A Modest Proposal

Ian McEwan has been accused of plagiarism over his Booker Prize nominated book, Atonement. Perhaps McEwan is aware of two important points. One. Nothing can ever be original. Two. Whatever you write, someone else has probably already done it better.

Plagiarism is not stealing. It would be impossible to think of something completely original. People speak too much. It is far better to be economical with language. There are too many useless words just floating about pointlessly. If we attempt to reuse them more effectively, we can all live in a cleaner, happier, quieter place.

Too much time has been wasted on philosophy and literature. There are much more important things to worry about. Plagirism helps us to use our time more effectively. If, for example, we spent less time thinking about poverty and more time actually doing something about it, perhaps there would be no more poverty.

If everyone just copied what someone else had already said, time could be spent much more wisely. Instead of making students think for exams, universities should permit plagiarism so that everyone gets good marks. Universities would go up in the league tables and students could actually get jobs and earn some money doing something useful.

There are too many ignorant people in the world already. If everyone just copied what more intelligent people had already spent years thinking about, the world would be a much better place.

McEwan is obviously not intelligent enough to write something original and so has wisely stuck to plagiarism.

Train journey

Condensation drips down the scratched windows of the warm train as passengers struggle to keep their eyes open. An old man, dressed in beige pulls his bright red anorak tightly as the train doors whoosh open and the draft is sucked in. He is holding a woman’s hand tightly. She wears a smart, straight chocolate coat and sits up tidily. They sit in comfortable silence. As she draws her hand away, his stays locked, claw-like in the same position.

“’Ave we got all the Christmas presents nahw?” she asks, half looking out the window at the graffitied factories and rows of identical houses. Then they go back to silence.

Bom-bom…bom-bom….bom-bom….bom-bom….bom-bom…bom-bom…

The passengers are made to dance as the train plays the tracks like a thudding xylophone. As it comes into the station, the man looks up sharply, coughs and wipes his nose.

“Wos that…”

A passenger’s ipod blares out a high-pitched racket. They both look round.

"Just gimme the light"

“ ‘is ipod. Bop, bop, bop in ‘is ear”

Turning round again, they talk in hushed tones.

“sh…sh…sh…sh…sh”

The train drowns them out as it powers on to its destination past barbed wire and dreary factories.

The woman begins to look tired and grey except for the shiny buckles on her shoes and the gold clip in her hair. She blinks heavily, succumbing to the cozy warmth and steady rocking of the train. The man’s hand rests in place, waiting for hers to return as his eyes glaze over. His lips are pursed in a half-smile+ All that can be heard now is the munch, munch of someone eating a sandwich and the whizzing as a train passes swiftly by.

I'm all ears

Following from Emma's post i am really beginning to wonder whether I will be able to become the kind of journalist I aspire to be. Journalism is not a career, but a life choice. Being truly committed means living and breathing everything news, every minute of the day. This takes some getting used to after years of being a student "for the sake of it".

On the one hand journalism is a buisness just like any other. We are dealing with the selling of information. But, journalists have a responsiblilty. We are dealing with a precious comodity and without strong morals, the truth can become distorted. Everyone has an agenda, but when your words are read, I believe you have a responsbilty to 1. have a clear opinion and 2. be balanced.

I recently read on another blog that people want to talk to journalists. I completely agree. People want to tell their story and it is our job to listen. That is what we are there to do. Tell a story to the best of our ablity.

I spent my evening trying to explain British newspapers' agendas and stances to a friend and it got me thinking. Trainee journalists are one of the most exceptional parts of this industry because they are coming into this buisness with an innocent passion and an eagerness to learn. Long may it last.

"We got him"

I cannot believe that capital punishment can and will be imposed in 2006 when Saddam Hussein will be hung for crimes against humanity. The Iraqi people have been through hell at the hands of an enemy within and without . Does the coalition really believe that it has brought peace to a country on the verge of civil war? According to Sky News, the trial brings "catharsis" for the Iraqi people. While in Nebraska, where George Bush is due to appear, U2's "It's a beautiful Day" booms out to an elated crowd, the Sun and Sky News show us images of an elated Iraqi people while the Telegraph tell us of clashes between armed civilians and police.

In an article in The Guardian over the weekend Sir Tim Berners-Lee talks about his fear that the web is becoming a "bad phenomena" as little can be done to regulate it. This worries me. He is concerned that blogging can be too heavily relied on and people can trust the wrong information. Blogging is dangerous as it gives people the freedom of speech in a way never seen before. We are able to express our opinion so that anyone and everyone can see it and judge it for themselves. Isn't it an elitist view to say that someone should regulate our opinions and presumptuous to say that people are not intelligent enough to be able to make up their own minds? How dangerous, for example, if we could only hear the elite's views on Iraq.

(Please also see Kathy Rowsome's take on this by clicking on her blog)

Anything is possible

I have been noticing more and more the - think of a story, stand it up - method. With the Killer Bees in mind, I noticed an article by a "futurologist" in the Sun over the weekend about the amount of surveillance in Britain. Many of the papers have approached this subject since it was revealed that there is 1 camera to every 14 people.

I found it funny to see that the Sun has employed an "expert" to warn its readers of the possibility that thought police could tell if a "criminal beat someone up for their ipod or because they were black, so it will know whether it was a racist crime". It's amazing what they can make into a story. I wonder whether the creation of a futurologist turns speculation into fact. If so, what isn't possible? Everything's a story so long as someone can back it up as a possility.

http://www.thesun.co.uk/article/0,,2-2006510107,00.html

In it for the laughs

Living in London can be a nightmare if, like me, you are living on a measly budget and trying to fit in course commitments, work and somehow squeezing in a social life somewhere along the line. With this in mind, I have tried over the last week to stop feeling sorry for myself and get out there and make the most of my time. Instead of spending time moping about, feeling guilty about not getting enough done and forever checking my wallet for that lost pound coin, I have picked myself up and taken advantage of the cheaper side of London.

This began last Wednesday with a trip to the Comedy Cafe in Old St. Cheap, cheerful and a potential story. What more could I ask for? The shows at the Comedy Cafe usually cost around £10, but with so much "talent" around, there is a special free night where comedians (victims) can come and try out their material. Big mistake. With no cover charge, punters are free to wonder in off the street and spend their hard earned cash on booze. This also means that office parties often migrate there with the promise of a few cheap laughs at the boss' expense.

As I took my seat, I could sense the crowd getting riled up, ready for their first victim. Up steps the compere (think the child-snatcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang meets Fagin) who informs the already boozed-up crowd that the evening's acts are not used to heckling. This gives the green light for the comments to begin. On comes the first act. A young man wearing a striped t-shirt bravely went first and promptly died on his feet after a "where's wally gone bad" comment. Through the night we see 10 acts and are invited to rate them out of ten, although the cheers, or jeers, work well enough.

As the night progresses I am singled out as the next prey as, mid-joke, I turn round to look at the fireman talking to the compere, leading to many hose jokes as I become the compere's stooge. I can't complain though after what was after all a free evening. I'll just make sure I'm not at the front next time.