FAKE UP: Alcohol

 
Many is the night FAKE UP has walked the streets of Dublin late at night, and shaken its metaphorical head in shame at the sights to be glimpsed there. The amount of revelry and enjoyment on display is nothing short of despicable; whither the great archetype of the sober, stoic Irishman? The temptation to be viewed as "deadly" is all-too-pervasive. If there is hope, however, it lies with you, the young people of the country.

"Whenever I go out, I won't let anyone buy me a drink. Water is my alcohol!" – Patrick, Dublin

Young people can suffer particularly adverse consequences as a result of partaking in the ingestion of alcohol ("drinking", as it is commonly known). A general air of foolishness tends to pervade any gathering of young people who are "under the influence". This foolishness can be viewed in such expressions of said "influence" as uncontrollable laughter and loud singing. Such unrestrained joy is indicative of an even deeper and more troubling problem with alcohol: it removes one's capacity to think rationally, and to make tough decisions. The impact of this is unmistakeable: what's life without a few tough decisions?

"When I go out with my friends and someone asks me a question, I make out a flow-chart of all the possible consequences of any reply I should make. Usually they leave before I can come to a decision, though." – Paula, Sligo

One obvious consequence of the inability to make tough decisions is the lasciviousness that is associated with alcohol intake. Clearly, this is a big problem; the population of the world is growing too rapidly as it is. Besides this, drunken "hook-ups" can in the worst cases lead to long-term relationships, a serious problem which FAKE UP has covered in depth previously. Of course, the urge to copulate (or "do it", in the common phrase) is strong among young people, but if you don't believe that abstinence can be fun, just listen to these party people:

"One night, I met a girl in a club. We were getting on well, until she asked me to dance. Knowing that 'dance' was a euphemism for sex, I turned and walked away. It felt so much better!" – Peter, Cork.

"Mark had been my best friend for years. We did everything together. Then one night he got drunk, and confessed that he was in love with me. I threw holy water on him and ran." – Ellen, Dublin.

One famous historical case of widespread abstinence is Prohibition in the USA between the world wars. Any glance at the culture of the 1920s can show you that America did just fine without alcohol. This was the decade that produced The Great Gatsby; the 'Jazz Age', when flappers and their gentleman escorts danced the night away until a reasonable hour in dry bars across the country. Prohibition was, unfortunately, eventually lifted at the beginning of the 1930s, and it can be no coincidence that the Great Depression coincided with the reintroduction of alcohol in the country.

"Prohibition was the best thing that ever happened to this country. I can honestly say I would never have been this successful without it." – Al, Chicago, 1928.

Clearly it is no coincidence, since recent studies have confirmed that alcohol does in a very real sense rot the brain. According to a doctor at Queens University (who refused to be named, for fear of reprisal by drunken rowdies), in its purest form alcohol can burn through corrugated iron. Besides this, it contains chemicals which go straight to the brain, removing all capacity for rational thought, and replacing it with an inexplicable penchant for Journey. Tests have proven that a rat which consumes even a millilitre of whiskey will perform poorly in academic testing from then on. The danger is palpable, no matter who you are.

"I drank lots of alcohol when I was young, and it hasn't affected me conversely [sic]!" – George, Texas.

Yet it is impossible to deny that there is danger involved in not drinking as well. Just listen to this testimony:

"When my friends discovered I didn't drink, they were horrified. They tied me to a chair, burned me with red hot pokers and then said they'd stop if I'd take a drink. I refused. One of them put on the radio, took out a razor and cut my ear off. I still refused. Ironically, they used vodka to sterilise the wound." – Michelle, Limerick.

Michelle paints a horrifying picture, yet it is one that is all too common. An Garda Síochána report that incidents of non-drinkers being literally tortured by their peers in order to force them into drinking have increased by 1000% in the last 5 years. It is a difficult trend to combat, since the fearful youths generally say things like "I fell into a fire" or "I slipped and ripped out my own fingernail". Eventually, most succumb to the peer pressure, and spend the rest of their lives weeping pitifully into a can of beer.

Without alcohol, in short, the world would be full of high-minded, stoic, thoughtful people who go no further than a warm handshake with the opposite sex, without rotted brains or hideous scars from torture, as happened during Prohibition. Doesn't this seem like something worth aspiring to? Yet even if it's a long way away, you yourself can make a difference simply by refusing. Always remember: it's cool to say "no"!

Courting Controversy

There is something I feel I must get off my chest. Confession can be therapeutic; perhaps more so in such a public setting as this blog. This particular secret is a murky one indeed, one I have hitherto been unable to communicate to any but my closest intimates. I lie awake at nights wondering if I am fundamentally a bad person. I hope very much that you can all help me get through this dark time, but first I really feel I must tell you the terrible truth: I prefer Angel to Buffy.

"How can this be?" you undoubtedly cry. Well, it's down to the fact that, though one was derived from the other, Angel and Buffy are two notably different programmes. The former is based more on long arcs (often based around individual characters who influence the plot: Darla, Holtz, Lindsey and Connor, for instance) while the latter is somewhat more episodic. This is not always the case, of course; Seasons Five and Seven of Buffy are more like Angel seasons, in that they have several episodes devoted to a season-long arc. Similarly, Season One of Angel is more episodic than the others; it's also by far my least favourite of the five seasons, despite a few standout episodes. This means that Angel is in some ways more consistent than Buffy; it doesn't have peaks and troughs in the same manner as its predecessor. This means it's easier to name, say, ten standout episodes of Buffy than of Angel, but also means that, on average, Angel's quality is a little higher.

In addition to this generally higher standard, Angel also tends to be notably darker than its parent show. Now, this is very much a matter of taste, but generally I tend to prefer darker tones ('Empire Strikes Back' as opposed to 'A New Hope'; 'Temple of Doom' as opposed to 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'. One notable exception is that I don't consider Torchwood to be better than Doctor Who, but then again few things are). As an example of the darker tone, let's have a look at the last few episodes of Angel's third season (spoilers ahoy, of course). Angel's long-lost son returns from a hell dimension, makes a friend who then dies from an overdose, goes all Mr. Blonde on a drug dealer, is led to believe that his foster father has been killed by Angel (by said foster father, who is quite happy to die just to get in Angel's way), entraps his real father and lowers him into the ocean. Meanwhile, Cordelia breaks up with the Groosalugg and gets assumed up into Heaven (the two events aren't connected. I think.), Wesley growls and glares while being offered jobs by Wolfram and Hart and the always-entertaining Lorne heads for Las Vegas. In short, bad things abound for all and sundry (except the audience). Buffy certainly got dark (at the same time as all this was being aired, on another channel Buffy had just finished having rough sex with Spike, Xander had just left Anya at the altar and Tara had just gotten in the way of a stray bullet, causing Willow to go dark-haired and torture-happy), but Angel just took that darkness to crazy levels. After all, Joss Whedon isn't exactly known for happy endings.

Angel also features one of the most beloved characters in the Whedonverse, who has numerous essays and even a whole blog dedicated to his remarkable character arc. Though he appeared first in Season Three of Buffy, he was a bumbling authoritarian fool then; on Angel, he developed into a hardened, embittered warrior. This character is, of course, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Everyone seems to identify with Wesley; from his early bumbling good intentions to losing the girl he loves to a friend to his impossible decision over the baby Connor in the middle of Season Three. In my own case, it doesn't hurt that we look fairly alike. In any case, Wesley is my favourite character in the entire Whedonverse. Added to this, Season Five sees the arrival of one of my other favourites, and the most popular character in Buffy: Spike. Spike adds a whole new dynamic to the series; his sly digs at Angel are a joy to watch, while he also happens to be one of the coolest characters imaginable, with his long leather coat, slicked-back hair, wry wit and handy way in a fight. Though both of these characters originated on Buffy, the versions we see on Angel are different, more developed and arguably better. Besides, Wesley is in exactly 100 episodes of Angel, compared to 9 of Buffy, and a higher level of Alexis Denisof automatically makes anything better. It's science.

Good ol' Spike

Most TV programmes settle into a pattern somewhere in their first season. It may change around somewhat, but as a rule it stays vaguely recognisable. Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, Tim Minear and others, however, laugh at such petty conformity to patterns while simultaneously throwing rulebooks out the window. Angel established a pattern in the first series – Angel takes in a client, usually a young woman, who is having demon troubles; Cordelia/Doyle has a vision involving said troubles; someone (generally Wesley) finds out about the demon and finally Angel kills it by beating it or glowering at it. There are some exceptions (particularly the standout 'Five by Five'/'Sanctuary' two-parter), but in general the episodes conform to this pattern. After this, however, the laughter and flinging of books commenced; it's very difficult to attribute a pattern to Angel from Season Two onwards. After a certain point, Angel Investigations barely even seems to be a detective agency anymore, what with all the woes of the staff. The real genius, however, comes with Season Five, where the entire programme is completely turned on its head, with Angel and company being given control of Wolfram and Hart, their (im)mortal enemies. The following season is a masterpiece of self-doubt, both exacerbated and punctuated by the addition of Spike; it's my favourite season of Angel. Admittedly, Buffy took pride in breaking up patterns as well, but it never really turned the entire programme on its head in the same way as Season Five of Angel.

A crucial part of Season Five's appeal is, oddly enough, the fact that the programme was cancelled at the end, leading directly to the wonderful ending – "Let's get to work". This means that, unlike the closed, resolved (albeit more or less note perfect) ending of Buffy, Angel ends with the promise of more, as it were. The After the Fall comic series continues the story from where the TV series left off, and proves that Season Six could have been spectacular. Yet even though After the Fall was co-plotted by Joss Whedon and is canonical, the fact remains that Angel the series has an open ending; every fan is left to conjure up their own theory of what happened to Angel, Spike, Gunn and Illyria in that alley. It resembles another television ending I greatly admire; namely that of Life On Mars, in which Sam Tyler's story is resolved, but the question of what happened to him is left tantalisingly unanswered (until the disappointing answer is unwisely revealed in Ashes to Ashes, of course). At first glance, the ending might seem frustrating, but the openness is the beauty of it; the fight never ends for these characters, and the ending emphasised that.

So, in short, I do consider Angel to be a more accomplished programme than Buffy. That said, of course, the latter is my second-favourite TV programme, so the distinction doesn't really count for that much. I do have the odd reservation with it, and there are episodes I'm not a huge fan of (what kind of sci-fi/fantasy fan would I be otherwise?), but in general I do consider it to be the best thing on TV. After all, name me one other dark, noirish fantasy series featuring an episode where the main character gets turned into a puppet and fights evil demon puppets who have taken over a children's programme? Exactly.

Clinching Proof

Ursine Defecation Habits Headline

A quick introduction: this is intended to be a running series of headlines which seem to state the blindingly obvious, provoking the natural response: "Is that really news?"


 
Today's contribution, from today's Telegraph: "Lesbians flock to Lesbos". Given the etymology of the word "lesbian", this is somewhat like saying "English flock to England". It's worth noting that this is actually a cut-down version of a headline, displayed for space constraints on the web page (for some strange reason). Not realising this, I clicked on the article, hoping to find some bizarre story about how some latent homing instinct had kicked in in lesbians worldwide, causing them to drop their business and head for Lesbos en masse. Sadly, the truth, as revealed in the full headline, was not quite so interesting: "Lesbians flock to Greek island of Lesbos for festival".

Another Exalted Personage

Those readers who are WAKE UP fans of old may recall our tendency to pick out people we feel are shining examples to all and sundry; namely Éamonn "Éamo" Murphy, Hans Gruber and Zapp Brannigan. For anyone who is interested, a partial list of luminaries is available at the official WAKE UP Facebook page here. Now it is time to resume this habit by examining a man of great worth who is not represented on said list, but deserves a great deal of recognition nonetheless. This man is the Antipodean mediator of wisdom Nick Cave; a true gentleman.

How, you may ask, is Mr. Cave a true gentleman? Let us count the ways. First of all, he is extremely forthright; never afraid to speak up. One evident example of this is the wonderfully-titled "No Pussy Blues", in which Mr. Cave recounts his attempts to persuade a young woman to engage in sexual intercourse with him, "but she just didn't want to". However one might characterise Mr. Cave's behaviour throughout the song, he is certainly unafraid to speak up about that which he desires, which is worth celebrating in its own way. Similarly, in "Thirsty Dog", Mr. Cave shows himself as a man unafraid to apologise, when the situation calls for it; right up to "I'm sorry that I exist", which is, it must be said, about as sizeable an apology as it is possible to make. Thus Mr. Cave also shows the humility befitting a true gentleman.

Mr. Cave is also an eloquent man of great learning. In "Song of Joy", for instance, he repeatedly quotes from Milton's Paradise Lost. Admittedly these quotations are part of his modus operandi when murdering his wife and children, among others, but he still deserves credit; those serial killers who make literary references are always the most admirable. In "Nature Boy", meanwhile, it seems that one of the most attractive qualities about the woman featured in the song is her ability to quote Sappho "in the original Greek". Mr. Cave, like all true gentlemen of learning, appreciates a woman who can quote verse about lesbianism in a language of the ancient world. As for eloquence, few people have Mr. Cave's way with words, especially when it comes to insanity. For instance, this line from "The Curse of Millhaven": "I've got a pretty little mouth underneath all the foaming" (Note: Mr. Cave is here adopting the role of a 14-year-old girl, though he himself does have a notably pretty mouth).

Moreover, Mr. Cave has the romantic streak of a true gentleman. In songs such as "Do You Love Me?" and "Watching Alice", Mr. Cave showcases his devotion; as we all know, obsessive love is the greatest kind of love. There is no greater compliment to another person than stalking them. In "Where the Wild Roses Grow", meanwhile, he shows that he is so devoted to a woman that he is willing to kill her; in so doing, he proves his love, since "each man kills the thing he loves" (thank you, Oscar). He even claims in the title of one song to have a "Hard-On for Love", which is perhaps one of the most overt declarations of a romantic streak ever.

Another hallmark of a true gentleman is honesty, something Mr. Cave has in spades. After all, he constantly admits to murder. Songs in which he murders someone (without adopting the persona of someone else) include "Papa Won't Leave You, Henry", "John Finn's Wife", "Song of Joy" (probably), "Lovely Creature" (possibly), "Up Jumped the Devil", "The Mercy Seat" (both implied), "Wanted Man" and "O'Malley's Bar". In the latter, in particular, he goes to some lengths to ensure the listener knows perfectly well that the killer is in fact him, describing himself as "tall and thin" and having "hair combed back like a raven's wing", a clear physical description of himself, rather than some hypothetical third party whose viewpoint he is adopting. Such candour is truly laudable, although it would cause any solicitor to distance her/himself from Mr. Cave.

In addition to all these fine qualities, Mr. Cave has a fine dress sense. He has a tendency towards black suits, often with a white shirt (though sometimes a black or red one); generally worn open-collar, but there are exceptions, as in the video for "The Weeping Song". In the video for "Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!", he goes for the interesting route of wearing a three-piece suit with the buttons on the shirt open as far down as the waistcoat; questionable for a man in his early 50s, but brave nonetheless (and, compared to Iggy Pop's sartorial sensibilities, positively prudish). He also generally slicks his hair back (hence the "raven's wing"), which makes him look both sophisticated (in more recent days) and terrifying (see, for instance, his mane in the late 80s and early 90s).

In conclusion, Mr. Cave is a true gentleman. He is both forthright and humble; he is a man of learning, who has a way with words; he is romantic; he is honest, freely admitting his misdeeds and he has a commendable dress sense. Let the word go out that Nick Cave is now an official WAKE UP luminary; you are all urged to seek to follow his example in whatever way you see fit.

[Apologies for the preponderance of hyperlinks; the uninitiated should rest assured that Nick Cave is worth it.]

Urban Fantasy

One of the longest-running and most successful fantasy series in the world runs on the BBC. It is a unique programme, which inspires much imitation and discussion, not to mention derision. It continues to enthral, entertain and move viewers even now, many years after its inception. The programme in question is, of course, 'Eastenders'.

Now, you may cry in protest that 'Eastenders' is not in fact a fantasy series, but WAKE UP begs to differ. The Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms defines "fantasy" as "a general term for any kind of fictional work that is not primarily devoted to realistic representation of the known world". 'Eastenders' fits quite snugly into this category; its peculiar melodrama bears little resemblance to any realistic representation of the world, and its many absurdities contribute to this impression.

Let us take for example one of these absurdities: the houses of Albert Square appear to have TARDIS-like capabilities. From the outside, they appear to be perfectly ordinary terraced houses, as can be found in any British or Irish city. Yet there is something peculiar about these houses: impossibly large groups of people (seemingly up to a dozen) seem to be capable of staying in each one quite comfortably, even though from the outside it appears that each house should contain no more than two or three bedrooms. The logical conclusion is that the houses of Albert Square are bigger on the inside, and were in fact built by Time Lords for some unknown purpose. Surely we cannot be far away from the day a resident fiddles with the heating, and ends up hurtling through time and space.

If this concept seems ridiculous, think of some of the plots that have been seen on 'Eastenders' in the past. Recently, a dramatic police chase culminated in a character being killed by falling off a roof. Some years ago, a character seemingly returned from the dead, only to be killed (again?) by being beaten over the head with a wooden doorstop. In the last week, a drug addiction plot resulted in the burning of one of the Square's landmarks. Why anyone lives in such a hotbed of tragedy and death is a wonder, especially given that these are the big plot moments; the day-to-day melodrama and heightened emotion are almost as ridiculous.

Fantasy is a genre that, for better or worse, tends to live and die by certain conventions; plot landmarks and character archetypes, set down most notably by Joseph Campbell in The Hero with a Thousand Faces. While this is not necessary to the fantasy genre (and more contemporary authors tend to delight in subverting these archetypes and conventions), it should be noted that 'Eastenders' has enough of its own conventions to form its own sub-genre. To give a few examples, there is the necessary gathering of every character (plus the odd extra) in the pub for any dramatic moment. For a wedding or funeral, this is understandable, but why on earth is the entire neighbourhood generally present for an emotional confrontation? Of course, once said confrontation is finished, the injured party (or one of them; few people escape injury for long in 'Eastenders') generally goes outside for a good cry, often to the single bench in the centre of the Square. After all, who among us doesn't seek out the most exposed place imaginable for our most vulnerable moments?

Another notably odd thing about Albert Square is that it seems to be the most insular community imaginable. No-one ever seems to work elsewhere; half the residents of the Square own the local businesses – the café, the pub, the launderette, the nightclub and so forth. About the only people who ever seem to travel on a regular basis are children going to school (though they do seem to be home a large proportion of the time anyway). It is a wonder that the occasional new residents aren't greeted by stunned silences and unwelcoming stares from their new neighbours. Of course, people do leave occasionally; either in a taxi, so that they can stare, misty-eyed, at their now former residence (when surely the logical reaction would be to celebrate leaving such a place), or else via the local Tube station, which is normally to facilitate a lover's last-minute rush to said station for a tearful goodbye.

Perhaps the most compelling piece of evidence that 'Eastenders' is a sci-fi/fantasy series is the fact that in the early '90s, it had a crossover with 'Doctor Who'. Yes, really. That statement deserves repetition: 'Eastenders' did a crossover with 'Doctor Who'. Even more remarkably, the latter hadn't been on the air for a few years at the time, which serves to strengthen the already-obvious bond between them; Time Lords are drawn to Albert Square. In the crossover (a Children in Need special called 'Dimensions in Time'), the Doctor and his companion are trapped in Albert Square, where they encounter the residents of the place, along with various monsters including a Cyberman and a Sea Devil. If this is not clinching evidence that 'Eastenders' is really a science fiction series, then it is impossible to imagine what is.

That said, another possibility remains. Perhaps all these ridiculous circumstances, all the repeated actions and indeed the constant depression, actually point to 'Eastenders' being a piece of Beckettian absurdism. Perhaps the programme is in fact based in 20^th-century existentialism, and seeks to satirise modern life through showing up the sheer bleakness and futility of the characters' lives. The "crying bench" is their way of finding regular support in a harsh world; the TARDIS-like houses are a commentary on overpopulation. After all, the most affecting (and sometimes the daftest) storylines are often succeeded by the entreaty to call a support line "if you have been affected by any of the issues raised in this programme". Perhaps, as well as a piece of absurdist art, 'Eastenders' is intended to be a kind of panacea. "No matter how bad your life is," it seems to say, "you're better off than these poor buggers".

If this is the case, then 'Eastenders' is a true triumph of modern art. It can be appreciated from many aspects. It may be a speculative fantasy series, imagining life in a heightened form of reality (which may in fact be a Time Lord experiment). It may be an absurdist satire of modern life, highlighting the futility of existence. It may also be a means of combating depression by making viewers value the distance between their own lives and those of the residents of Albert Square. All of this goes to explain why 'Eastenders' is so remarkably popular: BBC viewers appreciate multi-faceted postmodern art.

Rose-Tinted Computer Screens

Generation Y (or the "Millennials") is an odd one in many respects. We are, in many respects, the generation of the new millennium; the first generation ever to grow up with such a remarkable thing at our disposal as the World Wide Web, with all its myriad possibilities and connotations. The post-war generation, told that they had "never had it so good", turned to rebellion and counter-culture to find some self-expression; we have no need of such things, when any fool can set up a blog and begin posting their thoughts (sometimes using a pseudonym, or the journalistic "we", or even still pretending to be two people). For a generation growing up in the digital age, with so much of our time spent in front of computer or television screens, it is no wonder that we have developed some very strange habits indeed (at least by previous generations' standards).

There is a view of the Millennial Generation as somewhat pampered and coddled, a view that probably owes more than its proponents would care to admit to jealousy. Generally speaking, we don't have to trudge our way to school clad in coal sacks, only to be beaten senseless for our own betterment. We have been dubbed the "Peter Pan Generation", on the basis that our rites of passage, and the taking on of adult responsibility, have been procrastinated and postponed to a great extent. To the extent that this is true, it is viewed in purely sociological and economic terms; i.e. how long we are taking to move out of our parents' homes and into the workplace. Yet our own youth culture reveals a more interesting variant on this trend.

Here is an experiment to try, if you are on Facebook: have a look at pages you have "liked", and count up how many of them are to do with programmes you watched or games you played when you were a child, or to do with nostalgia in general. If you were born in the 80s, you are likely to have joined groups involving 'He-Man', 'Thundercats' and such; if you born in the 90s, chances are you've joined a few groups relating to 'Rugrats', 'Pinky and the Brain', 'Earthworm Jim' and other such wondrous works of art. Groups propose the superiority of 'Buffy's' Spike and Angel over 'Twilight's' Edward and Jacob, largely on the basis that Spike and Angel are "the originals" (full disclosure: the present writer joined said group, but only because he is a huge fan of 'Buffy' and 'Angel' as well as, apparently, a hypocrite). Perhaps it is because our generation is reaching the age where nostalgia for childhood really starts to kick on; a nostalgia mediated through fond remembrances of things we associate with our childhood.

Consider the example of computer games. Many of us grew up with them, and may have early memories of playing a SNES or a Mega Drive. If you were born in the late 80s or early 90s, chances are your childhood was dominated by Pokémon, and I do mean dominated; the remarkable amount of merchandising that surrounded the series seems baffling with hindsight. Chances are many of us have fond memories of continually pressing the 'B' button, thinking that it aided capture of that elusive Kangaskhan. Our childhood memories are bound up with memories of 32-bit graphics and vibrant colours. Isn't it odd that some of our earliest memories of frustration and triumph involve trying to get Mario across a particularly tricky series of gaps (or, in the case of frustration, trying to play Mario Kart on 150 CC mode)?

Yet this isn't necessarily a bad thing; it doesn't mark us out as in some way inferior to previous generations; just different. Our formative experiences may have involved technology to a far greater degree than those of any of our ancestors, but that doesn't make us emotionally stunted in some way. What it means is simply that our generation is more familiar with technology, perhaps even more entwined with it. This too is open to misinterpretation; it does not turn us all into Cybermen, open to any suggestion from our technological masters. To continue with the theme, we're more like Daleks (in a good way), enhanced by and enmeshed with technology, though with that spark of individuality that (most) Daleks don't possess. Herein lies a lesson for all you readers: Doctor Who analogies can be extremely flawed.

Consider how the Internet has enhanced opportunities for writers and artists of all kinds. You wouldn't be reading this if not for the Internet (obviously); bloggers of all kinds talk about everything imaginable (think of a subject right now, any subject at all. Chances are, to paraphrase a rather trite and much-parodied ad campaign, "there's a blog for that"). Talented musicians are "discovered" on websites like MySpace. The recent American writers' strike provided 'Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog', a film written and shot by established writers and film-makers on their own money and put up on the Internet for free. The dissemination of culture has been discussed many times, and while its consequences are debatable, its impact is unmistakeable.

To sum up, our generation is fundamentally different, in both its dependence on and mastery of technology. For better or worse, it dominates our lives, and indeed our culture. While the development and impact of this will not be known for a long time to come, one thing is very clear: without computer and Internet technology, there would be no WAKE UP. That alone should make you thankful for the technology that surrounds us.



 
[This article was inspired by Alex Day's song 'Pokémon, What Happened to You?'.]

See also: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3k35pWbRwcs . Please note, however, that WAKE UP does not endorse any putting-down of Kate Bush.

Some Perspective

In the last number of days, there has been a lot in the news about Pastor Terry Jones. The reaction to Pastor Jones's plan to burn Qur'ans has been one of almost universal shock and condemnation, even from the less temperate elements of the American right. Yet two important points about Pastor Jones need to be made. Number one: he shares his name with a member of the finest comedy troupe in history (as the ever-reliable Andrew Sullivan observed earlier today). Secondly, in another matter that can't have escaped Sullivan's attention, it must be said that Pastor Jones has some remarkable facial hair. Gaze on its splendour:

 

Surely a man who can wear the "nineteenth-century Russian aristocrat" look (like our own Neil Hannon) so proudly can't be all bad?

[Apologies for the different font; an oversight in posting.]

In Memoriam

As intimated in the opening article, this new iteration of WAKE UP is fundamentally missing something; a nurturing, guiding presence. It is safe to say that without this presence, WAKE UP is completely different; indeed, one might say that it is less than what it was. Without this presence, the new WAKE UP must strive to mark itself out on its own terms as a different animal, though still beholden to the original principles. It is clear, however, that whatever happens, this presence is irreplaceable; we will always miss our stickmen.

The army of stickmen first came to WAKE UP's attention in February 2008, as the first issue was beginning to come together. Messrs. Treacy and Young were casting about for some visual element for the new publication; something to mark articles out and to arrest the reader's attention. We were in need of a versatile symbol, something whose talents could be stretched to any task. All of a sudden, there was a knock on the door. Outside were a small group of stickmen, about a dozen, dressed in various manners. The lead stickman extended his hand, and introduced himself as Mr. S. Mann, recently elected president of the Irish Union of Stickmen. They had heard that we were in need of a visual aid, and had taken it upon themselves to come and offer their versatile services.

Pleasantly surprised though we were, we knew that it would be remiss of us not to offer the stickmen a test before hiring them. As such, we asked the stickmen to re-enact famous works of art. The results were astounding. The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel was a triumph, 'The Birth of Venus' was awe-inspiring, 'Guernica' was extraordinarily moving. 'Plato's Academy' was particularly remarkable, especially given that there were only about a dozen stickmen. They were hired on the spot, and we immediately put them to work.

Their work ethic was truly inspiring. They rarely took breaks, and never complained, even when one of them had to be tipped off a chair over and over again for one article. They did a remarkable impression of thirteen teachers from Templeogue College, people they had never met and knew only from our rather nebulous and caricatured descriptions. They were unfailingly polite, often offering their services as personal assistants. When Hans Gruber and Zapp Brannigan came in for their photo-shoots, they found that delicious lunches had been prepared for them by the stickmen. Both gentlemen mentioned to us before leaving what a high impression they had developed of the stickmen, and both were personally chauffeured by Mr. Mann.

Mann himself was a singularly remarkable personage. He was always at the forefront of any initiative; inspiring and leading his friends in their work. He was also a gentleman of rare humility, rarely mentioning his family connections; he is descended from silent film star Hector Mann, and is a first cousin of the Man in the Hat from XKCD. Mr. Mann was never credited, at his own request, but he was perhaps the single most important person behind the magazine run of WAKE UP.

All good things, however, must come to an end (the eventual fate of bad things is not recorded in aphorism form), and WAKE UP was no exception. After the success of the second issue, the stickmen waited expectantly for the call to come for the much-publicised third issue. Eventually, a call did indeed come – a call thanking them for their services, and informing them that there would be no third issue. It seems they were heartbroken; we never heard from the IUS again.

Recently, as WAKE UP began to slowly rise from the ashes once more, we gave Mr. Mann a call for the first time in over two years. He was frosty at first, but as the reminiscences began, he thawed; within minutes, he was laughing heartily once more. Eventually, he agreed to perform one last service; though his kind were unsuited to the new medium (and, in any case, their relationship was primarily with Mr. Young), he would personally appear to bid WAKE UP readers a fond farewell. So without further ado, here is the utterly unique Mr. S. Mann:

Readers, raise your cups of tea to the memory of Mr. Mann and the IUS; though they can no longer be with us, they have made a wonderful contribution which will never be forgotten. Their spirits remain in the pages of WAKE UP. We ask readers, therefore, if you have a physical copy of the magazine, to examine it, and to appreciate the unique work of the stickmen. May they find success in all their future endeavours.


 
Thanks to Mr. Patrick McGarry for the inspiration for this article.

A Menace to Civilised Society

There is a great disease afflicting Western society which has recently been occupying WAKE UP's attention. This disease is, it would seem, finely calculated to bring our society down by attacking its roots. Without the proper physic, this malady could soon bring an end to everything we love. It is necessary, therefore, to rally the troops, as it were, so that this plague may be combated (if you will excuse the mixed metaphor). This plague is, of course, the problem of incorrect grammar in songs.

This problem has been afflicting us for a long time, of course. Kris Kristofferson did not sing of "Bobby McGee and I" (nor did Janis Joplin in her more famous version of the same song) nor did John Lennon attribute the keeping of secrets to all but "My monkey and me". As for Bob Dylan's idiomatic colloquialisms, they verge on the incoherent. While it is not difficult to accept the imminence of nuclear war (particularly in the early 1960s), it is far harder to credit this concept when said "hard rain" is "a-gonna" fall; here Mr. Dylan prefixes a painful and all-too-common colloquialism with an utterly superfluous vowel and hyphen, presumably in a lazy attempt to fulfil his metrical responsibilities. To take a further example, let us examine "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" (for a start, a semi-colon would be somewhat more appropriate in the song's title than a comma). The song begins: "Well, it ain't no use to sit and wonder why babe, if'n you don't know by now". The double negative in the first line is quite painful enough, but "if'n"? Really? How exactly is the word "if" improved or even changed by the addition of an extra letter and apostrophe? Thankfully, Nick Drake excised this second line in his cover of the song, for which WAKE UP is eternally grateful.

Sadly, even WAKE UP's heroes are not immune to strange lyrical choices. Consider one of those luminaries, Ian Curtis of Joy Division, a man much admired for his dancing. Quite aside from the obvious tautology of Transmission's refrain ("Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the radio"), the man was prone to some odd rhyming schemes. Consider the last verse of "Love Will Tear Us Apart":

"Do you cry out in your sleep;

All my failings exposed.

Get a taste in my mouth

As desperation takes hold.

Is it something so good,

Just can't function no more?"

Leaving aside another double negative in the last line (a sad plague, perpetuated by people who inexplicably seem to revert to medieval English to make their negatives more emphatic), let us examine the rhyming scheme (which is ABCBDB, supposedly). "Exposed" is rhymed with "hold", which isn't ideal, but is acceptable; worse is to be seen quite widely. Then, however, the latter is rhymed with "more". "Hold" and "more" share a single vowel, but nothing else; not even the same vowel sound. Given that this was the last song released by the band, one might legitimately argue that Curtis had other things on his mind. WAKE UP maintains, however, that suicidal thoughts are no excuse for a sloppy rhyming scheme.

There is a caveat to be made here: the songs mentioned so far all happen to be excellent songs. Moreover, few would argue with the status of Messrs Dylan, Lennon and Curtis as luminaries of the art of song writing. The problem becomes more acute, however, when applied to lyrics which don't have the defence of being set to excellent music, or of being masterful poetry. To take one example that regularly sets teeth grinding at the metaphorical WAKE UP office, let us examine the inexplicably popular Lady Gaga. Take, for instance, the song "Bad Romance", which appears to be set to some kind of mash-up of her previous songs. Firstly, the song begins with what appears to be some form of Hindu chant, ending with "want your bad romance". Now, it is entirely possible that Ms. Gaga is in fact praying for this "bad romance" she seems to desire so thoroughly, yet it seems unlikely. This is, however, a digression; we have no qualms with the chant's grammar. There are rather large problems with the remainder of the song. Take, for instance, the line "I want your ugly, I want your disease". Why exactly has the adjective "ugly" now become a noun? It is, perhaps, possible that the line was meant to be simply "I want your disease", but Ms. Gaga interrupted it in order to inform a studio engineer (apparently apropos of absolutely nothing) that he/she was ugly; i.e. the line is in fact "I want - you're ugly - I want your disease", which is quite acceptable. The chorus should of course say "You and I could write a bad romance", but at least it's not "Me and you could...". It should be pointed out that Ms. Gaga is in fact blameless in all this; the song was not written by her (though the chant and interjection may be her own inventions).

Now, I am sure that in response to all this, some people will plead poetic licence. Poetic licence should, however, be seen as being like a licence to kill (in many respects); it is to be used only when necessary. Otherwise, songwriters and poets find themselves breaking down the very foundations of society (and speaking of "Foundations", we should very much like a word with you and your loveable Cockney idiom, Ms. Nash). Be warned, however; when the WAKE UP-funded task force of Grammar Enforcers is set up, they will strike with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy the beauty of grammar, regardless of occupation (though not of artistic merit). You have collectively been warned.


 

 
Next in this series: Nonsensical Song Lyrics (for which we intend to leave aside 60s psychedelia and 70s prog rock, having no intention of being engaged in such documentation all day).

Regeneration

Good day to you, readers. If you are a fan of the magazine form of WAKE UP from days of yore (or, indeed, from more recent days), then you're very welcome indeed to this new iteration. If you are a new reader, then you are just as welcome, and are due a few words of introduction with which to begin. WAKE UP was a magazine established in 2008 by Ciarán Treacy and Derek Young. It ran for only two issues, and its circulation was mostly limited to their school, but it was well-received across the board. Its approach was best described as whimsical, featuring articles about tea, monkey butlers, the eating of celebrities, being trapped in a giant bottle of Coca-Cola and advertisements for banks. A combination of increased workload leading up to final exams and printing difficulties meant that a third issue never materialised, and WAKE UP lived on only in the hearts and dreams of its loyal followers.

Now, however, it has returned to begin its message of truth anew. The title of this first article was carefully chosen; this is a regeneration, of sorts. When a Time Lord regenerates, he or she retains his/her memories, but fundamentally changes in appearance and personality (in Doctor terms, the anarchic Tom Baker follows the upright and proper Jon Pertwee, for instance). So it will be with WAKE UP. This is the same creature, but fundamentally different; obviously it is in a different medium, for a start. This, sadly, more or less rules out the stick figure drawings that were a constant feature of the magazine articles. The other, even more significant change is that the enterprise's staff is now halved; for the moment at least, this blog is entirely the product of Ciarán Treacy. Rest assured, however, that the spirit of WAKE UP remains the same; things have changed in the past two years, but I remain dry, cynical and egomaniacal.

So what's planned for the future? Well, the short answer is: many things. I've been very inspired by some of the wonderful bloggers and other talented people I've discovered on the Internet, so I hope to emulate their fine examples. I have plans for the future, which I won't disclose for the moment; mainly because they're rather nebulous and insubstantial. Mostly, though, I hope that people read this and enjoy it; I always enjoyed making WAKE UP, and I did get the impression that people enjoyed reading it as well. Be sure to get in touch with any comments, suggestions or any such; the new e-mail is childrenwakeup@gmail.com. I hope I can offer you a few things of interest.


 
The future's bright. The future's WAKE UP.