About Me

I'm a Geordie living in Birmingham, and, after a year and a half, people still laugh at the way I say film.

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

A word I hate


Unrequited. Such an eloquent word for such a horrible, horrible thing. Not so much on its own, but double team it with love and you've got a doozy.

Unrequited love can be hard to avoid. Feelings are feelings at the end of the day, and if you're not true to your heart then who are you kidding? But thats the thing. It can be hard to tell someone, and because you're worried about the consequences you keep it bottled up. And because you keep it bottled up you keep thinking about it. And because you keep thinking about it, it consumes your days. What i'm saying is unrequited love can destroy someone. Not just the person feeling it, but the person on the receiving end. Think about it; You tell someone how you feel, and they don't reciprocate the feeling. You go off into your own little world of despair, but think about them. They now don't know how to act around you. Are they overly nice to try and gloss over an embarrassing (for both of you) event in the friendship/short amount of time you've known them-ship? Do they try and keep their distance until the event has faded into memory? Whatever happens, the outcome is never good.

I'm not the first person to talk about this. It's been in music since forever, just listen to Damien Rice. Fantastic music. In a way, I think rejection and heartache can help a career. I mean, who wants to listen to a happy comedian? Heartache, difficult times, trials and tribulations, they're all things that can be expressed vividly and touchingly through words and sounds, so it's not all bad. At least if you get your heart broken, you might be able to make somebody laugh by telling them about it.

It might be someone you work with. It might be someone you go to university with. You might just see them in passing. You might see them all of the time. But at the end of the day, I think the best thing to do might be to leave it alone. Just leave it alone. I know it's easier said than done, but I think I can put forward a valid argument. For starters, if they've never given a sign that they feel the same way as you do, it's probably safe to assume that they don't hear the same Burt Bacharach song as you every time they see you. Next reason: They might be in a really good place. They might be seeing someone, and if you're a good friend, vomiting your feelings all over them might make things awkward for them and their partner, and might make the partner feel weird around you. Thirdly, and I think this might be a big one, is if they're an ex, let it go. There's a reason they're ex-boy/girlfriend and not boy/girlfriend. And that reason is probably still there, and though it might not be obvious, give it a week and those reasons will be knocking at your back door baying for blood. If your situation is three, take solace in the lyrics of Dallas Green:

'When you cry a piece of my heart dies, Knowing that I may have been the cause'.

Do you want to cause more tears?

Now, I'm probably a huge hypocrite because I never listen to anything I say, so if I get slapped with a restraining order in the next few days, know it's because I probably didn't read this. Hopefully though, I've helped someone who's read this, and maybe even annoyed someone by it so much that they thought 'Fuck Mathew Frost, what does he know?', went and told someone how they felt, and it worked out for them. That'd be nice, if it happens, get in touch. Thats all for now, but as a closer, I think Charlie Brown said it all about unrequited love:

'Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love'

Well said, Charlie Brown, well said

Stay safe



Wednesday, 10 March 2010

A retraction

To Rosie Stacey,

I'm sorry. You are not a massive dickhead as previously stated in this blog.

Please forgive me

Stay safe

Long time no blog

Evening all. I know it's been a while, and I honestly can't give you a reason, so lets all forgive and forget and let this be a tiny black spot on our otherwise spotless history as friends. Got it? Good.

Well welcome back, I'd like to say I've been busy but I haven't. There has been the small matter of biography writing though. Lets chat about that. So for life writing at uni, we had to choose an author and write their biography, focusing on a point in their life where it could have split in two different directions. A fork if you will. A point where their life 'forked up'. Yeah. I went there. So I chose to write about little know (yet should be MAHOOSIVELY known) author, Max Brooks. Brooks writes books (ha ha it rhymes!) about zombies.

Now, I'm a zombie nut, and dedication goes out to Lewis Maull right about now. I've read his books and he has crafted an amazing alternate reality where the zombie apocalypse is all too real. his 'World War Z', a collection of interviews with survivors of 'Z day' is a beautifully crafted and scarily realistic piece of literature, which, with enough reading into it, could be seen as an attack on the incompetence of todays militaries all over the world. His 'Zombie Survival Guide' begins as a laugh, but, halfway through the book, you begin to think it may be a good time to buy a machette and lots of tinned food. With this in mind I thought it would be great to get into his mind and look at his inspirations, research etc. Since his books are quite recent I thought he would be easy to get a hold of.

But he wasn't.

No information on his books or website, except this nugget: 'Max Brooks currently lives in New York but is ready to move to a safer and more defensible location'. Funny ha ha ha ha ha but how does that help me!? Next I try contacting his publisher to obtain an interview. Funny story. I knew they wouldn't just let a student from across the country just ring him up and chat about zombies and the like. So I turned to lecturer and fountain of wisdom Ian Marchant, to see how he would approach the situation. 'Lie'. Lie. It sounded like a great idea. 'So you reckon I should email them saying I'm a new magazine focusing on alternative and cult literature and we would like to write a piece on Mr. Brooks for our first issue?' 'Yeah, that sounds good Mathew'. So thats what I did. And I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I decided the time had come to find a new author, because by the looks of things, lying doesn't work. So I racked my brains. Tommy Cooper? Didn't write books. The Beatles? Didn't write books.

Stephen Fry? Has written some books AND is a hugely interesting human being. A new subject had been found. That afternoon I bought his excruciatingly honest autobiography, 'Moab Is My Washpot' (a fantastic read, and only £3 if you get to HMV quick), and began reading it on my bus home. I got sucked into the world of public school and the country side, and soaked up every page. Thing is, I still hadn't started writing. With 10 days to go, I went back to the motherland (Newcastle, upon Tyne, not under Lyme) to clear my head, and maybe get some work done on the train. Oh but I forgot...

I WAS GOING HOME TO SEE EUROPE!

Thats right! Europe of 'The Final Countdown' fame! What a gig. I can honestly say it was one of the best gigs I've ever been to. They sounded so good, played old and new hits, and generally pleased the crowd. If you get a chance, go see them.

O.K, so I spent the weekend in a haze of drunken debauchery, and started writing a draft to send to Ian that night. I managed 400 words. Shit shit shit. Feedback for the 400 words was good, and so, 7 days to go, I started to write. In my mind. I started to write in my mind. Nothing went down on paper, or keyboard. Skip to Sunday night. 6 P.M. The FA cup ties had finished. No more distractions, it was work time. Except my house mates were ALL IN. Now, this isn't normally a problem, if you can work in your bedroom. But I can't. I always find some form of distraction. I can work better in say, a front room with a bit of company and atmosphere. I was in the front room, writing, when the movie Wrong Turn began, bringing with it petty jokey arguments between my house mates which really get to you when you're stressed. I persevered, and by 11 PM I had something written, something I felt confident about, was pleased with, and had received good reviews from my peers. Done. Dusted. I was still stressing about it though. I always leave things to the last minute. I'd just rush written an essay which I genuinely had a huge interest in. It could have been better.

I arrived at uni a little late the next day, my tail between my legs. And thats when the bombshell was dropped by the aforementioned fountain of wisdom (and porky pies), Ian Marchant: 'Yeah, it was a false deadline to make sure you got a draft to me'.
I didn't know how to feel! Angry, grrrrrrrr, I rushed that for no reason! But elated, YEEEEEEEEEES! Not due until the 5th of May! Get in!

So I write to you now a changed man, not leaving anything until the last minute any more.

That said no presents have been purchased for Mothers Day yet. Ah I've got like, 3 days? I'll be fine. Yeah, I'll be fine.

This isn't leaving it until the last minute.

Stay safe

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