhat suffocating atmosphere. It's sometimes nice to know that you are travelling with fellow human beings and not robotic clones.

For example, on the bus last Monday, I sat down next to a woman who was reading the paper. After a while, she neatly folded it away, turned to me and actually began speaking to me. It turned out that she had been invited to a Muslim wedding function, but didn't know what to wear. I helped her out as best I could, answering her questions about all the different customs and traditions she was unfamiliar with. As I got off the bus, she thanked me for the advice, and I walked away with a smile on my face.

Later in the week, I was on the bus with a friend and we began talking about the month of fasting, Ramadhan. A young lady sitting near us suddenly turned to us and began asking about Ramadhan and how we coped with not eating all day. The conversation soon turned philosophical, and we ended up discussing whether prayers work equally well if they are said in a place of worship or at home. At the end of the journey, I think we all felt a little better for having reached across the huge divide that seems to separate people nowadays to build a little bridge of acknowledgement of other lives.

Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner...

2008-09-28T02:40:00.006+01:00

For those of us (un)fortunate enough to live outside Britain's capital, the London way of life is something of an incomprehensible myth. When visiting the city, we see daily commuters rushing through their journeys, hopping from tube to bus to train to tram without a spare second for anything else. I've often wondered at these people, curious as to why they feel the need to live life at ten times its normal speed. Until recently, I'd felt that when people claimed that life in London was too fast they were just exaggerating. Why should living in the capital make such a difference? This was my opinion until I moved to London myself.

Day 1- 8.30 am

I'm getting ready (and running a little late) when there is a knock at the door. Bewildered as to who on earth is calling at this time of the morning, I open the door with caution. It's a man wanting to check the gas meter. Having told him that I have no idea where the gas meter is, he glances at his little machine, informs me that it is in the kitchen and politely asks if he can come in and look for it. So much for a peaceful morning...Having been delayed, I opt for the quicker mode of transport on my way to university- tube rather than bus- then almost wish I hadn't after having to fork out £6.80 for a day travelcard. I spend the day getting lost and standing in queues. When I arrive home, I'm shattered and it's only 5.30 pm.

Day 2

The day goes suprisingly smoothly until I try to cath the bus home. I know that I need to catch the 91 so, like the logical person I am, I stand at the 91 bus stop at Euston station. The bus comes, I hop on and 15 minutes later find myself heading out of central London towards Trafalgar Square. I ask the bus driver is he is going anywhere near my road. He gives me a strange look and tells me that the next stop is the last one. I quickly get off, cross the road and ask the bus driver on this side if he's going anywhere near my road. "Other side, darlin'," I'm told. I sigh, get off, wander around and eventually find myself on the right bus. As we pass Euston station, I notice that there are two 91 bus stops- C and E- going in opposite directions. I make a mental note to wait at C next time.

Day 3

In an attempt to save some cash, I catch the bus this morning. I settle down, waiting to be taken to Euston station. Suddenly at King's Cross, the bus driver calls out 'all change, all change!' I ask the bus driver why he's suddenly cutting his route short. "Look ahead," he tells me, "it's King's Cross." "Yes I know that!" I exclaim. "Just wait for the next bus," he says, and drives off. A random man turns to me and says with an evil grin, "Oh, if you don't have a travel card or an Oyster card, you gonna have to pay again!" Thankfully, the next bus driver accepts my receipt, and I don't have to pay again. I decide to get an Oyster card all the same, which is easier said than done. Having read all the leaflets the tube station has to offer on the subject of Oyster cards, I finally understand what type of Oyster card I need, and where to get it.

Day 4

When I get on the bus this morning, I reach past the lady infront who is searching for change and beep my Oyster card on the touch pad like everyone else. Now I feel truly christened as a Londoner.

Day 5

I arrive at the end of my first working week in London, and I am exhausted. Yet, at the same time, I feel strangely knowledgeable. Whilst I may not quite be a true Londoner- I have yet to pick up the accent- I am no longer a tourist fumbling for change or staring at a tube map for 5 minutes before understanding where to go.

Unintentional eavesdropping...

2008-09-18T16:06:00.003+01:00

Whilst waiting for the train at an almost empty platform, it was impossible not to overhear the conversation of the two women next to me.

W1: Ooh, new shoes?
W2: Mmm, yeah. But I don't like the strap- I'm gonna cut it off.
W1 (shocked): No, don't!
W2: Yeah, I will. I really don't like it.
W1: Where are they from?
W2: Mullets. The straps cut into your feet and they look awful, like ankle straps. You know ankle straps on shoes make your legs look shorter- as if your legs end at your ankles.
W1: Yeah, I suppose. Well, I don't know.
W2: And I need all the height I can get to balance out the weight.
After a few seconds of silence...
W2: I've been looking into some dog agility classes for Winnie. I think he just needs some stimulation. I'm taking him to the Bushey centre. You know, they make him do all sorts of exercises and run through tunnels and things. It's just a bit more competitive. You interested for Sparkey?
W1: Well, I don't know. I don't think he'd be obedient enough. He'd just go running off with all the other dogs.

At this point, the train arrived and I was left to silently grieve the fact that we now have dog agility classes.

Reflection on Life

2008-09-02T19:06:00.008+01:00

Life's Just a Ride...

"The world is like a ride at an amusement park. And when you choose to go on it, you think it's real because that's how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and down and round and round. It has thrills and chills and it's very brightly coloured and it's very loud and it's fun, for a while.

Some people have been on the ride for a long time, and they begin to question: Is this real, or is this just a ride? And other people have remembered, and they come back to us, they say, 'Hey - don't worry, don't be afraid ever, because this is just a ride ...' And we kill those people. Ha ha, 'Shut him up. We have a lot invested in this ride. Shut him up. Look at my furrows of worry. Look at my big bank account and my family. This just has to be real.'

It's just a ride. But we always kill those good guys who try and tell us that, you ever notice that? And let the demons run amok. But it doesn't matter, because - it's just a ride. And we can change it anytime we want.It's only a choice. No effort, no work, no job, no savings and money. A choice, right now, between fear and love. The eyes of fear want you to put bigger locks on your doors, buy guns, close yourself off. The eyes of love instead see all of us as one.

Here's what we can do to change the world, right now, to a better ride. Take all that money we spend on weapons and defences each year and instead spend it feeding and clothing and educating the poor of the world, which it would pay for many times over, not one human being excluded, and we could explore space, together, both inner and outer, forever, in peace."

-Bill Hicks

'There's a fly in my soup!'

2008-04-10T23:00:00.002+01:00

Week 3- The task this week was to convert a pub, which had never served food before, into a restaurant. This was a task which required proper planning, and 'facts, facts, facts,' as Simon said. Sir Alan chose Sara to project manage Alpha and Ian to lead Renaissance. There was a reversal of the situation this week as the girls did their homework whereas the boys plucked prices out of thin air.

The girls chose a Bollywood theme and Sara led the team well, despite some needless arguments from Claire. Although they missed lunch because the korma did not pass the taste test, selling tickets for £5 helped to bring in the cash. They also had an 'authentic' Bollywood dancer, although Nick did not look too impressed with his talents.

The boys went for an Italian theme and things went from bad to worse. Kevin was appointed Head Chef, for the sole reason that he had eaten in Italian restaurants before. Though he was a bank manager he failed to correctly calculate the number of tomatoes needed for 15 bowls of soup. He even struggled to minus 4 from 15. His carbonara contained ham, bacon and chicken, with potatoes, mushrooms...and basically anything else in the kitchen. He seemed to dominate over Ian and yelled at Alex, simply because 'that's what chefs do'.

Their lack of organisation resulted in a huge amount of overspending- and three trips to the supermarket. Tempers were fraying as the marketing group were sent to buy black bags and tin openers. The entire situation was summed up thus: 'I, Lee McQueen, am concerned.' Other failures included tasteless bolognese, not being able to spell 'accent', half pizzas and Michael's singing- another story altogether.

Unsurprisingly, the boys lost. Although they managed to bring in more money, their overspend let them down. And so, the end of the episode found Ian, Kevin and Simon in the firing line. Simon fought hard to prove that he was more than just 'chopper Smith', whilst Kevin and Ian couldn't decide whether there had been a pep-talk or not! Simon was let off the hook, but will have to tread carefully especially after forgetting the 'sir' in front of 'Sir Alan'! Eventually, Ian had to go. He was a weak manager and although Kevin had his faults, ultimately Ian was to blame. If we were in Sir Alan's position, we would probably have fired both of them.

Week 2- Dirty Linen or Dirty Tactics?

2008-04-03T22:52:00.002+01:00

The second episode of The Apprentice proved to be a reversal for Renaissance. The task this week was to find, wash, dry and iron dirty laundry within twenty four hours. The moment Raef volunteered himself to be project manager, after having admitted last week that he had never managed more than himself, we thought the boys' team were doomed to failure. However as Jenny, the project manager of Alpha, began to show her true colours we realised that it was actually the girls who were in trouble.

Raef led his team well - he listened without interruption and delegated appropriate roles. He even acted quite selfishly to secure victory by locking up the house irons and refusing point blank to share them. Simon shone in this episode, having previously worked in a laundrette in Bosnia! He kept team morale high and did not lose faith in Raef. In fact the boys praised Raef so highly in the Boardroom that even Sir Alan was lost for words and for a few seconds could only muster 'Oh! Oh!'

In Alpha, however, it was a different story. They got off to a disastrous start, when Jenny lectured them for an hour on what they already knew. By the time they left the house, they had not come up with any strategy, nor even decided upon the teams into which they would split. Poor Lucinda was thrown from car to car! They could not even agree on what time of day it was, as Claire greeted a potential customer with 'Good Morning', while Lucinda said 'Good Afternoon'! This was followed by Jenny M and Lindi's attempt to wash a thousand items from a hotel for almost £5000 - compared to the £200 the manager usually paid. Swinging from one extreme to the other they then offered a man to do all his laundry for a mere £15 - compared to the usual £60...and they still couldn't tell if it was too high or too low.

Jenny was one of the worst project managers we have ever seen. Having failed to come up with a plan, she resorted to taking out her frustration on other innocent members of the team. Lucinda was once more her target - 'You're like a fungus spreading its negativity through the team.' Needless to say the scene ended in tears and Lucinda refused to attend the next group meeting.

The girls lost by around £200. This week's most ridiculous decision came from Lindi - a 24-hour hotline to see, as Sir Alan eloquently put it, 'How my pants were doing'. Following this we thought Jenny would take Lindi into the Boardroom, but instead she took the relatively innocent Lucinda and Shazia. We felt certain that Jenny would 'get the big F' or even perhaps Lucinda, but much to our surprise and disappointment it was Shazia who caught the taxi home. Once again, we disagree with Sir Alan's decision. Jenny blatantly lied to escape from the firing line, claiming that she had felt like she was 'breast-feeding' Lucinda and Shazia throughout the task. Seeing Sir Alan's expression at these words we were convinced that he would fire her. However she got away, but it will be interesting to see how far she goes.

It's back...

2008-03-27T22:28:00.003Z

The nation is once more being treated to a dose of Sir Alan Sugar's blunt, yet hilarious manner of finding an apprentice. Ever since watching 16 hapless hopefuls trying to flog fruit two years ago, my sister and I have been hooked on The Apprentice. Now it's back and looks set to be another exciting series.

Wednesday evening at 9 pm found us glued to our seats eagerly awaiting the first episode- and we were not to be disappointed. From the moment we were introduced to 'the best saleswoman in Europe' and the man whose tools were words, to Sir Alan's clarification that he was not Mary Poppins, we were reminded- if we had ever forgotten- why we love this show.

The first task comprised of selling fish, which before this episode, we thought relatively simple. However, as the boys mistook monk tails for turbot and sold lobsters for £4.90, we began to wonder if fishmongers are really far more intelligent than they seem.

This series, we have been treated to a Syed- clone by the name of Raef Bjayou. Well, as he pointed out in the boardroom, at least he didn't mistake sharks for hamsters! Events were far more exciting with Renaissance this week. The look on the customer's face as her seafood was bludgeoned to death with the wrong side of a knife was perhaps the highlight of the episode. The most ridiculous decision on the boys' side was to sell fish to an office full of solicitors.

However, in the end it was Nicholas de Lacy-Brown who received 'the big F'. We disagreed with Sir Alan's decision, if only because Nick dislikes football. The incorrect pricing was not entirely his fault- although perhaps he could have defended himself better in the boardroom. If we'd had to have fired him, it would have been for those sunglasses. However Alex did evoke some sympathy when he was called a pauper and 'uneducated' by Raef and Nick respectively.

All in all, it's a promising start for what we're sure will be another cringe-worthy yet unmissable series of The Apprentice.

Don't miss it: The Apprentice, BBC 1, Wednesday at 9pm, followed by The Apprentice: You're Fired! on BBC 2 at 10.30.

My very own Empire States Building!

2007-11-17T17:54:00.000Z

Seeing double

2007-06-14T21:33:00.000+01:00

Around 2 o clock in the afternoon on Tuesday I was sitting in town with my sister eating lunch. Opposite us, a man in his mid-30s was trying to sell The Big Issue to passers-by. Suddenly, he caught my eye, which was practically an invitation for him to try and sell us a copy. Sure enough, he began walking over towards us. My sister and I turned to face him as he approached.

'Well, look at you guys,' he said, smiling. My sister and I exchanged somewhat bewildered glances.

'You look like twins,' he continued cheerfully. 'Both wearing the same trousers, eating the same lunch, both wearing glasses- you look identical! I thought I was seeing double for a moment!' And with that, he sauntered off. My sister and I dissolved into laughter, but it wasn't until afterwards that the really strange thing about this incident hit me. He hadn't tried to sell us The Big Issue.

You are a cornflake

2007-02-25T20:49:00.000Z

My memories of eating breakfast as a child have unfortunately stuck with me as I have grown up. Not only do I remember trying to swallow sawdust in milk (aka Weetabix), and listening to John Humphrys arguing with someone or another- I also remember the information on the back of the Kellogg’s Crunchy Nut Cornflakes box. This is hardly surprising, as I would read the same message every single morning, until Kellogg’s decided it was time for a change. Unfortunately, it seems the rest of the world has not moved on, and even as I write, I am sure millions of people all over Britain are reading the same message: you are what you eat.

Even as an innocent 6 year old, I could see there was little truth in the statement. Admittedly, at the time I took the phrase rather literally and would spend the day wondering whether I was going to turn into my breakfast, lunch or dinner. However, ten years on, this apparent ‘fact’ only serves to annoy me. This line has been so over-used by health campaigners that its message has been lost- if there ever was a message.

Nowadays, a lot of emphasis is put on the food we eat and the effect it may have on our health. I completely agree that we should try to have a balanced diet but this is not the message that many nutritionists are giving out nowadays. One such ‘nutritionist’ is Gillian Mckeith, who was brought to my attention by this article in G2. Amongst other utterly false facts, she claims that only growing cells contain DNA. Even I, a humble AS-level biologist, know this is not true. Until recently, she was known as Dr Mckeith, yet she was stripped of this privilege when it was discovered that her qualification could be bought on eBay for $60.

To prove a point, I would like to quote a passage from Ben Goldacre’s article:

She talks endlessly about chlorophyll, for example: how it's "high in oxygen" and will "oxygenate your blood" - but chlorophyll will only make oxygen in the presence of light. It's dark in your intestines, and even if you stuck a searchlight up your bum to prove a point, you probably wouldn't absorb much oxygen in there, because you don't have gills in your gut. In fact, neither do fish. In fact, forgive me, but I don't think you really want oxygen up there, because methane fart gas mixed with oxygen is a potentially explosive combination.

The day after I read this, another article on health was brought to my attention, which spoke of the benefits of taking a siesta:

‘People who take short naps during the day cut their risk of dying of heart problems by at least a third, according to a recent study which adds weight to evidence that good sleep is crucial for a long life.’

This seems like a much more simple solution to healthy living than stuffing your face with raw vegetables and DNA all day. Besides food and sleep, we also need exercise. Eat well, sleep well, but if you are not putting your body through its paces every now and again, your health will inevitably deteriorate as scientists frequently remind us. They recommend that everybody should do 30 minutes of exercise at least 5 times a week.

It occurs to me that this article may sound a little bossy, but it is merely an attempt to remove the blindfold which the food industry has neatly placed over our eyes. So next time you’ve run out of chlorophyll- filled greens, spend the half hour it would take you to go to the shops sleeping or exercising…or criticising nutritionists.

(Stereo)Typical

2006-11-25T23:54:00.000Z

There I am, innocently standing with my mother in a queue in Sainsbury's when suddenly an asian woman wearing a headscarf approaches me. She thrusts a multipack of Pombears (if I recall correctly) in my face and begins babbling away in Urdu. Sad as it may be, I cannot speak nor understand Urdu so I am rather shocked by this somewhat rude intrusion into my solitary thoughts and begin to edge away towards my mother. The lady (L), realising the scenario, turns to my mother (M) and the following conversation ensues (it was later translated for me by my mother):

M: What's the matter?

L: She no speak Urdu? No speak? (this in broken english)

M: No, but I do. What do you want?
L: I was wondering if these crisps are halal? Can I eat them?
M: Yes they are. We eat them
L: Oh, OK, thanks
(pause whilst my mother turns to pay)
L: Is she your daughter? (indicating me)
M: Yes
L: Masha-Allah. So where abouts in Pakistan are you from?
M: Erm, we're not actually from Pakistan, we're from Africa

L smiles and nods, but it is clear from her expression that she does not believe or does not want to believe that we are not from Pakistan. Because, as we all know, if you wear a headscarf then you can speak Urdu and if you comply to both of these conditions, then you are from Pakistan. Obviously.

The Veil

2006-10-22T23:53:00.000+01:00

Jack Straw's comments on the veil and the court case of Aisha Azmi have raised much speculation amongst the British public as to whether the veil should be allowed, not only in a teaching environment but also in Britain generally. The debate has sparked outrage amongst some (mainly those who wear the veil) but agreement amongst others- 'If veils are ok why not hoodies?' Whether you're for, against or indifferent to the matter, it's worth watching the discussion on Question Time. Click here to read other viewers' comments.

Durham Cathedral

2006-10-06T22:42:00.000+01:00

Chi???

2006-08-12T15:04:00.000+01:00

Upon discovering that it is almost impossible to find a Persian who understands English, I decided to learn a few key phrases in Persian before my visit to Iran. Besides the basics such as 'please' and 'thank-you', I also learnt how to say, 'I don't understand Persian'. I assumed this would save me from a tricky situation I am only too familiar with, where a huge woman is bearing down on me, babbling away in Persian, oblivious to the fact that I don't understand a word she's saying. Unfortunately, I made a false assumption.

Before entering the mosque for Friday prayers in Qum, everybody is checked and handbags are searched thoroughly. Although cameras are allowed at the Holy Shrine, they are not allowed in the masjid. I was unaware of this and was therefore stopped at the door of the masjid by a fierce-looking woman, who pulled out my camera and began waving it in the air. As she began yelling at me, I desperately looked around for my sister, who knows fluent Persian. However, she too was being challenged about the contents of her bag, so I turned back to my interrogator and politely informed her that I didn't understand what she was saying.

She paid no attention to me and continued shouting. I couldn't tell if she wanted to keep the camera, let me in with it, make me take it outside or throw it out herself. Now panicking about what would happen to the camera, I grabbed her sleeve and repeated that I didn't understand Persian. By this time, another woman had come over to see what the problem was and when she heard what I had said, she turned to me with an incredulous look on her face. I roughly translated her next few sentences as:

"What??? You don't understand Persian? Why not? Anyway, it doesn't matter whether you undertand Persian or not, NO CAMERAS!!"

She grabbed the camera from the first woman and thrust it into my hands, vaguely waving in the direction of the exit. At last, my sister came over.

"Sorry, my sister is from England and doesn't understan what you're saying," she explained.

"Oh, England! I'm very sorry, I didn't know that. Tell her to take the camera outside and leave it in the lockers," said the first woman in gentler tones. She turned to me but before she could say anything else, I took my chance and rushed outside. So much for getting out of tricky situations.

A late addition

2006-07-16T22:30:00.000+01:00

Zinedine Zidane (France) headbutts Marco Materazzi (Italy) in the chest in the world cup final.

Three Brazillian

2006-07-14T22:16:00.000+01:00

In a Cabinet meeting this morning, Donald Rumsfeld reported to the President and the cabinet. He said, "Three Brazilian soldiers were killed today in Iraq." The President said, "Oh, my God!" and buried his head in his hands. The entire Cabinet was stunned. Not a word was spoken. Usually George Bush showed no reaction whatsoever to this kind of report. Just then, Bush looked up and said, "How many is a brazilian?"

Best World Cup Moments

2006-07-10T21:34:00.000+01:00

Asamoah Gyan (Ghana) helps Andrea Pirlo (Italy) in a group match.

Ronaldo (Brazil) celebrates his goal against Ghana

The Italians celebrate their victory

Fransesco Totti (Italy) decides to bring some gymnastics into play against Michael Ballack (Germany).

Louis Figo (Portugal) and Oliver Khan (Germany) after the Germany won the third-place match 3-1.

Take your time...

2006-06-19T21:00:00.000+01:00

Something I have always been teased about is how long it takes me to eat. I maintain my argument that you cannot possibly enjoy a rushed meal, because eating slowly allows you to savour the taste of the food.
Unfortunately, I seem to get a lot of stomach aches and yesterday, my dad came up with a theory.
"The reason you always feel sick is because you take so long to eat that your stomach becomes full of air," he declared. Perhaps I eat a little too slow, but I have proof that wolfing down your meal is far worse.
About a week ago, I was eating my tuna mayonnaise baguette whilst chatting to my friends before an exam. I watched in disgust as one girl finished her baguette in three bites and sat waiting for 15 minutes for the rest of us to finish.
"How do you manage to eat so fast?" I asked her, amazed.
"I don't chew." Seeing my querying look, she added,
"What's the point in chewing when you've got hydrochloric acid in your stomach?"
I decided not to answer. Incidentally, when I asked her how she found the exam, she replied,
"I couldn't concentrate because I had such a bad stomach ache."
I rest my case.

Why O Why?

2006-06-09T22:48:00.000+01:00

As you may have suspected from the note of despair in the title, my life is not very good at the moment. Having GCSEs is fine, about 3000 other people are having them too, and thousands more have already had them. But, how many of them were asked to describe themselves in their English exam? I had one hour to describe my looks, my personality, my emotions...Is it possible to sum yourself up in only two sides of writing?

I thought the whole point of having external examiners was to prevent bias. Having now described myself to the examiner, I am in deep trouble if they don't like the sound of me. However, I hardly think a piece of writing for 27 marks can do justice to anyone, no matter how boring or mundane they are. Sometimes, I wonder if the examiners actually think about the questions when they set them.

Exams never end...

2006-06-02T22:48:00.000+01:00

Oh dear. The truth is gradually sinking in. My GCSEs begin in TWO DAYS!!! I have seven exams next week, and six more the following week. As they get closer, the feeling of dread inside me grows. The strange dreams have started and I find myself waking up drenched in sweat because I haven't really turned up to my maths exam in pyjamas. I have finally come up with a good explanation for my feelings. It's like being on a ride at Alton Towers; you're going up and up and up...and you know that drop is going to come eventually, but you don't know when and how hard it will be. You just want it to be over. At the moment, I'm on the way up- I just hope the inevitable drop is more Squirrel Nutty Ride than Oblivion.

Lunch Atop A Skyscraper

2006-06-02T22:43:00.000+01:00