Ordinarily, I’d jump to the defense of those who have been wronged by sloppy reporting, but the idea of ‘defamation’ really winds me up.  Okay, Sheryl, so The People, The Mirror and whatever other toilet-roll rag had your face on the front page instead of some actual global issue, but they were only quoting from two regrettably limited perspectives.  Just because they didn’t flash their cash in your face for you to ‘tell your side of the story’ doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t ‘true’.  The report truthfully quoted what Gazza/Gazza’s mum said in an interview.  If they were ill-informed, why don’t you just write to the PCC or get your rightful response.  Hell, pocket some of the red-top’s blood money and do one of their ‘tell-alls’.  But to sue them for defamation, when throughout the programme no-one ever mentions any explicit effects apart from her daughter being caught up in some ‘nasty words at school’ seems a little bit extreme.  She tearfully puts her house on the market to contribute to her ‘fighting fund’, while her lawyer eggs her on!  Am I the only one that thought every single person in this programme stank of self-interest and hypocrisy?

Lembit Opik blames The Sunday Times for him losing the election, his legal adviser/best mate blames the UK legal system for allowing The Sunday Times to have an opinion section, and a completely random ‘local politician’ (who’s clearly not Lembit, because he’s out of a job) starts getting all meta-philosophical about smoke, fires and smokescreens.  The barrister they find to take the case (because his lawyer is apparently all out of ideas) pretty much tells Lembit that you can’t get paid for a spread in Hello! and then expect to remain out of the public eye. Lembit claims he only did the piece in Hello! because The Mirror kept following him (presumably in case he did some impromptu stand-up and we all missed it) and Hello! hasn’t printed anything libellous about him.  Except he’s probably never been featured in Hello! before.  And he probably didn’t see the article before it went to print, so they actually got lucky and managed to escape Lembit’s Super Libel Locator™.  (No-one mentions Sheryl Gascoigne’s appearance on I’m A Celebrity. last year.)

I agree with Sam Wollaston’s review in The Guardian, here: ‘the libel lawyers are given a very easy ride’, but by contrast UK libel law is apparently too soft on the press, especially on hard working UK citizens, of which Lembit is only one of 65 million.  I’ll scoot over the bit where he rides to a consultation meeting on a Segway, continues his battle against unemployment by auditioning to be an after-dinner speaker and constructs two skilfully dull anagrams of his name, making a big deal out of the fact he’s Estonian. (Remember that, it’ll be important in a minute).

The reason libel law is so infuriating is because the burden of proof lies on the defendant to prove that their claims are true.  In a sense, you’re guilty until you can prove yourself innocent.  If this fact had been made clear at the top of the programme, we’d all be thinking Sheryl and Lembit are on their merry way to victory.  The reason I suspect Disembodied VoiceOver didn’t make this point was because in Sheryl’s case, the claims might not have been true but they were true to what was said in the interview.  As for Lembit, well it was an opinion piece by Rod Liddle, The Sunday Times’ answer to Littlejohn.   Although you can argue he shouldn’t be given a platform in the first place, the views are his own and clearly identified as such, and therefore his views only conform to the warped sense of truth that resides in his head alongside all his favourite ‘miserable, seaweed munching‘ Welsh people who presumably live in the Lost City of Atlantis, just underneath Barry Island.

A parade of various legal-eagles flicks through so many printouts of publications I forget which case is which, who is actually a lawyer, who’s getting paid and who’s fault it might be.  Each defendant seems to want the press shut down, and I nearly started a game where every time I heard the word ‘true’, I’d burn one of the books on reliability and narrative I’ve been glued to for the past few months.  So, The Sunday Times is at fault because they imply Lembit has an active love life, and infers that he spends more time on his love life than on his career. Apparently, identifiying Lembit as Estonian is as bad as calling him a Jew – oh, hold on, aren’t you implying that ‘Jew’ is a derogatory term, and therefore we can infer that this legal advisor is anti-Semitic?  No, sorry, it’s more deplorable that all the publications are playing for time with their evidence submission deadlines and a few even ask for extensions to really piss off The Little Guy.  The irony here, pointed out by our Sheryl, is that these are people whose publications are totally reliant on working to deadline, yet the judge accepts their difficult time restraints in multi-tasking.  Scathing.

The programme switches from a deep and fascinating debate on press ethics (‘I don’t know why they do it’) to some sort of vindictive retaliation where the only suitable retribution and vindication is cold hard cash.  Sheryl brings home the bacon because The Other Side’s witnesses never turn up, to which her sly double-barrelled barrister mentions that one witness was probably Gazza, and he’s not the most reliable sort – of course he manages to say this without any implication or possible inferral, using some sort of legal witchcraft.

Sheryl gets £30k and an apology mumbled in open court, while being promised a tiny printed retraction on the same page that Gazza’s face once beamed out from.  But it’s okay, because it probably cost the other side £50k, which apparently ‘isn’t much, but it must’ve hurt their pocket somewhere’.  I’ll take your word on that, Sheryl.  You’re the expert.  She cracks open the champagne, her house is taken off the market and it’s another victory for the ordinary ex-wife of one of the nation’s most famous former footballers.  But surely the BBC could’ve contracted Lembit for another few episodes of Have I Got News For You and taken far more pot-shots at News International without trying to make us feel sorry for him losing his seat in Parliament and claiming it was all Rupert Murdoch’s fault.  I half-expected Lembit to say that his phone was bugged, too.  Oh well, there’s always the next episode in the series – we’ve got Uri Geller, Danielle Lloyd and George Galloway to get through, yet.

Panorama: Smoking and the Bandits
Date: March 7, 2011
Length: 29:00
First broadcast on BBC One, then made available online through BBC iPlayer.

This investigation focusses on the financial aspect of illegal smoking imports, identifying tax evasion and highlighting the national deficit directly affecting ‘you’ (the viewer).  Sam Poling emphatically notes what ‘we’ will pay in rising NHS costs and to HMRC in order to keep both smokers and non-smokers interested.  The variety of cinematic techniques serves to make the broadcast dramatic – jump-cuts, split-screen and atmospheric music are all intermittently employed.

To convey honesty in an interview with an independent expert there are shots which show lighting and camera equipment – breaking down the fourth wall (of the fourth estate!).  The top of the programme accompanies a raid on a tenement flat, however we are never told the consequences or sentencing of those arrested.

The episode tracks counterfeit imported cigarettes, with a subsequent investigation into the toxicity of the goods, using ‘exclusive secret footage’.  The stock footage is of variable quality and therefore of indeterminable age – the reliability of the report becomes less important than the action of the narrative. Poling admits ‘I did not know the importance of these papers then’ – giving rise to a notion of selective revelation by the narrator for a heightened sense of drama.

After arriving back in the Guildford area, I thought I’d get my car cleaned.  Which was great, except I’d forgotten to buy a ticket for the car park.  Luckily, the lovely car wash man bought a ticket for me, leaving it on my windscreen when I returned.  Isn’t that lovely?  In Godalming, however, I’d been out of the car less than two minutes before I had to charm my way out of a parking ticket from a nearby official.

And then began the inevitable cycle of travel vaccinations, downloaded TV shows & movies and late-night cereal.

I’d have plenty of time to prepare for my trip, right? Wrong.  I like to busy myself.

I went to see Hamlet, featuring Jude Law.  Law was funnier than I’d been led to believe, but it seemed like he was channelling a Mr. Tennant a bit much. My favourite part, though? Ophelia. Her under-acting was phenomenal as her subtle insanity shone through as clearly plaguing her. The speech-song-speech patter matched her lovely voice and she never seemed the gimmicky nutter…

The only thing I found myself wondering by the end, aside from how well Tennant’s performance was (and his supporting cast), by comparison, was a criticism of Shakespeare. Just how old is Hamlet supposed to be? Off the top of my head I’d guess 23, but his oft-talked about “adolescence” would peak far before that!

Thanks to my mother owning a Peugeot, we managed to get VIP corporate hospitality tickets to the London Taste Festival for free, which was a pleasant (and pallet-pleasing) day in Regent’s Park.

Among the hostel bookings, bus tickets and rail-timetable perusing, I also had the small matter of a pesky Russian visa to get hold off.  A trip to London, a wad of money lighter, 36 hours later and I was granted a visa.  We’ll gloss over the fact I mistook a ‘free massage parlour’ for an internet café that day, though.

Just in case I’d been missing university a bit too much, I ended up attending the RHUL Black Tie Summer Feast, sitting on the Principal’s table and having a jolly good (free!) evening meal.

And finally, I’d managed to wangle myself a job in telephone fundraising for the RGS.  Run in MacGregorJones’ offices in Southwark, I was officially a ‘friendraiser’ for the RGS Foundation this past week.

Drumming up support (i.e. money) for the 500th Anniversary of the school, I was subjected to a man who lied about his age, minor verbal abuse from a Venerable Archdeacon, an NYC OG whoo thought he was the police and even spoke to a nice lady en France qu’elle n’avait jamais entendu parler de la RGS.  All for £8 an hour, I raised about £1000 for The Foundation.  I was quite pleased with myself, althoough my career as a telephone fundraiser is definitely on hold (pun intended?).

Oh, and I got a 2:1 for this year, which I’m moderately pleased with.  Who knows what I can get if I attend more than sixteen lectures?

Anyway, I’d better go and think about the most important question plaguing my three-and-a-half weeks of travelling around Eastern Europe: cards or TravelScrabble?

You might have noticed I’ve itched for this moment since I got to university, but I reluctantly reset the keycard to my room at Royal Holloway.  If anyone’s living in Tuke F-3A-05 in future, and you happen to stumble across this post, look underneath the desk next to the bed, and you should see a small sticker.  Nick Stylianou 2008-2009.  I like leaving my mark.  I’ll miss that room!

But before I crammed everything into my car and drove home far too hungover and with far little petrol to justifiably make it home, I can’t believe how much I’d achieved in the short months I’d been at university, but still, there were a a few little things to finish off my final term of being a first year.

First of all: the Summer Ball!  I made it right through to 6am, with the help of far too many shots right up until breakfast.  I’m a survivor, me.

Then came my final bit of publicity for The Orbital before the term was out – covering our first ever Shakespeare Festival!  Both InsanityRadio and The Orbital put on a ‘media hub’, culminating in a slideshow of our photos and live reviews, collated and displayed throughout the day, to a soundtrack of interviews from local students who attended the day’s workshops.  (Perks included the generous ‘Media Budget’, which helped subsidise some much needed equipment and I got free tickets to the rather chilly annual Quad Production…)

The Students’ Union Annual General Meeting ticked off another evening, and I found out I got onto the Intensive Shakespeare course and passed the year!  Full breakdown to follow in July, but that’s all the information I needed.

Somehow, while preparing for End Of Term Blowout, I managed to lose my CollegeCard.  I’d already managed to snap it earlier in the week, but it was replaced easily enough.  No big deal, or so I thought.  As it turned out, this was my third lock-out, which meant I had to pay the princely sum of £10 for a temporary card to last 24 hours!  It didn’t stop there, because I also managed to pack the temporary card and couldn’t find that, either.

Off I trotted to celebrate the end of term, with absolutely no way of getting home.  I managed to find someone at The Hub reception, at about twenty to six in the morning, without finishing packing, without sobering up, and without a sweater from sitting in the post-SU after-party in Founder’s Quad.  Whatever would my mother say?

Six hours later and I was back home, and if I’d learned anything it would have to be this: don’t fall asleep on the sofa with Saturday afternoon TV on.  I ended up having a wierdly erotic BBC renovation-themed dream involving RHUL.

Waking up in what I hope was a cold sweat, I found reruns of Dog The Bounty Hunter and all was well again.

But what about now?  Sure, I’m not old, and I don’t hate going out.  That’d be absurd!  Don’t jump to conclusions, now.

I think I’ve realised that I’m now glad of the time to relax at the weekend.  I’ve just woken up.  In the afternoon.  And it feels great.  I’m not worried: when time is stretched out, when you’ve got control of your own [more often than not: expansively free, 21st century student] timetable it all seems so much more manageable.  But you know what?  I’ve got some of those same commitments.

Yes, I take on responsibilities and obligations that I don’t have to.  Sure, people might think I spread myself a bit too thin.  Yes,  I hardly live the party-hard student lifestyle and yes, I don’t have a real job (yet).  But my course, my SURHUL stuff…it all adds up, and my calendar tends to get pretty busy pretty quick.

I don’t think I’m explaining it very well.  Pop psychology?  Go on, then.  Nicholas enjoys the weekend because it allows him to regain a small amount of control (feeding his egomania) that he hypocritically enjoys losing during the week (so as to allow excuses for his underperformance).  His adaptation to university lifestyle results in him noticing and musing on changes in his behaviour and reflections on the world, especially when he feels that his head might explode due to exponentially-increasing stress.  Honey, life ain’t easy: that’s lesson one.

When things get on top of you, it’s nice to know there are still those two days in a week that you can do what you want with.

I think I need to reboot, restart and

This Saturday, I’m going to have to write my assessed essays, prepare for my seminars, freak out about my exams, plan for editing the SU publication next year (including revamps to administration, marketing and publishing the thing), plan the radio show, take my photo for the day and maybe get some more sleep not going to change out of my pyjamas.  I’m going to catch up on TV programmes from my Slingbox.  I’m going to eat ready meals and chocolate.  Not necessarily in that order.  And I won’t be in a bad mood come Sunday.  I promise.

Well, I’m sitting in an empty flat.  In my dressing gown. All seven other residents have gone home for the weekend, and I’m trying to work out whether I should be going home or finding something more exciting to do.  It’s tempting to go for a bit of a Risky Business-esque montage right now.

This is university, after all.  I didn’t expect it to be a place where people watch lots of TV and go home once a week.  Then again, cooking a ready meal and watching EastEnders on BBC iPlayer appears to be the highlight of my Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays.

Oh, for all my complaining, I did go home last week, as I was quite ill with a horrible fever/flu combination akin to meningitis minus the rashes.  Cue delirium, co-codamol and lots of TLC for a week. I’m much better now, my faithful readership should be pleased to know.

Someone please tell me what I should be writing?

Except, of course: my essays [earlier than 12 hours before the deadlines]; The Founder articles; the plan for the InsanityRadio News Show [nice: discretely embedded hyperlink plugging.].

Hooray for Obama; Goodness me, what were Brand and Ross thinking?; Credit crunch/Recession.  I’ve suitably sated my Google rankings for another month.

The easiest way by far to keep up with my life is apparently following me on Twitter – my updates are numerous, self-involved and ego-centric.  Narcissistically, precisely like this blog.

As the Freshers’ hysteria period has worn off, it’s now only permitted for a small minority of well-connected people who are publicising something or have a form of mild amnesia to wander up to other students and ask who they are while giving a brief synopsis of their own life.  As for seminars: it appears you keep your mouth shut if you’ve got a good idea, ’cause otherwise it’ll be poached by that one in the corner who doesn’t speak.  Do I abide by this rule?  Of course not.  Conversely: if you love the sound of your own voice or want to piss people off to make the hour go faster, you blag your heart out aloud.  You wouldn’t want it to get dull, would you?  If I’ve learnt anything so far, it’s that any BBC adaptations are suitable alternatives to reading any texts.  Except they’re a bit difficult to cite in essays.

Two more (assessed – panic!) essays left and that’s the Autumn Term done.  Does anyone else miss “Michaelmas”, “Trinity” and “Lent”?  Nope, just me. Just me, in this flat.  And EastEnders isn’t on.  Back to the Facebook Live Feed, with this blaring at full volume.  Productivity, eh?