We’re through the looking glass here, people, and into the melting pot…

I don’t care that Britain is multicultural. Hell, I actually enjoy the fact.

Yes, before you even think it, me writing this has been a direct result of the ongoing saga of the youtube video ‘my tram experience’. I laughed at that woman’s rant, not because I thought it was funny, but because I thought it perfectly ridiculous. I challenge anyone reading this to find someone who’s old enough to have lived in this ’pure white Britain’ they seem to dream of. I’m approaching my mid twenties, and whilst I couldn’t care less about the colour of someone’s skin, I’ve always been aware that I’m surrounded by people of differing tones.  And what difference does it make to me? Well, Im always surrounded by a seemingly endless list of choices for the culinary arts, design and innovation, creative processes, et cetera et cetera. Holy cow! Man the lifeboats before I’m crushed under all this culture and option!

Racists are idiots. There’s simply no other way to put it. You can’t honestly think that this country has dwindled because more variety exists in it. and the colour of another person annoying you? How small minded do you need to be?

I’ve got this great little pasttime for anyone who thinks that this country should only contain persons of a single epidermic tint: You’ll need one red armband, one circle of white cloth, four pieces of rectangular black material, one copy of Mein Kampf , and one area of land large enough to install an internment camp. Because the last, most famous person to follow your line of logic decimated entire populations, crippled commerce and will be forever remembered as the world’s biggest douchebag. That’s right, you petty, judgemental dumbass, in my eyes you’re a Nazi. well done.

And so, I hereby devirginate myself, Blogwise. Ahem…

My first post. Aaaaaaand the writer’s block lays it’s hand on my shoulder, smiling to itself as it whispers into my ear ‘long time no see…’

I do find it funny, in a way. I always wanted to be a writer, and yet I found myself afflicted with the harshest of literary letdowns, the conditional writer’s block. You see, I only found inspiration when going through some melodromatic tragedy. Pet died? Five chapters. Bad socio-political experience? Eight chapters. Girl I like dumped me/shouted at me/ looked at me funny/didn’t look at me funnily enough? Move over Tolstoy, I got’s a magnum opus to write. Unfortunately, I have a tendency to put the rest of the world before myself. So whilst I’d have the kind of inspiration I needed to be my wordy best, I couldn’t see the pages for all the trees of the glum forest I’d decided to light my campfire in. And by the time ole Smoky-the-personification-of-self-happiness-and-realisation Bear had appeared to douse said depressing fires, I’d put writing to the back of my mind.

But maybe there’s something to be said for blogging as an outlet. Sure, the only people likely to read this are the people I’ll be writing about, which I’m sure is the quickest route to an eight-page epiphany, it still allows me to do something I’d otherwise not do, which is, simply put, to write for the sake of writing. But enough on why I’m doing this, better to just cut myself off now before I annoy someone. And to the one person who’d rather I kept ranting on, patience, I say, in my own good time.

Hello world!

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