"Mr Potter. Our... new... celebrity"

On the 25th of May 2004 I sat by my postbox for the entire morning. A keen eye and an eager expectation overcame me. It was my 11th birthday, and I was desperately awaiting my Hogwarts letter. Ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock; time ticked on - mocking me. Perhaps my trusty owl had been caught in a particular furious jet stream and had somehow ended up in Diagon Alley. ‘If my Hogwarts letter does not arrive’, I thought to myself ‘then how am I meant to harness my powers to destroy Voldemort’. I seriously considered that the fate of the world and wizardry rested on the counterfeit scar delineated on my forehead. Needless to say I didn’t receive my letter that day, it may have been lost in the post or intercepted by the dark lord to make his conquest easier.  

If you understood all the references in the paragraph above then you, like me, are part of what is known as the Harry Potter Generation. Us kids of the 90s grew up in anticipation of every different Rowling instalment, were lulled to sleep by the animated Stephen Fry and genuinely surprised at how good looking Rupert Grint had become over the space of seven movies.

So what is it about Harry Potter that makes it so successful? A series so tantalising and popular that the author J.K. Rowling is now richer than the Queen. In an article published online by Lee Kitcher in 2005, he commented that “there’s attention to detail that has helped to create such a believable fictional universe”. This could be the case, I won’t try to hide the fact that I shed a tear when I read about Dumbledore’s death (then another when I found out he was gay... another one turned, another conquest complete). Harry Potter recently caused young Devin from Florida to not remove his Harry Potter outfit for 8 months, convinced that Hagrid was on the way - he daily bounced round the garden with a kitchen broom wedged between his legs, screaming out curses on his slightly older, slightly more mature and slightly more sane brother.

Due to the connotations of dark magic that Harry Potter holds, a number of god-fearing Christians have forbidden their children from reading the childhood classics, good on them, why should any child enjoy reading? These beliefs can only be paralleled in there certainty to the working of Scientology.

The Harry Potter series also seems to be creeping it's way into my life ever so subtly, this morning I found myself humming the infamous 'Potter Puppets' song on the bus, as I jumped up and shouted (in a slightly pitchy tone) "Dumbledore", the old woman in front of me nearly had a heart attack. Bless her, she is not part of our kooky generation. Similar to this, in year 8 a bitch (she-who-must-not-be-named) threw some tacky insult at me. My return... "Avada Cadava". 

I don't think this particular blog has much direction, but it's been a while... and with all the recent hype about the latest film I feel a dedication to the world I once lived (and from time-to-time still do) needs a little mention. So this is for you Potter....

A SMALL (LARGE LETTERED) NOTE:

So as I'm sure you all know, because you simply aren't idiots, the student protests are back. With sit-ins all over the country in schools and mainly university's we need to pledge our support. Last night I sat in UCL til 2am, with people that really care about the cause, and they are still there. Continually, join me and many others at the protest on Tuesday 30th November. 

If you hadn't noticed I just used my popularity and media to enforce my political agenda. I've become everything I hate :'(.

The Queertopian Meadows. Part II.

An in-gathering of Queer Royalty from across the land was called post-haste. Present were all the Lords and Ladies of the fair kingdom. Chaired by their Royal Highnesses, King and Queen Queer, furious at their son's betrayal, the conference was one of the most important moments in homo-history, trumped only by Joe McElderry coming out the closet; just like Gaybe, no one could possibly have seen it coming. The decision arose that the Fellowship of the Rod should be established. The queers would assemble their allies...

Since the Battle of Stonewall and the founding of Queertopia, 1967, a civil war (cat-fight, if you will) has ravaged the kingdom and plagued its inhabitants. In this world, there are two types of men; those that dwell in Heaven, on the northern Embankment of the river dyx. These fair creatures are accustomed to spending their free time in flares, singing along to Grease and Lady Gaga whilst harmlessly thrusting their hips naively at one another. Their teeth shine a brilliant white, as though they had brushed them with Cillit Bang. Their hair is perfectly coiffed in a way that Cheryl Cole could barely rival. The other type of man that inhabits this world is of a different calibre. They manifest their twisted lives in the gay underworld, Gaydes. On the Southbank of the river Dyx, in a realm known only as 'Vauxhall'. These despicable people could not be more opposed. The sick world in which the devilish queers inhabit sees lines of fairy dust snorted of the back of toilets seats in exchange for acts of naughtiness in the same cubicle. Heart pounding, terror inducing 'House' music is blared loudly throughout the realm. Choking tobacco fumes fill the air and the rejects of the queers work there. None other is so rejected as the infamous (Doctor) Faust(us). The realm rests not between the hellish hours of Friday afternoon until Sunday night. Their greatest enemy are themselves and those that work in the name of good across the river in Heaven. It has and will always be that way, those that dance on the north bank and those of disgrace on the south.


The monarchy often never dibble-dabbled in the conflicts of the people unless absolutely necessary, but the Queen couldn't think of a time which was more important. The vibrating cock shape staff was gone, and taken none other than her one son. The power of the staff had the ability to make men weak and the knees and fall in love with this rubbery inanimate object. By now the family could assume that the Wicked Gaybe of the West was hiding with his accomplices in the underworld, abusing the stave in unthinkable and purely disgusting ways. But we expected no more, his desperation was controlling him, the longing for the rod was apparent. He was, after all, a virgin.


The journey to G-A-Y heaven wasn't difficult, the family were welcome with open arms and had their own karaoke booth, which often the King and Queen utilised as a recreational activity on the weekend.  God of heaven was the biggest and best gay icon known to history, she was fabulous and good, kind and generous, benevolent in her nature, and the only woman in the northern hemisphere that any queer could trust... Julie Andrews.


"High priestess (after all, she did start out as a nun), I assume you know why I am here?" the King muttered to her as the family were shown to the royal table.
"Indeed, King Josephine, Gaga and Madonna informed me that one of our own has betrayed us...", she seemed concerned, but this was only apparent in her eyes. The rest of her body remained composed.
"You must understand." said the Queen, "It is not Gaybe that is wicked, it is the rod. It makes men powerful, when I last spoke to Gaybe he tried to destroy the fundamental structure of Queertopia. The staff is dangerous, it does things".
"Call upon the Fellowship Of The Rod, go to Onyx and destroy it. You have my approval and army. God speed, may the force of ABBA be with you".
"Amen" whispered the Prince under his breath, "we'll need to take a chance on a super trouper".


They crossed the Thames, the stench of the river was overpowing, typically Princess Lyna began to weep, as she did so she spun a golden ball of yarn so they were able to find their way back.


The Queen was apprehensive, but she used her sexual prowess to bypass the guards at the gates of Vauxhall. The family stood outside, amongst the stumbling, intoxicated queers. For a moment a mutual understanding of their mission shuddered through them all, they held hands, only for a moment though. They weren't that gay. Then they went in, penetration was imminent...

Anarchy and doughnuts.

There has never been a day filled with more woe than the day which contained a cataclysmic event that changed my life forever. This unspeakable happening occurred 7 month previous to this day. It was a day like any other. School seemed vapid and uninteresting. My conversations were bland and floppy. My trip to Sainsbury's that gentle winter's morning was tragic.

I perused the aisles like a duck gliding through a still lake on a wistful day in some sort of semi-exotic land, like Peru, heading straight for the bakery section. I reached the sectioned area, and displayed a casual greeting to my 'friend' (I use this word loosely now) behind the counter, our relationship previous to this day had seemed consanguineous. But no seemingly close relation of mine would hurt me like her.
I ordered my usual... the jam doughnut. I was so unsuspecting that I failed to look at the packaging, I mean, why would I? Why would this day have to so different than any other? I looked up at what only time could reveal to be my greatest foe, and she said "That'll be 14 pence please." She flashed an odd grin which I should have recognised as betrayal.

I hissed under my breath, a barely audible "no".

Never in my seventeen years of existing on a planet amid nuclear threats and terrorists, with climate change and the death of Princess Diana. Never had I expected this. My mind went blank, I didn't know whether the stuttering, heart-rendering emotions I felt were escaping through my mouth or my eyes. Was I crying, or simply in shock? Never had the price been raised so high before, before this day doughnuts were 10p. I couldn't possibly afford the extra prices. What was to become of me? Were was I to gain my tasty afternoon sweet-treat that I so eagerly awaited every day of my pitiful and simple life? I felt as though I was destined to wither away from starvation and I would be found under aisle 8, nothing but a pile of bones, amidst the cleaning products.

I decided the only way to respond to this sickening part of the economic recession was by breaking the glass counter before me and burning the bag in which my doughnut had inhabited. Jumping over the counter and storming the bakery, doing a shit on the bread slicer. It was individual anarchy. I marched through the Sainsbury's aisles petitioning for fair and just fees for my daily snack. But surprisingly, I was kicked out and asked kindly not to return.

The price of doughnuts are still on the rise, and unless we as a people do something about this atrocity the luscious taste of what we have all come to rely upon will dissapear... forever.