I must be one of the few young people who regularly reads a newspaper daily, though I guess this is to be expected seeing as I'm studying for an MA Journalism degree.
Showing posts with label the sun. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the sun. Show all posts
Monday, 4 February 2013
Monday, 2 July 2012
The Writing Rant
Hello blog friends.
I am sad to report some bad news that I've just received via the brilliant medium of electronic mail. I've been unsuccessful in my quest to win this years The Sun Column Idol competition. Naturally I am disappointed that I was rejected but in a field of thousands of writers, it was understandable.
Whilst trawling through my e-mails, I also enjoy surfing the internet.
I opened up Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr and the two forums that I frequent. This time though my little surf opened my eyes to something that I have always considered yet batted away.
I hate people who write in a pretentious way using complex sentence structures and words that have clearly been discovered through extensive use of a thesaurus. When reading what these people write, it is a struggle and it drains from the entertainment factor that should occur through reading.
I enjoy the story and the simplicity behind the story. That is why my two favourite authors are Danny Wallace and Bret Easton Ellis. They tell fantastic stories and through simple, fun language and styles.
The one golden rule that I now have for my writing which I have developed since starting this blog, undertaking the final year of my degree and now undertaking a journalism postgraduate course is that I should keep my writing as simple as possible and to tell the story in a way which the median/mean/mode reader will enjoy.
The story should be told, it shouldn't be diluted and forced.
I've also started my own YouTube channel, why not subscribe?
Whilst trawling through my e-mails, I also enjoy surfing the internet.
I opened up Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr and the two forums that I frequent. This time though my little surf opened my eyes to something that I have always considered yet batted away.
I hate people who write in a pretentious way using complex sentence structures and words that have clearly been discovered through extensive use of a thesaurus. When reading what these people write, it is a struggle and it drains from the entertainment factor that should occur through reading.
I enjoy the story and the simplicity behind the story. That is why my two favourite authors are Danny Wallace and Bret Easton Ellis. They tell fantastic stories and through simple, fun language and styles.
The one golden rule that I now have for my writing which I have developed since starting this blog, undertaking the final year of my degree and now undertaking a journalism postgraduate course is that I should keep my writing as simple as possible and to tell the story in a way which the median/mean/mode reader will enjoy.
The story should be told, it shouldn't be diluted and forced.
Follow me on Twitter @Alex_Harris1991
Sunday, 8 April 2012
The Most Shocking News Story Ever
I'm writing this blog because of something shocking that I saw in The Sun on Friday.
Basically, a ten year old girl has given birth in Colombia. The girl is part of the Wayuu tribe in the country where they are allowed their own sovereignty so it is hard to really say that you can compare this to the Western world.
However, I find it absolutely shocking. At the age of ten children should be playing with toys, not looking after children of their own.
Sure, it is difficult to speculate on the culture of a tribe in South America when I am a mere middle-class male from the suburbs of London but one would assume that the parents in the tribe would responsibly look after their own children.
There is some humour to find in this story, though it's more tragic than a laugh-out-loud moment. The media in Colombia has narrowed down the list of potential fathers - it is either a 15 year old or a 30 year old.
How could you get such an age gap? Surely there is quite a distinct difference between a 15 year old and a 30 year old. Next they'll be speculating whether it's a woman who is the father...
It's just a shocking story that makes you question the world we live in sometimes.
You can read the story in full here: http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/article4242558.ece
Follow me on Twitter @Alex_Harris1991
I've also started my own YouTube channel, why not subscribe?
Basically, a ten year old girl has given birth in Colombia. The girl is part of the Wayuu tribe in the country where they are allowed their own sovereignty so it is hard to really say that you can compare this to the Western world.
However, I find it absolutely shocking. At the age of ten children should be playing with toys, not looking after children of their own.
Sure, it is difficult to speculate on the culture of a tribe in South America when I am a mere middle-class male from the suburbs of London but one would assume that the parents in the tribe would responsibly look after their own children.
There is some humour to find in this story, though it's more tragic than a laugh-out-loud moment. The media in Colombia has narrowed down the list of potential fathers - it is either a 15 year old or a 30 year old.
How could you get such an age gap? Surely there is quite a distinct difference between a 15 year old and a 30 year old. Next they'll be speculating whether it's a woman who is the father...
It's just a shocking story that makes you question the world we live in sometimes.
You can read the story in full here: http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/article4242558.ece
Follow me on Twitter @Alex_Harris1991
I've also started my own YouTube channel, why not subscribe?
Sunday, 4 September 2011
The World of Topshop
It's a typical Saturday morning. I'm sitting in my chair, reading The Sun, watching Soccer AM and eating my breakfast. Multi-tasking at its finest, I think you'll agree. I had my phone on charge up in my bedroom and I went upstairs to go to the loo. I thought I may as well check my phone to see if it has charged. It had. Success. An early morning task completed.
I noticed I had recieved a text. A text inviting me somewhere. It was from my friend Alex. It read, 'Do you want to come to town to meet me becky and rice at like 1 to 1:30 ish??'. As any good friend and reader of the classic Danny Wallace book Yes Man, I decided I only had one answer. Yes.
Now, here's an interesting sub-plot. It's also my parent's anniversary. Their 28th to be precise. My sisters weren't in at this time and weren't coming back all day so my parent's weren't exactly dissapointed I was going out. If you can read between the lines, that is a sentance I never wished to write.
So I had arranged to meet Alex by the roundabout. It's a well known place in Berrylands. It's almost as renowned as the pub. However, he was late. His mum was giving us a lift into Kingston, yet an apparent trip to petrol station was taking longer than expected.
I had been sitting, waiting for an age and then some lady proved that women drivers are in fact rubbish. Of all the parking places, she decided to park right by where I was sitting. The cheek. How dare this lady play mind games with me? How dare she take over my land? I thought I should stay strong and remain where I was. I had to win the battle of minds for men all over the world united against women drivers. I got up and called my friend. He informed me he was nearly here. I had lost the battle of the wills against the lady. She walked off to the park knowing she had won.
Suddenly, a massive group of OAP cyclists flocked through the park and round the roundabout. I had never seen such a thing. This day was starting to become rather odd.
We eventually arrived in Kingston and we met up with Becky. We went to Topman to buy one so Becky could buy a girl friend some socks. Yes, I did say Topman. It's odd how women can get away with wearing mens clothes, yet it's considered strange how men can't wear womens clothes. Although I guess it is odd to see a man wearing female clothes. Anyway, we soon went to Topshop in search of these socks and then it began.
As any man will know, it is a frightening experience entering a female fashion store. Especially one without a male fashion section. I've been to these female fashion stores before with my mum but I always knew that as long as I stuck by her side and I didn't complain about being in the shop then my mum would happily go to shops that I would like to go too.
However, we soon got trapped. Becky had thundered around the shop at a lightening pace. We, though, were stuck. Trapped. Cornered in a small area of the shop surrounded by hundreds of female shoppers and dummies. As far as I could see we were the only men in there. We must have looked creepy and strange. Women will have wondered what we were doing there. They were probably whispering and pointing at us.
Luckily we soon escaped what was fast becoming hell and caught up with Becky and went to the top floor. It was here where the men were. The men who were there for their women. Their female friends, wives, girlfriends, daughters. The whole male spectrum was here and they all looked equally fed up and petrified. One man was carrying his girlfriend's bag, one was following like a depressed sheep and another was merely standing at the side. He looked especially trapped and lost in this world for high street female fashion. I wanted to nod to the man to give him the 'I-feel-your-pain' look but if I had I suspected he would have been even more distressed.
We eventually made it to the male safe haven of HMV. I was looking for Ninja Assassin, but another soon caught my eye. Ninja Cheerleaders. It sounds brilliant. It has ninjas who are cheerleaders and they must compete in a strip competition to gain some much needed cash. It seems like a film that is probably worthy of an Oscar. It only had one downside. It was £12. However, I've found a copy on Play.com for £5 and I plan to buy it soon. If you're lucky I might even give you a detailed review of the film.
I noticed I had recieved a text. A text inviting me somewhere. It was from my friend Alex. It read, 'Do you want to come to town to meet me becky and rice at like 1 to 1:30 ish??'. As any good friend and reader of the classic Danny Wallace book Yes Man, I decided I only had one answer. Yes.
Now, here's an interesting sub-plot. It's also my parent's anniversary. Their 28th to be precise. My sisters weren't in at this time and weren't coming back all day so my parent's weren't exactly dissapointed I was going out. If you can read between the lines, that is a sentance I never wished to write.
So I had arranged to meet Alex by the roundabout. It's a well known place in Berrylands. It's almost as renowned as the pub. However, he was late. His mum was giving us a lift into Kingston, yet an apparent trip to petrol station was taking longer than expected.
I had been sitting, waiting for an age and then some lady proved that women drivers are in fact rubbish. Of all the parking places, she decided to park right by where I was sitting. The cheek. How dare this lady play mind games with me? How dare she take over my land? I thought I should stay strong and remain where I was. I had to win the battle of minds for men all over the world united against women drivers. I got up and called my friend. He informed me he was nearly here. I had lost the battle of the wills against the lady. She walked off to the park knowing she had won.
Suddenly, a massive group of OAP cyclists flocked through the park and round the roundabout. I had never seen such a thing. This day was starting to become rather odd.
We eventually arrived in Kingston and we met up with Becky. We went to Topman to buy one so Becky could buy a girl friend some socks. Yes, I did say Topman. It's odd how women can get away with wearing mens clothes, yet it's considered strange how men can't wear womens clothes. Although I guess it is odd to see a man wearing female clothes. Anyway, we soon went to Topshop in search of these socks and then it began.
As any man will know, it is a frightening experience entering a female fashion store. Especially one without a male fashion section. I've been to these female fashion stores before with my mum but I always knew that as long as I stuck by her side and I didn't complain about being in the shop then my mum would happily go to shops that I would like to go too.
However, we soon got trapped. Becky had thundered around the shop at a lightening pace. We, though, were stuck. Trapped. Cornered in a small area of the shop surrounded by hundreds of female shoppers and dummies. As far as I could see we were the only men in there. We must have looked creepy and strange. Women will have wondered what we were doing there. They were probably whispering and pointing at us.
Luckily we soon escaped what was fast becoming hell and caught up with Becky and went to the top floor. It was here where the men were. The men who were there for their women. Their female friends, wives, girlfriends, daughters. The whole male spectrum was here and they all looked equally fed up and petrified. One man was carrying his girlfriend's bag, one was following like a depressed sheep and another was merely standing at the side. He looked especially trapped and lost in this world for high street female fashion. I wanted to nod to the man to give him the 'I-feel-your-pain' look but if I had I suspected he would have been even more distressed.
We eventually made it to the male safe haven of HMV. I was looking for Ninja Assassin, but another soon caught my eye. Ninja Cheerleaders. It sounds brilliant. It has ninjas who are cheerleaders and they must compete in a strip competition to gain some much needed cash. It seems like a film that is probably worthy of an Oscar. It only had one downside. It was £12. However, I've found a copy on Play.com for £5 and I plan to buy it soon. If you're lucky I might even give you a detailed review of the film.
Thursday, 4 August 2011
The Big Decision
As I’m home from University for the Summer, I am essentially the slave in my household. My parents expect me, in return for the generous allowance they give me and rent payments for my Uni housing, to carry out numerous chores such as washing up.
The main job, however, is to buy vital things from the local cornershop. The most important being the daily newspapers.
As creatures of habit, my parent’s have got into reading The Sun and the Daily Mail. However, a recent conversation unearthed a deeply important, game-chaning issue. Neither of them nor myself actually like the Daily Mail. In my household, this was a groundbreaking revelation.
So, there was a void to fill for our second newspaper. The quality one. The one which told us the news in a less breast-filled, simple english and fun way like The Sun. A year ago, I had got into reading The Independent, however, it’s pricey nature had put me off. Yet, on the first monday in our new world order of not buying the Daily Mail my dad left me a £10 note and wrote ‘Buy whatever paper you like’. He didn’t write that on the £10 note of course, that would be silly.
I thundered to the shop. Which paper would I buy? And there it was. Sitting there proudly on the shelf. The Independent, in all it’s glory offering a critical account of the News International phone hacking story. We all enjoyed the paper. Even my mum, largely thanks to the decent amount of puzzles and crosswords. A bonus, you might say.
However, a week later and everytime I’ve been to the shop The Independent has been sold out. I think you’d like to know I’ve had to buy the Daily Mail in its place.
The main job, however, is to buy vital things from the local cornershop. The most important being the daily newspapers.
As creatures of habit, my parent’s have got into reading The Sun and the Daily Mail. However, a recent conversation unearthed a deeply important, game-chaning issue. Neither of them nor myself actually like the Daily Mail. In my household, this was a groundbreaking revelation.
So, there was a void to fill for our second newspaper. The quality one. The one which told us the news in a less breast-filled, simple english and fun way like The Sun. A year ago, I had got into reading The Independent, however, it’s pricey nature had put me off. Yet, on the first monday in our new world order of not buying the Daily Mail my dad left me a £10 note and wrote ‘Buy whatever paper you like’. He didn’t write that on the £10 note of course, that would be silly.
I thundered to the shop. Which paper would I buy? And there it was. Sitting there proudly on the shelf. The Independent, in all it’s glory offering a critical account of the News International phone hacking story. We all enjoyed the paper. Even my mum, largely thanks to the decent amount of puzzles and crosswords. A bonus, you might say.
However, a week later and everytime I’ve been to the shop The Independent has been sold out. I think you’d like to know I’ve had to buy the Daily Mail in its place.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)