It's not what you know...

There are many things in life that scare the hell out of me. Horror films, people with B.O and the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street to name just a few. But two online newspaper "columns" I've read during the last week have to top the lot. Both have been published on prestigious online newspaper sites. Both bring a whole new meaning to bad journalism.

A small part of me died when I read Richard Dennen's 'gay party animal' piece for the Evening Standard. And words cannot describe my reaction to sex-obsessed 51-year-old Julie Burchill's column for the Indy. I wouldn't know where to start in critiquing either article. It was clear from the offset neither writer has the ability to string a sentence together, never mind master the art of punctuation. In fact, the only journalistic talent on the page came from the readers themselves in the comments section.

Never in my life have I read such rubbish. Not even in my local free paper, which, to be fair, has printed some very questionable material. Having never heard of either writer, I googled them and found, to my horror, they are both successful journalists. Burchill in particular has had a very lucrative career - starting out aged 17 at the NME and moving steadily upwards to reach the dizzy heights of the Sunday Times. Dennen hasn't done too badly either, writing for Tatler - the magazine for the privileged social elite. Which leads me to wonder...is talentless the new talented?

I've since heard rumours that both pieces are spoofs; publicity stunts designed to attract as much traffic to each site as possible. If this is the case they've certainly been successful. Dennen's piece has attracted 65 reader comments, with Burchill receiving a staggering 111. With the average article drawing 1-2 comments they've kicked up a storm. 99% may be negative, but hey, don't they say any publicity is good publicity?

Spoof or not, there's no getting away from the fact these people can't write. Being an aspiring journalist myself it saddens me to see talentless writers getting the gig whilst others with genuine ability are thrown on the reject pile. The much-used phrase "it's not what you know, it's who you know" seems very applicable here. Richard Dennen's shameless name-dropping makes it clear one of his contacts got him a foot in the door. In fairness to Julie Burchill, she got into the NME off her own back, but now has an array of famous friends (and ex-husbands) in her phonebook who have no doubt helped her along the way.

Call me envious (and I am!) but I beg these two to find another profession before they're hunted down by an angry mob. Oh, and please give their columns to me...

Too many action films?

Men seem to have a strange obsession with action flicks. Take a muscle-bound vigilante who can save the world with just a sub-machine gun in hand and you've already whetted their appetite. Throw in a couple of sexy, scantily-clad woman and you've got their full attention. Add a little blood and gore alongside a few unnecessary explosions and you've got them pre-ordering the DVD.

The truth is, action films bring out the feral side of men; the side that makes them want to go and hunt a large beast before returning and mounting the nearest woman. Luckily for both the female and animal populations of the world, 99.9% of male action film fans would have to down a litre bottle of vodka and take 20 E's before they'd  consider emulating the behaviour of their hunky heroes. 

Unfortunately that still leaves 0.1% who fantasise about it when they're sober as a judge. And - even more terrifyingly - act upon their fantasies. 

Raoul Moat is the most recent example. The steroid-injecting fugitive has waged a one-man war against police since allegedly shooting three people five days ago. Claiming he won't stop until he's dead, Moat started a nation-wide manhunt after it was claimed he gunned down ex-girlfriend Samantha Stobbart, her new boyfriend Chris Brown and a police officer in a jealous rage.

Only two days after being released from prison for assaulting his daughter, the bodybuilding ex-doorman got his hands on a sawn-off shotgun before tracking down his ex and her new man at a family party. He allegedly opened fire through a window, critically injuring Samantha, before shooting Chris in the head at point blank range. He is understood to have also shot local policeman David Rathband in the head after making his escape.

Chillingly, other inmates at Durham prison have claimed Moat boasted about carrying out the shootings on his release, after being dumped by Samantha for another man. He also wrote "watch and see what happens" on his Facebook page and claims to have made a 'hit list' of other victims. Five days later and he's still on the loose after committing an armed robbery, releasing two hostages, writing hate letters to police and making at least two abusive phone calls to detectives. 

This all sounds very familiar. The plot isn't too far removed from several late-night action films I've had the misfortune to sit through when there's nothing else on TV. Having two brothers, I've also noticed a certain similarity to the video games they used to play when we were teenagers. Worryingly, these films and computer games can glorify extreme violence - encouraging deranged types to carry out insane 'copycat' crimes. 


The Moat saga could very easily be turned into a Hollywood blockbuster. The problem is...this isn't a game of Grand Theft Auto. This is real life. Innocent people are getting critically injured and killed. Residents across the whole of Northumbria are petrified to leave their homes, whilst those on his 'hit list' have been forced into hiding.

Sources close to Moat claim he'll continue his quest until he's killed in a showdown with cops; going out in shower of bullets. I only hope it doesn't come to that - he doesn't deserve the martyrdom it would bring. They should throw him in a maximum security cell for life instead; that would give him plenty of time to gather his thoughts and realise he's not Rambo...just a loser who watches a few too many Hollywood films. 

The beautiful (?!) game

It's arrived. World Cup fever is officially upon us - bringing joy to millions of men and, no doubt, misery to equally as many women.

After sitting through endless Premier League matches during the football season you'd think long-suffering wives and girlfriends of football supporters would be entitled to at least a summer off. But the minute the Premier League winners have finished nursing their champagne hangovers we're immediately treated to a new form of torture: the football tournament. An entire month of  blanket coverage through every possible medium, with TV schedules practically obliterated to accommodate for the beautiful game. 

The only alternative for bored viewers seems to be Channel 4, where they are faced with the Big Brother freak show around the clock.  Either that or a Friends re-run. Clearly not a great time to be a football hater.

Now don't get me wrong - I'm all for a bit of patriotism. In fact, the World Cup is pretty much the only time us English dare wave the St George's flag for fear of offending others. So I'm more than happy to tune in and cheer England on and, dare I admit, often find myself getting quite into the game when I do. The reason? I love the drama. Judging by the fans' reactions you'd think a life-or-death scenario was unfolding before our very eyes rather than a group of overpaid men kicking a ball around. 

What utterly baffles me is people's insistence upon watching every match. Understandably the Brazil games may be of interest, along with a few of the other major players. But Serbia vs Ghana? South Korea vs Greece? And, worst of all, Japan vs Cameroon? Sorry, but I just can't see the attraction. To be honest, the idea of being forced to sit through every game (and listen to those Vuvu horns blaring) for the next month fills me with dread.

It just might be worth it if we were in with a chance of winning. As each World Cup comes around, desperate fans keep up their hopes with completely unrealistic dreams of England suddenly becoming champions. Seeing as we've won squat since 1966 I'd say it's pretty unlikely. Fans face hot, sweaty and tense conditions in crowded pubs and for what? To witness another inevitable defeat and have their dreams shattered.

So let's look at this objectively: it's just a game. Enjoy it while it lasts...and then get over it. 

The Cumbria massacre: Should UK gun law be tightened?

Just a week ago, Derrick Bird was an inconspicuous cabbie from Cumbria; now his smiling face stares out from the front pages of newspapers across the globe. His infamy stems from a crime shocking people the world over; a horrific shooting spree in several sleepy Cumbrian villages which saw 12 innocent people murdered and 25 injured.

Armed with a shotgun and a .22 rifle, Bird's reign of terror lasted over 5 hours and saw him cover 45 miles before turning the gun on himself. Alarmingly, he was fully licensed to keep both the firearms he used to gun down his victims; predominantly shooting them in the face at close range.

To friends and family he was a quiet but sociable and seemingly 'normal' man whose only frivolity was a taste for foreign holidays with friends. But deeper digging has uncovered his fondness for Thai prostitutes, a theft conviction, a £100,000 unpaid tax bill, a secret bank account and strong evidence of self-harm on his body. A few months before the shootings he allegedly walked into the A&E department of his local hospital claiming he wanted to commit suicide.

As police peel back the layers of his life it becomes all the more apparent there was more to Derrick Bird than met the eye. Understandably even those closest to him weren't aware of much of the above. He has been described as a private man who clearly kept much of his inner feelings to himself. But it was widely known he was a registered gun keeper, inheriting his weapons from his late father who left them to him in good faith as a family heirloom.

Yet no one questioned the need for an ordinary man, a taxi driver with a modest home and no surrounding land to keep two powerful guns. Even more worrying is that, despite meeting the rigorous criteria needed to legally own a gun in the UK, Bird was clearly not in his right mind. He may have appeared a sociable and contented man on the surface, but scratch slightly below and things become decidedly more ugly. This brings a strong argument to light: can anyone really be trusted to keep a gun?

In the days following the shootings, several calls have been made for the Government to review the laws surrounding gun ownership. Surely this kind of tragedy highlights the flaws in legislation; in the last 25 years three madmen have been allowed to murder a total of 44 innocent people in rampages years apart from each other. All of whom were ordinary men; gun enthusiasts registered to keep the lethal weapons in their homes.

To me, allowing a person to take a gun out of a controlled environment seems both completely pointless and incredibly dangerous. In a society such as ours where the violent crime rate is relatively low in comparison to other countries, there is no need for firearms to be kept in private houses for self-defence or any other reason. Gun enthusiasts should be able to use the weapons in the safety of a club...and leave them there at the end of each day. The same goes for fox and game hunters; there's no reason why they shouldn't drop their guns off in a secure place at the end of a day's hunt.

When David Cameron visited the villages devastated by Tuesday's shootings, he opposed what he called a "knee-jerk" reaction on the nation's gun laws saying: "You cannot legislate to stop a switch flicking in someone's head and this sort of dreadful action taking place." But you could try. Take away people's rights to keep a gun and just maybe we could help prevent such a terrible and pointless massacre from happening again.

The joys (and pitfalls) of the comfort zone

Last weekend I decided to do something a bit different. Instead of the usual lie-in, lunch and shopping, followed by a few mojitos, I attended a 2-day ‘inspirational and motivational’ course.

Always the cynic, I was sceptical from the start, refusing to wear my name badge and darting towards an empty seat on the back row (in case I fell asleep or needed to make a quick getaway).

The minute I sat down I’d resigned myself to the fact this course was going to be utter rubbish. No doubt the speakers would be preachy and unqualified do-gooders and it would be a total waste of time.

As time went on, my train of thought lost all sense of logic. I looked around me. No one looked like my kind of person. They all looked a bit weird. It could be a cult. What if they brainwash me and then, when I’m least expecting it, kidnap me and bundle me into the back of a van?!

I felt tense. I was outside my comfort zone and I definitely didn’t like it. I longed for my familiar Saturday routine; my lie-in and shopping. Panicking slightly, I checked out the windows to see if they provided a viable escape route.

All of a sudden I was brought back to reality by the sound of a woman’s soothing voice. I thought I may as well hear it out for a while. I could always scarper at break time if it wasn’t my kind of thing.

Fast-forward an hour and I was on the edge of my seat hanging off the woman’s every word. My earlier fears had completely vanished. I’d learned it was perfectly normal to move outside your comfort zone. In fact, by getting out of bed and attending the course I’d actually taken myself into ‘stretch zone’ without even realising.

I pinpointed my fears and ‘limiting beliefs’ and found myself telling total strangers my life story. The speakers encouraged us to set lifetime goals for ourselves and break them down into five achievable steps. Suddenly my crazy fantasies and daydreams actually became realistic.

By the end of the course I felt on top of the world. I’d realised my biggest limiting belief was a lack of confidence in myself and my general ability. I always look at others and think they're better than me.

But last weekend changed my entire way of thinking. Obviously I’m not planning to become an egotistical bag of hot air any time soon, but I’ve definitely got some new-found self belief. I've even decided to leave my job so I can focus 100 percent on becoming a journalist. 

The moral of the story? Ditch the shopping and take yourself out of your comfort zone once in a while. You never know where it might get you.

An ode to mayonnaise

I treated myself to a pea-sized portion of full fat mayo on my sarnie today. Doing so made me think back to the days when I would slather the stuff over everything I ate, blissfully unaware I might as well be wolfing down a lump of lard.

After a night at the student union it would be considered almost rude not to head to the local kebab shop for a large portion of chips, cheese and mayonnaise. Followed by a greasy fry-up the next morning and a burger with chips between lectures.

From the way I've just described my student lifestyle you'd think my physique was comparable to a spacehopper. But it was actually the opposite. I was 8 and a half stone and a size 8.

When I started working I learned the importance of being healthy. No longer could I rely on getting my energy from long lie-ins and my exercise from throwing shapes on the dance floor.

Developing 'office arse' scared me into action. As each day passed I could feel the gradual expansion of my bum as it started spreading itself across my office chair...and it didn't feel good. Then, whilst shopping in H&M I caught sight of my cellulite in the mirror and nearly dropped dead from a heart attack.

So, I started eating my 5-a-day, cooking from fresh and even (in a desperate attempt to maintain my weight) subscribed to Good Food magazine. Okay, admittedly I only choose the tasty looking recipes, which generally aren't in the 'Super Healthy Suppers' section, but there's no doubt I've cut out some serious calories.

Not to mention joining the local gym and vowing to do four workouts a week. After a hellish session on the treadmill and cross-trainer (my fourth in the space of 5 days), I decided to weigh myself. Feeling completely smug and very proud of myself, I was imagining huge weight loss as I stepped onto the scales. After all, I'd virtually killed myself over the past few weeks with my heavy exercise regime. I'd envisaged I'd dropped at least half a stone, if not more!

I gasped loudly as I found out my true weight...and not in a good way. A million thoughts instantly flashed through my mind, the first being that the scales must have been broken. I mean that was the only way. How, how could I weigh an entire stone more than I did at Uni? It was just so unfair and seemed clinically impossible.

After I'd calmed down a tad, a light bulb pinged inside my head. Instead of focusing upon the weight I was, I need to be happy with the weight I am. It's unlikely I'll ever be a size 8 again, but I'm a size 10 which isn't exactly massive. Living in London and being constantly surrounded by willowy women who sashay past in their Chanel sunglasses and trendy clothes made me lose a sense of who I am. What I hadn't thought was they probably survive on a lettuce leaf a day to maintain their weight.

One of my best friends - a qualified nutritionist - once told me I could eat everything as long as it was in moderation. So I spread some mayo on my sarnie then had a slice of my brother's birthday cake. And guess what? I didn't feel guilty at all.

To tell or not to tell, that is the question...

The latest leaders' debate sparked a rather interesting discussion in my office on Friday. Sitting at my desk, I was engrossed in writing an urgent email when a booming voice from the upstairs office nearly gave me a coronary.

My boss, in his typically inappropriate fashion, had begun hollering his opinion on the previous evening's debate to anyone who'd listen. A staunch Lib Dem supporter, he wouldn't hear a word against Nick Clegg's performance, announcing it would be 'a complete joke' if the opposing parties came into office. He then launched into a tirade, criticising just about everything from David Cameron's immigration policy to Gordon Brown's choice of tie.

It soon became apparent this was a one-man debate. The few who'd dared disagree were immediately lambasted, so we all shifted in our seats uncomfortably, hoping the outburst would soon come to an end. It only got worse. Finishing a long-winded speech slating David's fake tan, my boss turned to me saying: "So who are you voting for?"

The dreaded question. I'm the most open person in the world under normal circumstances, quite happy to divulge details of my life to pretty much anyone prepared to listen. However, there are a couple of things I think should be kept quiet. Call me old fashioned, but I've been brought up to believe there are two topics you should never discuss: your salary and who you vote for.

My Dad (a Conservative who always pretends to vote Lib Dem) told me to keep my mouth shut when it came to politics; especially in the workplace. I pointed out I wasn't about to shave my head and join the BNP, but he told me to keep quiet all the same.

Hence why I refused to tell my boss (and eavesdropping colleagues) who I'll be voting for come May 6th. Admittedly I was being a bit self-righteous in the wake of his completely unprofessional outburst, but I had the right to remain silent and I was using it.

His response? "Oh you're such a fucking Tory!" Errr, hang on a minute. He’d just slapped a label on me despite having no facts whatsoever. I’d been judged...in front of all my colleagues. 

The whole debacle got me thinking. Should you tell? Why are politics still such a taboo subject? Why, in this day and age, should people worry they'll be judged by others for supporting a particular political party?

The answer is they shouldn't. We're lucky enough to live in a 21st century democracy, not a dictatorship. People should keep their views private because they want to, not for fear of being discriminated against because they have differing opinions to others.

Whatever the outcome on May 6th, I'll be safe in the knowledge I didn't shout my views from the rooftops. My boss, on the other hand, might be forced to eat a rather large slice of humble pie.