Notes from a Squared Circle.

"At TNA; with the promise of a cage match."
I cannot recall the precise moment when it dawned on me, Father Christmas only exists in Coca-Cola adverts and shopping centres. Even as a young child, I knew it was futile to ask my unemployed parents, to deliver me a pair of £200 Nike trainers, when there was no income and six other brothers to satisfy; settling for the £10.00 board game of Guess Who, Mouse Trap, or whatever fad I was into at the time. Truth is, I didn’t mind - my Mother tried her best. Besides, had we all been more foolish, Christmas would have been a pretty sorry sight in the Gunnell household; as seven kids wondered all day, why Santa decided their house was too shit to visit.

I had the same feelings with most mythical mysteries, children generally buy into with full conviction. The Tooth Fairy’s 20p a pop was obvious bullshit, when my Nan told me I had to wait till the welfare cheque arrived, before old fairy-girl could roll into North-West London. I never understood why the Easter Bunny needed to colourfully package the eggs he made; especially leaving Tesco three for the price of two stickers, on some boxes. Unicorns belonged to the fictional My Little Pony, Leprechauns lived in screenplays about evil Irish villains, and Mermaids was merely a title for a crap Bob Hoskins movie.

However, there was one equivocal fact in my childhood, I knew to be an absolute, iron-clad truth… no matter how many cynics suggested otherwise - and suggest they did. Professional Wrestling, was real! When Hulk Hogan was crushed by the Earthquake and spent six months in hospital; spurred on to return by the sheer number of support from the little Hulkamaniacs, I believed. When Virgil finally rebelled against his treatment as the bodyguard/slave of Ted Dibiase, I believed. When Ric Flair won the World title belt at the Royal Rumble, I believed. And any occasion Big Daddy could never rid himself of the force of Giant Haystacks, you guessed it, I believed! For an eight-year-old in the 1980’s, Professional Wrestling was the epitome of entertainment; physically strong tough guys, charismatic talkers, and crazy storylines - played out through an odd form of muscular ballet.

For a young man with zero adult male role models to aspire to, the Professional Wrestler carried every quality I assumed men were meant to have. Strong, brave, courageous, honourable, honest, and never quit; no matter how much pain they were dragged through. Of course there were bad-guys – commonly known as heels, but I never liked them very much; they would cheat to win, and I saw that as lazy, and lacking in virtue - I still do, even now. 

As I grew through my youth; via puberty, and young adulthood, I began to realise it wasn’t as 100% legit as I once imagined. The internet exposed the inner workings of what in reality, is more business than sport. The extreme nature of progressing storylines made it clear to anyone - with half a sense of logic, that the enemies were not enemies at all; hating each other, yet travelling over the world to fight, is quite ridiculous when you think about it. And slowly over the last few years, and in conjunction with adult life taking over - as it is meant to, like an old friend, we fell out of touch. I still loved it, but it all seemed a little silly, for a man who knew it was a very elaborate work.

"Hulk Hogan - still going strong."

This past weekend however, our flame was rekindled. I experienced my first professional wrestling show in a decade; a 10,000 people strong, Television taping of TNA Impact - at Wembley Arena. The atmosphere was electric, and all the wonder I felt as a child, remained fully in-tact. By the time Hulk Hogan hobbled out to a standard ovation for the final time (he is almost 60) - for the first time in a decade, I believed. I forgot I was watching a predetermined show designed to entertain, and regressed all the way back to the eight-year-old believer who, secretly, was always hoping to be wrong about Father Christmas and the rest. And then as I looked on at the armies of kids - believing, I knew the world is a much better place, for having Professional Wrestling belong to a small portion of it.



I would say that Professional Wrestling is my one secret love - or guilty pleasure. But I am very open about it, and have no guilt whatsoever about my lifelong love affair, with a pseudo-sport which only becomes acceptable in the mainstream, every fifteen years or so. The fans are nerdy to the point it often feels like being in the middle of a paradise for virgins (the guy in front of me took so many photos of one of the female wrestlers arse, I thought his camera might explode), but they are also harmless and friendly.  The workers are a unique group of people, who I have always felt were talented individuals, struggling to fit in amongst the more standard forms of showmanship; very few entertainers can cut promos - even less work out. 


It is constantly ridiculed, criticised, misunderstood, and sniggered upon by intellectuals who think it is classier instead, to read Sense and Sensibility while drinking Merlot. But I don't know, when you consider Sacha Baron Cohen, Andy Kaufman, Jim Carrey and Eminem, are all known fans - perhaps it is not for idiots, as many people may think. And if you think the guys who make a living out of it are stupid, go read any of the novels of Mick Foley or Chris Jericho; then tell me you believe that. I may not follow it as much as I used to, but I love it just as much, all the same...

Lee.

The Perfect Prison Movie.



"Prison - looks shit, probably is."
I love a good prison movie, who doesn't? And while thinking about the consistent nature of these types of film, I have figured out there are ten key ingredients necessary, in order to create the perfect prison movie...

1. Lead character is innocent. In general society, prison inmates are considered low-life's, scumbags, amoral leeches on society, and any other negative term you can muster. Much like lawyers, bankers, or celebrities, many are, and many are not. However, our lead must carry four pivotal qualities, in order for any incarceration movie to work; intelligence, courage, honour... and by far the most vital, be completely innocent of the crimes he has been committed for.

2. Prison Homosexuals fancy lead character.
The bull queen – with cronies in tow, will take a shine to the handsome lead – usually from the moment he arrives. None of the gang are gay as such - just sexually desperate, to the point they will stick their Johnsons in anything remotely human; and a rugged macho-male is exactly what the doctor order for this nefarious chubby bandit. Eventually, our hero will hand the three a good beating, as they come on to him in the communal shower; the message simple... I am a razor sharp arse-kicker, and I don’t want knobs up my bum.  


3. Religious radical nut-case Governor.
A middle-aged con-man; more corrupt politician, than leader of guilty men. He will recognize the new inmate’s skills from the get go. Feeling threatened and insecure, he stops at nothing to break his spirit; often employing his favourite sado-masochistic, Nazi loving warden as his physical enforcer. The lead antagonist, this bible-bashing bastard is guaranteed to receive his comeuppance via a gruesome yet accidental death, five minutes before the end credits roll.


4. One warden; vicious and sadistic, another; kind and empathetic.
Beatings are commonplace with the former. He is an embittered psychopath; as institutionalised as the most hardened inmates. He has no personal vendetta against the main character, as opposed to enjoying the brutal thrill of handing other men vicious beatings. In contrast, his counterpart is grounded in human empathy – and shall at one point help the prisoners in a priceless manner. Unlike our sadist; who will either die, or get arrested for the dodgy acts he secretly involves himself in, with the governor. It is rare, but not uncommon for the kind warden to replace the recently deceased governor.


5. Lead character has own cell, and at one point spends long periods in solitary.
The hole is a small, dingy, pitch black cell; barely big enough to stand in. A place where you receive bread and water for dinner, and your weekly wash is an aggressive hose-down; usually from the evil warden. And for any general reason - but in reality due to his stubborn refusal to become one of the governors "men". Our lead will experience a long period living inside one of these hell holes (varying from a week to six months), in order to break him even more. This attempt usually fails, and only strengthens our hero’s resolve to find freedom.


6. Wiley inmate (usually Black), get stuff. Helps lead character plot escape.
This old guy has seen it all. Incarcerated for a foolish act as a young man (as well as being black), over a short course of time, begins to understand the nature of the leads intellect. Without his aid and knowledge of these complex old buildings, escape is impossible. Has a 50% chance of parole, within the movie’s time-frame. 


7. Elderly inmate befriends lead, offers wise advice... dies shortly afterwards. In his 70's, collects birds, plants, or paints. His main role is to show the lead character how a lifetime in prison (the lead always gets life), creates a poor, slightly deluded life of institutionalisation. While our black fellow still harbours the outside, it scares this guy shitless. Once he has taught the younger man the internal agony of this, he will usually be blown to pieces by a rudimentary bomb, devised by a still bitter bull Queen; who eventually gets transferred for this act, as the kind warden likes our lead, because our lead liked the old man.

8. Young upstart inmate arrives, gives lead meaning... dies shortly afterwards.
The opposite side of this spectrum – and interchangeable with the elderly lifer. This guy is reckless yet good-natured, and is designed to bring out the nurturing side of our hero. Once he has passed the exams he never thought he could, or built the car he had never been able to drive, our lead decides how much he misses his former responsibility of the outside world. Only then is this young-upstart murdered by a sadistic governor, solely to teach our lead, who is in charge.


9. Prison unites for brief, light-hearted moment.
Watching people contained in a living hell is pretty depressing stuff, and a refreshing moment of mass congregation is necessary to split the misery of it all. It is often a primal event; game of football in the mud, rodeo competition, or even food eating contest. These often serve as a useful plot device to galvanize our lead and a grey-area inmate - who works for his own cause, but is proved to be one of the good guys in the end.  


10. Lead character escapes.
With the aid of the old man, the kind warden, a long while of frustration, seeing death, destruction, misery, a few close scrapes, and a lot of nerve, our hero finally escapes and finds freedom. The good get their justification, and the bad do too. If he doesn’t, the whole movie becomes a complete waste of time. He was always innocent anyway, and shouldn’t have been there in the first place… and who wants a crappy ending?


And there you have it. Prison movies are always fun to watch, and even though they often follow a stoic formula, I personally love a good movie set in jail. Who knows, maybe like Cabin In The Woods did for the Horror genre, a maverick director will revolutionize this type of movie. Until then, I believe all these rules are applicable...

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Ode to Media.



"One percent of Thailand."

On every street corner rests a mugger, rapist, or paedophile. Muslim, equals potential terrorist. Opulence makes you an arse - poverty, lazy and irresponsible. Human beings are scum. Earth is five minutes from Armageddon. Kids are evil, murder is common, and the money’s running out. All this leaves us depressed, full of excuses, fat, lazy, and acting to help no one but ourselves. In essence, everyone is either going to hell, or already living in it. According to mass-media, this is the world we live in. According to my eyes, the world is actually pretty amazing, and their impression is one gigantic, elaborate con; and quite frankly, I am amazed how long they have been getting away with it. Let me explain...

My girlfriend is half Thai (born in England to an Asian Mother), and once lived there teaching English to young children. I have never visited Thailand, yet my imagination of it has always swayed on the deeper side of negative. I imagine Thailand as a seedy hotspot; where pathetic Western men hook up with desperate whores and dangerous lady-boys. A land where the searing heat mixed with seething night-life combines amoral thieves, pissed up civvies looking for wars with soldiers, and every foreign visitor being handed death sentences; for picking their nose in front of a poster of the nations Royal Family.

I view Thailand as a dirty death trap, because this is how it has been sold to me over the years in the media; convoluted in stereotypes and slanted misinformation – designed to reinforce a negative viewpoint, to mine and many other ignorant minds. Why? Because sadly, human fascination with beauty cannot compete with that of its ugly side. And selling it's worse points, is better for promotional numbers - hence, advertising space. It's fucked up that the desire for money would allow people to desecrate beauty in order to attain profit - especially as those who do, are hardly living on the breadline. But this is greed and the media down to a tee; in all aspects of all forms of beauty - destroy a life to gain a star; I guess they see it as winner take all.

My girlfriend is naturally upset by my outlook. She tells me Thailand is a remarkable and beautiful land – rich in politeness (It is known as the Land of Smiles), awash in tender delicacies, lush beaches, and an attitude in which if you are respectful to their customs, they treat you like the best friend you ever had; or ever wished you had, in some cases.
"The other ninety-nine."
Of course it has its rough sides, but these are a minor fraction of an entire country. Imagine visiting New York, as someone moans to you how London is hell, when all they ever saw of the city were the 2011 riots, a Jack the Ripper documentary, and a finely edited collection of 80’s hooligan videos. You would be pissed at such a notion, before you mention Buckingham Palace, the 2012 Olympics, Hyde Park, British hospitality, and the zillion others aspects which make London a wondrous city.

It is the Modus operandi of all sensationalist media; the few genuine publishers are falling faster than the average retail outlet. They interview a thousand people about life. If 999 reply how life is beautiful, and one suggests it is shit, they take the one exception, and promote his viewpoint as the rule; ignoring every other statement. The rule becomes accepted as truth, everyone gets angry and afraid, people lose faith in one another, and life, eventually becomes shit. 

All because some arse decided to sell life as hell, in order to move an inch higher along a pointless ladder of perceived power. They have taken heaven and sold it as hell, to the point where if our collective conscience imagine heaven as hell (beyond the next life, hell and heaven are pure states of mind in this one), we slowly turn it into this place. Is it any coincidence, personal misery has grown in correlation with the powers of technologies which allow us to sell life on such grand scales, in one fall swoop? 

So I ask kindly for mass-media to sod off, and cease to exist. Stop telling me all Muslims are terrorists, when I see loads of them every day, just trying to survive. Stop telling me the rich are all cunts, and the poor thick, when I remember the friendship I struck with an upper-middle-class ex-Personal Trainer - who oozed liberalism and a non-judgemental nature; as much as the council housed writer of this blog, being smart enough to string a sentence together. Stop telling me we are five minutes from an Armageddon, which has been just around the corner for as long as I can remember. Stop suggesting the money’s running out, when your lot attain more funds through misery, than you ever have from smiles. Stop promoting this world as hell; when I live in it each and every day, and realize the only true hell is having to accept the power you have over so many nations, it’s become laughably ridiculous. 

Just, go away. We are tired of it. We don't want you promoting your hate anymore. Hate just creates people like Hitler; and no one with a brain wants another wanker like that around. The world is a beautiful place; it's not perfect but I love it nonetheless, and I don't want you arseholes ruining it for all us decent folk; and there are many more than you can imagine.

One day I will visit Thailand. I look forward to its sandy beaches, and wonderful hospitality. You can try to tell me otherwise media, but I will quietly tell you to bugger off; I view this world through my experienced yet eager eyes, not your black, cold-hearted ones. It leaves me a much happier person...

Lee.

Frank The Hat.



I’m sitting in Starbucks raised seating area – on a chair created to give customers an hour or so before the piles kick in, engaged in conversation with local resident, ‘Frank the Hat’. More to the point, Frank the Hat is engaged in a conversation with me - operating on a simple basis of ‘he talks, I listen’. Frank is a smartly dressed 77-year-old Irishman. Recently returned from a four month stay in the local hospital's mental ward, after trashing his own flat due to – in his words, Mi5 wiring the place with microphones; because he knows too much about those greedy banks, government plans to force the Euro upon us, and for telling his local council they are too lefty. 

Frank is a harmless mental case – to human beings at least; inanimate objects need to tread carefully around him, and suffers from paranoid delusions. As usual, another of life’s weirdo’s has gravitated towards me. As usual, I am asking question after question. I do this because there are only two types of people in this world I fear; psychos, and weirdo’s. Thankfully he is the latter; the former I refuse to even entertain.

My plan was to take a seat and read Like The Flowing River; a collection of Paolo Coelho short stories - before my girlfriend arrives. One polite comment about the invisible man nicking my seat later, and off this guys runs; on tangents of how the Eurozone is rubbish, the world is coming to an end – as it has been for the past ten-thousand years. How kids today are ridiculously ignorant and can’t spell, laptops are pointless, and the usual barrage of friendly chat, loaded with deep-seated negative undertones. He tells a stranger his life story; a former soldier, turned postal worker, turned mental case. I always feel sad about meeting seniors who have not attained any kind of philopshical peace after so many years, but it is not my place to judge his life – so I decide to make a move. Moments before I say my goodbyes, and like a silky smooth pick-up-artist, he mentions one other aspect of his life, and it hooks me right back in…

Frank tells me he has spent his past years visiting coffee shops alone, dressed in Jimmy Saville style get up of multi-coloured shell-suits, over elaborate bold shirts, variations of Elton John style sunglasses, and a collection of large, winter animal hats; hence the alias. He regales me with the months spent sitting in Brighton, Charing Cross, and other Starbucks around the UK, wearing clothes which resemble those of a practising Paedophile. He proudly proclaims to be the star of over fifty YouTube videos, hundreds of tourist photos, and how he has made people happy all over the nation; a genuine spark hits his eyes, when he speaks. While Frank is clearly a guy loaded with mental issues, he is also something of an entertainer.

I cannot help but like the guy. He is intelligent, articulate, and has an interesting story. The problem is, Frank unfortunately - like many of the random people in life I engage in conversation, has done nothing but talk about himself. For Frank, I am not important. I am merely a polite sounding board, designed to listen to his story. He has no interest in who I am, what I do, how I do it, and most importantly, what I think about – well, anything; the only question he asks me, is the capital of Iceland – I already know it is Reykjavik. And it is for this reason, I find conversations like this both thoroughly engaging, but also somewhat sad. 

Frank the Hat is a harmless, lonely old man. While he clearly has many issues to contend with, I feel his personality tilt more on the nicer side, than nasty. He was probably just so lonely that it was refreshing to have someone to talk at, about his woes.  I guess being lonely is hard when you are young, but even harder when you are a 77-year-old, paranoid delusional. 

Eventually the text message alert of my phone buzzes. I stand, pat the hat on the shoulder, and wish him well; I only say these words when I mean them. I never had the heart to tell him he wasn’t important enough to be bugged; maybe it is better for him to believe he is...

Lee.

How to Screw Starbucks.



"Hot water, Tea Bag"
I have no misgivings about Starbucks. They are a business. They exist to make a financial profit. While I have always had a good rapport with the staff, and benefited from many hours of free internet, it cannot escape me they remain a company, which has managed to avoid paying hardly any tax in the United Kingdom over the past three years; a pretty hefty chunk of change.

While I never wish for the store to bid Blighty adieu, or even go under; they are an employer of many thousands, after all. I do believe every one of us are within our rights to cash a minor receipt from the grip of their iron-fisted, neon claws! Or, in reality - use it as an excuse to scam a free cup of tea; which is pretty much what I am doing here.

Anyhow, I would like to present the perfect opportunity, in which to do so; saving you a cool £1.85; enough money to spend on three cans of Coca-Cola, a box of 500g Fruit and Fibre from Asda, or even go crazy and splurge on nine-and-a-quarter Freddos. All you need is a little nerve, and a thirst for the drink I am too lazy to research whether it originates from China or India. The technique is as easy as a northern hooker, and all you need is one Tea-Bag (Preferably PG Tips), and the rest works as such:  
   
      1. Approach the counter, or join the queue - whichever is applicable. Once served, ask politely (manners are a sign of respect, and important even if not scamming a free drink), for a paper-cup of hot water. Starbucks offer this as a complimentary refill for herbals teas and the like, and never question the reason as to why a customer asks; if anything, they are too busy to even care. 

"One delicious, hot cup of Rosie!"
      2. Smile at the barista, say thank you. Take the cup in your hand, find a seat, and then sit yourself down. 

      3. Remove said Tea-Bag form your pocket, then place inside the paper-cup. Allow a few minutes; as the leaves merge in a beautiful dance, with the boiling hot water.
 
4. Finally, add a little milk, sugar, or sweeteners from the counter; every Starbucks has one placed logistically near, but out of arms reach from the staff, and you are done! One, free cup of delicious hot tea, courtesy of our favourite, tax avoiding corporate machines. Simple, but effective.
 
It sounds ridiculous, but it works. The odd truth is all laws have loopholes, and bending the law carries zero punishment; unlike breaking it, which is bound by most constitutional systems of national law. Nothing has been stolen, prices are suggested by stores and not iron-clad; the water in this case, free. And the extras are complimentary; ever see someone grab a stack of napkins in one swoop. I can guarantee most of those are going to a new home that evening.
 
On a personal note however, I would advise to never commit this act in an independent coffee shop, and only do it to Starbucks once. While it would be very easy to repeat the action as many times as desired, this would make you as greedy as the company you have conned – making you no better than they are. But the one time you do decide to scam a free cuppa, feel free to happily sit there, and say to yourself “This is for all the tax pounds you never paid, staff members you ripped off, and (whatever other personal justification you can muster to commit an amoral act)” Like moneysupermaket.com, it may make you feel EPIC! Though in my case, I just felt a little guilty...

Lee. (Written in Starbucks, while drinking the only free cup of tea I will ever scam. I received many free complimentary drinks, whilst writing my book in 2011; courtesy of a kind-hearted staff. I cannot morally bring myself to do it again, and am a firm believer in karma).

Growing on the Stairmaster.



"The Stairmaster; my enemy, my friend"
The Stairmaster is my enemy. After years of punishing flat-surface cardio, I - like the majority of lesser minded gym-goers, still actively avoid those collection of rotating teeth-like steps - ready to devour my spirit like a Ghostbusters Ecto-Containment Unit, on a regular basis.

But fear is designed as a barrier to either climb over with intricate skill, or smash down through brute force. And instinctively knowing the machine represents a challenge to conquer, I decide to finally take on this personal beast of burden. The treadmill, rower, cycles, spinning machines, and cross-trainer have all felt the wrath of my determined legs in the past, and now it is time to kick some Stairmaster arse. I am a little apprehensive, mildly passive, yet quietly confident...

As I step on the machine, I begin to climb revolving stair after revolving stair… the initial shock is fierce; as my heart-rate jumps in an instant. I've only stared and already my legs ache, brow drips in sweat, and my arms continuously tell me to clasp the side rails; I refuse, on the principal that if I cannot grab guardrails climbing a mountains, why should I on a Stairmaster. The vibrations knock my trusted water bottle to the ground, so I have only my own resources of energy to rely on. A few minutes in, and the workout ahead promises me a brutal, arduous slog. Come hell and floored water, I finish my first course of punishment. I do not celebrate, for this is only the beginning. Tomorrow, I shall face the Stairmaster again. 

Trying again the next day, my confidence stands an inch taller. The shock of the steps are just as gruelling, yet I am a little stronger in my legs, my lungs breathe slightly deeper, and my heart tells me it will try harder against the work forced upon it. Of course – like all fools, this comes across as an invitation to up the intensity; until I slowly adapt to the new, gruelling pressure. The Stairmaster is a long way away from being under my control, but I now understand it more than I did twenty-four hours ago; making a mental note to adapt my technique and approach, around this smattering of knowledge.

After a week or two of sweat and strain, and many hours spent learning to think while fighting an uphill battle, reality grips me hard about the truth of this fresh enemy; he is simple, yet direct, and is trying to grind me down. He works on a basis of climbing and more climbing, followed by even more climbing,;until I am wrecked enough to the point I give in – as it claims another victim through fatigue. The defeated party accept they are not strong enough to climb the Stairmaster, and switch to the psychological ease of the recumbent bicycles and complimentary coke machines. 

However, I have seen the hole in his plans. Victory is lost in fighting this inhuman machine with sheer physical force; machines never tire, and can work forever and a day this way. Instead, it is found in the psychological battle. I accept that force is all it has, and all I have is so much more. As long as my effort is pure, positive, and determined - as I allow my body and mind to face every ounce of its might, eventually – while I will never be able to control it, I may be able to control how I react to it.

At first I wanted to survive; now I am trying to thrive. While it shall attempt to kick my arse every day, it knows it faces a serious challenge; the reason it was created in the first place... many others will defeat it too. It is not the challenges of life which makes a person tough; it is the way they react to them that does. The battle is a personal one, and also a private one. Tomorrow, I will face the Stairmaster again. One day I will win, another I may lose; the ratio grows with practice…

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