Cannabis Factories cracked in Residential Brum.

If you were thinking of trying your hand at a little gardening of the green bud variety, then here’s the warning: now is not a good time. Recent reports have revealed how residential streets in Birmingham are being targeted for police raids after cannabis plants were found growing repeatedly on a “factory” scale. During the past five years, over 500 houses were raided in the suburban areas of the West Midlands, in which entire properties were found to have been devoted to the cultivation of the drug. Plants discovered towering from floor to ceiling in every room were thought to generate an income of between £80,000 and £160,000 per flowering season for a single semi-detached property. The problem has afflicted inner city areas in the past, but now is predominantly located in affluent neighbourhoods; lately our very own Edgbaston being one of the regions involved.
Described as “indoor greenhouses” by police, the chief method of detection is to employ helicopters with infra-red technology to spot residences emitting excessive heat (as a result of the high-powered light bulbs used). Yet this is not a foolproof method. One factory was only discovered after a neighbour noticed unusual amounts of condensation in the upstairs windows and eventually alerted the landlady. Analysis of energy consumption may also provide clues to police, although incidents have shown growers stealing electricity in the attempt to avoid huge bills by wiring themselves up to the mains.
The reason behind such an increase in home grown cannabis is thought to be the perceived risk-reduction in comparison to smuggling the stuff over illegally. But as police step up the mark, this is likely to diminish in the near-future as thousands of landlords are warned to check up on their tenants. Organised crime gangs immigrating illegally from South East Asia have found to be responsible for a large number of cannabis farms in this country, often shockingly accountable for leaving children alone in the properties to act as gardeners. Further explanations for the 5 year rise in UK cannabis farms have blamed the downgrading of the drug to class C in 2004. In light of the recent upgrade last month, politicians now hope stricter penalties will help combat the problem, yet it is questionable whether the constant yo-yoing is likely to instil much confidence in the public. My advice: leave it to the pros.

Tip for tackling the commute

People say that in London we walk faster than anywhere else on the globe. A fast-paced lifestyle coupled with a disastrously unreliable London Transport Network projects an image of London’s rush hour like a film on fast forward. Armed with briefcases and oversized umbrellas, it is easy to envisage a brigade of city workers marching speedily through stations and along platforms, intent on preserving their imperative punctuality. Alas, our stereotypical fantasy is far from the truth. Instead, the reality I frustratingly encounter when stepping off the train is a slow-moving wall of snail-paced pedestrians, sauntering obliviously ahead while I inwardly scream at them for time-wasting. It may be insensitive and pointless to rant about an irritation that stems partly from jealousy of those leisurely idlers around us, who aren’t late, stressed out and panicky. But if you happen to be all three of the above, being faced with futile time delay can seem like the most maddening thing on earth.
Until now, the only solution that came to mind was to launch desperately into the crowd, only to be battered about like an injured moth in a gale. If you can identify with this fruitless effort, the infuriating inefficiency of the method probably sums it up. Just why exactly do groups of people insist on walking in a horizontal line? If ever there was a time to get angry about nothing, rush hour is it. However, there is an answer. Over the past few weeks, careful observation has finally revealed to me the tactical commuter’s biggest secret. See, the trick is to pick out someone decisive and fast in the crowd who’s making better headway than you, and walk directly in their wake. It may sound creepy at first, but attaching yourself to an already made pathway is surprisingly effective at stress-relief AND time saving. You may be thinking that this resembles an advert for stalking, as what I’m essentially advising is to start following a stranger, but if it’s to save you from the reckless free-for-all of a thousand dissecting paths it might just be worth it. Mind you stick close on his tail though, or the throng of snails will do their best to separate you from your selected guide. My only question is: how rife is this phenomenon? Is it merely the enlightened minority or just one of those things nobody ever admits?

Lorca: a surrealist poem

What am I thinking? To publish some one else's poem as this blog entry, instead of an unfounded fierce opinion as usual. Well I suppose I have been caught up by the only module on my literature course that knows how to inspire. This was written by Lorca during a Fascist uprising; four days later he was taken out by the Fascists and shot under an olive tree. Appreciate it because it doesn't make sense.


The darkness of death: a love poem

I want to sleep the way apples dream
not in some rowdy cemetery
I want to sleep the way that dreaming boy
tried to open his heart to the fathomless sea

I don't want to hear how the dead die bloodless
how the mouth in its wasting calls out for water
I don't want to hear about death in the undergrowth
or the poison teeth of the moon before dawn

I want to sleep, for a moment,
a moment, a minute, a millennium
but I want them to know that I have not died
that in my mouth there are golden horses
that I am the youth lover of the West Wind
that I am the over-arching shadow of my tears

hide me from the dawn
I don't want to wake with ants in my mouth
pour on my shoes the weight of water
so that I can evade the scorpion's claw

for I want to sleep the way apples dream
to learn the tears that will cleanse me of clay;
for I want to live with that dark youth
who tried to open his heart to the fathomless sea

Hangover cure breakthrough!

The notoriously elusive hangover cure has been frustratingly sought by generations of alcohol indulgers over the years, to little avail. By all accounts, it doesn't exist, yet by clutching at straws we seem to have acquired common knowledge of numerous supposed solutions. Potential remedies for the less than favourable after-effects of our favourite drug have placed a fry-up at the number one top spot, although this is only effective providing the nausea subsides for long enough for you to eat it! A close second is 'hair of the dog' which is hugely effective, but of course only delays the inevitable, and relies on you having nothing better to do than get drunk on two consecutive days. Then there's painkillers - a total waste of time in my opinion as they impact NOTHING on the dreaded hangover except for a possible psychological effect. Alka-seltzer may be the exception to the rule, but if you're a student like me you may want to save that last resort for later years as your body may cease to be affected by it, ESPECIALLY as by all accounts the severity of hangovers increases with age (an ominous prophecy I agree). Caffeine, water and fruit juice also feature fleetingly as options to cling to desperately, but lets face it, none of these really do the job. Or if they do, the effect is far from instantaneous.
But never fear my binge-drinking friends, the humble mint humbug or Everton mint may be the saviour we've all been waiting for. It may sound unlikely, but the slow melting away of mint into toffee seems to be the perfect soother of headaches and nausea. Such a revelation was my own experience of this chance discovery, I immediately offered this miracle cure to my similarly suffering housemates - and my three subjects concurred, it worked! Sucking just one sweet promises a significant improvement immediately, so it must be much more than a simple sugar fix. Perhaps I am being hasty in offering sweeties as the essential antidote after such minimal tests, but if you've been desperate enough to try drinking a raw egg, this one is definitely worth a try.

The strangeness of strangers: D.I.Y. philosophy on everyday life.

Ever found yourself waving at strangers from the window of a train? There shouldn't be anything weird about it, - surely friendliness is a natural human trait? Yet communicating with somebody you'll never see again presents an oddly resonant conundrum. Poignant in its affectionate simplicity, waving is perhaps a novelty associated with childhood, yet even the exchange of passing comments with unknown adult faces somehow conflicts with my feeling of security. "Lovely weather isn't it?" we might say with predictable irony, or maybe we'll pluck up the courage to ask the time. But of course, adult interaction with strangers is a far different affair, embodying all the sophisticated cynicism that accompanies becoming a grown-up. Even though we won't see these people again, yet still are we restrained by a polite code of conduct - converting innocent interaction into a conservative minimum.
Is it just me or does it make you uneasy to reflect on such trivial instances - wondering that the representation of 'I' in that moment is only a minimalist portrayal? The impression one receives is that strangers' communication is merely a forced expression of civility, so why should I worry how to present myself? Perhaps it's this condensing of personality into a brief role in the life of somebody else that is so disorientating. It sounds selfish, but we must accept that for each of us, 'I' is the centre of the universe. And so in compromising our identity for a second, 'I' is stripped of its usual complexity and contradiction, and we are transformed into a minute stereotype. All 'I' am in that moment is "the girl on the train".
In fact, it sounds strangely liberating, - to be able to cast off our preoccupations of self. Our heightened sense of individuation is only a survival instinct after all, so disposing of these illusions of grandeur with which we indulge ourselves can only be refreshing. In such an instance we achieve objectivity, something that interaction with friends and family does not allow us, becoming only the sum of our polite cliched words. I travel often, and as I became used to the repeated well-mannered remarks of fellow passengers, I felt compelled to say something shocking or irregular in order to break what I perceived as a social taboo. Remaining a mystery however, keeps 'I' the secret sanctity it should be, for strangers for the most part remain strangers.

European Festivals: Plan your Summer now!

Festivals. Basically the funnest time you can have if you do it properly. Music you love (with any luck), at the most massive party of the year. And if you're bored of the threat of being washed away at Glastonbury, sick of Reading's invasion of wasted thirteen-year olds, I advise leaving the country might be the best plan of action. Not that Britain is alone guilty of making the festival of today into a commercialised husk of the celebration it once was, it's just that Europe does one thing that the Brits don't quite achieve: organisation.
At Amsterdam's popular Lowlands Festival last year, I was amazed by the stable paths and walkways lining the vast campsite. Well planned, this one is of course not on the flood plain, so mud was reduced to a minimum, and various trees acted as scenic landmarks in what's usually an abyss of canvas. Impressing especially, was the permanent stance of the toilet block in all it's concrete glory. Instead of hovering over a hole in a rotting plank above a stinking pit, Holland's each individual cubicle flushed convincingly within a structure substantial enough to withstand the usual seeping sewage from the surrounding ground. You can even shower for a small fee - hot water for as long as you want, and because the toilets succeed, there's no danger of worrying you're showering in somebody else's piss dungeon. Or worse.
And because everything's so reassuringly foreign, it's harder to be bothered by the fact you're spending so much money on a predictable surround of adverts and merchandise. As well as beer and take-away food (the essentials), the traditional Dutch offer the additional alternative of fresh milk and breakfast, - a healthy consolation for the inevitably inflated prices. Lowlands festival has even implemented its own currency: the "Munten", which cheekily obscures this problem by detaching us from how much we're spending. And if there wasn't enough to do already, adjoining the festival there is even a theme park, "Walibi World" - no wonder the tickets say "A Campingflight to Lowlands Paradise". It's even got bigger rides than Thorpe Park.
After being considerably impressed by Lowlands, my high hopes for Europe were sustained by recommendations of places to go next, the first being Benicassim Festival near sunny Barcelona, Spain. Affectionately named "Glasto del Sol" for the excess of sunshine, this festival boasts a whole five days of music (largely indie pop and electronica) rivalling the typical 3 days of music we can expect at English festivals. The campsite is open for 8 days in total and culminates with a 24 hour beach party on the final day: a festival and beach holiday rolled into one.
One of the really excellent things about attending more festivals abroad is that you get to hear about places you usually wouldn't think of visiting. Pictured above, Sziget Festival, Budapest is now firmly on my to-do list, after hearing the Lowlands' folk rave about it. Sziget means 'island' in Hungarian, and is aptly named as the entire festival is situated on an island on a river in northern Budapest. Only a brief train or tram ride away from the thriving city centre, you can see the sights and do the festival all in one weekend. It's quite a bit cheaper than the average English festival too, the campsite is open for 7 days surrounding the music weekend, tickets priced at just 120 euros.
And if you think this sounds like drastic action when all you want to do is get drunk in the daytime, just remember there really isn't as much effort involved as there seems. I'm no great planner, just book up some cheap flights while they're still going spare (before our crashing economy forces air tax to soar above the student budget) and you can obtain the ticket at your leisure. Unlike Glastonbury, you don't have to register months in advance, only to have your hopes dashed in a panic of frenzied telephone and internet bashing.
After tickets go on sale, the average European festival takes about 2 months to sell out: not because they're any less popular, but impressively boast colossal capacities. Considering that Reading festival usually sells out in less than an hour, (abundantly to blood-sucking touts) this is a ridiculous imposition of stress we can all do without, especially in what is essentially an endeavour to chill out! If you start spreading the word now, there's a good chance some one who enjoys planning will organise it for you anyway. Go!

Amanda Palmer and Jason Webley: the unsung heroes reviewed.

Who killed Amanda Palmer? The name of her solo album introduced with a bang her striking production at Koko, Camden last night, a captivating set from start to finish. Being dramatically conveyed by human props about the stage owing to an unfortunate broken foot only highlighted the success of her singular dominance, detached from her usual Dresden Dolls counterpart. As she energetically wrought a night of alternative music with a cabaret twist from the centrepiece keyboard, a thoroughly involved audience cheered raucously along despite it being barely 9pm. If it was audience enthusiam that made this performance, Palmer could only thank her close friend and show opener; Jason Webley, who single-handedly induced an entire audience to spin around twelve times with their fingers in the air, as a quick-fix to soberness. This hero accordianist even created his own choir by dividing the audience and encouraging a war of sound between the two halves.
It was while surveying the dizzy spinning rabble from a balcony above that I realised that by taking my glasses off I could achieve the same inebriated effect. If dizziness was a factor of being drunk, (a state I was yet to achieve) then so was blurred vision - a revelation I felt excitedly compelled to communicate with my newly found champions. Such an incentive would be received gladly by the entertainers, we were soon to learn, as buckets inviting public opinion (and tips) circulated Koko's exit. The fact that Webley's home address is even detailed on the back of his album cover urging fans to "send me stuff" highlights the emphasis placed on audience interaction. I was amazed by the sheer entertainment value infused into the concert: the performers' effort seemed to reach beyond their existing fans to capture new ones.
Palmer's final dynamic encore demonstrates her dedication to give it her all to the gig's absolute conclusion. The show's consistent parasol motif transforms ironically into a mocked rendition of Rhianna's "Umbrella" complete with the comedy of arse shaking and stripping off. Finishing with a caricature representing everything her own individual sound is not, we are reminded of the value of this unique act, a satisfaction we'd wonder at longer if it wasn't for growing anticipation of the eternal toilet queue we are about to be faced with. And thus marks the sign of a successful night, - no one present has wanted to miss a minute of it.