A Maudlin Post...

I lost a boy to a city. The desire for it ate away at him, so he didn't appreciate what was around him :the pretty hills and interesting bits were punctuated with rough accents, poor transport links, even poorer manners (his didn't exactly shine) and loneliness. It made him despondent, full of hatred and detached.

All I could do was watch as he drifted into these city dreams - his imagined paradise didn't seem to include me, being , as they were, part nostalgia and part wishful thinking. When the opportunity called, he left his small northern town, fled to bright lights, busy streets, sandwiches at 2am, boats, towers and culture. I was stuck in another even smaller, even more remote small town and couldn't follow right then, but by that time it didn't matter -he realised he didn't want me to.

I'm listening to Emmy the Great, City Song, which always reminds me of that fool of a boy. He isn't entirely happy now, which makes the whole thing tragic. I'd fix it if I knew how, but as the second rule of life dictates -

• You can't fix people, don't even try.

And to finish this rather wistful post, the end of my time in Aber is almost up. When I arrived I was a rather blissful soul in my mid twenties, now I'm creaking to the end of them, all jagged and cranky. Am I sad to go? No! What's wrong with you? This place reeks of chips (please remember, it's my new year's resolution to spread this fact) and is utterly bereft of any forms of civilisation apart from competitive inbreeding, there's nothing to do but look at the bloody hills, a foul train service or a bus to the capital that takes four bloody hours, and the dreadful accent....

Okay, I'm slightly choked up. I'll miss the nights on the beach, some of the people that have made it so memorable, and the feeling of welcome return after fleeing in the wake of cabin fever - walking up Fford y Mor, turning the corner and being home and ready for bed. Of course the big wide world beckons, so it's not all bad.

Used without permission, but from the very excellent flicker stream of 'Jim Blob Bann'

Natural Born Millers

A small sample of nature's latest assault on my well being.

Nature took a dislike to me at an early age; I've been pecked by hens, chased by geese, almost murdered by a feral Rottweiler (slavering twin of the Hound of the Baskervilles, or so my seven year old badly shocked self thought), attacked by a seagull, (definitely not funny), and the latest... stalked by cows. Yes, cows. There's nothing funny about that either!

Animals sense that as a vegetarian I am nothing less than a woebegone doormat to be trampled/chewed/pecked all over, and I've learned the lesson. The only motive for strolling across cow infested fields (on a public footpath I'll have you know) was to try to get fit.

I've seen the error of my ways now, and why people pay so much for the gym. Though in the case of this walk I was so busy grumbling to myself about life in general that I didn't actually notice the huge sleekit beasties. Nothing makes you want to enjoy life (and eat that slice of cake) like the sudden prospect of death by looming cow.

Cows seem inoffensive when you're whizzing past them on a train, after all their only job in life is to mill in a field, chew the cud, sleep; they live to be milked, to be shoes, or jackets or beef. But when there's a herd of the buggers staring right at you with their cold, fathomless, unblinking eyes, stalking towards you on hooves the size of dinner plates, and setting a brisk old pace (cutting off escape) oh boy, they take on a menacing air.

I tried being nonchalant, blanking them from my existence as a hardened soul blanks Big Issue sellers, I tried chatting to them in a friendly way, hoping they'd think I was off my head and certainly not worth trampling, but no, it only lured them closer. Lucky plan C, executed with aplomb, was to nervously glance around and walk quickly.... And of course I live to tell the tale.

Thank god for that most cunning of human technological breakthroughs - the fence! It's what separates us from the animals.

• Cows with Guns - Ray Stevens

Film Review: Pour Elle/Anything for Her

Dir. Fred Cavayé, written. Fred Cavayé, starring. Vincent Lindon, Diane Kruger

It’s been a mixed night; started sophisticated with subtitles, ended with the A-Team and cider; though both experiences involved people incarcerated for a crime they didn’t commit. I’ll stick to telling you about Pour Elle though as it’s by far the classier part.

Pour Elle/ Anything For Her

It’s an interesting take on the prison break scenario. A typical (therefore very passionate and blissfully happy, but what else would you expect?) French family are strained when the wife is imprisoned with no hope of reprieve, convicted of a murder she had no part in. Her husband, Julien, is ‘just a teacher’ yet he sets out to break her free. ‘Just a teacher’ seems a little snide as if he couldn't possibly, especially as he wears a serious leather jacket, but Julien is to all intents and purposes a normal man - he loves his little son, misses his wife, looks bored in class - so how does he manage to pull off something so grandiose and daring?

The answer is that he becomes totally obsessed by the break and that obsession is utterly compelling. His logic is replaced by involvement: executing the plan out rather than his wife being free, is Julien's reason to go on. The wife is undoubtedly innocent, so you can feel sympathetic as well as voyeuristic to his attempt, and in many cases his best guesses of how to execute the details have distinctly unglamorous consequences.

At some point we’ve all fantasised about how to get hold of fake passports, or buck the system in some way (particularly when buying train tickets from the blood sucking poor service providers – you know you’ll be standing, or the air conditioning will break), but putting that into action? I wouldn’t have the foggiest, and I will darkly admit that I’d like to, so I was engrossed by watching this everyday chap read up books by escapees and try to be daring, especially when the momentum of events overtake him.

It’s very good: it feels, and thanks to brilliant lighting, looks real. I don't think I could pull a prison break off though- I’m not a grizzled, passionate Frenchman with a leather jacket that looks like it means business all on its own. Julien, he’s downcast, he’s committed and he’s fanatically thorough. You leave the cinema with a lot to reflect upon which has to be the hallmark of a film worth seeing.

Twitter Comedy Club

At 8pm on the 8th June, the first online comedy club will be happening via the medium of Twitter. Nine comedians are taking part in the live gig which you can watch unfold from the comfort of your own sofa. No one, comics included, need to leave their houses and assuming you have broadband, it's totally free. Each act will spend ten minutes twittering a comedy set, within the boundaries of the 140 character limit.

9 comedians, 140 characters... can it be funny? Well I hope so as I'm planning to follow! Of course it's not going to have the atmosphere of a 'real life' gig; the bristling fear of being picked on, the smell of beer, the one man who sits stoney faced and cross-armed scowling up a storm, or that one irriating shrieker (mandatory comedy requirement), whose constant "arghhhahahahahahaha" shreds mirth into thin soggy strips. The events organisers have taken into account the crowd's likelihood to heckle though, and instead of laughter they encourage the concept of retweeting (RT to all twitter proficient bods).

Mark 'Stupid Magners Commercial' Watson (one of the famous names taking part) has described it as a 'defining moment', Steven Fry has settled for 'larky'. Either way, if you want to join in with the virtual hijinx then follow the #twitcom tag on twitter.

Comedians include:

• Mark Watson - @watsoncomedian

• Pappy's Fun Club - @PappysFunClub

• Mitch Benn – @MitchBenn

• Matt Kirshen – @mattkirshen (who I'm especially looking forward to, he's quite the exceptional twitterer, not to mention real life stand up comic)

• Rob Heeney – @robheeney

• Carl Donnelly – @carldonnelly

• Terry Saunders – @terrysaunders

• Gary Delaney – @garydelaney

As someone who regularly chuckles away when reading on trains (and of course lives in a stupid place with few ground breaking comedy performances), I have no problems with laughing uncontrollably at a screen... my flatmate may think I've gone off my chump, but she shouldn't be listening through our ridiculously thin walls! Mind you, like I say: Aberystwyth... you take entertainment where you can get it and wall listening has to be fun thing # 872.

For more information you can check out either @tweetcomedyclub or spoonfed, the event promoter's website.

A Little Late Night Craziness

It's 4 in the morning and I can't bloody sleep. Yeah, it's like Leonard Cohen here alright, but rather less poetic, and I'm afraid there's a fluffy pink dressing gown (replete fluorescent marker stains) rather than a famous blue raincoat.

On the plus side I've fully mastered the intricacies of Last.Fm, I'm therefore no longer feeling quite the dimwitted mutton-head. One thing is puzzling me though; I thought to "scrobble" meant to stuff Patrick Troughton into a large burlap sack and kidnap, as per 'The Box of Delights', no? Well I'll indignantly tell you that the world is all the poorer for the new definition, where Last.Fm merely makes a note of what you've been listening to.

There's loads of good language in 'The Box of Delights', as you'd expect of a poet laureate like John Masefield, but scrobble has always been my favourite, so I'm a little sad that my songs get 'scrobbled' for Last.Fm, but there's not so much as a brown paper bag to manhandle them into.

As for the 'Box of Delights', the stunning BBC adaption (1984) is very probably directly responsible for my box mania, and on a similar Christmas-tea-time-special note, yes I'm afraid I still check ornate cupboards to see if there's a way to Narnia, ho hum - a girl has to have her hobbies.

Mixed Bag Week

I managed to escape from Aberystwyth again this weekend, though only for a short sojourn down to Cardiff to visit the Centre for Life Long Learning's "History, Archaeology, Politics and Identity" Conference. It was a day of lectures punctuated by a rather snazzy buffet lunch and numerous cups of tea, though when did wraps become part of caterer's set buffet lexicon? My, how times have changed. Best of all considering these wallet mouldering days- the whole thing was free. As you'd expect of a catered academic knees up on a sunny Saturday, the audience consisted only of lecturers, archaeologists, student bums and pensioners - the natural predators of a proffered biscuit, but all of whom have a tendency to fall asleep if provoked.

The vast majority of the conference was excellent. The program was incredibly varied, taking subjects diverse as India, bog bodies, music, architecture and deconstruction of folk lore all within its stride. It is totally without irony that I say who knew that Glasgow tenements could be so interesting? I know, I'm a geek, I really don't care as the knowledge is worth it. Overall the event was tinged with a little sadness as the Centre is cutting all of its courses in humanities and Welsh; the HAPI Conference may be their swan song.

It's worth noting to skeptics that the humanities are important (no, really), and not just for coasting students who want to get in and out of university with as little fuss as possible. Their value is somewhat intangible in real life, lying as it does within the curiosity these subjects can satisfy, rather than their ability to provide you with a job. Nevertheless they do contribute to the development of a well rounded, well balanced, enquiring character. The Centre for Life Long Learning is part of Cardiff University's charter to make higher learning accessible to those not scuttling around within its flypostered walls, and though obviously the budget can only stretch so far, to loose all the humanities is a very sad step.

Overall the day was a good one. Much better in fact than the Save the Children concert in Aber last Thursday, where the best thing was the ultra violet hand-stamp. I'm afraid I simply don't have the vitriol to rail against the shoe gazing student bands I saw there, though I did leave early, so I should charitably note that one of the remaining acts may have been good. Just maybe.

For the two I did see, particularly 'Bell the Cats', well as far as I'm concerned, their mates really should have considered it part of the onerous duties of friendship to have told them that they can neither play or sing a note. The singing may be due to the weak neck muscles, which in turn contributed, not so much to chic indie shoe-gazing but rather eyeballs stuck to their Converse clad toes. Maybe they were embarrassed at their awfulness too; after all they couldn't compose either now I come to think of it.... at least, my god, I hope they were original compositions. I'd hate to think that covers were so wailingly unidentifiable.

Here's something decent to spread joy on a sunny Sunday, two tracks from Swedish ex-music journalist, now singer 'Hello Saferide'.

• Always On My Mind
• I Was Definitely Made for These Times, which I especially like due to the line praising the tragic ability to quote all of High Fidelity.

Bank Holiday Lesiure

Bank holiday weekend and for the most part the sun has been shining, though it's dutifully stopped now, it wouldn't do to give too much of an impression of summer would it?

Meanwhile the (four) streets of Aberystwyth have been clogged with unfortunate tourists, most of whom must have thought there would be more to the place than a pebble beach, whilst the pubs were chock full of rugby 7's lads, grunting, sweating and generally labouring under the misapprehension that to knuckled over and squeeze themselves into a seat next to a woman is to charm the pants off her. Ice cream and testosterone perfumed the air whilst the boom-boom-boom of bass from car speakers formed a counterpoint with the shrill spikes of children shrieking.

My weekend began with adventure, or to give it a less grand title: I went for a walk and got lost in the countryside. Harrassed as I was by the influx of visitors to tiny-town, my quest started with the absurd notion to follow a previously undiscovered path to see where it may lead. The answer: over hill and dale (both covered in sheep), through sharp pointy bushes, past a field of sheep, more briar and a river, all to end up in another field of sheep with no escape. What was that about fools rushing in? The proverb should be amended to include brambles, stones in shoes, and if in Wales, sheep.

Aside from those few hours, most of the weekend has been spent indoors (away from the sun, the bikers, rugby boys, brightly coloured students and tourists), watching World Championship snooker; thus maintaining my unhealthy pallor.

I'm actually a huge fan, and there's lots of reasons for loving the game; the relaxing chink of resin balls, the hypnotic commentary, Steve Davis's wry punditry (he's still playing away in the top 32). There's also the strange things that professionals can make a cue ball do that seem to defy all common sense, the waistcoats wrapped around flat stomachs... and of course the characters, which do exist despite the general assumption that increasing professionalism killed the game. It isn't all dour young(ish) men, hitting balls with sticks with consummate concentration for large amounts of money.

Oh no, they certainly don't just play for the money! Nor snooker WAGs or public ambivolence - after all the best part of being a snooker player has to be the nicknames. Where else, outside of test piloting, do you get such incredible epithets? Moreover how else could a young man who looks like Beaker from the Muppet Show ever earn the right to be known as Neil 'the Thunder from Down Under' Robertson, with all the glory (not to mention the potential bedding of Australian soap stars) that, surely, such a name must entail?

Beaker

Neil Robertson

Sadly my favourite players (Neil, Mark Selby and Ronnie O'Sullivan) have all gone, but I've beer, all kinds of nibbly things and one last evening session to enjoy before revision starts again. Happy days.