The Setting Moon

I'm really walking into a blizzard.  Something I can't seem to ever tap with a sober mind is now only three or four sips of whiskey away from bursting out like a bullied child at the end of his tether.  A hangover used to be two or three hours of sore head.  Then, several years down the line the sick stomach was added to that equation, making a sort of dire cocktail.  Throat ache and the shits followed shortly after, and for some reason a blocked nose made a brief appearance.
Now, though, my body has exhausted its plethora of internal inflictions on these thumping Saturdays, and has handed me the reins.  The inflictions are now external, still physical but with obvious roots (probably, I wasn't there) in the mental.  Aching, swollen knuckles.  Gashes down my right arm.  Why am I doing this to myself?  Surely the booze already does enough damage on its own.  That untapped thing is clearly a cause for concern, something dangerous and nocturnal that shouldn't be let out when I'm not there.  A werewolf.  A full glass is my full moon.  The human flesh I seek to feast on is my own.  That incredible tube station chase scene between the raging beast and the terrified, solitary commuter from An American Werewolf in London happens in my head all the time.  I'm both parties (in case I hadn't made that clear by now).
I tell her I'm going to do it, one day, and every time I say that I'm more and more convinced myself and she endures me and endures me again and again and again and sticks by me as I scream into my palms or babble about high balconies and oncoming trains.  Then I awake, wait for all the horrible things to come flooding back (and the obligatory facebook delete-a-thon) and roll around my crumpled bed sheets turning this internal monologue into one, long groaning syllable.  I take a moment to locate my newest injuries then I try and close up completely through either embarassment, shame, self-pity, anger, sorrow, guilt or afternoon TV.

The calm lasts a while.  Everything is okay for a generous portion of time.

Then I'm doing it again.  A few merry pints and a fond conversation has somehow taken a wrong turn to another horrible threat of suicide to the last person on Earth who deserves to sit through this.  Again she stands by, endures me and doesn't walk out and leave me to myself forever more.
But one day the fragment of an idea pops into being.  It will be a while before it is seriously entertained, but once it's there it can't be shed.  She finds herself increasingly in long bouts of consideration for weeks on end, then I act out again and the camel's back is smashed to shit.

He won't do it to me again.
He won't have the pleasure of seeing my face when he makes those threats.
Because I will do it.
No threats, no repeated tongue lashings on the matter.
He'll be home soon, better get to it.

Once again I'm crying into my pillow.  Only this time I know exactly why.  I'm tugging at the duvet crumpled on the empty space next to me.  This time there's nobody to endure me, because they've done all the enduring they could.

The Exploding of Jeremy and Jessica

One afternoon, Jeremy blew up. Not in the manner of a balloon, rather, he exploded. It was a horrendous mess, for his body was all over the room. His ear, to give you one example, was sliding slowly down the radiator, leaving a nasty trail. Luckily, Jeremy managed to pull himself together and shake it off. He was not one for complaining needlessly about things that can't be changed.

Later, Jeremy went for a walk because it was a nice day. He bumped into his friend Jessica. Jessica was pretty. She was a street artist when she had spare time and Jeremy liked that about her (and her).

Noticing Jeremy's manner, she asked 'Why do you look so dishevelled?'

'I just exploded' said Jeremy. But he felt okay really.

Jessica sighed and nodded slowly. 'So did I' she said. 'There must be something going around.' Jeremy and Jessica walked.

A brash, angry man, also called Jeremy as coincidence would have it, sat on a bench far away. He knew other Jeremy and hated him. He hated him so much that he could almost never think about anything else at all, which, if you think about it, is quite a serious matter.

He was drinking from a can of beer on this bench, which he really shouldn't have been doing because it was still daytime and he was all on his own and, of course, he was angry enough without beer. When he finished it he went home, ever angrier for having no more beer.

'It isn't fair' thought angry Jeremy to himself. 'Other Jeremy exploded but he's okay already and I'm still so sad.' This negative reflection only made him hate other Jeremy even more.

Other Jeremy went to a coffee shop so he could talk to Jessica all afternoon. It wasn't a big, scary coffee shop that looked like a hundred others, it was a nice little one owned by people who worked there and it was the only one that looked like it in the world. Jeremy sipped his coffee and thought about how easily it had suddenly become to talk to Jessica. Had his earlier exploding had something to do with it? Jeremy looked around the room at all the different people sitting on armchairs and benches talking to one another, and wondered how many of them had exploded that morning.

Jessica talked about her and her friends' art and could tell that Jeremy was really listening to her and not just waiting for the conversation to turn more personal. Jeremy enjoyed talking about graffiti with Jessica, even though she didn't like calling it graffiti.

Angry Jeremy got home and decided to call his friend Cassie. He couldn't remember how he had gotten Cassie's number, but he knew, somehow, that he shouldn't have had it.

Cassie answered. 'Erm... hello?'

Jeremy sighed. 'Hi Cassie' he said, gloomily.

'Oh, erm...' Cassie shuddered. 'I don't know if, erm, I should be talking with you.'

This made angry Jeremy sad, and angry. 'Oh, please' he groaned.

'Well, I don't know'.

Jeremy shouted and threw his mobile phone at the wall so hard that the sound hurt Cassie's ear. She gasped. Then she hung up too.

Other Jeremy hugged Jessica and she got on the bus. He went home and turned the television on and smiled.

A week passed and Jeremy decided to throw a barbecue party because the weather was still nice and he had a day off. It was such a nice day that even angry Jeremy came. Of course, Cassie being there was motivation enough with or without sunshine. Jessica felt a bit sad because she used to be a vegan. Other Jeremy's friend, who was very sure of himself and enjoyed talking about things he had done more than listening to stories about other people also came. He spent all afternoon flirting considerably with Jessica and Cassie's friend which was ultimately a vain effort because she hated men.

Cassie arrived and smiled nervously at angry Jeremy and when she turned away he got very angry and threw his sausage roll at the sky. Other Jeremy's cocky friend noticed this and told him to calm down, but angry Jeremy punched him so hard that he turned almost see-through.

Other Jeremy noticed the fight break out and rushed over to try and stop it all, but instead got punched as well and so a three-way, drunken fight ensued. Jeremy's cocky friend, who really loved Jeremy despite himself, tried to protect his friend and host against the brutal lashing of angry Jeremy, but got so badly hurt in the process that he disappeared completely.

Jessica, Cassie and their man-hating friend watched the event in horror. Cassie was so scared of the violence that she ran far, far away and was never seen again. Jessica was just disappointed and went home. This really upset Jeremy, who was usually so calm.

Days passed by and angry Jeremy was very sad and hadn't gone out in days. He sat in his lonely armchair drinking (whiskey, this time) and thought long and hard about how he would definitely never see Cassie again, all because of the fight at the barbecue.

The room was so big and bare that angry Jeremy felt tiny in it.

Angry Jeremy reached under his armchair and pulled out a gun that nobody knew he had. He took one big sip of whiskey and pointed the gun at his sad face. He took a deep breath and then disappeared forever.

* * *

Other Jeremy (now simply Jeremy) tried to apologise to Jessica many times, but her friend that hated men kept assuring her to stay away from him because he was violent really and not nice inside. She stood steadfastly by her advice for a long, long time. But after many occasions seeing Jeremy walk calmly by, getting on with his life and not feeling sorry for himself like angry Jeremy used to, and not insisting that he was in the right like their cocky friend used to, she began to understand a bit more.

One afternoon she accidentally found herself in a conversation with Jeremy.

'Hello, Jeremy' she said with some polite caution.

'Hello' replied Jeremy with a smile. 'How's Jessica?'

'She's just fine' said Jessica's friend. 'How are you?'

'I'm good' said Jeremy. 'It would be lovely to see Jessica again but if she'd rather not I will go on my way.' He smiled again. 'Hope you are well.' Then he waved and walked away.

After that conversation, Jessica's friend started to realise that Jeremy was most probably good for Jessica and began to think that not all men were horrible. Besides, all of Jeremy's bad friends were gone now anyway. Eventually she apologised to Jessica for interfering and went away.

Finally, after all their weaknesses and insecurities had died and gone away, Jeremy and Jessica were able to be together like they should have been in the first place. All they ever were from then on was happy.

For, you see, there really were only ever two characters in this story.

My Top Ten Films of 2012

To my shame, I never managed to see a good few films that have been critically acclaimed as some of the best of 2012.  To name but a few, Rust and Bone, Life of Pi, Silver Linings Playbook and Sightseers likely belong on this list, but as it stands this is my personal opinion of what were the best films of the year.  It has been a pretty spectacular year for films, with even the majority of the over-hyped blockbusters managing to deliver.  There were the inevitable waves of dross and disappointments (I'll get to those) but here are my favourites.  Feel free to tell me I'm wrong.

Avengers Assemble
Joss Whedon, would you believe, knows how to make a comic book movie.  While his ability to handle ensemble casts was never in doubt (having already proven his worth with Buffy, Angel and Firefly), his being chosen to solely handle an event film with five years of anticipation and expectation possibly was.  Lo and behold, the director expertly handled his inhereted super-divas and gave us an unexpected show-stealer in Mark Ruffalo's Hulk.  Far and away the most fun action-adventure film in years.  The future of Marvel Studios is a promising one.

The Dark Knight Rises
Chris Nolan's Bat-trilogy closer has been met with some criticism (mostly regarding the film's length, myriad plot-holes and Tom Hardy's near-inaudible Bane voice), but TDKR wonderfully rounds off the greatest trilogy of the century with a sprawling, unrelenting tale of class war, mob rule and the most brutal Bat-foe yet.  Furthermore, Anne Hathaway's welcome turn as Catwoman gave an essential light-heartedness that the bulk of the series had yet to see.

Looper
The adequately covered (to say the least) time-travel genre gets the indie touch as Bruce Willis is sent back in time to be disposed of by young Bruce Willis (A prosthetic-nosed Joseph Gordon-Levitt, fresh from his star turn in TDKR).  There is a genuinely fresh touch to the familiar paradox material with inevitable nods toward genre classics The Terminator and Twelve Monkeys, but what really elevates Looper are its central performances, whether it be Levitt's startlingly convincing impression of Willis, or the refreshing second-act arrival of Emily Blunt in one of her best and most fun roles to date.  Riann Johnson's sci fi thriller is not without its shock factor, either.

Dredd
Sylvester who?  2000AD fans finally get the Judge Dredd movie they deserve.  The Alex Garland-scripted, dystopian crime thriller may be narratively similar to this year's The Raid, but as a genre movie it really excels in eschewing the first-installment archetypes.  This is not 'Judge Dredd Begins', we are not given the pleasure of witnessing the titular cop's origins, this is simply a day in the life of Dredd (and not even a particularly significant one, as the closing moments reveal).  The skull-smashing, uncompromising Dredd does not develop as a character; the human stuff is left to newbie Judge Anderson, and the Slo-Mo sequences are the signature of the film's spectacular visual style.  A box-office flop, one can only hope that Dredd is a DVD hit, because few comic book worlds are more deserving of further exploration than Mega City One.

The Hunger Games
Critics were unable to overcome The Hunger Games' undeniable similarity to cult classic Battle Royale, but some of the best-loved works of fiction share narratives with older works (Jaws and Moby Dick, anyone?).  Either way, the familiar premise is merely a device to explore Suzanne Collins' horrific future.  Class-divide ensures that while empoverished townships live in fear of being selected for the annual death match, the more privelaged societies wish for it.  The decadent, detached high end of society is beautifully realised and draws you into a startlingly convincing world, before revealing the true horror of the situation; as teenage corpses begin to pile up within minutes of the Games beginning.  Ignore its praise as being 'The New Twilight', Jennifer Lawrence's Katniss is a female lead that readers/viewers can be proud of.  She doesn't cry herself to sleep over a man (nor is that the point of the story), she takes matters into her own hands and is rewarded for it.

Argo
Director/Star Ben Affleck's period biopic of a government rescue operation disguised as a Star Wars-esque film production may take the odd Hollywood style liberty in its final act, but nonetheless Argo is a consistently tense, often hilarious and wonderfully understated spy thriller filmed in an almost documentary style.  Alan Arkin and John Goodman supply the comic relief, while Affleck delivers a reined-in, Pearl Harbour-forgetting performance as the agent entrusted with the operation.  Simultaneously a celebration and critique of American Cinema, Argo triumphs in its convincing realisation of the period and the uneasy political backdrop in which it exists.  If Affleck continues to produce films like this one, his former reputation will quickly be forgotten, and deservedly so. 

Moonrise Kingdom
Wes Anderson continues to demonstrate his inability to make a bad film with this sweet love letter to childhood.  Anderson regulars Bill Murray and Jason Schwartzman fail to disappoint as ever, while newcomers Edward Norton and Bruce Willis are expertly played against type as childlike loners bordering on pathetic.  The central narrative of two childhood sweethearts on the run from their disconcerted parents and carers may be age-old, but the innocence and discovery piles on the joy as their adult neighbours' parallel relationships gradually spiral into despair.  As expected of an Anderson film, the soundtrack is killer, the comedy deliciously deadpan and beneath the surface of War of the Buttons style kid-slapstick and misanthropic one liners, there's a joyous message that you can take with you long after the credits roll.  His best since The Royal Tenenbaums.

21 Jump Street
The surprise comedy triumph of 2012, destined to become a repeat-viewing classic in years to come.  The pairing of Jonah Hill (who has been in every comedy film made this century) with hunk-of-the-moment Channing Tatum is unlikely but pays off, particularly for Tatum who gets to showcase his comic skills as a former cool kid having to adjust to the changing heirarchical social groups of highschool; the nerds he used to pick on are now the cool kids in post-High School Musical/Glee America, while being a meatheaded, chauvanistic jock is no longer something to be admired.  The comedy isn't tired and the necesseties of the genres (buddy cop/teen comedy) mean that the film becomes wonderfully self-referential just as it looks in danger of firing off a cliche.  Then there is that cameo, surely the funniest appearance of a Hollywood A-lister since Bill Murray in Zombieland (I won't mention who it is, although I will say that 21 Jump Street is the big-screen sequel to an '80s TV series starring Johnny Depp...).

The Pirates! In an Adventure With Scientists
The best Pirate-based film of the decade (and no, I'm not overlooking anything).  The perpetually typecast Hugh Grant takes a refreshing turn as the arrogant and air-headed Pirate Captain alongside David Tennant (that bloke who used to play some alien on TV) as the brilliantly self-deprecating antagonist Charles Darwin.  Possibly Aardman's best since their TV golden years, The Pirates is full of cheeky British humour that adults should enjoy as much as children and is the perfect antidote for anyone rightfully jaded with the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise.

The Cabin in the Woods
The other Joss Whedon triumph of 2012; just when you think you know exactly where The Cabin in the Woods is going, it completely changes direction.  Just when you think you know where it's going this time, it flies completely off the rails, in the best way possible.  The Cabin in the Woods utilises and subverts as many horror cliches as it can get its bonkers hands on and does so with spellbinding and often hilarious results.  Think The Evil Dead meets Lost with some surprisingly non-superfluous God lore thrown in for good measure, add Whedon's trademark razor-sharp dialogue and you've got the most original and inventive horror film in years.

And how about the worst films I saw this year?  Or rather the ones I wasn't smart enough to avoid?

Ice Age: Continental Drift
The ever dwindling Ice Age series delivers its weakest entry yet, and foregoes narrative structure and character development for bizzare pop culture references, forgettable musical numbers and the addition of an annoying gang of younger generation tweens aping the mission of their tragically sidelined parents.

Total Recall
The latest in the long tradition of pointless and inferior remakes; leads Colin Farrel and Kate Beckinsale do the best with what they're given, but their decent performances are drowned in what may be the blandest sci-fi in a long while.  Nods to the brilliant original feel misplaced rather than nostalgic as Total Recall achieves the impossible; longing for Arnie.

Wrath of the Titans
I've covered this elsewhere.  Let's move on.

The Devil Inside
See above.

The Raven
It seems The Raven's sole purpose is to cash in on the success of Guy Ritchie's recent Sherlock Holmes films, as we have a beloved (this time non fictional) literary figure reimagined as an absent minded but brilliant buffoon.  The film sees John Cusack's Edgar Allen Poe playing detective against a killer using his own macabre tales as inspiration for his crimes, but the reveal is so out of left field it feels less like a twist and more a 'what the fuck?' moment.

The Campaign
I walked out of this film around the moment when Will Ferrel punched a baby.  I don't feel I should comment but it does hold the record of being the first movie I've ever been unable to complete.

Dark Shadows
Tim Burton once again assembles his wife-and-best-mate duo for this big screen adaptation of shonky 60s soap opera Dark Shadows.  The result is an unfunny Addams Family that looks promising in its opening scenes but quickly falls apart as it becomes clear that everyone involved other than Johnny Depp really doesn't want to be there.  The first Burton film where it really shows that his heart just isn't in it.

The Adventure of the Exploding Detective

In which Sherlock Holmes is blown to pieces by his own reputation.  Its a bit tongue in cheek (to say the least) and, like my last Sherlock Holmes short, more of a singular event within an adventure than an entire story

It had been a full month since the shocking re-emergence of Professor Moriarty, discovered through a slip-up by one of his subordinates (who promptly vanished).  Accordingly, it had been a full three weeks and six days since the return of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes to London, following his retirement in Surrey.
Of course, we now realised how absurd it had been for us to assume that Moriarty had himself tumbled over the falls of Reichenbach on that fateful afternoon in 1891.  The man who so famously remained off stage in his criminal dealings, personally entering into a game of combat with his arch nemesis atop a thundering waterfall?  It was now so painfully obvious that he had sent an imposter, and that my friend had never in fact met Moriarty.  Holmes had spent many sleepless nights punishing himself for what he referred to as his 'abnormally human error'.
With the accused so long assumed dead, the arduous enquiries into Moriarty's criminal career had understandably been abandoned, and the campaign process to have them reopened was proving to be slow.  So Sherlock Holmes promptly set in motion his plan to once again bring down the 'Napoleon of Crime.'  He swiftly resumed residence at our old address and managed to once again rope me into his adventure.
One afternoon, Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway of our Baker Street lounge, clutching an envelope marked for the attention of Sherlock Holmes.  Upon one split-second glance in its direction, Holmes immediately sprang to his feet and snatched it.
'It is him' he groaned.
'How can you be sure?' said I
'The envelope is of the same type used the last time Moriarty sent me a warning.'
'Ah yes' I replied.  'That shocking business concerning the Valley of Fear.'
'Precisely.  Let us see what my sinister pen-friend has to tell me this time.'
He opened the letter, pulled the note from the envelope and, after speed-reading it, dropped it on the table. 
'The same, unusually thick type of paper used before' he said.
It read;

In the bustling centre
Between a house of faces and its Greatest
A London Monument lights up.

'Trafalgar Square' my friend exclaimed.  'He means to blow up Nelson's Column!'
'How do you deduce that?' I asked.
' "A house of faces and its Greatest" ', Holmes repeated.  'The 'house of faces' was rather obscure to decipher, but London's greatest face?'
'Big Ben!' Said I.  'The clock face.'
'Yes.  And what other 'house of faces' could he refer to, which faces Big Ben?'
'I'm not sure.'
'It could only be the Portrait Gallery which sits on Trafalgar Square staring down Whitehall, at the clock face.  So that leaves Nelson's Column as the London Monument.'
'But why would he blow it up?' I asked.  'Its an old, unpopulated statue.  What would he gain?'
'Fear' replied Holmes.  'He's spent years in the dark, meticuously gaining the allies and assets required to pull this off.  If he can orchestrate such an attack without having been thwarted thus far, he will have secured his long-coveted reputation as the world's greatest criminal mastermind.  I have considered him such for many a year, but alas the world does not take my word as seriously as it should.'
'You are more celebrated than you think you are' I remarked.  It was true, in the many years since his emergence as the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes had gradually achieved national celebrity through his incredible crime-solving skills and my regular reports of them.  He had, by his rather old age, become something of a London Monument himself.
Holmes waved in dismissal of my compliment and turned for the door.  The long years had not dampened his youthful energy.  'One more adventure' he beamed.  'Coming, Watson?'
I followed him out of 221b for the final time and jumped hastily into a hansom that he had hailed moments before.  At that we were bounding down Baker Street post haste to Trafalgar Square.

The Square seemed calm as usual, but knowing what was imminent only served to render that calm eery and ominous.  A lone bagpiper played on at the foot of the steps to the gallery, his disjointed, airy tune adding a chilling score to our endeavour.  Holmes strode through the Square to Nelson's Column, which he then began to scrutinise from every possible angle, dropping to his hands and knees and enthusiastically feeling the stone all around, squinting through his study.  I watched in anxiety from a distance as he returned.
'Nothing' he groaned.  'No sign of gunpowder or any tampering.  How is he doing this?'
I tried in vain to supply alternative theories.  'Perhaps the explosives are inside?'
'Impossible' replied Holmes.  'At least without producing tell-tale signs on the outside.'
'Maybe Moriarty has bombers positioned in the surrounding area?' I continued.
Holmes shook his head.  'There are few people here' he said.  'And nobody close enough is carrying anything that could conceal a bomb, anyone further wouldn't have the range.  He'd have to-'
Holmes stopped, mid-sentence.  'Of course!' he shouted.  'Watson, check over there.' He gestured toward a side-street leading to Charing Cross station.  'Watch for anyone suspicious-looking and report back immediately.'
I obeyed my friend and started down the street, curious as to his intentions.  I turned and looked back, expecting to see him hard at work once again, analysing every inch of the surrounding area for a clue he may have missed.  Instead, he simply stood there, head lowered, clutching what appeared to be Moriarty's note.
Then it dawned on me.
No sign of any explosives.  The unusually thick piece of paper.  Then the most unbearably obvious clue of all; A London Monument Lights up.  Moriarty had never intended to destroy Nelson's Column.  As I initially asked, what would be the point?  It was merely a red herring, a false hint to get Holmes exactly where he wanted him, tricking the world's greatest detective with his own obsession for complex puzzles.
Holmes was the London monument.  'You are more celebrated than you think you are' I had said earlier that day, and I have punished myself daily ever since for not making the link then.
All of this passed through my mind in seconds.  Then it happened.
The sound was deafening, and it threw me to the ground, sparing me from the most terrible of sights to behold.  My friend was blown to smithereens.  No corpse remained, no shape of what was my friend moments before.  Only bits of him.
It had already dawned on Holmes, the moment he asked me to check the side street.  He was simply getting me to safety.  There was no time for him to discard the bomb, concealed in the paper and triggered in a way that remains a mystery.  Then his 'One last adventure' remark from earlier in the day occured to me.  Had he already known his days were numbered or did he simply assume he'd finally beat Moriarty and retire for good?  I'd never know.
A day or so later, reports came of Holmes' deerstalker cap being found atop the head of Nelson, presumably from the explosion.  Although strangely I don't remember him ever wearing it.
It wasn't long before Professor Moriarty was linked to the crime and executed for it.  But he went to the gallows a happy man, having outsmarted and defeated his rival in his final act of criminal mastery.  No punishment could this world ever inflict upon him.  It was never found out why he didn't simply detonate the bomb at Baker Street when we received it, although I suppose he wanted Holmes' defeat to be public, or else he wanted me alive to suffer it.
Sherlock Holmes was dead, slain by one of the few things that eluded him; how much he meant to the world.

Why I don't believe in God.

Whenever I am asked if I believe in God, my mind becomes clouded with the myriad reasons why I don't and, verbally at least, my argument comes accross as insecure and ill-informed.  I'm frustrated by the question, as it is my choice and an individual's personal belief (or lack thereof) shouldn't be cause for concern to anybody else.  As the simplest answer; "because I don't have to" is clearly not sufficient, here are my reasons.  Some of them may be familiar from other sources but that only affirms that they stand up.  It is quite ironic that people following a faith that denies evidence and reason should ask me to back up my reasons, but there you go.  I hate religious debate (we've developed the cognitive skills and reason to overcome religious brainwashing yet it still exists) and hopefully this will be the end of it for anyone unhappy with my atheism.

- The idea of absolute power doesn't hold up to any logic or scrutiny.  If God was all powerful (bear in mind all powerful means limitless in ability) then he could conjure a rock that was so heavy, no being (divine or mortal) could move it.  This includes God.  In which case, if God could not move that rock, then he is not all-powerful.  Alternatively, if God could move any rock regardless of its weight, then it would be impossible for him to create one that he is unable to move.  Again this defies limitless ability.
- Humanity's obsession with design and purpose is what lead to the invention of God.  We have evolved our minds to the point where they have begun to over-think, and the concept of being on Earth for no real reason other to live and die is discomforting.  Like all other species, we can create life.  However, unlike all other species, we are sentient, reasonable and imaginative beings.  Combined with our natural ego-centricity, the concept that we must have been created by a conscious being is a natural one to adopt.  There hasn't been a credible argument for why we must be the product of a creator.  Many claim that we "must" be the creation of somebody, but why "must" we?  Just because we create things, that does not mean that somebody must have created us.. it is our own God-complex that, quite ironically, justifies to us the existence of God.  The 'Blind Watch Maker' theory is the most commonly applied, but even that is a poor argument.  It assumes that, similar to how it would be near-impossible to produce a functioning watch simply by shaking the contents in their casing, we are too complex and well formed to have just popped into being of no accord; but we now know that we didn't.  We are the product of millions of years of trial and error, far removed from the metaphor of the watch.
- For a group so bent on believing in design, this supposed God is certainly not showing much evidence of having a 'design' of any kind.  Imagine two nations that are near-identical in their worship of God and keeping sacred his word.  One of those nations is hit by a devastating natural disaster that kills thousands and destroys its cities.  The other nation is left untouched.  If God is responsible for everything, what discernable reason would there be for letting this happen?  His 'working in mysterious ways' would be the predictable response, but that is a redundant comment that religious flag-flyers use to maintain their self-delusion, it is not an argument.  Furthermore, when a victorious army or sports team claims to have had 'God on their side', why didn't the other team have that luxury?  If God loves all, why is he picking sides in such trivial instances?
- The inevitable argument that 'you can not disprove the existence of God' is, while true in itself, ultimately redundant and round-about.  It is also possibly the reason why belief in higher powers still exists.  It is not enough to apply this rhetoric, which is nothing more than a frustrating way to bring mature, reasoned arguments grinding to a halt.  If I were to lower myself to adopting this logic, then I can quite easily bombard you with 1001 absurd beings of my own invention, then maintain that they exist purely because you can't prove that they don't.  This would render me psychologically ill, and rightly so.  Yet in numbers it ceases to be a mental defect and instead becomes religion.  While this should be unsettling to a reasoned mind, it is accepted as the norm.
- Organised religion attacks science, when science is simply thousands of years of in-depth, meticulous research and findings of empirical evidence carried out by an unfathomable number of historical and contemporary genius.  Science does not make unfounded proclamations and then refuse to relent when they are disproven.  Science is humble, and accepts when it is wrong, then setting about to discover why it was wrong and what the correct answer actually is.  This is the stark opposite to blind faith, which maintains millennia-old beliefs and moral guidelines as truth without willing to be educated otherwise.  It is also the reason that the tired argument of 'science being simply another form of religion' is completely ill-informed.  It is snooty and unbecoming for an inexperienced pseudo-philosopher to come along and then denounce this evidence purely because it doesn't fit with their pre-established ideals.  The Universe adheres to certain laws of physics and, while one may argue that this reality is just an illusion (again a claim impossible to disprove), it is at the very least within this illusion that those laws apply, and therefore they do apply no matter how false you may think our perception of reality is.
- The religious will claim that 'without God there would be no worth', which, quite apart from being violently disrespectful to all loved ones, is also without merit.  Civilised society predates the invention of God and it is the belief of many atheists that life itself, and this planet alone, are wonderful things enough to satisfy the notion of a single existence.  It is not humble or endearing to defect family, friends and well being into a subordinate state of importance and use your brief time on Earth as a preperatory period, sacrificing many desires and dreams, for possible entry into another realm upon death.  I do not feel my life lacks faith enough to be fulfilling, and I do not agree that faith makes an individual stronger.  Finding God at a time of despair is little more than the theological equivalent of being given a comforting blanket.
- The worst argument of all comes from religious apologists insisting that the more absurd and fantastical Bible stories aren't intended to be true, but the existences of God and Christ are the truths within.  Where exactly did they acquire that conviction?  How can one pick and choose which bits of the scripture are supposed to be genuine without such authority on the subject?  As far as I am aware, the Bible is not annotated to distinguish the factual parts from the fictional.  If one can not accept the ridiculous stories of Noah, Sodom and Gomorrah or Job but is content with belief in the omnipotent creator that appears in each of them, that is the epitome of a crumbling argument.  In for a penny, in for a pound.
- Ultimately, I find it continually insulting that I am asked to explain myself when I say I don't believe in God.  People are conditioned to accept religion from a young and impressionable age at schools that aren't as impartial as they should be.  I do not harass God-believers into explaining their reasons, yet somehow atheism, which is merely an acting of bowing out; peaceful and non-aggressive, is treated more heavy-handedly than religious belief.  These are my reasons, and in my secure mind they are more formed and understandable than the contrary.  As such I will not be swayed.  Atheism may indeed be a herd-mentality as religion is, but is not one that is entered into without thought and reason.

Were-Man (With alternate ending)

If you were expecting a Halloween story...

It were larger than we, and with less coat than we, and had been with us for a small time.  First we were made strange at its arrival; as it seemed not like a thing we ever knew here.  But after days we understand that it has no want to hurt we or frighten we.  So we elected not to attack or kill it.

It sat in a strange cave when dark came; a cave that seemed more like its unfixed coat than the strong stone caves we know.  And the cave glowed.  In light it sat next to its cave and looked at we, with a big dark object covering its sight.  Every sunrise it did this, but still it came never near we so we let it.  It seemed pleased when we called to each other, and fiddled more with the dark object.  It again seemed pleased when we fought, and came a small bit nearer.

After one sunrise the sky came lower and wet we like it sometimes does.  On that daylight it stayed inside its cave and didn't watch we at all, but left its dark thing outside, which did.  Grey faced we and he told that maybe it was plotting in the cave, but we thought not.  Why would it now?  Grey was sure.  Told that the dark thing was its eye that was watching, and was worried about it.  We left Grey to continue this thought and didn't listen.

For lots of days the water fell and we were okay with it.  But not Grey.  Grey would sit, like It did before the water, and watch, like It did before the water, for as long as the sky was bright.  We would give Grey food, and he would eat, but he less was part of our group than before It disappeared in the cave.  That is not to say It was never seen by we.  It came out few small times each day and sometimes took the dark thing away for a time.  Then put it back.  It strangely looked at Grey; the way he sat and watched.  We told that it was slightly unusual that It found Grey's watching strange; for It did the same thing before and we didn't strangely look after the first few times.

When the sky grew higher again and the water dried, It continued to sit outside Its cave.  Sometimes It took a dark object that was smaller than what Grey called the eye, and made strange sounds from its mouth into it; like our howling but sharper and quieter.  This remade Grey's suspicions.

He called to we to follow his fear, but we had no reason to.  Finally Grey took to It's cave and stole the eye, carrying it to we in his jaw.  We looked at it and wondered but no one of we could understand its reason.
Before long, It came out from the cave making frantic noises and looked about the place.  It saw we, surrounding Its eye and roared, running toward.  Some cowered and some howled, some ran and hid.  I was among the first group.  It turned into a storm in our group, but attacked none.  None in turn attacked It, but Grey.
Grey told that he was right after all, and howled attack.  None followed him.  He jumped at It and bit.  Again and again, until It threw It's leg round hard to Grey's side, knocking him back in pain.  With the manouvere It stumbled to the ground, and Grey took the opportunity to pounce upon It.
For a small time they tumbled and span on the ground, then It took a small, shining object from under Its coat and waved it fiercely at Grey, who cried out and retreated.  We all saw the deep wound and pouring blood which we all recognised from past fights, and moved to aid Grey.  All growled attack at It, but It moved fast to the cave and jumped upon a large, tree coloured object which we never noticed before and which took It with greater speed than ours away from us forever.
After the fight Grey did not die.  But he walked feebly all the time, and cried for we.  We didn't listen.  His weakness was not something we should wish to care for as it would then became our weakness, and should It ever return, we had to be strong.  Grey was right, but we had no means to honour that.
The sun went up and down many times and Grey still didn't return to normal, but turned ever worse.  His cries became strange to our ears.  His movements not pleasing to watch.  But he still did not die.  Even after his wound was gone and no more terrible blood emerged, Grey was not better.
One day we all watched as Grey wriggled and shaked and changed painfully into a different being, that looked like It.  He had no tail or snout and his limbs were longer than needed.  At this we all gathered to attack, but I told that it was still Grey and we shouldn't do so.  The new It-Grey crouched on the ground and was scared, and moved every way he could on only his hind legs but didn't know why.  We watched with wonder at his movements.
The It-Grey decided to stay among we, and we let him, but were unsure how to approach him.  He could no longer tell we, instead could only make the same odd sounds that It made before.  Grey was seemingly content to sleep out in the sky like always, and did for some nights, but when again the sky went low and poured water, he shrieked and jumped, and ran to It's cave, which was still there.  We awoke and watched as Grey disappeared into the thin cave.  There came confused groaning from within, and the cave shook and bumped, and eventually a flash came and it glowed like before.  Grey remained within until daylight.
When he emerged, It-Grey was wrapped in a loose coat.  He looked something like sad and scared at the same time and continued to move the cloth over his body whenever it slipped, which seemed to be a troublesome task and unnecessary.
He would stop playing with we, or fighting.  He just sat under his tree.  We took him scraps of food when he stopped trying to find it himself, but instead of eating it, he departed.  When he returned he held a number of tree fruits that appeared equal to the ammount of food we gave him, placed the fruits in front of me and only then took his food.  This confused we, as we had no immediate use for tree fruits (we only eat flesh) and couldn't work out why Grey would want to exchange something of no immediate use to we for his food, especially when he had to make unnecessary effort to get it.  He performed this needless exchange every time we left food for him and could not say why.
More and more time passed by.  It-Grey seemed ever more used to his form and moved around more.  He made shapes in the dirt with a tree-stick and would cry out in glee when they were done.  He roamed the place picking up dead wood, for some reason.  He continued to exchange his berries for our meat and we continued to have no use for the berries.  When he saw that we let them die, he stopped giving us berries.  Instead he broke up the dead wood into small, similar shapes and made a particular dent in them.  They all looked the same and, when he began exchanging these instead, we were ever more confused.  They seemed even more useless than the berries, although they didn't rot and die.  They were already rotten and dead.
One day, It-Grey started coming back with all of the dead wood he'd taken.  He worked and grew tired but eventually came up with something of a cave in our home.  It was shaped more like It's sharp, dark objects than our caves that looked like they were from where they were from.  This cave looked unusual in its place, as nothing around it looked the same.  It unsettled we, but it was the only of its kind and so we didn't worry for long.
Grey eventually destroyed the cave he had taken from It, as his new one was more powerful against the sky and didn't dance in the wind.  On one terrible night I made attempt to go into it, but Grey stopped me.  I came back later but he stopped me again.  Eventually I realised why he was stopping me.  I took a jaw full of his small wooden shapes and offered them to him, he let me in.  As I grew tired and before sleep took me, I wondered why he wanted them.  He'd given them to we at first, why did he need them back before allowing me shelter?  Why not simply exchange the shelter for the food we gave him?  I slept on the ground where Grey slept higher on an object that looked better to sleep in.  For the first time since he'd changed, I felt like Grey was my master, even though I was always the master of the pack before.
When I awoke the cave was without Grey.  I emerged and found him to be attacking a tree with an object not unlike the one that rendered him wounded when he was still like we.  But it was bigger.  Eventually the tree fell with a terrible sound that hit all the other trees, and hit the ground like it was beaten.
Even though he had won, Grey continued to attack the dead tree with the object, ferociously, until it was in bits.  He then picked up these bits and took them to a place where there were many more, piled.
He spent many more days building smaller caves that looked like his.  Eventually the place was over-run with caves and it didn't look like our home any more.
When he'd finished, he walked away.  He was gone many days and we slept in his new caves.  Eventually things seemed back to normal, we'd forgotten about Grey and although our land didn't look the same, it felt like it did before.  We played, fought and hunted like before.  It was good.
Then one day, he returned.  His approach was felt long before he appeared and, when he did, he was carrying something big.  As he drew closer I saw that it was another like he, but fairer and with more complicated coating on its body and head.  It seemed asleep and I spied a large wound on its head.  Grey took it into his big cave and that night he did not let me sleep in there with him.
The next day Grey roamed his collection of caves, when he found several of our kind dwelling in them he turned angry.  He roared and waved his limbs and made we leave.
When we regrouped at the edge of his land which was ours, we thought to attack, but he took out a giant object and struck one so hard and fierce that it could only howl once before it fell to the ground and died.
We all howled in terror, and Grey roared at we again, waving the object.  He was warning us of our punishment were we to ever try to use his land again.  So we retreated.
On our walk we told of our sadness for the dead.  He never fought with Grey in either of his lives.  We snarled and fought as we looked for a new home; for the stress was making we do so.  Our place was our home before any of we came into living.  Now it was Grey's place only.
One day we came upon the old, tree-coloured thing that It escaped upon.  It was pressed deep into a big tree and its shape was ruined.  We sniffed and prowled around it, interested.  Eventually within we saw It.  He was unmoving and the flies were also interested.  Dead from meeting the tree too fast.  He proved a decent meal for our troubled journey.
No new place was good.  Our search was not good, and we none felt good.  It had been a long journey and we were sick and dying.  Angered, I decided to tell that we should go back to Grey's land and take it.  It had always been ours, and Grey was never the master.  Why should his new form make him so?  We had fought and killed others that were not like we, and we should be able to do again.  With remade energies, we made for home, and the fight.

When we arrived little was different from before.  Grey's caves still stood in place of our trees.  We waited by the edge of the place, stood for the fight.  Grey appeared.

He stood taller, prouder than we last saw him.  His coat was no longer loose and dull, it fit against him well and made him seem entirely the same as It, who dwelled before.

He seemed pleased to see we.  That caused worry, but we did not delay.  Our charge was all fury and teeth, and we were on him in no time.  Grey swiped and kicked and did pacify one or two, but the battle was ours.  His go at reaching the big objects was useless, and we soon tasted his blood, which was no longer ours.

As we bit and scratched, several grew startled and stood firm.  A sound filled up the place and disrupted the fight, and a number of the large tree-coloured objects swarmed in.  We scattered.

More like It and It-Grey appeared, all pointing dark sticks.  As they pointed, we began to die - one by one - some tried to hide but the sticks still managed to make them die, despite their distance.

Only I still stood.  The other Its were reaching for Grey and making alarmed noises.  Grey seemed unsure but passive and eventually happy as they took him away from us.

Presumably back to their civilisation.

*****OR, OR, OR, OR, OR, OR*****

When we arrived little was different from before.  Grey's caves still stood in place of our trees.  We waited by the edge of the place, stood for the fight.  Grey appeared.

He stood taller, prouder than we last saw him.  His coat was no longer loose and dull, it fit against him well and made him seem entirely the same as It, who dwelled before.

He seemed pleased to see we.  That caused worry, but we did not delay.  Our charge was all fury and teeth, and we were on him in no time.  Grey swiped and kicked and did pacify one or two, but the battle was ours.  His go at reaching the big objects was useless, and we soon tasted his blood, which was no longer ours.

Then he made a very terrible noise, and folded in on himself.  Then he uncurled and the force knocked we all away from him.  Not deterred for long, we crept back.  But as we did, he began to show more pain alone than we could ever inflict.  Just like before he shook and bent and cried, and then he was like we again.  Cowered on the ground, looking with sorry eyes.  His tail, back.  His coat, back.  No longer a master.

As we continued to close in on the traitor he looked around him; at his caves, at us.  He did not know what to do with his former dominion now.

Life in the Spirit of a Knight of the Cross

A couple of weeks ago, a colleague found a ragged, torn piece of paper stuffed into an empty glass.  The paper was covered top to bottom with what would, at a glance, appear to be a load of idle scribbles, but it quickly became clear that it was a message written in code;



The message was regarded occasionally with slithers of interest and then almost forgotten about.  Until, that is, my brother and I decided we could try and decode it.  Each symbol obviously stood for a letter of the alphabet and the odd word was clearly recognisable as not all of the symbols were very far removed from the letter they were replacing.  So words such as 'cross', 'commands' and 'and' were instantly recognisable.  Those gave us translations of several letters which we could then apply to other words and begin an arduous process of elimination and common sense application, a la Sherlock Holmes in 'The Adventure of the Dancing Men' (you can imagine my glee at this task already).  So, where we already had, for example, the letters for 'cross', we could apply the 'R' symbol in the first word alongside the likelihood that this was a letter, then we had the word 'dear' and as such all the letters in that word which we could again apply to other words, and so forth.  Words were deciphered based on the letters we had already cracked, using those letters we would work out the most likely word with educated guesses and then obtain more letters.  The process inevitably became easier with each deciphered symbol and as we gradually translated paragraph by paragraph, we ultimately found ourselves reading the letter as though we were familiar with the language all along.

A couple of symbols throughout the letter don't seem to correspond and as such render the words they appear in nonsensical.  We put this down to simple error and suspected it a possible reason for the note being discarded.
 

The theme of the letter was the most striking aspect and that also helped us in the translation, as we could assume the next word simply by association.  For example, as the writer talks about 'Knights of The Cross', we filled in gaps in the sentence 'We all know that we live by the commands of ___ and the teachings of _____ the ______' with 'God', 'Jesus' and 'Christ' respectively.  Translation ultimately took about forty-five minutes.  The translated letter reads as follows (the spelling errors are the author's own mistakes);

Life in the Spirit of a Knight of the Cross



Dear fellow knights of the cross, shalom and God bless you all.

I have been asked to speak to you all about the spirit of a knight of the cross.

We all know why we were formed all those centuries ago.

We all know that we live by the commands of God and the teachings of Jesus the Christ.

We all know that there well be times when a knight may look at what we had to do to Sadam, Bin Laden and Gadafi.

We know that we work behind the scenes.

Unfortunately, it reads as an unfinished piece of work and we were all slightly underwhelmed by the abrupt ending, assuming that the author decided to rewrite it and discard the first draft.  Either way, it is quite an eery piece of work, and while some of us think it may well be the idle scribblings of a bored fantasist, we have not put to bed the possibility that these knights of the cross were actually on our premises, conspiring the imminent assassination of a public figure.  If only we had a finished document.

Researching 'knights of the cross' brings me two main findings, the first is a 1900 historic novel by Polish author Henryk Sienkiewicz, and, more intriguingly, an order of knights who wield one of three 'swords of the cross', swords which are supposedly imbued by a nail from the holy cross.

Neither of these findings seem to completely correspond with what the author has written, which means that either there is a secret too big even for the internet, or if I dare apply Occum's Razor, there really was just a lunatic writing religious nonsense on a piece of scrap paper after a few pints.

Either way, my short spell as the bastard child of Sherlock Holmes and Robert Langdon is at an end.