Bloodbank

I’ve always been someone who is conscious of their role in society. My country looks after me and so, in turn, I feel I should give something back every now and again. In dramatic and brave fashion my gift to my society is my blood. One litre of it, every three months. And yes, I still don’t really understand why I’m not seen as a self-sacrificing heartthrob like that guy in Twilight. But I can put such shallow concerns behind me, and I did a couple of weeks ago in Brixton when I headed to the assembly hall to drain myself for the good of others.

I first started giving blood when I was seventeen, but I must admit I’ve been a little lax of recent. It doesn’t help that the previous two times I had attempted to give blood I had failed miserably: once because I was suspected of having some sort of North American bird flu, and the other time because they stuck the needle in the wrong place. This incident, which occurred up in Leamington Spa, was particularly embarrassing because I was trying to convince my then girlfriend to give blood, and she had come along with me.

As I lay back on the bed, with her looking over anxiously at me, I gave her a confident smile. The nurse then ever so quickly stuck a needle in me, whilst explaining how shattered she was from her day’s work. The pain was a lot greater than normal, but when I was asked how I was feeling I obviously said I was fine – I wasn’t going to seem weak in front of my girlfriend, especially as I was trying to convince her that the whole process was relatively pain-free.

It turned out they had missed my vein and stuck the needle into my muscle. Not only was this bad but first I was criticised (“Squeeze your hand harder, you’re slower than most…”) and then the nurse decided it was my fault because I had “small veins”. All the while I was trying to choke back tears . Of course, the whole error had nothing to do with the overworked nurse.

I put these past misfortunes behind me however, and the unsettling thought of actively volunteering to spill blood in Brixton, and marched down to the Lambeth Town Hall, little red donation card in pocket. I filled out the usual forms (‘Have you ever had sex with a man?; Have you ever paid for sex?; Have you ever had sex with a man who has paid for sex?’) and somehow managed to insult the woman on reception before eventually getting to donate blood.

Whilst lying down, squeezing my hand as fast as I possibly could (I’m not slower than most…), I encountered one of the funniest people I have ever seen.

A nurse was attending to the woman lying next to me when the patient’s husband walked up, a large man unsurprisingly clad in a Welsh rugby shirt. He paused, took a long look into the nurse’s eyes (a large Carribean woman who couldn’t have been more motherly if she tried) and then came out with the type of comic gold that would have been firmly at home on ‘The Office’:

“125 donations”, he said, leaving a moment for dramatic effect.

Then, with his eyes bulging he followed up with the killer punch – “Platelets”.

The nurse wasn’t really listening but he went on anyway, describing how there was a times when he had a needle in each arm (“pumping it out I was”). All the while his poor wife was lying next to him in silence. I was enjoying this thoroughly, when he managed to top everything by saying, “Once the doctors came up to me and said, ‘This blood is going to the children’s hospital, because it’s so PURE’”.

I couldn’t believe this man, and it was enormously satisfying to hear the nurse follow up his ridiculous boasting by asking him why he wasn’t giving any blood right then. He shrugged and explained he was diabetic, before going on a tirade against the blood services because he had once found out his blood was going to private hospitals. God forbid a dying person in a private hospital gets treated! The nurse correctly showed how stupid his argument was, but all he had to say was, “I’m not for sale”. I left the donation session with the conclusion that someone should give this man his own television show.

In the meantime give blood.

District 9

It is always easiest to criticise films, as opposed to praising them. Such films also allow me to get out my trademark biting humour. Because of these factors it is somewhat disappointing that the first few films I should see as I start writing my blog should all be rather good, and District 9 is no exception.

The film ran a rather good marketing campaign, and for the last couple of weeks or so I have been bombarded with ‘For Humans Only’ adverts on bus stops. I was also aware that Peter Jackson had produced the film, which no doubt helped getting it so much exposure, especially as it was a South African film with a previously unheard of director (Neill Blomkamp). I had no real intention of seeing it however, for whilst I thought the alien/apartheid metaphor was a neat idea the trailer had made it out to be a crude horror film in which I presumed the aliens just massacred the humans due to their maltreatment. I cannot admit to being a particular fan of horror films, but I was luckily convinced to go by a friend.

Parts of the film are shot like a documentary, supposedly some time after the events took place, and this gives a ‘realistic’ feel to what otherwise might have simply been a simple sci-fi action film. It is on the whole well acted, and the fact it is in South Africa immediately distinguishes it from most Hollywood alien films. What surprised me most was the plot. I had been expecting a tense build up until the first glimpse of a horrifying alien, but in actual fact the audience are shown the aliens wandering around from almost the first minute. The fact that they are also vaguely human in shape also means that, as the film progresses, it is easy to feel sympathy for them (a point Blomkamp has admitted was necessary, even if it was not what he originally intended them to look like). After the initial explanation of events (an alien spacecraft appeared over Johannesburg in 1982, and the aliens were subsequently detained in the grotty ‘District 9’) a gripping thriller begins as a human is infected by the aliens and has to team up with an alien to save himself, whilst the alien tries to find a way to return to his mothership. It all sounds a bit run-of-the-mill sci-fi, but the realistic character development, as well as the fast pace of the movie mean it is a step above most films in this genre.

Unfortunately the film leaves a lot of unanswered questions, and was obviously developed with a sequel, or indeed prequel, in mind. Here are just a few niggling thoughts that filled my mind when I left the cinema:

• Why did the spaceship come to rest over Johannesburg in the main place? (PREQUEL)
• Why are all the aliens so ill? (PREQUEL)
• If the spaceship is no longer capable of moving, how does it manage to hover above a city? (this question is more to do with alien technology logistics, but still irritated me a little)
• Why do human rights groups campaign for the aliens?
• Why does the lead character sound Irish every time he says the word ‘fuck’?
• For a film that takes its inspiration from apartheid, and especially the relocation of black people from District 6 in Cape Town in 1966, why does it portray Nigerians as criminals, prostitutes and witch doctors? (In fairness I do not believe this was intentional xenophobia on the part of the filmmakers, but is nonetheless unfortunate).
• Why is the child alien so smart?
• Why does Wikus (the main character) insist on calling the main alien Christopher Johnson, when the humans gave him that name?
• Does Christopher Johnson (sorry…) save his race? SEQUEL
• Does Wikus ever turn back into a human? SEQUEL

Even with all these hanging queries I found the film to be highly enjoyable, and would most definitely recommend it. Hopefully the next film I see will be awful…

Pukkelpop!

No one has ever heard of Pukkelpop, no one knows where it is, and no one has ever been. Yet myself and a few friends (Henry, Slutty, Ed and his little brother Alex) found ourselves at this obscure Belgian musical festival near the city of Hasselt this August. I had absolutely no idea what to expect. First of all I had never been to a music festival, but I was aware of the likes of Glastonbury, Leeds, Reading and Bestival. Even Exit in Serbia. This however, was a trip into the unknown.

When we arrived sweating on an overcrowded bus and were dumped in a dusty lay-by, my optimism over-shadowed the sense of dread that I should have been feeling. There were literally thousands of people everywhere. The Belgian police struggled to contain them as they spilled onto the four-lane road that handily dissected the festival from the camping area. As we queued to get into the dirty field that would be our home for the next four nights (a rather annoying ritual that would be repeated every time we wanted to go back to our tents) the sun bore down on our backs and by the time we could finally relax all of us were soaked through from our exertions.

Apparently 180,000 people visited over the three days we were there, which is not surprising. There were enormous queues for everything: the toilets, the showers (we only managed one the whole time we were there), and obviously to get into the arenas. The camping area was unlike anything I had ever seen. Tents were literally built on top of one another. It was so hard to find your way out of the tent city that had been hastily erected that every time we attempted it one of us would have to ‘run point’, picking a suitable route for the others to follow. All of us, needless to say, were useless at this and so there were numerous incidences of us stumbling over other tents and people, typically couples. One particularly funny moment saw Henry, as one of the elder statesmen, explaining to the somewhat naïve Alex that sometimes all you needed to do was to jump over the tough-looking stretches. This was inevitably followed by him attempting to do so, landing in a pool of mud and falling flat on his back. Whilst I am not a fan of camping, this ordeal was a small price to pay for the overall fun that we had at the festival. Here is my verdict on the acts we saw:

• The Maccabees – I found myself surprised by how much I liked their music. Special points for enthusiasm to the guitarist (Felix White) who threw himself about the stage like he was headlining Glastonbury despite actually playing to about 300 hungover people at eleven o’clock in the morning.
• The Twang – entertaining, but for all the wrong reasons. I must admit I had actually bought a song by them before, but I don’t think I’ll be doing it again. I had thought they were a young indie-pop group, but they were actually two mental, fairly old guys from Birmingham who thought they were the Gallagher brothers. One of them couldn’t sing and kept on doing the ‘come and ‘ave it’ gesture, whilst the other one retired at one point to get a whisky. They weren’t good enough to justify such rock’n’roll behaviour.
• Bon Iver – I had to drag my friends to this one, and was thoroughly rewarded. Justin Vernon’s voice is just as pained live as it is on the record, and it was amazing to see how all four members of the band harmonised. Henry got particularly emotional when the crowd repeatedly sung the line ‘What might have been lost’ from ‘Wolves’. Lovely stuff.
• Dizzee Rascal – we struck grimy gold with this one. The London MC followed Bon Iver meaning that all the indie fans couldn’t get out of the arena fast enough and we found ourselves at the very front. To make things even better he climbed on top of Ed and we got to touch his torso whilst he sang one of his hits. He is also an especially entertaining performer who had the entire crowd jumping throughout, despite the fact it was said to be somewhere in the region of 38˚. The best act we saw at Pukkelpop.
• La Roux – went down a right treat with the Belgians. Elly Jackson didn’t even attempt to sing the chorus of ‘Bulletproof’. She also smiles a lot more than you would expect, and looked genuinely touched by the adoration of the Flemish public.
• Faith No More – Alex quite literally dragged us to this one. We’d never heard of them but apparently they used to be quite big. Fairly average, but there was one entertaining moment when a fan got onto the stage and jumped off straight into a barrier. Someone should also tell the lead singer not to wear a peachy shirt and trousers combo. Their songs were so dire that we instead started singing along to Alicia Keys’ ‘Falling’, to the annoyance of the Belgian rock fans around us.
• The Ting Tings – worked the crowd well and impressed me with their playing of various different instruments, often at the same time. Better than I thought they’d be, but I still don’t know what her name is.
• Snow Patrol – the lead singer graciously chatted to the crowd a lot, but there was something quite irritating in the manner with which he did it (as if he knew they loved him). THEY DIDN’T PLAY ‘RUN’.
• Jack Peñate – a brilliant performer. He also has more hits than I’d realised. And he spat on us!
• Rusko – Henry’s dubstep recommendation. Great fun, but mostly because it was in a tiny heaving tent where we all got split up (I climbed up into the stands whilst Henry and Ed were carried away by security).
• 50 Cent – dire. Also, the members of G-Unit swear too much.
• N.E.R.D. – can’t actually remember much of this. I don’t think I was too impressed though.
• Arctic Monkeys – I really wanted to like them, but they were atrocious. Firstly they were awful performers, not saying anything and just standing there strumming their guitars. They were really, really boring and the majority of the songs they played were b-sides or ones from their then yet-to-be-released album. I think they were probably good if you knew all of their songs, Slutty certainly enjoyed it. People have since told me that they’re just shy and don’t like performing, but to me it looked like they just couldn’t be bothered to make an effort. It was a shame they were the last act we saw.

All in all though it was a thoroughly enjoyable few days and it was with sadness that we arose at five in the morning, after a couple of hours of sleep, to drive back to Bruges. To his credit Ed only fell asleep at the wheel once.