A creative writing exercise on my life thus far.

I started as a sperm in one of my father's testes; shortly afterwards, I made my way through my mother's cervix (after some predictably dull and lacking foreplay) to an ovum.

After a period of nine months' gestation, I was born unto the world in a bloody, stinking mess on March 22nd, 1989, in the Royal Sussex County Hospital, Brighton. I'm not sure whether I cried or was smacked by the doctor, but I was presented to my pained mother - who had just loosed a nine-pound infant from her nether regions.

I was grumpy as a child: I suffered from severe eczema on my face and bottom; I cried often, and the first thing I learned to say - aside from the stumbled 'mamma' and dadda' - was a snippet from the Home and Away theme song.

I wore a 'duck-a-duck' coat (with the hood of a duck), and I did a 'thing' with my eyes - I used to try to look up into my skull (God knows how that's cute).

I started at pre-school at four, and moved on to primary at five - at which time I met my still-best friend, Adam. I don't remember prinary school much - just the playfights, detentions, and childish to-and-fro bullying (I was a naughty, unsettled child, but I also brimmed over with academic excitement) - but I recall my first teacher, Mrs Lutrario, thought I'd need extra tuition outside of school hours - the bitch!

At age eleven, I moved to high school in Brighton - which is quite funny, seeing how I was a tall child for my age - away from Adam. I made a few oddball friends almost immediately - it makes me sigh to ponder their importance to me and how much I still cherish having known them.

I went to a college; ducked out. I went to another; did blandly. I studied journalism; didn't follow it through. But now I'm here, in parochial, pokey old Chichester, and I'm certain of my ambitions: I want to teach English language.

My future is uncertain, but I hope it's a happy one; and I hope that I'm delerious with drugs or some other form of mental stimulus when I die - hopefully happily, surrounded by my appreciative, mournful, and yet comically ambivalent, family.

Interesting Facebook status updates (some simple formulas).

Stupid concept 1 + stupid concept 2 = not much more than the sum total of both.

-Gay + -gay = heterosexual.

BNP member + psychoanalyis = good joke.

Beef + bread = where the fuck is the mustard?

-Gay x +gay = C grade in mathematics.

If several Holocaust deniers die in a forest, does anyone bother counting the dead?

Jesus + crazy = funny crazy.

Mohammed + crazy = *whistles*.

Scientologist + crazy = the square root of crazy.

It's been a long time....

It's now October, and autumn is upon us. Halloween is due shortly, and the Brighton Comedy Festival is soon to be under way. To usher in this new month, I've decided to write a post which encompasses several things. I'll begin....

First, I have a few words to say on the popular and persistent confusing of the words fewer and less. Less applies to uncountable nouns; fewer to countable nouns. You're probably feeling slightly nonplussed right now, so I'll clarify the point. If a noun can be counted, use fewer: I have fewer inhibitions than him; five items or fewer. For uncountable nouns, use less: I have less hope now; I take a bit less sugar in my tea, thanks.

Second, I have a few words to say on gerunds and participles. They're both altered forms of verbs. Gerunds are verbs that have been inflected and function as nouns, whereas participles are verbs that have been inflected and function as adjectives. For example:

Gerunds: skiing, baking, sewing, knitting, running, jogging - the suffix -ing has been added to change these verbs into nouns.

Participles come in two forms: present and past and usually come at the end of clauses or sentences. For instance:

• Past: Jim was sleeping; he was robbed a few days ago; Jim has just arrived;
  
• Present: Jim will be arriving any minute; he's a dying man; I'm leaving now.
  

As a rule, past participles end in the suffix -ed and present participles end in the suffix -ing. Sometimes, a participle can cause ambiguity if left in the wrong place and becomes what's known as a dangling participle. For instance, in the sentence whilst walking back home, a car knocked me over it seems as though the car is walking back home - which is impossible, of course. In cases such as this, the sentence should be re-written - the former sentence should read: a car knocked me over as I walked back home or whilst I walked back home, a car knocked me over.

Third, I have a few words to say on the word thanks (or the phrase thank you). Thank you should be used for occassions in which gratitude is to be expressed sincerely. If a mailman hands you your post, you might thank him. But why? He's just doing his job; he hasn't gone out of his way to help you - if he were to give you twenty pounds and some German pornography you might thank him. And if you ever receive marketing calls, the person on the other end will blather on indefinitely about inane products and interject several times with the odd thanks or thank you for waiting (or - God forbid - good-good). Such usage is spineless and insincere, and it sickens me. In the same vein, the word sorry is used excessively these days. I no longer find myself saying excuse me any more, but rather sorry - as if I'm a perpetual inconvenience (alongside every other person on this planet).

Fourth, I'd like to address another lexical confusion: the difference between artist and artiste. An artist is one who expresses something in a way that transcends normal experience (through language or physical expression or painting); an artiste is a cheap entertainer.

Finally, I want to touch on the subject of death - specifically death in the military and police. When one conscripts into the army or police force one understands the dangers one might face, and yet every time a person in, for instance, Afghanistan dies we're told it's a tragedy. It isn't. Civilian deaths are tragedies - as they're unprecedented and can't be accounted for. It might be tragic if a serviceman were shot in a post office by a disenfranchised postal worker, though. If you're in the army, carrying a gun around in some other schmuck's country, you'd better expect some shit. And if you die, don't expect any tears from me; if you don't want to get shot or blown up by an IED, stay the fuck out of Afghanistan.

Bye-bye, blog.

I'm saying au revoir to my blog for a few weeks. In the mean time, have a look through my posts and comment. Happy blogging, mother fuckers!

Rob.

Time out.

I'm taking time out from blogging for a few weeks. In the meantime, there's ample stuff on here for whomever wishes to read it. I'll re-post in about two weeks - when I've got my act together. (And when I've also got a handle on a few words (the spellings of which I should know) - words like epitome, silhouette and silage.) Yeah, I know 'em now, but give it a few days; my brain's as rusty as the Tin Man's wife's vagina* (except that she'd have to be made out of iron to become rusty. Anyway, I'm sure you get the jist of that poor attempt at a joke). Keep reading, and stay happy. See you folks soon!

Rob.

*Hey, I may be on to something here! The idiots who made The Wizard of Oz may've told a scientific mistruth. Fuck them! The Tin Man's joints, by logic, should never have ceased up. Now I've got to find out if tin rusts. Oh, Jesus - it's always something! Oh, well, I guess I'd better go find something 'important' to do - maybe I'll just pick at my arse for half an hour, moving on to my balls and nose after having a good old probe. Yeah, sounds like a fuckin' plan!

TNT.

So, it's a little late in the day now (the day being Monday) but the TNT bargain never came to fruition. I spent four days up in Earl's Court working at the magazine. I was promised an article and the editor deliberated on the inclusion of a feature. NOTHING was published. Nothing. I spent over £100 on that fucking train ticket and nothing came of it. Well, at least I've learned a few things:

1. Any experience is valuable;
2. Don't ever fuckin' work for TNT magazine again (or any shambolic, cheery, middle-of-the-road publications reaching out to a happy-go-lucky, young audience - in tones that are, frankly, condescending).

Ciao, folks. I'll post something of interest later - hopefully.

More info. on Brighton tourism.

Opening hours, admittance prices and website links for attractions:

Royal Pavilion:

http://www.royalpavilion.org.uk/
Open Daily
October to March 10.00am-5.15pm (last tickets at 4.30pm)
April to September 9.30am-5.45pm (last tickets at 5.00pm)
Closed from 2.30pm on 24 December and all day on 25 & 26 December
Adult £8.80
Child (5-15) £5.10
Family tickets:
2 adults & up to 2 children £22.70
1 adult & up to 2 children £13.90
Concessions:
Senior citizens (60 or over) £6.90
Students (identification required) £6.90
Unemployed (identification required) £6.90

Groups of 15 or more:
Adult £7.90
Child £4.60
Concessions £6.20

Brighton Art Gallery and Museum:

http://www.brighton.virtualmuseum.info/
Tuesday: 10am-7pm
Wednesday-Saturday: 10am-5pm
Sunday: 2-5pm
Closed Mondays, except public holidays 10am-5pm, 24 Dec (from 2.30pm),
25 & 26 Dec, 1 Jan
Admittance: free

Booth Museum:

http://www.booth.virtualmuseum.info/
Mon- Sat 10am-5pm
Sun 2-5pm
Closed Thursdays, Good Friday, 22 - 26 Dec, 1 Jan
Admittance: free

Brighton Pier:

http://www.brightonpier.co.uk
Monday to Friday
Palace of Fun 10.00am – 11.00pm
Glitterball Bar 7.00pm – 11.00pm (Friday only)
Victoria’s Bar 10.30am – 10.00pm
Palm Court 11.30am – 6.00pm
Dome 11.00pm – 7.00pm
Rides 11.00pm – 6.00pm

Saturday and Sunday
Palace of Fun 10.00am – 11.00pm
Victoria’s Bar 10.00am – 11.00pm
Horatio’s Bar
12.00pm – 11.00pm
Glitterball 2.00pm – 6.00pm & 7pm - Close
Dome 10.30am – 10.00pm
Palm Court 11.30am – 6.00pm
Rides 11.00am – 9.00pm

Saltdean Lido:

http://www.saltdean.info/lido.htm
Phone (01273) 888308 for more information.
Hove Lagoon:
http://www.hovelagoon.co.uk/
Phone (01273) 424842 for more information.

Getting to Brighton:

The nearest two airports to Brighton are London Gatwick and Heathrow. From Gatwick, you can get a train direct to Brighton. Alternatively, you could arrive via National Express or taxi.
Via the train, the journey is a little over half an hour. Via taxi, coach or car it’s about an hour.

To get to Brighton by car, come out of the airport and take the A23. This will eventually lead to Brighton via London Road. Follow London road and you’ll arrive dead in the centre of Brighton (Old Steine). If the road is busy, you can take a left at the roundabout. You’ll come upon another roundabout here. Turn right, and follow the dual-carriageway all the way to the Hollingbury Bypass. This provides an alternative route to get into Brighton – but the A23 is your best bet.

Getting around Brighton and Hove:

The bus service in Brighton is renowned for its reliability. There are several main areas of Brighton:

Bevendean and Moulsecoomb
Hove
Rottingdean, Saltdean and Peacehaven
Whitehawk and the Marina
Hove
Brighton city centre
Patcham
Portslade and Shoreham.

The Old Steine is located right by the seafront near the pier – you can’t miss it; there’s a war monument and a huge fountain there. From here, the bus service is pretty straightforward. To get to the Marina, hop on a number 7. If you’d like to go as far as Eastbourne get the number 12 bus. This bus also stops at Rottingdean, Saltdean and Peacehaven. To get to Hove or Shoreham hop on a number 5 (the 5 also goes the other way all the way to Patcham). If you need to get to Moulsecoomb or Bevendean, get a 49 or 10 respectively.

TNT magazine experiences.

Since Monday, I've been at TNT - a travel magazine whose readership consists mainly of antipodeans and South Africans. They're based in London - in the hustle and bustle of Earl's court - and they run a disciplined ship (along with a skeleton crew). They're a weekly mag, and, after being there a few days, the mag's credibility has grown in my eyes a hundred-fold.

On Monday, I had to do a capital piece (i.e. a bit on a London attraction) so I hauled my ass over to the Royal Mews. The Royal Mews is an annexed building beside Buckingham Palace and it's where all Her Majesty's horses and carriages are kept. The article I've written will go to press on Monday so I'll upload it then. In the meantime, though, here's an 8-minute-long video you can take a gander at if you're keen.

(I'll upload the video in 10 minutes.)

An apology for my blog post dated May 31st.

I apologise for painting certain characters I encountered in the scheme pejoratively. I didn't intend any malice through my comments. The post is still available but I've removed it in the short-term so as not to offend anyone. I had doubts about characterising certain people and I should've focused only - or mostly - on the work being done. I felt my comments were fair comment but, in retrospect, they painted me in a light which makes me look sneery. I hope all those offended will forgive me.

Yours apologetically,

Robert Head.

An update on the community garden.

Yesterday, we built a panelled fence after some ruthless children knocked down part of the mesh fence - children I was similar to as a child; children who we'll try to educate and entertain.

Around 20 people came along at different times yesterday - a collection of odd, beautiful souls; a homeless man from the Isle of Wight; a girl who's had a troubled life who writes poetry and who finds solace here; and Anouchka's daughter: an eighteen-year-old, beautiful girl who seems somewhat troubled to me - she podium-dances to pay the bills but hopes to become a police constable.

When she brought up that fact, Anouchka brushed it off as if it were nothing but an unconcerning discrepancy, stating that she, too, worked as a podium dancer in her youth.

I like Anouchka. I like all the people who frequent the place. One lady - a scouser - keeps talking about the yet-to-be-done deeds (such as maybe creating a children's area). She's got a bee in her bonnet, but I'm okay with that. She has two lovely children. She also donated a parasol.

I de-weeded. I sat in the sunshine like a king surveying his domain. I let contemplation drift by. It's a beautiful feeling to bathe beneath sunshine in undemanding circumstances.

I was told that King Sturge doesn't plan to build on the land for another five years. Now we not only have community hope; we now have time on our side.

I planted some dill with Lily and we hope it will have grown by November. Some bricks, wood and compost have been donated by various people and now accumulate in a promising heap. There are more flowers here now and two more benches. I donated a table after the previous one was stolen.*

*I was at loggerheads with Anouchka after publishing this because I got a few certain details wrong and she also disagreed with its publication as some comments I made were sourced from private conversations. However, I have apologised in full. I will leave it up for now, after amending a few details. If anyone asks for it to be taken down, I'll do so immediately.