No sleep 'til deadline

So it looks like I'm continuing the trend of posting a string of completely unrelated articles for the sole reason that I like the thought of having a semi-regularly updated blog. If you can call one update per month semi-regular, that is.

This is basically a diary of the night before every academic deadline I've faced over the past year, reformatted to make it look like I'm giving advice. I'm not. It's useless but hopefully mildly entertaining.

Published in The Student, February 24th 2009:

The following is not recommended. The quality of your work, your mental wellbeing and your personal hygiene will suffer: but sometimes these are the things you must sacrifice if you want to get that assignment in on time.

1200hrs: GET UP! GET UP! GET UP! Kiss your pillow goodbye, you’re not going to see it until well into tomorrow. Slap yourself into consciousness, hastily scrub the most visible and most odorous areas of your person and pull on the first thing you find in your laundry basket – after 24 consecutive hours of panic and mental anguish, you will look and possibly smell like death, so don’t kid yourself. Today you are the Jack Bauer of Medieval poetry / property law / rabbit medicine and your equipment is as follows:

- One massive, sturdy bag: The sheer volume of information you’re about to compact in your skull is terrifying and you’ll need to be able to haul a ridiculous number of books from A to B.

- One memory stick: Nothing equals the unbridled dread of losing an entire day’s work half an hour before the deadline. The more paranoid can also periodically email drafts to themselves with increasingly hysterical subject lines that will inevitably become simply ‘aarrgh’.

- Enough money for supplies: what you lose in sleep, you must gain in junk food and repulsive energy drinks.

- Your toothbrush: With the amount of sugar and caffeine you’ll be cramming into your face, your mouth will eventually feel as if you’ve been licking a dusty cat.

1300hrs: As you clamber through the library turnstiles, you should feel that familiar gut-punch of impending doom. Embrace it - this distilled fear may be the only motivation available to you. So, first things first, find your favourite corner of the library and entrench yourself in it. The slightly space-age new fifth floor is invariably mobbed near submission deadlines, so don’t be afraid to employ your skills of intimidation. Sure, it may seem strange to fix someone with a feral glare and growl until they move - but have you ever actually tried it?

Territory gained, blitz the catalogue computers with every keyword you can think of. All the genuinely useful books will be taken, so now is the time for frantically scanning the indexes of books that have been in the library since Appleton was a person and not just an architectural wart. You can compensate for a lack of knowledge and respectable sources with the illusion of enthusiasm and ‘innovative’ use of texts that on the surface seem entirely irrelevant to your subject area but are actually an essential part of ‘placing the issue in a broader social and interdisciplinary context’. Max out your loan limit, bury yourself in a fort of books and skim and cite continuously for a few hours, because there’s no time to read.

1500hrs: By now you may be wishing you had some of those study drugs everyone’s whispering about. I’m not going to condone their use because people tend to throw around phrases like ‘Class B’, ‘unconfirmed side effects’ and ‘the law’. If you choose to take the medicated route, that’s your call but the rest of this guide is based on doing things the hard way. Push on.

1900hrs: Alright, stop. Your brain is beginning to take on the consistency of a fine foie gras and your eyes appear to be looking at one another. It’s time to eat. If you leave the library now you might be tempted to make a break for it and set up camp in the Pentland hills, so it’s probably best to stick to the café. As you stare mournfully at your baked potato, screeches of ‘cheese and ham panini!’ tear out of the kitchen and shudder through your brain. Block it all out. Go to your happy place. There you will find a rough, half-baked plan for your assignment. Don’t let it escape. Race back upstairs and batter out an introduction and a sentences for each of the digestible chunks you have broken it into. Now sit back and make a smug noise.

2000hrs: Have a quick wander round the main study areas and see if you can find a friend in the same horrific situation. As the saying goes, a problem shared is a problem halved – this couldn’t be less relevant here (unless your friend wants to write half your essay for you) but it’s nonetheless quite gratifying to see someone else stuck on the same, rapidly sinking boat. It’s never a bad thing to have somebody to keep pace with, so after a brief duet of bitching and moaning, get your arse back in gear.

2200hrs: Time to tear yourself away from the library. Head to Nicolson Street and stock up on anything caffeinated. Aim for enormous cans and bottles emblazoned with explosions, predators and names like Tropical Painforest, Eviscerator (Strawberry Flavour) and RRAAMMPAAAGE. Solids are probably also a good idea. Go for sweets, lots of sweets. And nuts. And raisins. Basically anything that will act both as a source of false, fleeting energy and as something to fidget with rather than any real sustenance. A wise man once said to me ‘Leave that sugar python alone, you will never tame it’. This is generally good advice but tonight he can just shut his wise face; you need all the sugar you can get, so seize that sugar python with both hands and ride it. This experience is all about the suspension of good sense in exchange for results, so expect to find yourself eating like a seven-year-old locked in a Woolworths Pick ‘n’ Mix section (RIP).

2300hrs: This is the turning point in your coursework ordeal. Head to the north side of George Square, swipe your matric card at the Hugh Robson Building and descend into the depths of The Bunker. Down here, time does not exist. Natural light? Fresh air? Not a chance. Round the clock access, strip lights and endless rows of PCs we can do. Welcome to your new home.

0100hrs: You can almost feel an air of mounting despair in the room, as those with a fighting chance at sleeping tonight gradually filter out. It’s not just its status as a windowless, subterranean hell that gives The Bunker its name, it’s also the fact that the atmosphere is reminiscent of refugee camps in those futuristic war films, in which a mother wails over her ailing child and a headcase with an accordion heralds the apocalypse. One thing prevails: you are all in it together.

0300hrs: Pee break. That’s right, even your toilet visits are scheduled. Male students have the upper hand here, since it’s harder to fall asleep at a urinal than it is to nuzzle into the comfort of a cold, dark cubicle. Alright, cease peeing now. Go back downstairs and aim for halfway by 4am.

0600hrs: There is no escaping the fact that it’s now officially tomorrow. This thought alone should be enough to put the fear of God into you but if not, run upstairs to find the central campus basking in sunlight, while the living start their days. The conviction that you will one day rejoin them should give you a lift.

0700hrs: Pee break number two (it turns out caffeine really is a diuretic). The Bunker’s toilets look like a set from Saw and you are now hopelessly tweaked, so don’t be surprised if, when operating the hand-drier, you find its unholy roar somewhat unsettling. Remember that toothbrush? Use it.

0800hrs: ‘Who are these people and why do they look so healthy?’ The Bunker is now filling up with people in tracksuit bottoms, fresh from the gym and loaded with colour-coded notes and cereal bars. Resist the urge to spit at them, let their conventional sleeping habits and high marks fill you with a jealous rage, and then channel it all back into your work. With your body now building up a resistance to caffeine, this weapons-grade spite will be the fuel for your sprint finish.

1100hrs: Now would be a good time to check that word count. More often than not you’ll find that you’ve spent the past two or three hours in a state of autopilot and that you’re now surprisingly close to your limit. Who knows what you might have written? You were thinking about time travel and feverishly eating pistachio nuts. The best policy here is to assume it’s eloquent, perceptive and methodologically sound, just don’t get caught up in proof reading. You have one hour to conclude, hit the print button and sprint to wherever your submission box may be.

1200hrs: Congratulations, you made it. You now resemble an extra out of Dawn of the Dead, so expect to find yourself staggering around campus, freaking people out with your slack jaw and vacant gaze. With classes now a ridiculously unrealistic option, you have the choice of either wandering homewards and slipping into comatose oblivion for a day, or gathering your coursemates for some celebratory drinks. A word of warning, though: sleep deprivation and irresponsible drinking make for a very, very strange kind of inebriation. You may want to wear a helmet.

In the loop and up yer hoop

Pointless post:

Today I found out that next week I'll be interviewing The Thick of It creator, Armando Iannucci, and probably the show's stars, Peter Capaldi and Chris Addison, at the UK premiere of their new film In the Loop. This news made me dribble gleefully for half an hour or so. Then I realised that the prospect of simultaneously interviewing three people who are infinitely smarter, funnier and generally better than I am is really quite scary, and I immediately switched to dribbling anxiously.

I'll be holding off on publishing the interview until closer to the film's general release date, so anyone not reading this blog right now will have to wait until late March/April to not read it then. 

Enjoy that.

UPDATE 10/02/2009: 

I saw the film today. I'm not going to say anything about it other than this - it's very, very good. 

Like that film Empire Records, except cheesier

Ha! So it turns out that theft + insurance = free laptop upgrade. Anyway, here's a preachy feature about how the HMV franchise is now reaching scary proportions - but also about the fact that Edinburgh still has a couple of excellent indie record shops run by some very smart and enthusiastic people.

Printed in The Student, January 27th 2009 (notice the reintroduction of the incredibly authoritative definitive article in the paper's title):

Waking up last Friday, Britain was faced with what was possibly the most predictable piece of news to hit headlines and screens in years: the country is officially in a recession. While relatively few of us are able to pin down its exact causes, we’re all familiar with the symptoms – shares plummet, unemployment figures skyrocket and the high street descends into a chaotic scramble for scarce profit. With livelihoods in the balance, the personal cost is great but there’s something else at stake here.

As one business falls, another, larger business almost invariably swoops in to fill the gap; opportunistic expansion strategies may prove a smart choice in today’s climate but when they’re employed in the music retail industry, the element of diversity, essential in a market so tied up in endlessly varying tastes, comes under threat. To remedy this is the challenge faced by every independent record shop in the country today.

Over the past 18 months, what appear to be the beginnings of a music retail monopoly have taken shape. In 2007, long before the term ‘credit crunch’ had so tediously saturated the public vocabulary, it emerged that all 81 branches of Fopp would be closing their doors due financial difficulties. What was unusual for a company of its size was that, whether it was down to a genuine concern for indie credentials or nothing more than clever marketing, the chain that took root in a former Virgin Megastores employee’s Glasgow market stall had retained an air of personality; as such, when Fopp went under, the public reacted with the kind of loyal lamentation usually reserved for a one-off local retailer.

In stepped entertainment goliath HMV Group, reopening a core of eight branches with a takeover bid that was heralded as the crucial factor in preserving Fopp’s celebrated ‘identity and 25-year-history’.

Kevin Buckle, owner of what is probably Edinburgh’s most recognisable independent shop, Avalanche Records, has a slightly less sentimental view of the takeover. ‘HMV are just buying up the opposition where it suits them’, he says, and looking at the company’s recent record, it certainly seems that way. In the past decade, HMV Group has swallowed Waterstones, Fopp, and the bookseller Ottakar’s - and it’s showing no signs of slowing down.

Earlier this month, Zavvi, having gone into administration on Christmas Eve, sold 14 branches to HMV. In this case, nobody would bemoan the loss of indie integrity. The 269 jobs saved are not to be sniffed at, but with yet another rival so irreparably weakened, the path looks clear for HMV to expand further still. Aside from running almost 700 stores across the world, the HMV Group empire extends into online shopping, MP3 downloads, an entertainment-based social networking site and, as of this month, ticket sales and live venues (London’s iconic Hammersmith Apollo will soon be known as the HMV Apollo, while joint ownership of Edinburgh’s Picture House has also been secured).

So when the market looks set to become so completely dominated by a franchise that not only dedicates a meagre two shelving units to ‘specialist music’ but then fills that section with such cutting-edge artists as Katie Melua, Cliff Richard and Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown, an alternative is much needed. In Edinburgh at least, that alternative is alive and well.

At the centre of it all, bookending Cockburn Street and facing off across the rail tracks from two HMVs, a Fopp and a desolate Princes Street unit formerly occupied by Zavvi, are the celebrated Avalanche and vinyl experts Underground Solush’n. According to the latter, they’re the last two independents in the city primarily selling new music, currently existing as something of a double act; as far as contemporary music goes, what one doesn’t stock, the other usually will.

While Avalanche has built its reputation on an eclectic yet discerning range of largely guitar-driven music, Underground Solush’n specialises in hiphop, jazz, funk and virtually anything electronic – but there’s a common sentiment on which the two appear to be built.

I ask Underground Solush’n’s Gavin Sutherland what the independent record shop stands for today. He replies with vehemence, speaking of a duty “To promote music outside of the mainstream - music which is produced and distributed by people with an all consuming passion for the music over and above profit; to be enjoyed by people who prefer not to be told who they should be listening to this week, or which format they should be listening to it on.”

A few minutes’ walk up the hill, it’s a similar story. Avalanche’s Kevin Buckle tells me about his shop’s ethos, a sort of code of honour:

“We try to treat people right. We assume the best in people until we are proved wrong. We won’t take any shit if we are mucked about. We try and give customers what they want rather than con them into buying something just because we can buy it cheaply. We know our customers have a choice and aren’t stupid so we always try to offer good value.”

With the high street currently witnessing one of the most competitive battles for survival in recent memory, both of these attitudes display a refreshing sense of steadfast integrity that some might expect to be the inevitable first casualty of a recession. Such sacrifices are already in full swing elsewhere. Anyone scouring Fopp’s shelves during last month's frenetic Christmas shopping season may have noticed a few departures from the chain’s indie image of old; an entire display dedicated to TV-advertised compilations in one shop, the sudden appearance of Xbox games in another, while newly released music received little more shop space than did accessories for that supposed antithesis of its independent record shop roots, the MP3 player.

It all points to an increasing pressure to maximise profit that has seen the typical philosophy of the discerning specialist retailer (i.e. defining itself by what it doesn’t stock every bit as much as what it does choose to sell) confined exclusively to shops like the Cockburn Street duo. Meanwhile each of the two has retained its own unique speciality: at Underground Solush’n, it’s an unapologetic loyalty to vinyl that, although it’s balanced out with the obligatory selection of CDs and their associated DJ equipment, Sutherland says is fuelled by the fact that “many people, both young and old, still prefer the feel, the look, and above all the warmth of sound which can only be got from good old fashioned wax”; over in Avalanche, it’s the promotion of Scottish, local and upcoming bands that Buckle says will be reflected in a forthcoming stage area, to be fitted next month in order to make in-store performances possible.

While neither appears to be the most obviously profitable choice, this commitment to the niches neglected by high street chains ensures a level of choice and variety that is vital to any city that prides itself on culture. “Artistic culture”, says Sutherland, “is a hugely important aspect of society, and shops like ours - whether they sell music, books, clothes, art - represent a part of the city’s heart and soul.”

However, considering the potentially smothering presence of such an enormous franchise as HMV Group, no one independent will be able to guarantee this diversity alone. While it would be unrealistic to expect independent businesses not to compete among themselves, both Buckle and Sutherland agree that some degree of cooperation is essential.

“We frequently refer our customers to other outlets nearby who might cover areas of music we don’t - we might even shop there ourselves”, says Sutherland. “This goes for all types of independent shops which encourage the creative output of free thinking individuals, not greed driven corporations.”

Buckle, meanwhile, tells me that “There was a time when the ‘big’ indies acted at the expense of the small indies. As Avalanche got bigger we tried not to do that and now I would say that is true of most of the shops most of the time.”

It’s this sort of collaborative sentiment that last summer prompted Buckle to form The Coalition, a UK-wide collective of 26 likeminded independent record shops (including London’s legendary Rough Trade) set up in order to keep them not only afloat but reinforced with a strength in numbers that will hopefully allow them to provide a truly attractive alternative to online and national-level giants. With a mission statement introduced by a quote from High Fidelity, Nick Hornby’s tale of the archetypal indie record shop, The Coalition promises exclusive bonus releases, featured independent labels and a healthy support for the preservation of vinyl.

It’s early days yet but if Buckle’s efforts pay off, The Coalition could play an important part in supporting these shops through some of the most challenging times they’re likely to face. He remains confident that Avalanche and its contemporaries will prevail, insisting that “People are spending less money but some will always need their fix of music and be prepared to pay for it”. Underground Solush’n is putting on a similarly brave face: “We are fairly confident in the future of the record shop, despite what naysayers may say, but ultimately nobody can predict what’s going to happen.”


Photo credit: Bill McIntyre