Audacious

I'm in the in-between turn around betwixt '!Audacious' [sic] and WEC, two of those happy clappy Christian summer things I do.  Basically, Audacious was phenomenal, and this post is an overview of what madness and antics I've been up to for the last four days, tied in nicely with some lovely things I learnt.

Perhaps the most stupid thing I did was to deliberately lose a competition in order to cram a free haircut into my hectic schedule, only to realise my own foolishness when the Audacious preshow over ran with me still left on a stage in front of over a thousand people, with a professional hairdresser trying her best to finish one side of my head with severely inadequate clippers while a presenter attacked the other side of my scalp with craft scissors.  The resulting style was much better than you might think, but not the extent that I won't be shaving it all off at the next available opportunity.

Audacious is fun, but the best part is undoubtedly what you come home with.  I learnt some great little things, like that I need to change my attitude towards people God has appointed as leaders and understand that they exist solely to serve the people they are leading.  I've also realised that whilst I have the kind of character that makes me fine with dancing in front of complete strangers and having my head shaved on stage, I'm not actually bold.  I'm naturally an extrovert 'popular sanguine', as it were, but that doesn't make me bold.  Boldness isn't about being comfortable with doing things, it's about doing things even though you're uncomfortable with them.  Hopefully that means that if things were ever uncomfortable before, they'll get even less comfortable now that I've been inspired to ditch any shame I might previously have had about the liberating madness that is Christ overcoming death and all that.

I don't mean to wear you down with all this personal revelation stuff, but for me a massive highlight of Audacious was hearing about people who'd sacrificed they're lives to Christ and realising just how nang the gospel is.  I'm aware that saying the word nang is uncool and perhaps a little annoying, as is droning on about God, but it's hard not to come home a little inspired when you've heard gang members talking about how they're praying for wisdom and protection so that their family won't be attacked when they break the news to their gang that they're ditching their no-hope, dead end lifestyle for the tangible and freeing hope that they've found in Christ.

It was my birthday yesterday.  I had a lovely time and got some wonderful things (mostly instruction from God and a free haircut).  A lot of people wished me happy returns on my wall, with varying degrees of sincerity / relevance and I liked the ones that I liked because I see that as a pretty good way to use the like function.  After I'd skimmed through all my birthday messages I scrolled the big 'main wall' thing to see what was going down and saw a photograph of a jet gravestone made of polished marble.  It was that of my cousin, Dawn-Joy, who died aged 22 four years ago today, the day after my birthday.  I remember something a pastor called Rich Wilkerson Jr. (a man who looks like Leonardo DiCaprio and can't stop making jokes about having sex with his wife) was talking about what we're willing to sacrifice for Christ, and how when we die nothing on earth matters in the slightest.  All of a sudden I find myself hit by the previously almost unnoticed juxtaposition of the anniversaries of my birth and my cousin's tragic death and I'm not so much disheartened as I am inspired by the life my cousin led, and the uplifting verse on her grave that reads 'for me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.'

 When I read that and remember the life of Dawn-Joy Lovell, I want nothing more than to cast aside every inhibition I have, stop investing worry and doubt into this life, which will be gone in the blink of an eye, and live as a man who recognises the goodness of God above the inferiority of everything this world has to offer.  My cousin lived like someone who was entirely ready to die, and in the suddenness and tragedy of her death I've seen that everything we build up on earth is destined to be destroyed or fall into the hands of some other bozo, and thus the only investment you can make in life of any realness is to exchange all the temporary crap for an everlasting relationship with the God who made you, and the more you commit to it, the better everything is.

Sorry if you didn't like the post being pretty much entirely on revelations from God, but that's all that's really happened for the last four days.  Peace out, haters.

Super Shirtless Summer!

I love being shirtless.  I am shirtless right now, and it is liberating.  It's really nice to be able to feel the air moving round your torso and the like whilst being unchained from our society's gripping regime of shirt wearing. 

I am definitely escaping the clutches of society - I leave for audacious tomorrow, where there's all kinds of that super hippie spiritual Christian breakthrough stuff, acompanied by the usual regime of shouting, praying, generic funsies and all round madness on a 7.30 to 1 am schedule.  After that, it's two weeks of WEC, where I'm going to it, then leading it for small people.  That's more of the old Jesus stuff with the whole 'in a field' twist.  (And during the later week, the wonderful twists that are 'being in charge' and 'attacking children')

Going away for three weeks straight (There's a turnaround between the two events that spans about 10 hours, most of which I will be asleep for.) requires a three week supply of trousers.  I happen to have the wonderful combination of two of the worlds best ailments - being dangerously manly and dyspraxic.  That's not the sort of lifestyle that really supports having trousers and wearing them, but the whole 'regime of society' thing requires that I do this.  What this means is that I have to be constantly replenishing a small supply of trousersat the same rate that they are destroyed by falling out of things, or pavement grating my knees after being thrown off my kickboard.  I don't fall of my kickboard anymore, because it is dead, but the lack of trousers it gifted me have haunted in a way far more real than the painful memories of its passing.

By way of conluding this drawn out and woeful period of my life (represented mimetically by the above nine line paragraph that basically reads 'I don't have trousers.') I went trouser and short shopping today, and came home with everything I left with, only less money and more trousers and shorts.  Through this proccess of money-losing and trouser-gaining, I saw a great many things.  Most of them were trousers (or indeed shorts).  Some of the shorts were orange, and I nearly bought them, but they were for fat people.  Apparently a lot of shorts are for fat people, because there was hardly anything in my size.  If I were a woman I'd feel really good about it, but I'm just tired from looking for shorts.  I am also dissapointed by society, because today I realised that a lot of shorts for men have flowers on, and regardless of what anyone says or thinks, that is not cool.  Flowers, gentlemen, are for girls.

Also my sisters and mum helped a friend of ours move and they found an old gameboy and gave it to us.  When I say old gameboy, I mean first edition 'first handheld videogames console to have ever existed' kind of old.  It's all rather nifty, because it came with Super Mario Land, and Ruth just have me SML 2 for my birthday.  (It's in four days, buy me stuff.)

Anyway, roll on summer.  Have a good one, avid readers!

Live One

Mate.  This post is live.  I've got no idea why you keep coming back here, but a process of logical elimination would point towards it not having anything to do with regular posting.  This means that it must have something to do with the content of these posts, which is good, because this post is going to be good.  Remember our old friend logic from two sentences ago?  Some of you may have used him yet again to deduce that the goodness of the post is directly related to the madness of my current circumstances / experiences, and thus you will have deduced that everything has been lovely of late.

One of the lovely things is that Andy Lovell was in my house a few hours ago.  We did procrastinating and bible reading, as well as some manly 'tactile lethargy'.  In case nobody told you, Andy Lovell is a good guy.

"A lot of the good things happened over this last year or so, but it was all worth it in the end. I'm so happy that I got to meet all you people. You've been the best people ever.

Even when I lost my foot in a plastic dinosaur recycle plant, and the council said they couldn't get it back. I couldn't do anything because I though I was a chicken but you guys, you hounded them like angry bees in a freezer. If it wasn't for you, I would now be in someone else's digestion.I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve, but whatever. Tea and Crumpets and all that".

Ruth Lovell wrote all that while I left my computer up.  It's another time again.  I know you guys are probably getting tired of the posts being written over several confusing sittings, but it means I have more madness fresh in my mind and ready for the transcribing.  

I'm sensing that this post is going to be rather long, but I've still decided to keep the extract from Ruth, because it ties in rather nicely with the subject content, which will take us back in time...

wibble      wobble 

            wibble      wobble

wibble          wobble

It's last weekend.  I'm in Wales.  I'm speaking in engaging present tense.  All these things are happening because I'm at a weekend run by World Horizons (bunch of Christians doing the next level gospel spreading ting.) for people considering gap years.  I've met a lovely chap by the name of John Bamber, and we've spoken complete nonsense for about an hour.  Not just silly, satirical conversation - hardcore nonsense, straight-up mindless drivel, like an enigma which is mostly a joke.  

It was an awesome weekend, and I learnt a lot.  There organisation is so big on the living by faith thing that nobody working for them gets paid, they're all supported by charitable individuals and ultimately God.  They've got this thing down to the extent that if you can't afford your gap year, they just let you do it, knowing the money will turn up.  I've heard enough testimonies from various individuals within W.H to see why that is.   

I also heard some pretty rad missionary stories.  My favourite is this one:

"In September 1866, Rev. Robert Jermain Thomas with his clothes on fire leapt overboard the vessel he was on outside of Pyongyang with his remaining Bibles and wadded to the bank and frantically gave them out. The entire crew were executed. Thomas’ executioner accepted the last red Bible from this martyr, and as Tertullan said, “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.” "

It gets better.  The guy who executed him was one of those new age creative types, so he used the pages of the Bible to wallpaper his house.  (If you've heard accounts like this before, you know the guy's in for it now.)    Tottering round his house, the executioner starts reading the Bible pages, commits his life to Christ and feeds the growing Christian movement of the time, which culminated in the 'Pyongyang Great Revival (1907-1910)'. 

At the time, Korea was pretty much unreached by the gospel, but now there are probably a few thousand Christians there, who are among the most persecuted in the world.

*Side note*
Just read '.  So:-' on a sheet of paper next to me.  That is not punctuation.

Anyways, I'm sure you're dizzy from all this time travel , so I'll throw you back into the present.  I just got back from Southend, where Joe and I came 7th at Time Crisis II.  I also had an icecream, a large bannana milkshake and a new twisty madness thing from McDonalds.  (Those things really are insane - have you tried slurping chocolate syrup through a straw?)

Peace out, famalam.

Writing

I'm in the common room, writing, while Elliot Munroe sits beside me doing the same.  He is doing writing for English, and I am updating my blog, yet I'm pretty sure my writing is more creative (at the present time) than his.  This is not to put down the talent of Mr. Munroe as a writer- he is a creative and talented individual.  It's just that, despite the fact he is technically writing a fictitious piece, the confines he is held by in  his writing have caged his freedom of expression into a tiny, conformist box.  He is doing homework for his English lesson, and upon learning this, one of the first things I found myself asking was 'What's it based on?'.  Upon saying this, I realised how contorted the subject I love had become.  For me, English at A Level teaches you to write the same way that driving theory books teach you to drive.  My love of reading and knowledge has kept me occupied feeding off the tit-bits of other people's creativity, but about a week ago, when Mr. Evans said 'The coursework next year is not dissimilar from the creative writing this year.', I decided that English, at an academic level, might not be for me.  I love writing - I love to express abstract cocepts through an ellaborate array of devices, or simply harness the sheer power of words, but I feel that my Lit/lang course has influenced me no more than a wider reading pattern would have done.  Except all the long words, which help me seem more clever than I really am.  (Big shout out to Dictionary.com flashcards.)

Also, me and Josh got really close to a fox at school and everyone was watching us, awestruck, from the library.

*ATTENTION READER*
The previous post was originally intended to be written in two sittings, but it has been published prematurely in the light of the sheer excellence and exhilaration surrounding the next post, which has entirely displaced it.

No post post.

I want everyone to know that as much as I would like to update my blog now, it is nearly sleepy time, and I have other commitments.  Exciting ones.

I have now lied twice in just over a line - there clearly is a post (but this is it), and you probably wouldn't find the other commitments exciting.  I'm not going to tell you what they are, that way you can pretend they actually are exciting, and speculate them.  Build some hype - something pretty coolish is going to be unleashed in around, say, 28 days.

More winning.

I have more winning to do.  I have to win in the competition with myself to update this beast of a blog more regularly; an I.T project with an unnamed (and probably dissapointing) prize; a whole host of exams to win at and a bunch more Team Fortress 2 to win, because it is free forever now, and Ruth brought it home on her laptop.  (Also if you actually care, check out the new 'Meet the Medic' video.)

Suprisingly, the addition of these new things to win combined with things I already win (such as the hearts of girls everywhere) hasn't really put much of a strain on me.  A few months back, I wasn't updating my blog because I had loads of exams, but now I'm just not updating my blog because I'm uber chillaxed and can't be bothered.  School is a bit of a doss at the moment - physics is this nice self - study thing that isn't too hard, English is literally making posters and all that stuff you do in year eight, I.T is all hands on CS5 tekkers, and maths is still maths, which is alright because I have Mr.Paul.

The kittens in my house are stupidly cute, but they have to go soon.  I'll probably start scrounging off of David. G, because his kittens have only just opened their eyes, and have whole levels of cute to progress through. 
Also, scrolling boxes are gone.  Green borders live on!  Thanks for the feedback, adoring fandom.

Got Chrome

Google Chrome, that is, but it's just as pimpin' as any other homophones of the same word that might have crossed your mind.  It's got a simple interface and feels faster because all the adverts told me it was, but the best part of it is that everyone else is using I.E, and I feel like I'm really technotastic because I've got my own little operating system.  It's like a line it this awesome rap - 'these self proclaimed kings bragging 'cause they own Chrome.'  That's me.

Tell you something crazy awesome - I was sifting through my pockets for change a couple of weeks ago, and I pulled out a ten penny piece.  Only it wasn't a ten penny piece; it was a Franc that had been coined in 1976, and the internet tells me it's actually a Swiss Helvetian Franc, and would be worth a bit of wonga if it was maybe 70 years older.  I also found a Guernsey 20 pence piece, which isn't strictly legal tender but is accepted by most banks.  I've put them both in a little compartment of my sister's semi-precious stones shelf, and I think I'm probably collecting unusual coins now.  I guess I'm so awesome that the universe had to balance itself out by making me a little sadder.  

Tell you another interesting thing.  I've had the pleasure of the company of a one Alex Kasper Du-gal for the last few days, he is a great and long-standing friend of mine.  We were going to make some flapjack, because that's what hard men do, but the shop down the road had no golden syrup.  Upon discovering this, I bought some 'Limited Edition Vanilla Ice Cream' Krusha (that awesome stuff you put in milk to make milkshakes)  This was two days ago, and I finished the Krusha yesterday.  Just to clarify, this stuff's like fruit juice cordial, only you put less of it in, and I don't think there was even enough milk in my house to make enough instant milkshake to deplete a whole bottle of the stuff.  This would be partially explained by the fact that I had a flask-full of straight Krusha, because (at a stretch of imagination and naivety) it loosely resembles whiskey and is kind of strong tasting and bad for you.  So yeah, I'm wondering what the effects of drinking a bottle of milkshake cordial in a day could be.  I'm sure we'll find out soon.

There are still kittens in my house, and they're still adorable.  One was playing with a stick that belonged to my cat yesterday and lost it, so the cat ran into the front room, drove him into the floor and mauled him with his hind legs.  Mostly my cat's a really good mum, and cats are kind of supposed to beat up their kids a bit - it teaches them the harshness of life.  If you're confused by the persons in that last sentence, we call our female cat a 'he' most of the time, because we're too lazy to change our perception of his gender.

My dad has also been teaching kittens about the harshness of life through several educational challenges like 'Escape from this really tall basket I just put you in' and 'Sit inside this closed fireplace for a while'.  I've been helping him out with a good bit of 'Tolerate me rubbing my nose on your tummy while you're trying to sleep.'  

All in all, the kittens have a sweet existence and an enviable lifestyle.  A kitten day is separated into fighting, sleeping, hiding from mummy, following mummy around, being beaten up by mummy, climbing on stuff and finding a new place to defecate every time the litter box is moved to your previous spot.  Cid (who you should know by now is my cat) just meows a lot, and seems quite affectionate but also a trifle bewildered.  

Whelp, today is another banging day, and I'm leaving in about an hour to scoot to Duncan Tarrant's house, where I shall meet with him and David Glover to do man things.  Speaking of man things, I have the next hour to eat breakfast and lunch.  I'd compress the two into brunch, only I'm not some kind of healthy eating pansy.

Also, notice the poll to the right.  It's poorly designed, but possibly the only one of any real consequence the blog has yet seen.  For once, I am seriously appealing to your opinion.  Google Chrome does not know the word 'blog'.