The trip of a lifetime...one year on

June 27th 2012 is an auspicious day for me. It officially marks one full year since I somewhat foolishly embarked on a globetrotting jaunt to Hong Kong, Australia, Los Angeles and New York for the summer.

I'm greeting this anniversary with the usual pangs of wistfulness. Not because the whole endeavour was a shitty disappointment. Nope. No sirree. Instead...

Well, as the title of this suggests, it was 'the trip of a lifetime', a trip, in other words, whose legacy was entirely defined by its lightning-in-a-bottle character. It represented the perfect symbiosis of so many unique circumstances and events coming together at that one particular moment in 2011 to engineer the "Perfect Holiday", but whose glory I don't imagine can ever be recaptured or its uniqueness scaled. Hence, the boo-hoos.

But there's also plenty of warm reverence in there too, regarding its personal impact. I'm not for a moment going to suggest that this was my Eat, Pray, Love moment. I did not bloody "find myself". I did not grow a beard, flush away my phone, volunteer at a dolphin orphanage, and in the process, "learn to love myself again". Neither was it a half-hearted attempt at a gap yah.   However, it was impossible not to take something away from this whole experience that didn't alter my worldview somehow. What left a lasting impression on me was the epiphany that high school had been one long, sucky joke. Granted, this realisation was nothing new and had already been documented in several, painfully hard-hitting documentaries like "Mean Girls", but in my context, it was more gradually realising that all the petty concerns and insignificant issues that ate away at me like cancer for six, long years, evaporated in the face of how awesome, scary, surreal, big, warm, insane and brilliant the world outside your wee hometown is. The summer of 2011 was effectively more the set of training wheels for the (laboured bicycle metaphor) transition into adulthood than high school ever was, inspiring the vital trait of self-sufficiency within me on the eve of university.

But above all else, it simply taught me that life is out there, and it's waiting for you kiddo.

I figured therefore, that this medium was best for commemorating and laying to rest World Tour 2011. Here then is the complete, unadulterated version of events.

Let me take you in the Delorean back to June 2011, Marty. Conditions were go for a legendary summer. In the space of a month, I had left high school, sat my final SQA exams, attended Prom AND passed my practical driving test (I'll skim over the small issue of stupidly falling in love with one of my best friends because therein lies a whole other tale of heartbreak and woe, friendo). Anyways, with just over two months between then and the start of term at St Andrews, I had always planned on doing something special inbetween that time, to experience something larger than myself. Oh yeah, and also because I'd been entirely neglected during organisations for a separate lad's holiday to Malia by my friends, happening at the same time. Fuck you very much, gentlemen. Weirdly, the prospect of a (mostly) solo holiday seemed more thrilling than a group experience - less tied down to the whims of others, my rules, a "me party" if you will. So, with this cowboy now hitching a lonesome ride, and with a fistful of traveller's cheques in my hand, on the morning of Thursday 27th June, I rode off on my metal, plane-shaped steed into the wild blue yonder.

First up on the itinerary was a week in Hong Kong, boasting a cityscape at night straight out of "Tron", and where everyone from babies to grannies owns a knock-off iPad. But just getting to the darn place was in itself an experience - a two hour delay on the Heathrow runway after both the air con broke down and someone forgetting to replace the water. I only wish I was as calm and collected as the two Chinese lads sat next to me whose response to this difficult flight was to disappear for nearly an hour and then return to their seats with a bottle of duty free Bailey's, on which they proceeded to get rat-arsed for the entirety of the flight. Six or seven hours later, I touched down. Now, being a Scotsman, I'm no stranger to a bit of drizzly weather. However, Hong Kong introduced me to the new phenomenon of "hot rain", owing to monsoon season. You can only imagine my discomfort at having to put up with little beads of fire hitting my face on top of carting my suitcase through the winding side streets of Kowloon. Only upon arrival did I find out my hotel room had been switched again and I'd have to be led by a little old lady who spoke no English through Kowloon to my new room on Nathan Road neighboured by several Asian porn mag stalls, street hawkers, strip joints and, bizarrely, the Hong Kong branch of Marks and Spencer.

Hong Kong was quite jarringly contrasting, meaning that, although this leg of the trip was ultimately incredibly satisfying, it was nevertheless a daily battle trying to get over the sheer surrealism of it all. The surrealism mainly stemmed from Hong Kong's conflicting identity issues. On one hand, there is evidence everywhere of the British colonisation and its ancient, pre-protectorate heritage (worth exploring via the many specialist museums, such as my personal favourite, the Flagstaff Museum of Tea). But conversely, there is the new, post-1997 Hong Kong and its awkward, "Special Administrative Zone" relationship with mainland China, allowing for the widespread diffusion of major Western capitalist businesses in the area (genuinely, the only real place to go for a morning coffee is Starbucks, seeing as there are a kajillion branches on EVERY street). But this conflict led in turn to the more bizarre, memorable moments from my time in Hong Kong. A half hour cable ride over the mountains to a giant statue of Buddha to find a branch of Subway at the foot of the monument. The famous Peak Tram up to the summit of Victoria Peak on Hong Kong Island where I had lunch at a Forrest Gump themed restaurant. Falun Gong advocates and hobbled, dismembered beggars lying on the pavements outside the Chanel store on Canton Road, only for them to "mysteriously disappear" when I came back later. But the image that truly stayed with me, making me sure I'd experienced something special and magical that week was the sight of a solitary red junk serenely bobbing on the waves of Victoria Harbour, framed by the neon candles of the skyscrapers. Wowzers.

Next up was the land down under (quietly glossing over the ten hour wait at Hong Kong Airport I had to endure). What was particularly awesome about this leg was getting reunited with the rest of my family for three weeks while they simultaneously holidayed in Australia (I did think the paparazzi cameras were a bit overzealous as I walked out of customs, although it did turn out they weren't meant for me, just a minor Aussie celebrity onboard the same flight. Balls). Being incredibly jetlagged at this moment in time, the only emotion I could articulate when greeted with my sobbing parents was joy at not having to pay for food for the foreseeable future. Top son.

This was actually my fourth visit to Oz, making me feel almost an honorary Australian (hey shut up, I even filled out their census while I was there). For over a month, I couchsurfed my way all over the East Coast thanks to my gracious and patient relatives, and during that whole time, I probably felt the least homesick than any other leg of the trip - it had effectively become my second home, so much is my affection for that country and its people; without a doubt, the most charming, friendliest sort you'll ever meet (after the Scots, obviously). Thanks to the mahoosive time I got to spend in Australia, it was probably the most well-rounded part of the journey too, giving me a little bit of everything I'd have wanted from a holiday, kicking off with a return to the Brisbane suburb of Surfer's Paradise (ten years on) and a week of theme parks and surfing in the cool, green Pacific. There was also more opportunity for bizarro situations, like, meeting up with two of your galpals from high school on the beach in the pitch dark and then going on to gossip, eat pies and watch the stars. Speaking of which, Australian cuisine is like sex for your tastebuds, having sampled the delights of Aussie meat pies and Chicken Parmies nearly every single day I was there. And unlike my Dad, my cousins were noticeably less non-committal about firing up the BBQ, allowing me to feast on steak and snags as well for most weeks.

And yet, the most joyous memories actually stemmed from the quieter moments. Driving around with my older cousin all day in search of decent waves ultimately not finding even a ripple, but having enjoyed some quality bonding time in the process. Getting addicted to the first season of "The OC", and being introduced to the televisual delights of "Australian Masterchef" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4h0soMfyaa4) and "Hamish and Andy's Gap Year" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EVZI_MI63_0). And best of all, rolling out of bed mid-morning, heading into town for blueberry pancakes with ice cream and then spending the rest of the afternoon on the beach, listening to Foster The People as they provided the perfect soundtrack for the whole trip, and with the sheer vastness of the Pacific Ocean simply unspooling before me. I'd never felt so alive.

The Australian adventure continued once I had played my last couchsurfing card, and I was, once again, riding solo, headed to Melbourne. Ah, Melbourne, I hardly knew ye. Seriously though, there's been a running joke that there is a week-long gap in my memory, coinciding with visiting Melbourne. I genuinely cannot remember a bloody thing from that week! Well, other than sitting RIGHT BEHIND Ricky Wilson from the Kaiser Chiefs on the flight back to Sydney. And as if "The Hangover" comparisons weren't pronounced enough already, my clearest memory is of, ominously, being in a casino. Oh dear.

Sydney was a lot clearer picture, thankfully (probably caused by a lack of sleep, sharpening my mind like a flint, due to the incessant snoring of the porky German backpacker in the bunk below me in my hostel bedroom). I've always regarded Sydney as one of the most aesthetically beautiful places on the planet, and the view of Sydney Cove from my hostel's roof in The Rocks, especially at night, has done nothing to diminish that opinion. Like Hong Kong, Sydney's history is pulsating through its brickwork and through its streets; a history I better appreciated through activities like walking across the Harbour Bridge and a street tour that involved rubbing a bronze pig's penis for good luck and to increase my sexual prowess...seriously.

Being off the grid, Jason Bourne style, for such a period of time couldn't have come at a worse time, however. On the other side of the world, it was hard not to feel completely helpless at hearing the slow trickle of news on the UK Riots from its sparse reportage in the Australian media. It's a sad turn of events when your opening conversation starter with a fellow Brit in a club is "Shit, you heard about the riots, bro?"

Trying to ignore the doom and gloom, I resolved to stay positive and keep my attention diverted by Sydney. There was the obligatory Opera House Tour, complete with 3D holograms and the world's most enthusiastic dwarf tour guide; ferries over to Manley (better surf than Bondi) and the famous Doyle's for some top notch seafood grub; and adding the (now typical for this trip) dash of surrealism, an innocent night out for backpackers at a King's Cross nightclub that, unbeknownst to me, happened to be holding their Coyote Ugly Night that night, culminating in a Wet T-Shirt competition (and you wonder why I complain about nightclubs back home...) A saunter back through a "28 Days Later"-style deserted Sydney at 3am, nearly getting chased by a pack of possums aptly capped off the general headfuckery of that evening.

After sharing a tender Desmond Hume style farewell with my Australian brethren, ("I'll see ya in another life, brotha.") it was time to strap myself in for LA, baby, utterly failing to resist belting out the OC theme tune stepping onto the plane. Unfortunately, my bubbly cheerfulness would quickly dissipate. This was Sydney to LAX - the longest commercial flight in the world. A bollock-busting, fourteen hour flight that worryingly (even ignoring the "Lost" significance), would see me leave at 14:00pm, disappear through a wormhole over the Pacific, and promptly arrive at 09:00am...THE SAME DAY.

Time travel, Amelia.

And a fate worse than death would be awaiting me when I landed. I was under-21. Beer was a no-no for the next two weeks. Cockington.

After Homeland Security had finished x-raying my arse and nearly dying on Ventura Freeway, I finally arrived in Sherman Oaks in East LA. I had pre-checked with my cousin and luckily, Sherman Oaks wasn't one of  his no-go suburbs where I would get shot. With my vital organs now safe and secure, it was time to settle in to my new pad, populated by a parade of jobbing actors who disappeared during the daytime for acting lessons (and also staying for the first new nights, Benjamin, the American-Japanese male model and his dad, Clayton, who resembled Colonel Sanders' plantation owning brother).

Here's the essential piece of info for the unitiated on the City of Angels. If you don't own a car, you're fecked. Los Angeles consumes nearly all of California and there isn't really one definitive city called Los Angeles - just a sprawling conurbation of hundreds of Edinburgh-size cities soldered together into one CityColossus, eerily matching its futuristic 2019 counterpart in "Blade Runner". Without a Humvee-style car to get you across this vast city, you're at the whim of the buses and subways. It took me nearly two hours alone just to get to Hollywood Boulevard. Ah yes, Hollywood. It's one thing to spend your childhood being brought up as a movie geek and buying into the whole Hollywood folklore. But it's a whole different ballgame, as an adult, standing on the Walk of Fame Stars outside Grauman's Chinese Theatre and getting high-fived in quick succession by guys in Captain Jack Sparrow and Darth Vader costumes.

I mean, c'mon. I'm sitting here eating pizza and in the background, THE FUCKING HOLLYWOOD SIGN!

The general unrealness of how incredibly incredible LA is, was consistent for the rest of the week. A tour of Warner Bros Studios, although going some way to ruin the behind the scenes magic of film and television some bit (turns out, they just repaint exterior buildings for whatever show is filming that week - the Merlotte's Bar set from "True Blood" is the same swamp set they used for when George Clooney rescued that little kid from the sewers in "ER"), did result in a cool visit to their Museum of Harry Potter costumes and props. Just so I can make y'all jealous, I tried on the ACTUAL Sorting Hat prop and it sorted me into Gryffindor. BOOM.

(Oh yeah, and I sat on the Central Perk set from "Friends". To date, the most awesome thing that's ever happened, ever.)

But the greatest is always saved for last - a day at Santa Monica beach with a burger and fries, watching the sun set over the pier. Magic. And Katy Perry? The California Gurls were exactly as you described, hot damn.

Heading into the home stretch and the final few days of the trip, it was off to the concrete jungle where dreams are made of, New York. Of course, the magic was not instantly apparent though; the shuttle ride to my hotel comfortably ranks as one of the scariest experiences of my life. Legs pinned by my rucksack and sandwiched between a group of boisterous, bellowing Germans, the sudden appearance of a freak thunderstorm did not make me more at ease. Especially with one of my new German compatriots screaming everytime lightning struck.

And the rain. Murky, heavy rain spitting down endlessly. Apocolyptic weather? Manhattan location? "Day After Tomorrow" comparisons? AAAAHHH!

Fortunately, the rain would later subside and opting for a late-night stroll before bed, I ventured outside with no real sense of my hotel's geography.

Three steps to the right was Times Square.

Dude.

I don't know if you've ever stood in the middle of Times Square for the first time in your life and impossibly jetlagged to boot, but I can only equate the experience to watching the Boat Ride scene from the original 1970s, Gene Wilder version of "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory"...on acid. Standing there, slackjawed and possibly drooling, a Scientologist recruiter saw this as licence to try and kidnap me. Fearing a brainwashing, I slipped into the crowd, Assassin's Creed-style.

The next couple of days felt like playing around on the world's largest movie set. Gazing down from on high at the Empire State Building Observatory; catching the Staten Island Ferry and doffing my hat to the Statue of Liberty; strolling down Fifth Avenue past the topless male bouncers of Abercrombie and Fitch and winding up at an outdoor screening of "Dirty Harry"; and porking out on pastrami-on-rye at a little deli around the block (sadly, the one letdown of being by yourself in New York is you've got no-one to recreate the fake orgasm scene from "When Harry Met Sally" with).

It would have been remiss of me not to pay my respects at Ground Zero. It's a complete shock to the system, just even standing outside the Memorial construction site, ten years after watching the horrors unfold that day on BBC news as a little schoolkid. Whilst the people of New York deserve eternal admiration for their strength in overcoming the tragedy, rebuilding the spirit of the city and offering a return to a sense of normality, it was hard to deny, walking around the 9/11 Museum and the area, that the pain of that day is still very raw.

A trip to New York wouldn't be a trip to New York without stepping out for a Broadway show. With Book of Mormon sold out, I opted for my second choice: Spider Man Turn Off The Dark. Although the behind the scenes brouhaha that plagued this show on the way to the stage had lowered my expectations and made me quite hesitant about being crushed by a falling Spider Stunt Man, the show blew me away with its bold, Guillermo del Toro style aesthetic and rocking soundtrack. You could almost say it was...SUPER, MAN!

Hmm, that pun doesn't really work for this character...

It was a bittersweet final day in New York.  Kicking off the morning, I channeled my inner hipster and explored MOMA, thrilled at seeing original Van Gogh, Warhol and Bacon works. I also took care to mentally note names of the unfamiliar artists, with whom I could pretentiously drop into future dinner party conversations to look more cultured and shit. There was also a dream-crushing visit to F.A.O. Schwartz Toy Store to play on the giant piano like Tom Hanks in "Big" (restricted to ages 10 and under, no socks, $40 upfront). Grrr.

But in one of those perfect, made-for-the-movies moments, I ended up at Bow Bridge in Central Park on such a cool, balmy evening. There were rowboats, couples holding hands, a guy selling balloons and ice cream; all the while, I'm thinking, "I must break out into SONG!" - it was that magical. It was quite the fitting denouement to two months of travel, nearly 24, 000 miles and 10 flights; that final, perfect view of the golden shimmer outlining the New York City skyline neatly encapsulating the colour, the vibrancy, the spark of the whole trip.

And suddenly... I was home again. I had reached the end.

But I knew then and I still know now that something will always stay with me from that journey, elevating it above past and future holidays. It's at once, instantly comforting and boundlessly optimistic fowith regards to wherever I or anyone is going next - a mixture of humbleness and awe in the face of knowing that, no matter how fucked up the world may seem, life sometimes throws a curveball and reminds you that there's still a spark of beauty and wonder out there.

And surely we can all smile that we still have sunsets in the world.

Polo

When I first came to St Andrews last September, I was immediately thrown into an environment with a predominant social milieu that previously I had had zero contact with...posh people. Although the stereotype of St Andrews being entirely an enclave of Rah-types is completely ass, it's impossible not to encounter their influence in this small seaside town. Somehow, I've managed to fall into a weird, Twilight Zone style, space-between-spaces, kind of situation where I can flit between that world and my own meek, state-educated upbringing. On those occasions where our paths tend to interact, like at formal balls, I do still find it difficult though, to shake off the impression of being Jack Dawson, venturing out from steerage and up onto the First Class decks of the Titanic.


So when my new flatmate invited me to come along to her Charity Polo Tournament that the University Polo Club was organising, I was a little unenthusiastic to say the least. Even excusing the small matter of me not knowing anything about the sport and how it is played, or never even having drunk a glass of Pimm's before in my life, I instantly conjured that stereotypical mental picture in my head of the cast of Made In Chelsea, big hats, Range Rovers etc with me, sticking out like Mel Gibson at a screening of Schindler's List.


However, what convinced me to tag along was that the whole event was in aid of such a worthwhile cause, Help For Heroes, providing vital assistance for wounded and ex-servicemen/women, a cause that does not get nearly enough attention devoted to it in the corridors of Westminster as it really should. My conscience was cleared significantly by this.


Also, people who know me well understand that I've got an adventurous drive wired into me so I'm always willing to give new experiences a whirl. ("Kangaroo burgers? Fuck it, why not?") So, after a quick detour to the charity shops (sorry, vintage clothing stores) on South Street and emerging besuited in a snazzy Tweed jacket and bow tie, (bow ties are cool) I hit the playing fields.


I was stupid to have been worried about anything since my first ever polo tournament turned out to be one of the most fun, enjoyable spectator sports I've witnessed.


Upon arrival, an array of gazebos had been erected along the edge of the pitch, perfect for bringing along a hamper filled with Tesco's finest for a picnic. Even if you'd forgotten a blanket, there were several bales of hay to sit on, adding a rustic, quaint atmosphere to proceedings. Refreshments came courtesy of Rascals Bar, where I helped myself to several cool glasses of Pimm's that did not disappoint. Burgers and hot dogs were also readily available...om nom nom.

Although the Tweed Brigade was most definitely well represented at this event, I never felt for an instant that I'd wormed my way into some elitist snobfest. The conversations I had with the other people there and some of the Polo Club members were informative and relatable, only adding to the general air of being in the presence of good company today.


The entertainment was top dollar as well. Aside from just the sheer joy of hearing the sonorous tones of some of the commentators (the kind of, archaic, old-fashioned voices that one only receives from being brought up at an all-boys boarding school, followed by countless years of National Service), there was also a pipe band; uh, a bit of dubstep pumped through the loudspeakers; and best of all, a live performance from St Andrews' premier male acapella group The Other Guys who treated everyone to renditions of a Backstreet Boys mash-up, their 2011 viral hit, Royal Romance (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAlnM7RUDcA) and excitingly, their forthcoming Katy Perry parody, St Andrews Gurls.

But what did I make of the actual equine part of today's proceedings? Fortunately, any dumbass like me could pick up the general rules of the game fairly quickly and before I knew it, I was shouting out PUNT IT! and CHUKKA! like a seasoned pro. Just the simple sight of watching the players gallop majestically across the field, thwacking a wee ball is more than enough to turn even the most cynical hack into a foaming uberfan. Oh yeah, and we totally kicked Edinburgh's ass in the varsity match. Yay us!


The only letdown was the gloriously miserable, oh-so-familiar, Scottish East Coast weather that left many a spectator frostbitten and with pointy icicle nipples (just me?). And as is usually the case, I didn't really feel the inkling to try and take up polo as a pastime afterwards. Being given the chance to punt a ball on a wooden model horse is certainly fun, but why do I get the impression that that simulation differs wildly from the reality of having a live animal nestled between your thighs, charging down the field with seven other players nearly crashing into your little horsey? For now at least, I'm content to stick with being a spectator of this sport.


All in all, the St Andrews Charity Polo Tournament was a smashing spectacle that did much to shatter my pre-existing mindset on the sport and showed off the best of what this little town can offer.

Avengers Assemble - Review

Okay, okay, now that the excitable squeals have subsided and I've recovered my jaw from the floor of the cinema - carefully dusting off the hairs and bits of popcorn - I've gathered my thoughts together to bring you my review of Marvel's unprecedented superhero mash-up.

And to cut a long-winded review short, it's good. Boy, is it good. More than that, as Bruce Almighty would say, it's GOOOOOOOOD. But let's backtrack a bit, shall we?

Assembling the Avengers on the big screen has been something of a labour of love for Marvel in the last decade, not to mention, the biggest gamble the comic book movie genre has ever witnessed. The concept of putting Iron Man, the Hulk, Captain America and Thor in one movie, with all their baggage and egos seemed like one of those things that seemed sure to induce geekgasms in nerds everywhere but yet, seemed like a pitch that wouldn't get any Hollywood suits turning their heads any time soon. Indeed, when an Avengers movie was first mooted, just after the first Iron Man jetted onto screens, most of the Avengers team hadn't even been introduced onscreen at that point. But I completely love the strategy that Marvel have adopted in the leadup to AA, a strategy that Marvel's chief rival DC would be wise to adopt if they ever want to get that Justice League of America movie off the ground. In a word, continuity. By introducing the principal players, one by one in their own movies to familiarise themselves with audiences and then, have interaction between these separate franchises to tease the Avengers concept and establish a shared cinematic universe. Hence, Samuel L. Jackson unexpectedly crashing the end of the first Iron Man film.

In doing so, Marvel have built up a surge of popular enthusiasm for this movie, belying its dense, often inaccessible comic book origins, just in time for its release. The proof of the pudding was evident earlier tonight when, arriving at the tiny St Andrews New Picture House, twenty minutes early for the film - I found the queue stretched outside and around the block. All I can say is, I felt really bad for anyone planning to watch Salmon Fishing In The Yemen tonight.

So, how does the final product match up? Well, "Marvel Avengers Assemble", to give it its full title is simply a barnstorming, endlessly fun ride that, for once in the comic book movie genre, actually feels like the experience of reading the source material happen on the big screen. All of the Avengers are given space to breathe and develop, preventing the movie from sliding into The Robert Downey Jr. Show. This is in large part due to the masterstroke hiring of Buffy/Dr Horrible wunderkind and nerd's Messiah, Joss Whedon as director and screenwriter, successfully toeing the line between epic fistfights, human drama, the best tooling up montages since Evil Dead 2 and of course, the Hulk taking down a steel snake of Brobdingnagian proportions.

There also a perfectly pitched level of funny in AA as well that was especially crowd-pleasing - largely stemming, unsurprisingly, from RDJ's zingers. The character who benefits most from this approach is pleasingly, the Hulk, finally getting to full-on smash, ensuring Mark Ruffalo's portrayal of Dr. Bruce Banner and his purple stretchy pants-wearing alter-ego was an undeniable audience favourite. Sam Jackson also gets a meatier role this go-around, getting to do more than handing Tony Stark paperwork as in his previous Marvel cameos.

As for criticisms, they're really the same as those expressed elsewhere. The score, including Soundgarden's first new song in about a decade, is a tad forgettable, with no identifiable hum-along theme akin to John Williams' Superman theme tune or Hans Zimmer's honking BRAP! BRAP!s on the Dark Knight franchise. Tom Hiddleston's Loki, again is a deliciously snarling villain (I think "You mewling quim!" is going to be my insult of choice for the foreseeable future) but unluckily is saddled with a shit McGuffin left over from "Captain America: The First Avenger".

Joss Whedon continues his penchant for [MINOR SPOILER ALERT] killing off fan-favourite characters and for someone with experience writing for powerful female characters, why is it only Scarlett Johansson's Black Widow who gets a look-in, while Nick Fury's second-in-command, Maria Hill's, played by Robin from "How I Met Your Mother", role is reduced to staring gravely at computer screens? There is also a worrying lack of Nathan Fillion for this Whedon joint.

But these are minor quibbles overshadowed by the dizzying thrill of seeing this supergang do their thang. "Avengers Assemble" could have come across as "Team America in Armour", but instead comes across as the perfect antidote to Hollywood's current approach to comic book movies in the wake of Christopher Nolan's peerless work on the Dark Knight trilogy. It was kind of ironic, in a way, that the trailer for Nolan's franchise-wrapup, The Dark Knight Rises was shown in front of The Avengers. This film wasn't trying in any way to mimic Nolan, Bale etc. Avengers is a bright, fantastical, sugar rush of a movie with just the right amount of self-awareness, humour and vim that will ensure assembling of audiences.

CONDENSED REVIEW: Nerdvana.

A song at midnight

Some synth-poppy goodness for the delectation of the insomniacs/essay all-nighters/just feeling lonely out there...

Howdy doody...

The eternal question on whether I would ever get around to chundering my opinions onto the Internet that no-one other than me was asking, has finally been answered.

You lucky people.

The blog is just really a chance for me to write about all the awesome, cool stuff that pop culture throws at me every day as well as general pieces on university life and major contemporary world-affecting issues, yeah, because, connected, Earth...change, you know? Respect.

All this and more, hopefully expressed intelligently and relatable enough for anyone not as arrogant, conceited and self-loathing as moi to appreciate.

I'll try and update the blog as often as I can, freak workloads permitting. I certainly don't want you guys waiting on tenderhooks in anticipation of my bullshit-mongering for too long. Positive feedback is mucho appreciated by my ego.

And so, just like bad sex and the third Lord of the Rings film, I can't seem to reach a climax, for this, my first ever blog entry.  I guess, in the words of Joe from Reservoir Dogs: let's get rambling, ramblers.



P.S. Yes, the name of the blog is a Great Gatsby reference. After all, what's life without Jay Gatsby, old sport?