The Colour Of Life.

"Quality album, quality actor"

According to accepted human wisdom, I am a “white” man. According to accepted human logic, white is also a colour used to paint halls, houses, and pejorative graffiti over the brickwork of major cities. Knowing this, it should mean when I stand before a freshly painted white wall, I vanish from view; being as so me and the wall, are one and the same colour. But I don’t. I remain clear as crystal, for all to see. My skin is not actually “white”, it’s more a pale olive shade; which doesn’t have a name. If I was pure white, I’d resemble Casper the Ghost; which I don’t.

According to accepted human wisdom, the actor Will Smith is a “black” man. According to accepted human logic, black is also a colour used to adorn Death Metal guitars, decorate Metallica albums, and paint the bedrooms of angst ridden teenagers. Knowing this, it should mean if the actor Will Smith sticks a 12inch vinyl copy of Metallica’s Black album over his face, it would make him appear to have a square, 12inch head attached to his body; as well as having a Snake tattoo on his lower right chin. But he doesn’t. He’d simply look like a guy holding up a copy of a classic album, to cover his face; which would be silly, as Will Smith is a good-looking dude, and probably buys CD’s. Naturally, these same principals apply to the “brown” and “yellow” people of this world; and their respective colours.

Every living human is defined on the outset by skin-colour. Even after billions of Homo Sapien evolutionary years, the tone of a basic protective shell; developed by nothing more than generations of variation in climate, is still given such an important place in life, regardless of shade. This doesn't mean Will Smith should not be proud of the shade which forms a part of who he is - much less myself or anyone, for that matter. It is just that as a whole, our skin-tone just isn't important, as much as it isn't even accurate.

Forms of art, music, politics, sports, culture, class, morality, ethics, shit, even intelligence, are all in their own ways broken by ideas of incorporating racial issues, born from false stereotypes created around it; when it shouldn’t even be an issue in the first place. It makes me wonder if the whole world went blind, how long till we created vocalism? Separation born from tones of speech. I guess a lot of it is the result of tribal fears from years gone by, slowly catching up on a now more civilized society. But it’s still ridiculous. We have this incredible, powerful gift called a brain, yet still fail to grow beyond an outdated mode of survival; believing anything 'different' is a threat to our existence. Much like the decent folk in life, wankers comes in all colours, shapes, and sizes. It would actually be much simpler if all “Whities” were good, and all “Blacks” were bad. But that shit aint the truth… it is far, far from the truth.

No other species on Earth creates modes of separation, based solely on the tone of a person’s skin. You don’t see ceiling Cats creating gangs of Apartheid, against the gingers or basement Moggies – calling them dirty Miggers; whipping them hard as they carry noms from distant houses, while forcing a secular religion upon their fears and molesting their ancestors. By all accounts, Cats couldn’t give a fuck – you leave them alone, they’ll do the same. Racism to a Cat is irrelevant; you feed them, they like you. You don’t feed them? Fuck you pal, I’m finding someone better. 

Racism is ridiculous, and tragic. A level one brick wall in the computer game of life, made complicated by the greed of Caucasians from lands past, and the lack of education by their African ancestors to understand the exploitation at that time. It isn’t even an end-boss; like Cancer, AIDS or any of the other shit the Devil tries to fuck us with. Racism is a stupid, man-made ideal, which serves no purpose; except to remind us of how far we have come, but how much further, we still need to go.

Perhaps this is the real irony of human beings. Given the gift of a basic self-awareness, in order to perhaps figure out the mysteries of existence, and yet they spend 95% of the time arguing over the importance of skin-tones; creating stupid shit like white only golf clubs, or black music awards - when did music have a skin-colour? Some things make sense culturally; hairstyles, foods, etc. But much like Tiger Woods as a golfer, or Eminem as a rapper, if you stop people doing shit because of their skin-colour, imagine the amount of missed potential passing our species by. Letting skin define us, is an insult to every last potential in any human being.

Tomorrow, Will Smith will awake, eat food, have a shit, get dressed, and do a bunch of stuff. So will I, so will you, so will everybody else. The skin-tone will not make any difference biologically; only potentially in a social manner. Be proud of who you see in the mirror. Be even prouder of who you are in your heart. Because that, is where the real colour of life lies...

  

Lee.

Knightmare on Nerd Street.

"Babysitter of the year; 1990, 1992, 1993"

In the 1990’s, nerds were not cool. This is something of an understatement. In the 1990’s, being a nerd made you a Chess playing, Sci-Fi loving, unattractive, socially awkward male (very few were girls back then), whose place on the human food chain was so lowly regarded, their friendship was less desirable than that of a kid with terminal nits and worms – as well as very busy hands. In the 1990’s, being a nerd, geek, poindexter, egghead, boffin, or any type of pejorative mustered, left you nothing more than a charmless freak; a future basement dwelling, lifetime virgin of the highest order. 

In these times, nothing more epitomized their lifestyle than their undying love for Knightmare. For those unaware, Knightmare was an interactive fantasy Television show for kids, in which four children (usually male nerds aged between nine and thirteen) entered a mystical castle run by Tregard – a man whose heavy Fishermans beard, made him appear to have fiddled more minors than Maggie Thatcher. Inside this castle, three of the lads would sit in Tregard’s dungeon watching through a screen, as the fourth member was sent on his visionless, helmeted quest (to protect his eyes from the dangers which lie ahead, apparently), carrying nothing but an empty satchel and the wits of his team - in order to free a maid, retain a sword, or lose their virginities; the quests varied from time to time, and I’m guessing some of those contestants still haven’t completed the final one. 

Through each quest, there were many potential ways to die in the castles many levels – which, ninety-five percent of the time, they did; usually through missing a spell, neglecting to steal a pie from varying monsters. (Pictured – without his pie) Though why a skeleton spider monster needs to eat a fucking pie, is never explained. Or how he managed to pick it up? Other forms of death included pissing around too long in a room where daggers shoot from the walls, or tiles falling from beneath their feet; the castle must have been built by pikeys, I guess. The villains were pretty sadistic, killing little kids in helmets. And why they sent pre-teens in to do the job, instead of the SAS or Chuck Norris, I will never know.

"Give me back my pie!"

Every room entered would be met with the blind boy saying “Where am I”. I mean every last time. Worse still, he never took his helmet off, ever. The kid’s in an evil dungeon, always seconds from death in a building where every room is a cross between Dungeons and Dragons and the movie Cube, and he still keeps the fucking mask on. 

Bulging stomach sandpit sinking him to his death, still kept on. Pie eating skeleton breathing down his neck, nope. Shit, even the angel voiced wench/secret witch, with her seductive tones, couldn’t do it. I so hoped one episode she would say to one of them, “I’m stark bollock naked here, horny, and I know a spell to free a maid. Why don’t you take your mask off and have a look”. I bet even if the unfunny court jester –who kept popping up now and again, started bum raping the boy, he’d still keep the pissing mask on. If only Jimmy Saville had presented Knightmare instead.

That was the other portion of the show. The residents of the castle regularly met these boys, while doing very little else. Surely one of these dwellers would have eventually said to a particular boy “Look, you arseholes keep coming through here. All you ever want is a spell or food, or some shit like that. Maybe one of you could at least get me a beer or a copy of Razzle! And where are your parents? Of course, should the boy die in the castle, him and his friends were banished to the never lands for eternity. I actually thought that was genuine, until I saw a group who perished on a Thursday, appear on kids show Motormouth the ensuing Saturday. Unless Motormouth was also a part of this abyss; which is possible… Andi Crane was there too.

As the seasons progressed, Tregard bought in Pickle - a slim young Elf boy, as a dungeon companion. Likely born from his tiredness of bumming frozen kids; or no longer being able to seduce them with bread, water, computer games, and pies of deformed skeletons. Eventually, in 1994, and after seven years, the show finally ended. The dungeon closed its doors for the final time, and nerds nationwide turned their attentions to Mulder, Scully, and Captain Picards bald head on the Enterprise.

"Gargoyles Are Easy - Google it"

Last Friday however, Knightmare resurfaced on Challenge TV here in the UK – at a unique Friday 10pm slot.  Which I caught a showing of; hence this blog. Beyond the jokes, or the realization I love taking the piss out of the show. To be honest, watching it back after all these years, it‘s actually a pretty original, entertaining, fascinatingly creative product. The drama-school actors hammed it up with such passion, the rooms contained many original creatures; my favourites being Granite-arse, the talking wall which looked like an arse, and the low self-esteem gargoyle (pictured). And for thirty minutes a week, nerds felt a power which made all their wedgies and wet willies worth the pain. 

The show was revamped this summer as a one-off special; as part of YouTube’s "Geek Week". And while the cast came off to me as a mixture of Franz Ferdinand and Paramore visiting their mad bearded uncle, the show retained its elements of charm; the kind which helps create articles like this, almost two decades later. But it wasn’t cool back then to like Knightmare. And the open love of it probably got a few poindexters beaten up. 

Of course, the flame of Tregard, Granite-arse and the rest, is kept alive and well in the minds of it's loyal fanbase. But in the 1990’s, nerds were not cool. How times change… 

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50 Things Which Make Me Just Like Everybody Else.

1.   I carry around a host of scars, no one else can see
2.   I often feel misunderstood
3.   I am not Bob Hoskins (Bob Hoskins is excluded from this one)
4.   The only answers I have, are those which help myself.
5.   When cut, I bleed
6.   I am an artist of my own expression
7.   My body has 206 bones
8.   I am smarter, funnier, and better looking than I realise
9.   I wish I were happier
10. I wish I were richer
11. I wish I were younger
12. Some days, solitude delivers clarity
13. Some days, solitude delivers insanity
14. I have never lived a day in the nineteenth century
15. I find newborn babies adorable
16. I am slower than Usain Bolt (Usain Bolt is excluded from this one)
17. I was born on a planet called Earth
18. I wouldn't drink beer if it contained no alcohol
19. I talk to myself
20. I pick my nose
21. I control impulse, but not all the time
22. I am driven by survival, then replication
23. I am aware most forms of public transport stink of Piss
24. I will sleep for at least a third of my life
25. I have committed all seven sins
26. I am 99% oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus
27. I am less famous than David Beckham
28. My then is a memory
29. My now is a moment
30. My tomorrow is a dream
31. Viewing life as negative or positive, is my choice
32. I cannot prove anything beyond this life, in this life
33. I have never visited Mars
34. I enjoy laughing
35. I am riddled with eccentric foibles
36. I downplay my abilities
37. I cannot wear a beard as cool as Jesus Christ
38. I make at least one mistake each day
39. I have never met Vincent Van Gogh
40. I have masturbated at least once
41. A man and a woman are responsible for me being here
42. There are no shape-shifting reptilians around me
43. I am not under the control of the Illuminati or New World Order
44. I am a perpetrator
45. I am a victim
46. I know more now than I did ten years ago
47. I hide my strengths, and expose them.
48. I hide my weaknesses, and expose them.
49. One day I will die
50. I am alive

Moonlight Thinking.

Throughout my life, I’ve always felt like someone on the edges of society. Kinda like the square peg which only slightly fits into that circular hole it is meant to adapt into. Too street wise for the intellectuals, too intellectual for the street wise. Too determined to be a failure, too lazy to secure success. You can pick your cliché here from all manner of tired statements. But my point is, I have spent most of my life feeling an odd sense of isolation from humanity, while conversely connecting with it, in ways which appear genuine to most people I meet; born from those wonderful acting skills, we all learn in the nature of protection, in the more dangerous side of this game of life.

This, however, is nothing exclusive to me as a person. It is essentially the life of a thinker. People who think a lot, often find themselves spending more time consciously wondering about shit, then actually doing stuff - while concurrently balancing these extremes. It is like taking the pleasures of life and trying to understand them all, instead of just allowing ourselves to enjoy them. It is also why thinkers need avenues of brainless activity, to both allow themselves a mental break, as well as tune back in to physical reality. I go to the gym, watch Wrestling, and in general search for entertainment in the stupidest of life's aspects, to help avoid falling into the abyss of an over-analysis which serves no purpose, in the grand scheme of having fun; in a life far too short to forget how to enjoy.

But it is difficult for the thinker. For while physical activities are easy to share with others; as they can be seen and understood. Thoughts and ideas are much more complicated to hand to one another - as our own processes are different, and the mechanics operate with greater convolution. In other words, it is much easier to play bat and ball, then to group together and design a puzzle.

Who knows. It is late, and a lot of this sounds like pretentious bollocks, when I read it back. And I am writing more of a personal, self-gratifying, random log here, than a well thought out blog article. Those of you who read this may well wonder what I am talking about. This is not a clever, thought provoking series of words, it is just a bunch of jumbles before I go to bed. Blog writing is hard work, and most are read by a few number of people. But I keep going, because I love to write, and love words. The beauty of this blog however, is I didn't allow it any thought. At least I don't think I did. The edge's are not always clear...

Lee.