OK I'm bored of this now..

For a while now I've heard Paul Simon's so ng"You Can Call Me Al" as a sort of eulogy to the mid-life crisis. Maybe it's just me but I doubt it. Its jovial tune and cheerful delivery belies the slightly darker and more ponderous lines in a way that's worth looking at. The first verse establishes the opposition quite neatly in its opening few lines:

"A man walks down the street
He says why am I soft in the middle now
Why am I soft in the middle
The rest of my life is so hard"

Listening to it for the first time, it is the pun on soft and hard which catches our ear. The lyric is designed to contrast the singer's weak, flabby tissue with an otherwise unforgiving and relentless existence. However, it is the structure of these lines that also paints the picture Simon seeks to convey. By repeating 'soft in the middle', Simon lingers over the phrase, pausing in self-examination as if contemplating the spare tyre of middle age on both a physical and emotional level - only to then cut the reflection short with the jarring monosyllables of what the singer feels is his stark reality.

Now, if this just sounds like a prize-winning entry for Private Eye's 'Pseud's corner', please do let me know but, rest assured, I will ask you to tell me why I'm wrong. More importantly, if you've ever listened to 'The Sound of Silence', you'll know that this is a guy who isn't taking his lyrics lightly. But, why the critical analysis of song lyrics?

Apart from the fact that I highly enjoy doing it (and maybe I'll explain why in my next post), this song also contains two particular lines that caught and still do catch my ear. Using a similar structural composition, Simon sings:

"He says why am I short of attention
Got a short little span of attention"

Again, the repetition draws us to focus on a particular word, in this case 'attention'. Paradoxically however, what we are being asked to examine is the singer's own inability to reciprocate similar levels of concentration. Our 'attention' is taken for granted - we, the audience, want to hear what this voice in the wilderness is saying - but, the singer himself is seemingly indifferent to most, if not all of his surroundings. Moreover in fact, this is a wilderness that the singer has created for himself. Clearly surrounded by listeners (for what is a song without an audience), the singer laments an isolation that is constructed from an unwillingness to interact with his environment.

That's not to say that Simon is simply wallowing in self-indulgent narcissism. In fact, this is a song in which the centrality of the singer is prioritized because, to its originator, everything else holds little meaning. For example:

"I need a photo-opportunity,
I want a shot at redemption!
Don't want to end up a cartoon,
In a cartoon graveyard."

Here, the juxtaposition of a 'photo-opportunity' and 'redemption' appears to equate the spiritual with a blatent form of self-promotion and initially the singer genuinely seems to will the two into co-existence. But then Simon introduces the cartoon. By suggesting his fate might be, should he not attain his photo opportunity, that of a comic and, largely frivolous piece of artifice, we are led to believe cartoons are the opposite end of a spiritual scale - one on which the photo shoot is a pinnacle of achievement and the cartoon is the nadir. And yet this is patently false. The photo shoot and cartoon are both prime examples of the constructed image; material artifacts created with little purpose other than aestheticism and/or entertainment. Consequently, Simon implicitly acknowledges that his attempt to wrestle significance into his desires is an act of metaphysical wilfulness. Trying to give life some sort of significance by means of the social conventions you yourself have deemed inadequate is like borrowing more money to pay off a debt - a self-defeating task.

The outside world then, replete with its material trappings, is by and large incapable of delivering fulfilment. As the song progresses we find more objects added to the symbols of earlier disappointment: a family and home that are not or perhaps no longer present, the vanishing role model, and a beerbelly that anchors us once more in a soft middle of failed attempts to drown sorrow. Repeatedly seeking in vain that which by the very nature of his endeavour he cannot hope to attain, the singer flits from object to object, and like the Rolling Stones before him, finds neither satisfaction nor grounding in any of them. In short, Simon's "short little span of attention" is symptomatic of an awareness that has little to no stake in the surroundings conditioning his existence.

Now, if you have stuck with this essay disguised as a blog this far, well done. You may also be thinking why it took me so long to articulate the basic premise that the singer's lack of attention in the song is basically rooted in not giving a damn. The reason is that 'short attention spans' and 'not giving a shit' are often bandied about as illustrations of a (*cringe*) "broken society", where selfishness is valued over altruism and mass media alongside the omnipresent force of "the internets" have frazzled our brains to a crisp. Maybe that's true. But what this song - and many other works on the subject of apathy with it - seems to illustrate to me is that not caring comes from a fundamental dissatisfaction with the world around you. Short spans of attention do not reflect or propagate social breakdown, they are symptomatic illustrators of it. And I don't use the word fundamental lightly; I literally do mean 'in relation to the fundaments of existence'.

For example, anger and revolution are not born out of apathy. They come from a genuine hope that out of even the most corrupt society, something better can be established. Apathy (and its corresponding short span of attention therefore) is a lamentable admission that here, in this world, there is no redemption. The corruption is so total that, like Milton's Satan in hell, we reflect on any attempts to ameliorate our society with a grim and all-too cynical despair.

In Simon's song however, we are eventually granted a reprieve. The song comes to a close on a note of ecstatic, if frugal, optimism as for the third time, we are told of a man who walks down the street. Whether it is the same man that appeared in verses one or two, we aren't to know; just as the constant interplay of the singer's first and third person narrative weaves the multiple perspectives of observation and emotion - i.e. Simon's audience both sees a man walking down a street AND shares the feeling that 'I don't find this stuff amusing anymore'. What is clear though, is that by our third encounter, we have a man who "holds no currency", no appropriate "language" even and is in fact experiencing this as "his first time around". This complete novelty bestows upon the new man a sense of wonder and spiritual gratitude that cause him to see 'angels in the architecture' and rejoice with an 'Amen! and Hallelujah!' A possible reading then, and one I entertained, is that here is a man dissatisfied with materialism and who, in a bid for salvation, rids his life of its former trappings in favour of 'the third world'. Simple, biblical and unfortunately, quite hackneyed. As a literal reading, in fact, I think it just about holds up. Yet the lyrics withstand (and indeed deserve) deeper analysis than what is so patently apparent.

The clearest way to a fuller understanding of this concluding verse is to examine what jars in it. Ending as it does with 'angels' and 'infinity', it is easy to dismiss or even forget the objects that go before, including:

"Cattle in the marketplace.
Scatterlings and orphanages."

If this is a relocation to a society in which materialism is absent, a symbol of trade that has existed for millenia seems an odd way to mark it. Equally, observing the homeless and dispossessed only accentuates the fact that our penniless protagonist is once again at the bottom of a portable property food chain - except this time he simply has more company. As such, there would be no real reason to have gained any great attachment other than a passion for novelty which would soon wear as thin and fleeting as before. For these reasons, it is more convincing to argue for a relocation or readjustment of perspective over simple location. Thus, it is the ambiguity of the lines, "Maybe it's the Third World. / Maybe it's his first time around" that implies a dynamic metaphoricity to the verse as a whole. By introducing a qualifying possibility, Simon suggests his protagonist's novelty of place is instead a new way of imagining and incorporating his surroundings. Refreshing his perspective, the singer is free to care about the things that previously excited little to no interest at all.

And the thing that triggers this renewed perspective? It's been staring the audience in the face all along. As the soundtrack for a film called The Bodyguard, the song's only really about one thing - caring for someone else:

If you'll be my bodyguard,
I can be your long lost pal!

With the chorus gently plodding in and out of the verses' narrative the two build to form a cohesive and hopeful redemption. The singer's mid-life crisis and crippled attention span are saved by one thing and one thing only: a genuine reason to care about anything. And its in this which I suppose I would (somewhat reluctantly) like to anchor my point about "society". We can't ask people to care, without them having something to care about.

Dodgson.

Guilty Pleasures

And so the week began with Sak Noel storming in at number one in the UK charts. All day. All night. Etc. Now don't get me wrong, I know it's not a musically brilliant song, I know it's not even that original and I will happily recognise it as a piece of musical Eurotrash. But I, and apparently millions of others, seem happy to acknowledge that this song is fucking badass. Fact.

Hopefully you've taken the proactive step of clicking on that handy link up there and are currently letting it flow over your aural membranes as we speak. If that's the case the following will simply greater inform your listening pleasure. Otherwise, (for example if you are in a public place sans headphones) this will give you a rough idea of what we're al talking about without having to bother. Anyway, the song begins with a simple enough beat bouncing its way along the time signature. Then, in comes a lovely lady with some sort of generic "foreign" accent talking about when she came to Spain. So far, so basic. Then she exclaims at the unaccountable vigour her fellow Iberian nightlife enthusiasts appear to display: "Vhat the fuck?!"So she calls her friend Johnny. AND LET THE DUCK SQUEAKING BEGIN!

Duck-squeaking (to give it its technical term) had probably been used before Stromae and as he illustrates wonderfully here, these songs are quite basic to make. But that's half the charm and shouldn't detract anything from the sheer enjoyment. If anything the fact that you can enjoy the simple pleasure of some randomly garbled noise is just one of the better things about existence. And this isn't some self-righteous attempt at justifying naff music, I'm just saying let's not get on our high horses every time some random mockery of a song gets to number one. Sure, there are some brilliant musicians out there who don't get the publicity and credit they deserve (and I'll post a few links below to make up for all this lark later) but the easiest way to combat that is just to put your money where your mouth is and make some acquisitions in their camp.

On top of that, I'm not sure that the whole concept of a guilty pleasure in reference to a song makes sense.  It's not like listening to Sak Noel is bad for you or anyone else. Maybe if you inflict it upon others repeatedly then it might become an irritating nuisance but then that's true of almost anything. A while ago I interviewed the drummer and vocalist Steve Ansell from the band Blood Red Shoes; Wikipedia handily describes them as "an alternative rock duo from Brighton" which, if you take a listen to their music (in particular Don't Ask), means they play loud guitar music nice and fast. As a result, you'd expect their influences to consist of things like Metallica, Iron Maiden perhaps and a few other guitar acts thrown in for good measure. And sure enough, this was partly true.

However Steve, like myself was also dead-set against the idea of guilty pleasure music. So much so that he also listed Bruce Springsteen, Frank Sinatra and Stevie Wonder as some musical pleasures of his. Now they might not be Sak Noel but they sure as hell aren't the hardcore pulsating guitar and drum riffs that inspire furious indie bands. But the point was he enjoyed their music. The emotions these songs inspire come from the same place that make people want to write songs in the first place, whether they're Beethovens Fifth, Bohemian Rhapsody or Born Slippy. Music should be about what you enjoy, and if that happens to overlap with what's technically proficient or cool then so much the better, but don't sneer at the fun little efforts of others trying to make something of their own. Even the commercial churnings of Simon Cowell and Louis Walsh ultimately belong to the great big family of music. What's more there's always the chance that something that began as a money-making pop outfit outgrows its roots and becomes something a bit more ambitious. Personally I'd say that's what Take That did but hey, who am I to judge? And at worst you get a noxious one hit wonder that just fades away forever whilst solid hardworking artists plough a little furrow of their own. Have faith and let the music do the talking.

Anyway, spiel over here's a list of songs that I feel no guilt whatsoever for admiring and some that I'm downright proud of knowing. Feel free to guess/attribute emotions appropriately.

BOOM:

Lightning - The Wanted
Stereo Hearts - Gym Class Heroes
Earthquake - Labrinth feat Tinie Tempah
Gabriel - Joe Goddard
Down with the Trumpets - Rizzle Kicks
Tessellate - Alt J (Free download my fronds)
April Fool - Manchester Orchestra
The Chain - Fleetwood Mac 
Sexy and I Know It - LMFAO
Forever - Wolfgang Gartner feat. will.i.am
Garden - T.E.E.D
Read and Write - Turbowolf (Best frickin' name EVER)
The Bay - Metronomy
Heart Skips A Beat - Olly Murs feat. Rizzle Kicks


Dodgson

My vaulting ambition which o'erleaps itself

Since the age of 16 all I've wanted to do is be a radio presenter. Specifically, I've wanted to end up presenting the BBC Radio 1 breakfast show but to be honest, I'll happily settle for drive time. Heck, I'd even have taken Greg James's slot in the afternoon.

No seriously, I'd have done anything to just be on some form of national radio. And don't get me wrong, I've always known that if I wanted to get there I'd have to work hard. I knew that you didn't just roll up and ask for a job; it takes years of 'networking' (*cringe*), slogging your way through crap shifts (hence the eponymous blog) and generally doing anything and everything you could.

But I'll level with you. I had belief. I still do. And what's more I knew that if I kept ploughing on like a b*stard, with the same goal in sight I should get there, or at least damn close enough.


The last week though, has been a bit rough on the system. The first five days of a broadcast journalism have, in factual essence not been too trying: Get there at 9.30, listen to some inspiring speakers (Sophie Raworth, Stewart Purviss, the creator of Who Do You Think You Are etc etc.), meet everyone and go to the pub. Lovely. Now, without exception, this has been great. Yet through almost each and every talk there was an undercurrent that said one thing: Guys, you're fucked.

Now, I get the point. Broadcasting is currently a very difficult profession to get into. In the current economic climate, constricting budgets mean personnel numbers are shrinking and salaries with them. What's more, the relentless growth of the internet has made more and more content available online for free, such that the services of a professional journalist or broadcaster appear to be slowly retreating into obsolescence.

But I know that. Even people who are not supposed to be following current affairs like some sort of media hound know that. My German grandmother of a very respectable eighty years old knows it.

Even so, were it simply the surplus information offending my inflated pride, I'd like to think I'd get over it. Genuinely. But here's what it does do: it cripples my sense of ambition.

I, and everyone else on this extremely competitive course, worked darn hard to be on it. What's more, the rest of the year we've now begun looks set to continue the trend. On top of that, I would genuinely like to think that having actually got in, I might have demonstrated something at least hinting of being broadcastworthy. Don't get me wrong, there's been more than enough reassurance that things might also be fine and 96% of graduates enter employment, etc. etc. but to throw these kinds of stats in amongst a general atmosphere of apocalyptic gloom just seems to crenate a mood of psychological schizophrenia.

I don't know, maybe I'm just sensitive. Yet I'd always considered a tenacious yearning for the potentially unrealistic as a particular feature of mine. And sure, it happened that these dreams got shot down but, by and large, after I'd striven for them.

So yes, perhaps they are simply using journalistic hyperbole and double-talk to bring me back down to a solid, earthly realism. Ultimately, it may even harden my resolve and doubtless this may even be their aim, separating people with real zeal from passing hopefuls with no more than a passing interest. But there's a danger there. I don't consider myself a passing hopeful and hopefully that's still the case. Equally, I was never too fussed about earning pot loads of cash but with every promise of penniless perpetuity, one does start to have misgivings. In essence, I appreciate the sentiment, but don't push it too hard. It's making me feel wobbly.

And so to other news! Doing rugby in my spare time looks set to be unachievable, my dictaphone has arrived and hopefully will see me interviewing everything with vocal chords, Peter Conrad was on Radio 4, and in music, Labrinth's new song Earthquake, is frickin' incredible. It dropped (YES DROPPED DAMMIT) 2 weeks ago but I've been busy. So go listen NOW.

ONWARDS!

Dodgson.

ps. wouldn't usually brag (too much) but I wrote this all on my new and first ever smart-phone. Take that gloomologists. 

First Day

So today was the big day. Postgraduate studies have now officially begun at City University London. Still not sure what to call it really - is it City University; London; just City - god knows, I'm just going with what's on the newly received student card...

Anyway, the day began with the typical sort of trepidation: "What will everyone be like, what if I don't know anything" that kind of thing. But then I realised, there's a reason it's not called fresher's week - no-one's fresh anymore. I'm well over 20, we're all postrgraduating and half the game is going to be making fun new friends so what the heck. That still didn't stop me arriving about half an hour early but never mind.  That done, I took myself on a nice little tour of the triangular building that is destined to be my home for the next year.

Facilities duly inspected and admired, the line into the lecture hall had already formed. And so we waited. In early expectation. Mind you, this was probably by and large due to an email we'd all received to the following effect:


"Lateness is totally unacceptable in a broadcaster and no-one in the industry has time to listen to your excuses." 

And so we chatted, discussed what we'd all been up to over summer, that kind of thing. And then 10am rolls around. And the lecturers rock up. Good-oh, the course begins now. Except the doors were locked. Ha! Lateness is unacceptable indeed...

The rest of the day was just sitting and being talked to really. Apart from the world's worst university card photo and a lecture from the very lovely Nicholas Owen, the day was pretty unexceptional. Don't get me wrong though, that's exactly what I want from first day. Nice, pleasant and meeting lots of lovely people. The fact we were all in the pub by 5.30pm didn't hurt either. Oh, and there was pizza for dinner. Hoorah.

In other slightly more humorous news, I reckon City could be a venue to try out stand-up comedy. I was thinking of possible topics, one being the 'Fictionality of real life'. That way I could wax lyrical about all the barmy crap we invent to make our everyday tedium slightly more bearable. The mythical joy of facebook statuses, the fantasy world of television, other things beginning with f like flamingos, fondue parties and fenugreek and, last of all, blog pseudonyms...

Dodgson.

Surprise Surprise

I who have stood dumb
when your betraying sisters,
cauled in tar,
wept by the railings,

who would connive
in civilized outrage
yet understand the exact
and tribal, intimate revenge.

– from 'Punishment', Seamus Heaney, 1975

Last night the ten o’ clock news announced that the BBC could definitively reveal collaboration between British security forces and members of Gaddafi’s regime. MI6, along with the US’ CIA, appear to have worked intimately with Gaddafi’s former head of foreign affairs Moussa Koussa, in order to apprehend and even torture terror suspects. All these revelations have been met with shock and apprehension.

My only question is, why?

I watched Jeremy Bowen listen to his source. The source told of how it was widely known that the anti-Gaddafi rebel (now leader of the rebels in Tripoli), Abdul Hakim Belhaj had been tortured by Libyan police. Furthermore, after this torture, he had been interrogated by the CIA. Bowen’s face was one of wide-eyed amazement. “Surely not the Americans?” his face suggested.

Likewise as the chummy messages sent between an MI6 agent and Moussa Koussa about Christmas lunch were disclosed, Bowen’s demeanour was one of similarly bemused puzzlement. “How could we have been involved with such people?” And even more astonishing we were led to believe, was the fact that not only were the British and Americans involved, but we were involved right until the decisive turn of the Arab Spring uprisings.

For more info on exactly how this is unraveling click here:

But, the point I’m getting at (and the reason I’ve linked to the above article as opposed to anything else) is the level of surprise that Bowen and others have shown. Even the above article’s title implies its shocking MI6 knew about Belhaj’s torture. I just don’t get it.

Even Bowen begrudgingly pointed it out: Our astonishment should not come from the fact that we were ever involved with Gaddafi or that we knew what he was doing; it should come at our realization of just how soon we switched our allegiance.

Let me explain. As usual, blunt economics goes a long way to explaining a fair amount. Libya is a country rich in resources. The West needs oil, gas etc. and was willing to work with a country in order to gain them. If this meant turning a blind eye to past crimes like the Lockerbie bombing then fine. If it meant ignoring flagrant breaches of human rights then fine as well. Libya is an independent North-African nation, it could ostensibly do what it wants. As long as that included selling us what we needed.

In the case of Lockerbie however, the revelation that vague threats were made lest Abdelbaset al-Megrahi should not be released are genuinely disturbing. Nevertheless, even this level of British (and, one assumes, American) submission is relatively easy to explain.

Libya is a North-African nation that, until recently, was led by a dictator in charge of ruthless police and military forces. Such forces, in the fight against terror, could no doubt have been considered valuable to Western nations.

This was a nation unafraid to use its regime’s ability to torture. Post 9/11 western nations, locked in an endless war on terror but bound to respect human rights by law, could freely hand over intelligence leading to the arrest of suspects, safe in the knowledge that any potential Al-Qaeda suspects would receive ‘appropriate’ treatment. Whatever the impact of Gaddafi’s control was on the Libyan people, it was deemed permissible in the light of its long-term gains.

Understand that the case I’m making however, is not one for a lack of repentance. Without question, our collaboration with Gaddafi’s regime led to its increased strength over the years and certainly helped in prolonging its life. This is a fact one might idealistically say we have sought to redress in the past year through the UN and must continue to redress in the coming years.

What I am saying though, is that we need not be surprised. In books, TV and films for years now the subject of doing deals with the devil has been trodden over, dug up and trampled on for so long that is has now become so hackneyed it’s second nature. Surely now we are almost instinctively familiar with the plot line where in order to get on with our comfortable lives, people high up in the authorities made pacts and agreements with people we might not necessarily like who do things ways we definitely wouldn’t do ourselves. Why then are we surprised when we encounter it in real life?

Added to that, the fact MI6 knew about Belhaj’s torture is at least evidence that our security services know about something. Yes, they let it happen and torture is wrong, but spare me the hyperbolous outrage. OF COURSE WE KNEW. They’re our secret service. They are in charge of information. We should be angry we let it happen, we should be angry the public of Libya had to suffer because of our inaction but for God’s sake what did we really think was happening in a country under a forty-year dictatorship?

This is a century that has seen Guantanamo Bay, Abu Ghraib and will doubtless go on to see much, much more. I suppose all I’m asking is if we are really surprised that this kind of double-standard policy still takes place? The most I could manage was a cynical shrug of unsurprised condemnation.

In the films, it’s always one of two things. The cynical chief of staff or politician who made “the hard decisions no one else could make” and the young, idealistic recruit who sticks to the rules because “the rules are there so we don’t become like them”. The message of the story unfolds: good and bad aren’t necessarily so clearly set apart. But in films we can try and sort them out and hopefully end it with a nice explosion and a kiss. Nowadays that’s called romantic.

All I can say is that I know that’s not how it works. I can desperately hope for a world in which everything is clear cut but I’m simply not naïve enough to believe that’s either the case or ultimately, likely. In short, if I go looking to expose corruption and injustice, I shouldn’t be surprised if and when I find it. Even if it's from our own side.

We should be angry we weren’t angrier before.

Textiquette

Although I have been aware of it for some time, something has come to my attention in the last couple of months that merits discussion: the sms. Or, more appropriately, sms civility – textual education, if you will.

The reason this thorny little problem comes to mind arises from a friend of mine whose last-minute escapades with university freshers saw him firing off these 150 character bomb-shells like they were going out of fashion. Desperate for replies, the occasional flicker of hope drifted in like a rudderless ship but with no conviction. However, on occasion, a promising “we should do something” would appear and the balance was seemingly restored.

Unfortunately, said friend’s over-eager joy led to an immediate reply that was not so immediately returned. In short, he was given the textual cold shoulder.

The dilemma he then faced however, was not “How do I get over this crushing blow?”, but rather, “She hasn’t texted back – maybe she’s just forgotten. Should I text her to remind her of my existence?”

Clearly, as outside observer we can all see what’s going on here. So as to not let down the hero of our amorous narrative, female textee has let him down gently, potentially promising a reply only to feign amnesiac foolishness. This kind-spirited gesture, well-intentioned as it was, has nevertheless gone amiss, such that our protagonist is both disillusioned and tortured by the own Sisyphean lack of either crushing rejection or joyous satisfaction.

A familiar tale.

Now, even more unfortunately, I now sit facing the same potential problem. “What?” I hear you cry, “it’s obvious – she’s just not texting you, she doesn’t care!” “Silence!” I retaliate, “She texted me first and said she’d get in touch to organise something lovely! How dare you?!”

The saga continues.

And here’s the thing, delusion is a powerful bastard. Who wouldn’t rather believe that their beloved has potentially forgotten to reply, mislaid their phone, casually sworn to forsake facebook for a month or even died rather than not get in touch? And in fairness, it’s easier. They’re not present via the digital medium, therefore they’re probably just not around in real life either. A far more pleasant reality than the one in which they have simply decided not to include you in theirs.

The point being therefore, that communication media makes this delusion a lot easier to swallow. And it’s not just texting, facebook and all the other things us kids get up to. Think about it: the unanswered letters, the complaining sonnet of the unrequited lover, portraits of imaginary lovers. There’s probably an entire section of the Lascaux  Caves somewhere filled with troglodyte scribbles all of which represent Neanderthal longings and rejection.

The truth is then, we’ve always turned to some sort of expressive vehicle to get our message across in a way that could hopefully soften the whole experience. Far easier to post an anonymously written love letter to your darling than walk up to her and say, “Hey, I quite like you” – even if the latter is probably more effective and, ultimately less embarrassing. In short, media do just that. They mediate. The bastards…

City slickin'

Fine, fine, it's taken another age or two to get back to the blogosphere. But let's be honest, there were balls to arrange, Indias to visit and internships to get our way through. Anyway, hopefully this will be a definitive return and I can keep this up (like now) in those moments of time when something approaching boredom but basically free time rears its opportunistic head.

A few things have brought themselves to my attention since my return to the country that require addressing. The first one, although being the musical genius I am I was aware of many moons prior to now, has some graphic content so children, look away now. For those of you old/wise/curious enough to plough on, please do so and sample the delights of Dev (as remixed by or basically talked over for a bit, by Tinie Tempah). When there, please pay special attention to the lyrics between seconds 37 and 41. For the audio impaired, here's what she's saying:

"wanna get your mits in my oven?
wanna get a lick o' this lovin'?"

Now, this is the kind of song that, with any luck will be played for a while, occasionally resurfacing at nightclubs across the land until hopefully, it dies the natural death of a reasonably good dance song, passing away from memory except for the odd flashback. However, these lyrics ought to stand as a testament to bizarre metaphors employed by musicians everywhere. What, exactly, is it that Dev is trying to say here? Getting a lick of her loving does, I suppose hold its enticements but an oven? I can only assume the male population is meant to seize the innuendo here and read 'oven' for 'female sexual organ' but doing so has its difficulties. I mean, is Dev seriously suggesting that her womb is a cavernous metal furnace that reaches exceedingly high temperatures, dangerous to most living things but very efficient for the purpose of roasting, grilling and baking cakes? Clearly this is taking the analogy a bit too far but even so, if heat and a certain level of insertion are the only grounds of comparison she's going for, why include "mits", a synonym for hands which has all the connotations of clumsy, insensitive oafishness that men presumably want to avoid in a seduction process. The whole thing's just bizarre...

That said, if Dev really does have a vagina like an oven then mits are probably exactly what you'll need so fair play to her in that case.

Lighter hearted things aside, the riots happened and realistically, there's not much more I can add that the sensible person won't already have decided for themselves. A good share of community service and jail will get served up and then god knows..

In terms of economy, I'm currently interning at a publication called Hedge Funds Review in London. The editor is a bit... idiosyncratic, but the experience is interesting nonetheless. Having to learn a lot about economics and, in particular a pretty niche area (certainly from my point of view anyway) in a very quick time which is a bit daunting but, then again, most of what journo-ing is all about. Met a guy called Dan Illett last night at some drinks thing who was very kind and has offered to let me go and point and shoot some camera in his TV studio for a laugh. On reflection this does sound very random and hey, we'll see. Going back to the niche thing by the by, this statement has to be one of the most ridiculous things this journal has ever published (from a 9th August 2010 article from HFR entitled, "Influence and infamy: the most significant hedge fund managers"):

"Within the hedge fund world, there are some managers who have become synonymous with the industry. Even the average man on the street who does not understand exactly what a hedge fund is will probably have hear of people such as Paul Tudor Jones and George Soros."

WHAT?! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! WHICH STREET? WHAT AVERAGE MAN?! Whoever wrote this (they've left their name off it apart from 'editorial' leaving me unsure as to which editor exactly this was...) clearly has no idea. Unless the street in question is Wall Street, Paul Tudor Jones might as well be a relative of Henry the frickin' eighth as far as half the people I'm imagining are concerned. The sheer lunacy of this sentence is just mind-boggling when you consider that half these people deliberately keep a low profile even amongst investors. Anyway. Getting carried away. In fact, it's almost time for lunch and this has been a good output for a revisit to blogging so I'll leave it at this for now. Here's a story about Gerard Depardieux take a piss on a plane. Until next time,

ever yours,

Dodgson.

It's been a long time, I shunna left you..

GOOD MORNING VIETNAAAM.

Ok, so it's been a while since Dodgson surfaced on the interwebs, we know. But hey, think about it, the output that was issued in my first opening week was pretty spectacular. Also, I have actually been working. And then there was the kitchen. I know I spoke about it last time but in truth, kitchens are a wonderful focal area for all sorts of joy. Similarly, coming back to Oxford meant that I could be distracted by the company of other people as opposed to my own mindless wanderings... which we shall now address.

1) People who sit outside the open library window talking about their random and, in my eyes, pointless existence at a noise level that would be inappropriately loud unless the good lord Jesus Christ was come again. WHY? In the words of JoJo, "Get out, leave, right now". The desk I work at is literally next to these windows. If someone was to come up to your ear, hunker down with a Pret Baguette and bellow "I'm not gonna lie, but, like, did you hear about xxx?" in the library, there would be an apocalypse of tutting and indignation BUT, if the same conversation takes place three inches to the right past the gossamer-like veil that is the Bodleian's windows, everyone puts on the pretence of benign indifference. "Calm down Dodgson, it's summer, people are out having fun, give them a break", I hear you say. Yes, fine, go nuts, do what you want and maybe I'm slightly bitter at being INSIDE the library and not outside it having one of these thrilling conversations, but still - shut up.

2) Having very little to talk about apart from 'How's work going?' It's like some sort of sadistic disease that just operates in an endless cycle. You've just done your day's work, feeling reasonably happy about the whole thing and then someone comes up to you and you're like "Hey, not seen you for about 24hours or in fact anyone that I wouldn't just dismiss with a casual nod of the head" and then all you can think to talk about is the same rubbish that you were reading all day and why you're still kind of nervous about those exams which, realistically are over a month away. AND THEN you put it all over facebook. I mean that has got to be one of the most irritating things on the planet. "Zomg. Wish I could go outside and enjoy the sunshine but SO MUCH WORK". or "Just realised all last year's work was rubbish". Hey genius, STOP whining about wanting to go outside on frickin' facebook and haul your cadaverous entity into the sun for fifteen minutes. Or, just sit down and do the darn work that you're so desperately distressed about having not done. And while I realise this is ostensibly a blog 'about' the run up to Finals, it is at the very least, not so much a "Woe is me" as a "Screw it all" effort. So there.

3) This guy is wonderful. And he's right. Bruno Mars is a pain in the grenades. Just ask Tyler the Creator..

4) Bass Cannon?

HEY EVERYONE! COME AND SEE HOW GOOD I LOOK.

So, tomorrow I move into a flat with a kitchen. "Hey, you're going up in the world Dodgson!" I hear you exclaim, "No stopping you daddy-oh!" I shall indeed, be king of the student property-ladder, master of residential units, overlord of.. living space. Except for the fact that it's going to be another college-owned room, over which a bigoted landlord will have absolute control, down even to the amount of blu-tak I choose to own, this is, without question, the unmistakeable truth. I, Dodgson, will be the pimp of the Oxford Accommodation scene. Boom.

In all seriousness though, I am looking forward to it. Having been at home for just under a working week, I'm about right to move back out and get going with the pretence of 'being independent'. Similarly, a taste of home cooking has reminded me that college hall food, while lovingly served, affordably priced and usually pretty good, really isn't the be all and end all of cuisine. With that in mind, look forward to the blogs which keep you updated with interesting culinary facts like 'how many sausages you can buy for a tenner in Sainsbury's', 'why the content of Tesco's fruit and vegetable aisle looks like it was selected by Francis Bacon' and 'the joys of making bread' (I'm serious about the last one).

Also, it'll be a nice sort of thing to do in the holidays, living with friends, cooking, doing spots of light reading in the sunshine, blissfully wiling away the hours as we plod mirthlessly towards the bleak speck of light that is the end of our university career, along the loathsome tunnel of murky ooze and depravity that is revision and finals.

Which brings me to my main point. New flat = genuinely exciting. Do I need to shout about it as if it's the best thing in the world? Not really. Why? Because I like to pretend to have some sort of grounding in reality. Unlike this man.

There's just something about this guy that finally got me definitively angry about hip-hop/rap. Now, as my post from last time (Exhibit C) and anything else I may post in the future or whatever will reveal, I like hip hop. It can be incredible. It has produced some of the most outstanding beats in the history of music. Equally, as any cheeky browse of last week's Jay Electronica, or a click on this should show you, it can produce genuinely insightful, rhythmically deft lyrics of skill that is just as good as any 'literary' poem.

Unfortunately, it can also produce Lil' Jon and the Eastside Boyz. Now, don't get me wrong, 'Get Low' is still reasonably amusing and someone like Jay Z, having made some awesome tunes and genuinely said something about life, is perfectly within his rights to every so often make a song about just how much money he has and how cool he is (although his increasing tendency to do so was starting to grate until 'Death of Auto-Tune'). But when someone I've never heard of, with a name like 'Wiz', chants the names of two different colours, AND THEN starts yelling how much cash he has.. ufff. Not only is it boring and musically uninspired, it just doesn't make sense. I mean who the hell is he? And what is it trying to say?

Now understand, I get the whole status thing with respect to the musical genre. A great deal of the artists have come from an oppressive social background and, in some cases, extreme poverty so, when success comes, you shout about it to tell the world. Cool. But when you do, do it in a way that at the very least is inspiring. And do it alongside some music that means something. I mean KanYe West to most people is an absolute douche-bag, the guy has/claims to have diamonds for teeth for goodness' sakes. But then he'll also make songs like Heard Em Say, Jesus Walks, Roses, Hey Mama, Homecoming, Diamonds from Sierra Leone and even a song like All of the Lights which challenge the normal, dull stereotype about rap music that the equally stereotyped white, ignorant, bigoted, conservative classes love to hold up as an example of its bad influence.

As declarations of independence then, in the personal sense, songs that say 'look how awesome and rich I am', are certainly good attempts at stamping the singer/rapper's assertiveness on the world. But realistically, and even musically, they only make sense in a context where that assertion holds. Listen closely to MC Hammer's 'Can't Touch This'. Even the title says it. It's a song all about how awesome MC Hammer is. And hey, the guy was doing pretty good - he even bought a solid gold toilet. But now, when you hear that song, no-one thinks about how awesome MC Hammer is; the song is just a bit of 90's gimmickry. But in 10 years time, when someone rolls out '99 Problems', and Jay-Z, in his own inimitable style, just lets you know that 'a bitch ain't one', you'll probably agree.

Curiously, although I couldn't really think of many other musical genres that were as big on the braggadocio, I did think of one, perhaps artist/group of artists that did well out of it: Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack. Kind of unexpected at first but then, maybe not - after all, these were the guys everyone wanted to be. Including the very first generation of rappers. All a bit full circle I guess. I suppose it all boils down to aspiration. I mean what's the best way of convincing everyone you're successful? Telling everyone how successful you are.

Never mind. I guess there's only one thing to do tomorrow. Move into the kitchen, turn up the Wiz Khalifa and then segue epically into My Way.

Black and yellow, black and yellow, black and yellow.

Dodgson.

Exhibit C

- Chris Moyles and Comedy Dave raised over 2million pounds for Comic Relief by staying awake for over 50 hours and presenting a radio show. I'm impressed.
- Japan's still very nuclear.
- Libya are caving to UN pressure. Although it's slightly hard not to feel a bit 'oil-skeptic' but hey.

In the light of all that, revision really isn't such a big deal is it?

And I've figured out how to work the hyperlink function. So get clicking on Mr. Jay Electronica

That'll do pig, that'll do.

Dodgson

The day the music died

Ok, fair enough. I promised you a series of Oxford yarns all about the chaotic run-up to finals, my manic existence as a composite mind and I even mentioned Brideshead. Only to promptly run home. Fine. Sue me.

But, two interesting developments have surfaced in my sejour so far. One: Having sworn myself to the allegiance of Macdom (the computer/technology giant, not the burger chain), the depths of revision have seen the ugly head of a certain 1999 incarnation of the incredible gaming franchise that is... Age of Empires.

Yes, while the rest of the world huddles over its modem, wireless headset strapped to its frothing jaw, frantically ploughing through every level of World of Warcraft (LEEEEERRRRRROY JEEENNNNKINNNNS anyone? - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LkCNJRfSZBU) a small elite group of nerds in the depths of Oxford has rediscovered the joys of 'The Age of Kings'. So much so that I've had to dig out an old laptop and restore it to its former glory just so I can get my act together on it.

Two: Music took a dual hit. The provider of that bass thudding voice, Nate Dogg passed away after a stroke. Minor news in a time dominated (and rightly so) by the events folding in Japan but still, very sad in its way for a lot of people, myself included, who just love every collaboration he was ever on.

Then there was this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CD2LRROpph0&feature=player_embedded#at=77

An abomination that has earned the catchy moniker of 'The Worst Song Ever' (and again, rightly so -although perhaps maybe not with as much respectable adequacy). Now, without question, it is one of the biggest piles of steaming musical excrement since The Crazy Frog and is the product of a culture so materialistic I hope it chokes on its own silicon implants. In fact, with the appearance of what can only be described as the most token rapper that has ever existed, midway through the song, I could hardly blame the guy who thought to enact  some of Nate Dogg's most profound (this is ever so faintly tinged with irony by the way) lyrics, choosing to 'pull out my strap and lay them busters down.' (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1plPyJdXKIY)

Which, kind of, brings me to the last thing I wanted to mention. A couple of days ago I read an article somewhere in The Times saying that on the latest episode of BBC Two's 'Wonders of the Universe', the audience had complained. Not for factual inaccuracy. Not even for its potentially anti-creationist stance. But because of it's music. Why? Had they browsed Slipknot's back catalogue and casually overlaid 'Wait and Bleed' to the remarkably insightful montage of Black Hole formation? Was 'Barbie Girl' just not an appropriate soundtrack for the formation of deep-space nebulae? None of these things. It was just a bit too loud.

Apparently, Professor Brian Cox's very well-produced programme's lightly techno music had just deafened listeners out of hearing all the lovely words he'd gone to the trouble of writing and saying. What junk, I watched it and it was all as clear as crystal. Never mind though, they turned the music down anyway and everyone was happy.

Except for Sarah Vine. Author of said article, ('No sex please, this is serious science' - The Times Wednesday March 16, 2011), Vine describes Prof. Cox as 'handsome' and as repeatedly 'flashing his white teeth in a carefree yet attractively wistful smile'; all of which is to make us believe that Cox's supposedly ecliptic ego and good looks threaten to overshadow the scientific content of a monumentally informative television programme. Science, like cookery (Nigella & Sophie Dahl), the news (Fiona Bruce) and everything before it, has become sexed up.

This is a show called Wonders of the Universe. The two episodes to go out so far have been called 'Destiny' and 'Stardust'. It specialises in taking broad theoretical concepts and making them palatable for a late night audience. From the sound of her article, Vine seems to resent the intrusion of Cox into her world of TV because, until he came along, she was seriously hoping to get a Ph.D in Astro-physics out of this.

Also, her main claim is based on the fact she just happens to simply adore 'wise old owl' figures, like Professor Heinz Wolff, whose clear lack of fashion/sanity/grounding in anything terrestrial is apparently an extra qualification in itself. Despite this, in the real world, the fact that PROFESSOR Brian Cox has had a music career does nothing to detract from his actual Ph.D from the University of Manchester. If anything, it makes him slightly more of a real person showing that, to be a member of CERN, you don't have to look like some sort of social aberration. What's more, the accusation that 'if a concept has to be dressed up as a super-sexy mountain-top thing, then it probably wasn't very thrilling in the first place' shows a fundamental misunderstanding of 1) Television 2) The Human attention span 3) Science and 4) Existence. Boiled down, Vine's complaint is nothing short of: 'The BBC are making science accessible and every time I see Brian Cox my loins tremble so violently I'm distracted from the screen. Bring back that nutter with the corduroys.'

So yes, Sarah darling, it might not be as in-depth as Horizon but, then again, it's not trying to be. Similarly, your own personal preference for presenters is just journalistic guff. I mean do you really care? I admit that I found Ben Miller slightly irritating in his episode of Horizon, but only because he was pretending to be inordinately thick so as to explain the principles of thermodynamics. If he'd just explained them in a simple fashion (like sexy, sexy Brian) I wouldn't have minded in the slightest. And even Brian I'm not really that attached to. I'm just an Arts student who gets their kicks by dabbling in Science for procrastinatory purposes.. Consequently, I find Sarah's self-righteous pretence of ego-lambasting a bit rich. Especially from someone whose professional authorial photo is clearly the least successful attempt at 'a carefree yet attractively wistful smile' since the Quasimodo Lookalike Society's annual reunion photograph.

So yeah.

RIP Nate Dogg.

Dodgson.

Delight Here

Your love’s like a slow train coming. Err no it’s not if the slow train is specifically my train from Oxford home, because then the destination of whatever this love is that Billy Ocean (or Boyzone, if you’re more of a ‘90s kid) was yowling about is Ealing Broadway at 19:56. I’m sure Mr Ocean was willing to sacrifice a great deal for his love, but one draws a line - the Central Line, to be precise, outta Ealing Broadway at 19:56. Even when the going gets tough.

In fact the only saving grace of that lengthy journey was that I wasn’t alighting at Slough. Alighting. When I was younger, and a Londoner still unaccustomed to the exotic concept of overground trains, I used to think the tannoy was instructing people to “delight here”. Well, I can tell you, to realise that particular command in Slough just now would’ve taken a league of delightfulness beyond any human capability.

The ritual of returning home from university occurs. Silently gorging on pasta for an hour, searching the kitchen for residual generic M&S gourmet snack/dessert to a disapproving commentary from critical-mother-because-do-you-really-need-that-third-flapjack, pretending to understand the intricacies of a no-fly zone to excitable-father-hailing-from-Middle East (the crackling World Service practically sellotaped round his head), and then a cursory hello to teenage-sister-I-hate-you-you’ll-never-understand-me-I-have-A levels-you-know-and-a-sore-throat. Sorry all, I know ma momma told me better than to diss y’all on the internet, but it seems I paid no heed.

But of course the official party line is east, west, home is best (so west then), and having just been informed by an increasingly grave Huw Edwards that employment is at an all-time low for female under-24s and will not improve at any point in the near future, I suppose I’d better get used to it. Thanks Huw, that's all for tonight. Now to join the news teams where you are.

click here for an 'addictive bassline' apparently.

Err... Hockity Pockity?

Merlin has, like all great men, been many things to many people. He first really appears in the chronicles of Geoffrey of Monmouth who, amalgamating a few historical figures into one, adding a dash of imagination and, it seems, whatever he hadn't managed to attribute to the Romans, Celts or Trolls. For Thomas Mallory (compiler of what, for most people, is THE book of King Arthur stories), he was a shrewd tactician, whose magic lay mostly in prophecy and being in the right place at the right time. Fair enough, if you really were at death's door, he might rustle up the odd potion but he wasn't exactly bandying around a wand willy-nilly. Then, over time and, as usual, with a bit of help from the Victorians and Walt Disney, he's become a sort of primogenitor for Gandalf, Dumbledore, Santa Claus and all the jolly, magical and bearded fellows ever to have roamed the planet.

Oh, and then there's the BBC who decided that he should be a bumbling, faintly amiable and jug-eared youth serving a future King Arthur who looks like he only just didn't make into the Bullingdon Club because he happens to have a wrenching crush on the girl from the local comprehensive.

But, and, here's the point - so what? All this really proves is that the character of 'Merlin' has never, ever been one thing and to start yelling from the rooftops "WHAT IS THIS? I DON'T EVEN" makes no sense. Fair enough, his latest aurally advantageous reincarnation is quite a large leap from tradition, but even so, I watch it. And why wouldn't I? As a 45minute distraction from existence it's more than sufficient (especially when Dr. Who's not running) and that's what all popular literature/poetry/art have ever thought much of doing.

And that applies to all you other adaptations out there too. The film version of Brideshead Revisited was recently on iPlayer: A little bit of a jaunt through Oxford, heaps of Catholic guilt and some posh bisexuality - a boiled down version and, ultimately, not accurate in any way version of whatever Evelyn Waugh himself might have been trying to get at. Fair enough. But still, it was a good 2 and a bit hours of film and certainly didn't deserve the reaction someone told me they gave it in the cinema - of walking out disgustedly. Especially from a man who willingly went to watch either/or both Sex and the City films.

The point is then, people have adapted everything since time immemorial. Shakespeare himself almost never wrote anything that hadn't been translated out of the original Latin/Greek/French three or four times before him. But his skill was precisely in the adaptation. In the original version of King Lear, Cordelia survives and keeps ruling for the next however many years in blissful happiness. But who wants to see that? It hardly evokes the futility of human pride and value of life if, at the end of all Lear's misguided ranting and railing, he just carries on as if nothing happened.

Here's another example. In my first year, I knew a tutor in Old English who genuinely liked the 3D Beowulf film. Now, even as a film, it wasn't outstanding (I mean, I liked it) but, as a literal adaptation, it was complete nonsense. I mean, Angelina Jolie, the sensual mother of Grendel, the terrifying (again, extremely gifted in the listening department - maybe there's a connection? I can't wait for the adaptation that makes a sort of Fantastic Four of Grendel, Merlin, Sauron and Errour from The Faerie Queene) monster, who Beowulf kills, and then Beowulf casually impregnates Angelina, and then their offspring turns out to be the dragon, and then the dragon kills Beowulf and then and then and then. It was mental. But hey, who cares, it was in 3D.

So next time the latest adaptation of something comes out, just chill. If it's terrible as a film, then fine but don't start crying about the plot. Coincidentally, I hear the new adaptation of True Grit's smashing.

Oh, and if anyone's wondering about the title: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bd5YUEOwlE

Evening One

Today I found a curt email lurking malevolently in my inbox – my exam timetable. Well, actually, it said “examination” timetable, the faculty knowing full well the immediacy and terror of That Word’s unabbreviated form. But after perusing the page, I felt a certain not-so-unbearable lightness. It's strange, but the idea of 11 weeks to go until sweating it out in adverse conditions (ie. a clock and an itchy shirt. And, y’know, that intense nausea born of an overwhelming sense of one’s own inadequacy) doesn’t fill me with a particular sense of urgency.

A sneaking guilt occasionally creeps through me, but it’s more a response to the fact that I am not yet wracked with the inevitable guilty conscience that I’ve been expecting. This brings me to my incredibly philosophical point (that I’ve heard is the ultimate end of all blog-posts) which is this:

The only thing we have to fear is not feeling fearful.

It’s a bit of a twist of an old adage (can you guess what it is? I think it’s either Roosevelt or Dumbledore..) but far more accurate. WHY are we all still walking around in a hazy state of inertia, sitting around in the sun, doing nothing, thinking about how lovely June will be when we can sit around in the sun, doing nothing? It is probably this complacency that will plague me more than my shocking ignorance of England’s stability under Edward the Confessor (which, incidentally, would be a pretty good blogging epithet).

I admit this is the calm before the storm, and the dread of revision with all its horrors (sleeplessness, borderline insanity, bad skin, crying, that inky lump on your middle finger, intermittent pangs of crippling loneliness, crying) will soon blight the fresh face of this shiny new web-page. Either that or your own tears will render it illegible.

Symbolic of the state of being a finalist is a chapter-heading in one of my ominous pile of books:

The course of true nationalism never did run smooth

Right. So basically LOVE and all that it entails has been replaced by a fairly pejorative term for an ideology generally believed to have emerged in 19^th century Europe, elements of which soon led to the development of fascist tendencies. So poetic, these historians.

Anyway, that’s the only interesting that happened to me today. Other than in the library I thought I saw someone die. Octogenarian professors should not fall asleep on the desks.  Surely he should be kept awake by the sheer brilliance of his thoughts? Wish I was.

Night night,

Dodgson (the Confessor).

Day One

Good Afternoon Blog Fans,

Much talk of blogs recently; their pros their cons, their inanities, insanities and banalities. So, to clear the path of righteousness for all, I've decided to stick my oar in..

Goodie.

Just to note, 'I', in this case, has decided to be pseudonymous. We are the first person narrator of 'THE BLOG', composed of potentially limitless contributors, the Martin Marprelate of Oxford University Finals Examinations. We are... (see below)

Anyway, enough of that. What we plan on doing here is basically voicing the grievances students across the world, giving a bit of a glimpse into life at Oxford in our dying days as students and, occasionally dishing out a bit of commentary on music, literature, art and pop culture in general. Like Facebook, but with an email address you can show your employers and say, "Hey look, I do something with my life." And, in the case of some blogs, even if it's a pile of typographical excrement..

So, I hear you ask, what's happened so far? Well, today is day one - I'm going home to get a few days rest before coming back up and starting revision - just finished an Extended Essay on 'Narrative of Individualism in the American Detective Novel'. I also got up nice and early for what was meant to be a group breakfast in the college hall. Picture the scene: trays of bacon, stacks of sausages, pints of baked beans, the pictures of famous monarchs and alumni on the walls, an expectant student ready to take on the day - and not a bloody soul in sight. Can't even get people to breakfast nowadays..

That and I'm doing some laundry. Which has already cheated me out of £1.00 for the reason of washing machine malfunction. But I do think it's telling that today, as I head for the rocky straits of revision, the bumper box of detergent I bought in my first week has now finally run out. What, exactly, that tells, I leave for you to decide. Somewhere between "why so little laundry over three years?" and "in what way is running out of washing powder genuinely significant?" I guess.

All that and more to look forward to I suppose! Here, by way of musical enjoyment for all those revising, working and pondering their inner teenage angsty selves (irrespective of their true age) is the beautiful 'She's Got You High' by Mumm Ra.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sXFXjh9a8lY

Dodgson.