You know, the only thing that he was ever afraid of was heights.

It used to take him a while to realise that he was high up, but when he did, he used to shake like my uncle when he had the old D.T.s.

He'd kind of crane is neck over the edge of the precipice and stare down for what seemed like forever, hypnotized by the distance. Imagining what it would feel like to fall fly plummet soar downwards until he cracks the icy waters below freeze
                                                                                                                                                                                       and then he'd jerk his back, start shaking again and swallow heavily.

It was always pretty clear to us why he was so afraid though. We all knew about what had happened when he was a child, when his father arrived home have had a few too many whiskys. Usually his father would just beat his mother, but when our man grew bigger and stronger he thought he could take on his father. Big mistake. When it started kicking off again as usual, he stepped in and told him to back the fuck off. No such luck. 

'I ain avin youns tellin me wha I can do in me gaff ye littl shithead'
'If youns tooch her agin I'll lay ye out'
'Leaf it soon, this be twix ye Father n I'
'Yir, leaf it boy ere I turf ye outa me home'

And when his father punched his mother that one more time, in open defiance of his defence, our man layed a mighty blow on his father's temple, which proved to be another big mistake. His father's drunken rage was redirected onto him, and he was knocked out by his aging parent.

When he awoke he could see rocks and sea above him. Most bizarre normally sky above sea ground below why's my head hurt red blotches in front of eyes what's happening. And then he realised that he was suspended from the cliff near their home, tied by his feet, most likely to the tree near the edge. All he could see was the sea lapping rocks below.

He hung for who-knows-how-long, feeling the blood fall further into his head, and then felt himself rising up. He was saved! Someone was pulling him upwards, thank God! Soon he would be saved. For a while he thought he would be left to die there.

‘This’l learn ye boy to cross ye Father!’

His father! He had pulled him almost to the top of the cliff, and then let go. Our man fell down, down, then felt his legs dislocate when the rope reached its end. This happened about five times, before his Father grew bored, and lowered him slowly to the shore line and cut the ropes.

There he lay for however long it took for the tide to come in and take him away with it, his legs and wrists bound tightly by the unforgiving rope. But at least he was no longer upside down. The briny water washed over him, stinging the cuts his father had dealt him, and blinding his eyes. But as the tide came in he found himself floating, and when it went out he went with it. And he drifted like that until we found him in our boat. God only knows how he didn’t drown, what with his hands and legs tied together like they were. We pulled him in and sorted him out good, and he stayed with us and got a job in the village where we lived. And you know, the only thing he was ever afraid of was heights. He really wasn’t scared of anything else at all. And who could blame him?

Just discovered that if you google my username, you get my reviews on body jewellery shop, my videos on youtube, THIS BLOG.... i think i'm going to be changing my username because I dont like that very much.

Conjunctivitis is now in both eyes.

My right eye is fucking bloodshot... it had a load of conjunctivitis type stuff in it earlier but now it is BRIGHT RED.... and my right hand is feeling funny, and now my eye is throbbing... am I about to die???!?!

Dear editors,

Without hearing the BNP speak on campus, the ‘No Platform’ policy is only informed by other people’s conceptions – until they actually speak one cannot really know what their points are. I think that banning them before they have the chance to this is a terrible shame and I feel that from this my own personal liberties are at stake. If the Guild Executive feel that they can block elements with ideas that they don’t like, then (among others) all of the Christian societies on campus are at risk. As a Catholic I OBVIOUSLY am both a raging homophobic and an anti-Semite– at least this is what the cliché says at any rate. Now this precedent has been set I feel it is only a matter of time until the Guild Executive decides to try and ban CathSoc and the others, probably without giving us a chance to speak for ourselves and explain exactly what and why we believe what we do.

I am also unclear what John Cox believes would happen if there was a debate involving the BNP – does he believe that Nick Griffin and his cronies would kick off a fight, or that a crowd of neo-Nazis would descend on the campus? No, this whole affair stinks of censorship – and more insultingly – DUMBING DOWN.

Yours sincerely,

Seán Wright

Soon-to-be-driven-underground-Catholic.



I don't know, i just feel like it all seems a little ill-informed. I mean, I'm cut off from the television and I don't read the papers so I had no idea about all this shit that was happening at Oxford with them, like that they brought heavies onto campus. I mean, there are obvious points to make; the heavies are designed to protect THEM not to cause trouble but still. Also I don't think I really made it clear in there that I disagree with their beliefs. I mean, I shouldn't need to really and it should be obvious but urgh. Recently people seem to have had trouble understanding my sarcasm - probably because I spend too much time around Edd! But yeah, they probably won't understand that I'm NOT a homophobe or an anti-semite or a racist etc. To me, it seems perfectly obvious that I'm being sarcastic... and the way I signed it too. Someone will probably take it too seriosuly. I mean I don't ACTUALLY think the Guild is going to implement a No Platform policy for us too, but still, it's the principle, which I do still stick to. I feel a bit bad about John Cox too, because he's such a lovely guy. But he's a big boy I'm sure he won't be offended by it.

I do feel very strongly however that the No Platform policy is dumbing this university down. I mean, I really do feel for the ethnic minorities if they feel threatened, but come on, this is the real world and there are going to be racists and stupid arseholes everywhere, and creating a little bubble here is unwise. The campus should be a safe place but come on, a debate is not a fucking angry mob is it? And until we can best the BNP in a debate we give their views a power that is unwise, and could be easily eradicated by a debate. The only mob that is going to come out of a BNP debate is going to be the anti-BNPers, or possibly the SOCIALISTS.

And that's another thing, why are the Reds allowed a Platform but the facists aren't? Because they're tolerant? Fuck that, they'd supress everything given the chance. Either that or they're a bunch of posers (which I think is quite possible) in berets. Either way, if we're banning the extreme right we should ban the socialists too. In fact, all political parties should be allowed or banned on campus. But even then, it's not like there is a fucking BNPSoc is there?!?!? Can just imagine that at the Squash next year. Here are some potential names for them

NazSoc

Aryan Union

NSDAPSoc

The Facist Future Society

WhiteSoc

Argh, fuck me, I hate politics. Back to Freud.

At Exeter University a minority of people label the majority ‘rahs.’ The criteria for being a rah, according to this minority, is to have a bad attitude and more money than sense, as well as to dress in a certain way (though the second is not necessary but is common, and very interesting). The stereotypical female rah is epitomised by a number of ways in terms of their fashion; they often have bleached blonde, backcombed hair, which is thrown to one side to create an extreme side parting. Big scarves and hooded jumpers (preferably with their public school name or the lacrosse team emblazoned on it) are common, as are the very short denim skirts and the essential ‘Ugg’ boots. It seems that no rah is complete on campus without a pair of these boots. The cheapest of these boots retail at about £140 minimum (after exchange rate).

                It is because these boots are so expensive that they are so desired; it is clearly not for how they look (as they are widely agreed to be hideous) or because of how they feel (as one can get a similar product for a fraction of the cost). The girls that wear these boots are unconsciously saying to others wearing them; ‘Look, I too can afford these boots, please include me in your clique,’ and to those who are not wearing them; ‘Look, I can afford these boots, unlike you. Respect me.’ They are, to these people, a way of dividing the sheep from the goats.

                Being accepted by the ‘rah’ community is important enough for some of the less rich girls that they feel the need to buy a pair of faux-Uggs from Primark. These however have a mythology of their own, as they show that this girl probably has the arrogant attitude but insecure and does not the money to back herself up with.

                Thought the hideousness of the boots is, of course, subjective, it takes a large stretch of the imagination to believe that the only people who think they are ‘UGGly’ are ‘non-rahs’ and those who think they look good are ‘rahs.’ They are not flattering nor are they individual, which implies that there is an ulterior motive for reading them. Some ‘rahs’ may have come from very expensive mansions in the home counties; perhaps the caveman-style Ugg boots, combined with the backcombed hair, are an attempt to look like Raquel Welsh in the primitive environment of University, and to try and fit in with the neanderthallic ‘chavs’ (non-rahs).

                A possible reason for the number of Ugg-sporting rahs in Exeter University is the high concentration of Oxbridge rejects. Their pride wounded, they are embittered by this and feel the need to flex the only muscle they have left; their families’ wealth. The Ugg boots therefore give them a way of saying; ‘We were not intelligent enough to get into Oxbridge, but it’s OK. We are richer, classier and come from better families than the rest of these chavs and riffraff that this university has let in.’

                The Ugg boot, according to them, has the connotation of opulence and luxury, contrasting with the battered converse or standard trainers or pumps that the rest of the university might wear. This is due to the sheepskin lining of the boot, which is ironic because in wearing them they become sheep themselves because everyone else wears them (making them a kind of Berserker, invoking the spirit of an animal by wearing its skin).

                The boots are androgynous. They do not conform to the stereotype of ‘feminine’ clothing, such as a tapered ankle, leg hugging shape or high heel as they are almost completely cylindrical all the way down, and the feet parts are gigantic, and thus do not flatter the ‘feminine’ leg shape or dainty foot size. However they equally are not ‘masculine’ due to the impractical shape and material; they could not be used on a building site for example. Effectively what we have here is a style of shoe that suits no-one, which perhaps would make it less androgynous and more completely genderless. Perhaps this is an intentional fashion choice as it marks these individuals out as superhuman, above such minor details as gender, and part of a super race, the crème de la crème of today’s society. The Future™.

                The biggest irony of this is that they originated in Australia, stereotypically the country of convicts, and this style was populated by the biggest ‘peasants’ of them all; shepherds. They clearly are no longer used for their original purpose – keeping one’s self warm – as they are most often worn with very short skirts in the grim and frostbitten winter. That they have been adopted by the upper and middle classes as a symbol of wealth seems very strange, in particular that they are effectively an unofficial uniform worn by the faux-aristocracy: a ‘suede badge of lineage.’ However, this is flawed as (providing they have the funds) anyone may buy a pair and thus ingratiate themselves with them.

                This said, the majority do not. This is effective in maintaining the social order within the microcosm of the university, highlighting the hierarchy that exists, dividing the upper and upper-middle classes from the lower middle and working. A lot of the people who cannot afford them also do not want them; and thus they segregate themselves into an alternate class themselves. Thus the segregation happens regardless of whether or not both parties are willing. And all this happens from the simple sign of the Ugg Boot. The crucial question is whether it causes the division or is merely a sign of it. Either could be argued; it is very plausible that the divide exists through some Masonic guild of public school students, segregating them from the rest, and that the boot is just a way of marking themselves out, like a big furry hat with horns.

This is a short story I wrote in the Ram a while back. I have proof that it is mine, so steal it at your own risk. If you do, not only will I sue you to high heaven and back, but I will also set Vargrim on you.



  The Ragged Woman
  S. Wright Copyright 2007

     He remembered her most days.

   In the brief moments between turning out the lights and his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness he often thought he could see her lipless face leering at him from a corner in the room. Nonsense, he knew, but it unsettled him. He often found his mind returning to her when he struggled up the hill alone after a night out at the pub. Every cracking noise in the undergrowth widened his eyes and sent twitches of fear through his blood.

                He had no idea how long it had been since he had done it. He tried to remember, and it bothered him that he couldn’t. Clearly it was within the last year. The whole affair hadn’t troubled him at first, but as time passed the memories grew more disturbing. He’d grow out of it, he was sure, the memories would fade into nothingness.

                It was times like this that he remembered her most, times when he spilt his blood; be it through being clumsy when preparing meals or, like now, shaving. The sharp pain above his moustache and the growing bauble of blood made him glance down at the scar on his right palm, from when he had sealed her wherever it was he had sealed her. Whenever he shed a drop of blood he worried. When he had banished her he had sealed it with his blood. Did that mean that spilling blood again would release her? He prayed that it didn’t – he had seen her fury in his dreams and didn’t want to experience it for real.

                The dreams... they were the worst, like horrid visions. He saw her screaming and howling in the mouldy cage he had sent her to, the bars like great barnacles, coated in dried blood. Oh, how she writhed in there, her lank black hair flying around as if underwater, exposing her grotesquely decomposing face. The black dress she had worn was in tatters, the white lace completely shredded. The dreams of her were always the same; he would see her writhing around in there, her soundless screams echoing deafeningly. But then she would realise he could see her, and would turn to him, smiling with malevolence, her sunken eyes shining. She would preen her hair and rip at her dress, exposing her rotting body obscenely.

                ‘Let me out, John,’ she would whisper, and he should oh yes what right had he to keep her there yes, he would open his veins and release her with his blood undo the amateur exorcism he had performed and enter into her embrace yes and they would be –

                                                        -          NO!

And he would wake in another part of the house, covered in sweat with a knife in his hand, poised to slice his palm open again. What kind of exorcism had he performed anyway? Had he really banished her? True, she no longer lingered in the room of that house, silently watching its inhabitants like some bloated, immortal serpent, but often he reckoned that all he had done was send her out of there and into his own mind.

He was no priest and had done no research. He’d been miles away from the house at the time, making it a kind of ‘remote exorcism.’ Was it any wonder it didn’t go according to plan? He remembered kneeling on his bed, topless, with a small wooden set of prayer beads and knife in his left hand, his right hand outstretched to the crucifix before him. He remembered closing his eyes and praying to God for strength. He could feel her boiling rage as he blessed the knife with holy water, her incomprehensible hatred when it kissed his skin. Her howls echoed in his head as had seen her hurtling down, across an infinite divide into what he guessed was probably hell.

And afterwards he had experienced a feeling of relief; he could walk in the house relaxed and no longer worry for its precious inhabitants. But then the uneasiness returned.

Sighing, he washed the cut and stuck a piece of tissue to it. Every time it happened he got worried, every time, but it had never proved to be anything.

When MANOWAR line up in height order, they have the power to make wimps and posers leave the hall, and to destroy n00bs and followers of False Metal.

If you cause trouble at a MANOWAR concert, such as the MAGIC CIRCLE FESTIVAL, you are not ejected. Instead, the security take you before the four thrones of MANOWAR, where Joey DeMaio, shedding a single tear of steel asks you, 'Why have you done this thing?'

HAIL TO ENGLAND imbues the listener with so much power of True Metal, that the only thing more effective is seeing them play the whole thing in its entirety.

MANOWAR will one day return to England. Turn to book XXI of your copies of Le Morte D'Arthur by Thomas Malory, pp689 line 25: 'Rex Quondam Rexque Futurus.' It is a little known fact that the Immortal Warrior is in fact King Arthur; and in England's hour of need MANOWAR will combine their powers and become the Immortal Warrior and return with the power of True Metal.

MANOWAR are never wrong; if they were to say that the sky was green, it would become green. MANOWAR are the epitome of Truth and thus are incapable of lying, and so any statement they make - however ridiculous - is by definition correct.

If the entire works of MANOWAR were to be collected in one place, the owner will be granted the power of True Metal and can never fail at any endeavour they undertake.

More to follow, but right now it's back to Freud.