T is for Truth
It's hard to tell the truth. From when you are a child and your father wants to know why there are pieces of a broken vase all over the carpet up to the point when you have to respond to an accusation of cheating at work, at play or on your partner, the easier option always seems to choose lies. And don't lie to yourself as you read this either: you've told a lie and you've been caught. You've faced this choice as well and you've picked the wrong option.

You've thought to yourself that perhaps you won't get caught (or get caught this time), that it was easier on the other person, or easier on yourself in those particular circumstances, if you told a little white lie. You've weighed up the pros and cons and thrown them aside to serve your own needs best. We have all done it and, on the balance of probability, most of us will do it again.

It's hard to tell the truth. It's hard to prepare yourself for whatever castigation you have deserved. It's not hard to regret what you've done, it's not hard to mean it when you say sorry, it's not hard to promise never to behave in such a way again. It's hard to put yourself into that position, to find that the entire affair has unravelled in front of both you and someone whose feelings and opinion you respect.

It's hard to see the look in their eyes when you realise that you have disappointed them, that their faith in you has been fractured, that you are not the person they thought you were. It's hard to admit to yourself that the carefully constructed network of mistruths, untruths, faintly-veiled ambiguities and omissions has all come crushing down and is pointing at you as its originator. And it's your fault.

It's hard to tell the truth. It's hard to accept that your judgement was accidentally or deliberately skewed to the point where the only way out was to pervert, invent, deny or rationalise away your decisions by creating a fiction, which then has to be maintained and nurtured by further fictions.

It's hard to realise that at any point the foundations of your story or of the life you are living are made of tissue and can be destroyed in an instant; that you are acting out an invention of your own making, a self-perpetuating other existence whereby every motivation, every moment must be explainable, consistent with the other inventions you have brought to others.

It's hard to face the truth. It's hard to accept something you don't want to hear, something that can strike at you with the speed of pain. It's hard to listen to the words forming, the concepts being slowly coloured in, the details added to the rough draft, eventually coagulating to shape a reality you never knew could exist.

The act you thought the other person could never ever commit, their underlying principles, their character, their intimations, all the things that had been said over shared coffees, between lovemaking, as jokes about others, all these were just words, but they've now harshly changed your mind into reverse gear.

It's hard to face the truth. It's hard to regard all your memories and feelings as so much evidence, to be sifted through with the precision of the detective, with the detachment of the coroner, with the impartiality of the judge. A knowing glance becomes a look of betrayal, every moment of unaccounted time becomes a conviction and, looking back over every act becomes a form of lie in itself, separate from the committal of the principal lie.

It's hard to wonder what else was left unsaid, who else has been told before you, when else they have provided explanations that might possibly be subjected to this new view, this fresh and yet rancid perspective. Every statement becomes a falsehood, and every tint and hue of the spectrum becomes a shade of grey.

It's hard to face the truth. It's hard to acknowledge that you've been duped, that the gift of faith which you have bestowed upon somebody has been treated as though it were an unwanted Christmas present, to be glanced at once and then left in an attic, to gather dust slowly over the months and years.

It's hard to realise that you have depended upon somebody so much and so badly that you have blinded yourself to any other option, placing not only all your emotions but all your spirit within their power, to have those priceless emeralds scattered about like so much chaff. It's hard to stand up to the cold hard truth that truths were lies.

And I will believe every word, every act, every sentence if you tell me. Because I will gladly put myself into that place, believing that the day will never come when you would say that you didn't tell the truth. I will believe that I will never have to face a lie. I will believe this because I am who I am and you are who you are. And for me this place, this moment, this now, this day is true.

C is for Confusion
Ever get that feeling that you don't know exactly what's going on? Ever have that nagging voice at the back of your head which indicates that the sum total of your knowledge at this point, right now, right here, is not exactly up to par with everyone around you? Ever have a sneaky little suspicion that you only have part of the story in your head? Hmm. Thought so. You're confused too. I've just been in a work meeting where the sentence "pro-actively leverage cross-functional skill sets" occurred. It occurred as a joke, but it still occurred. That, to me, is confusing.

I get the impression that I live in a semi-permanent state of confusion, seemingly always missing out on the one line of dialogue which would make the entire conversation make sense. Recently, it's been happening a lot. I've been getting the wrong end of the stick or, on some occasions, completely missing the stick entirely and even getting hold of a different stick. And boy, do I get stick for that. I mean, I get different stick from the one whose wrong end I have already got, or not, as the case may be. Sticky, eh? Is it that I am just getting the usual November stupidity virus (caught just as easily as a cold, but a lot harder to get rid of) or is it something far more fundamental?

Everyone has a different reason for disliking confusion (if, indeed, they dislike it at all). For some their minds can be likened to their office, where they can't bear the confused clutter of mental scribblings spread out haphazardly: the teeming ashtray of uncertainty, the half-full coffee cup of doubt or the unemptied wastepaper baskets of our feelings. Perhaps others don't like to admit to 'not knowing'; it's a weakness in their intellectual armour. Others again may embrace and encourage the confusion around them as reassurance of their own certainty. And others too may find that they way they live is constantly shifting, and it would be nice to have a few fixed points in the sky, so they can steer the ship safely.

Confusion is, I believe, a fairly natural state. We can't all be experts on everything all the time and thus certain situations, instructions or eventualities are bound to leave us feeling a little out of our depth. Starting a new job is the perfect example: we need to take copious notes, familiarise ourselves with our surroundings, get to know the new people, try to understand the new procedures and processes, remember all the little foibles and intricacies which every office and workplace bring to us, all in an effort to avoid unnecessary confusion. We don't want to appear as though we are clueless so we make every effort to appear informed, and if we can't manage that, then we try to look as though we are quick learners.

A work environment simultaneously lends itself to utter organisational chaos as well as to the order which will negate that chaos. There is both poison and cure. It's the rest of life where bewildering conversations or situations don't offer up their answers as conveniently. Misheard conversations are probably the most frequent for me; personal pronouns are particularly tricky. He has apparently being seeing her for a while now, but she doesn't know about her and she doesn't think he's all that great anyway, he said. Eh? Pardon? Gimme some names, for the love of God.

This goes some way to explaining how terrible I am with gossip. I keep forgetting the important parts (such as names, what happened, why it is scandalous, etc, etc), which is a bad way to transmit gossip. No-one ever got excited about the illicit communication: "You know that bloke? Well, he did something with someone. Saucy, eh?". No 3am girl, I.

It's not just gossip, though. There are also those conversations where you're trying to work out what the other one is saying and you're just not quite getting a handle on the whole thing. There's just that little bit of data missing. Or there may well be too much information for you to sift through and work out what the hell is going on. Or there might be contradictory information which is further confusing the whole matter. Or you might not understand the other person's motivation. Or you might not understand your own motivation. Perplexing. Perhaps it's a lot less baffling just to lay one's cards on the table. Or perhaps not.

I'm not sure there's ever a point at which I can lessen my confusion at life generally. Work, play, people, news, friends, the bus drivers on the 24 route … the list of things which make me unsure seems endless. There are times when I can't decide whether being sure about something is even worthwhile: aren't most decisions just shades of meaning rather than absolutes, anyway? Which might be a bit of a circular argument: "I'm confused by why I'm confused". Great clarity of thought there, Mark. Well done. Gold star.

Immune system: abort, retry, fail?
Four days off work, the complete loss of voice for one of them, the lack of sleep due to coughing oneself awake, the varying pitch from gravelly tones to merely smoky ones, and the attendant cold shivers, inability to swallow properly, rejection of foodstuffs when they finally are accepted by the throat, and the irritating 24/7 sniffing … these are not the signs of a happy Mark, nor do they enhance one's ability to post.

Apologies to the Audi Man about that. Current health status: approx 65% and rising (slowly). More alphabet soup later. Keep suggesting for the jukebox, please.

J is for Jukebox
In our local, as well as the usual amenities of pool table, widescreen TV, … erm, beer, we have a jukebox. For a mere one English pound, you will get to put on your own choice of five superb songs from their wide, wide selection. For 'wide, wide selection', I of course mean 'relatively narrow selection'. The pub's in Camden and boy, does the jukebox reflect that. As the drummer of The Darkness is a regular, we naturally have Permission To Land on there, we have quite a lot of Blur (as Food Records people still drink there, even though Blur don't bother any more), we used to have Finley Quaye, until he got barred, at which point his CD became barred as well. Plus Chili Peppers, Smiths, some 'hard rock', some 'indie' and, inexplicably, some ABBA.

Our little group has come up with a plan. We drink there quite a lot (ahem), and regard ourselves as good, loyal customers. We don't cause trouble, we leave when we're told to leave, we explain the pub rules to others, we try to watch out for people who might cause trouble or who are up to no good, we spend a fair bit of money there (ahem), and we know all the bar staff personally. We're regulars. And it's coming up to Christmas. So, my friend Tim came up with the idea and I'm the man with the plan. The pub is going to give us all a Christmas present.

We are going to replace one of the poorer CDs on the jukebox with one of our own creation. There are about fifteen of us signed up to do this, and we each have to choose one track – which is not already on the jukebox – based on some criteria:

• It must be up-beat: we're not having any depressathon anthems on our CD, thank you.
• It must somehow represent you: either through the choice of artist, the choice of song, the subject matter, or because it's one of your favourite songs ever, ever.
• It can't last longer than about four and a half minutes: we've only got one CD, so you can't hog all the time on it; learn to play nicely with the other children.
• No hardcore anything: be it trance, heavy metal or any other genre, it has to be a song that stands a reasonable chance of being played by someone other than you.

I'm compiling the list of tracks which people have chosen and we have to supplied a burned CD by the first week of December, so that we have time to get it on the jukebox and working for when Christmas and New Year's Eve rolls around. So far, about eight people have instantly known what they want (Jerry, for example, has chosen Superstition by Stevie Wonder, at which point we all rolled our eyes and groaned, wishing we had been able to choose it), with the others still debating. I'm one of the ones still working out which one I should choose.

I have a few ideas but am still not sure which individual song is best. And so, I come to the audience participation bit. I'd like you to suggest two things:

1. Which song should I choose, and what reason can I give?
2. What should this compilation be called?

Although prizes are always thin on the ground in Londonmark Towers, I can faithfully promise that if I use one of the potential titles for the compilation, I will buy a pint for the person who suggested it. Can't say fairer than that.

P is for Pest
'Pest' was how I referred to my sister when I was younger. Had I owned a mobile phone, doubtless that would have been the name under which I stored her number. It wasn't a serious name, more a recognition of the fact that, at times, she was … well, a pest. Fortunately for both her and I, the name 'pest' is now a reminder of the fact that even when we were young, we were close enough friends that such a moniker was meant affectionately, rather than representative of any form of cat-and-dog infighting. In fact, we've always been friends.

My sister Louise was, according to my cunning mother, my fifth birthday present. As I never tire of relating, I had actually asked for Meccano. What I received instead was a rude awakening in the early hours of the morning after my fifth birthday party (jelly, ice cream, balloons, the works). I was bundled into a car and, to the melodious strains of my father and mother arguing, was driven to Edgware General Hospital, whereupon I waited with my dad and, setting a pattern that would remain with me throughout my life, promptly fell asleep.

When I was awoken, I was taken into the maternity ward to see my mother holding a tiny little object wrapped in white blankets. This tiny little object was holding an even tinier little object: a box of three miniature Matchbox cars. Mum said words to the effect that I now had a new baby sister, and she had bought me a late birthday present. Appealing to my venal nature, Mum had successfully managed to ensure that I was on-side with the whole 'having a younger sibling' experience.

Somewhere in my parents' home, there is a photograph from my sister's christening. I am sitting on the sofa in our living room (decorated as I remember it before the house fire, but that's another story), dressed in a suit, holding baby Louise in my arms and looking down at her, apparently adoringly. She is just lying there, again wrapped in blankets. I have a smile on my face, and she has the whole serene infant thing going on. It's a great photograph, setting the tone for nearly 21 years of good friendship and brotherly/sisterly affection.

When she had grown up a bit – and I, being a boy, had aged but not actually grown up at all – she moved out of her nursery and into her own room. My room was diagonally opposite hers and, when I was bored or just feeling mischievious, I would wait until she had gone to bed and then slowly commando-crawl into her room, taking extreme pains to ensure I was completely silent. Once I had crawled just under the lower of her bunk beds, I would begin to growl quietly, in the manner of a lion. The growling would get progressively louder until I had ensured that she had woken up, squealing. I would then leave the room, satisfied that I had successfully terrified my little sister. Yes, I now know that it was mean, but after a while she began to like it, and then find it funny. She occasionally still asks me to do the lion roar, just as a reminder of what a beastly child I was.

During my teenage years, I don't remember any stand-out moments between the two of us. I was busy at school and with my friends, she was busy with her school things, and we didn't have family dinners every night to catch up on all the gossip or news. We ate together on Saturday nights and Sunday lunchtimes, but even then either Louise or I could take our plate of food to our room and listen to music or read or do whatever we wanted.

I think it was when I went off to university that I realised that I missed having the little pest around, except that she was no longer so little any more. Since hitting the age of about sixteen or seventeen, Louise has been beautiful. She is slim, blonde-ish and has a great laugh. And I missed having her around. I had moved into my own flat, sharing with a friend from college, and I invited Louise up to stay with me for the weekend.

She came up on the train on a Friday night and, before my then girlfriend and I cooked dinner, all three of us went out to the pub for a natter. Not knowing whether Louise was much of a drinker, I asked her what she wanted. Her choice was a Bacardi and coke. I berated her for a few moments as to her girlie choice, but she insisted that this beverage was her usual drinking fare. Sighing, I went up to the bar to order. When I returned with the drinks, she was in hysterics with my girlfriend. I placed the glasses down, sat down and asked what was so funny. She replied that she didn't drink Bacardi and coke at all, but wanted to make me go to the bar and order it, knowing that I would hate to do so, just to wind me up. I believe my response went something along the lines of "little cow".

Throughout her sixth form years, and when I moved back to London, we've both been regulars in the same pub in Camden. It's been interesting at times, such as when she had to put me to bed after my twenty-fifth birthday when I got so drunk I injured myself, though it's slightly worrying when your own younger sister beats you at pool. To prove that although I am older, and therefore decrepit and senile according to her, there are still some areas where old dogs don't need to learn new tricks (the tricks we have right now are fine, thank you very much), we once attempted to settle the issue of age versus beauty through the most sensible method available: vodka shots. Five vodka shots were lined up for each of us, and so we started. I won, thank goodness, but not by much. Louise then challenged me on tequila. I demurred. As far as I'm aware, this is probably the only time we've been directly competitive since she was born and even then it was for nothing more than vodka. I think that's pretty good going.

I've collected her A level results with her, I've picked her up after she's crashed her car, I was there the first time she was ill through drinking too much, we've spent birthdays together, we've had a 'sushi and white wine' Christmas Day at my flat, I've helped her revise, I've met her from flights, we've been drunk together after one or the other of us has broken up with a partner. She's clever, funny, tough, sarcastic, street-wise, beautiful, and for me she's a god-send. She is my closest female friend, she's helped me through some difficult decisions and complex situations, and, by the end of November, she'll be 21 years of age. The little pest has all grown up and become an amazing and wonderful person.

So, this is basically a really long-winded and overly verbose way of saying: Louise, you're quite simply the best thing that has ever happened to me, I'm lucky to have you, and I love you.

D is for Doorway
I used to think I was quite lucky. Not lucky in the sense that I could safely predict the pools scores with a good degree of accuracy, nor lucky in the sense that I kept finding ten pound notes in the street. No, lucky in the sense that I had never been mugged in London despite twenty-five years (minus three and a bit) of living here in some nice and some not-so-nice areas, and hanging around in what we could fairly describe as 'less-than-classy' areas. Although not quite at Gotham City levels (mainly because that's fictional, Batfans), London can be fairly unsafe in certain places at certain times of day or night.

And so one Sunday, while in the pub with my friends A and T, I realised that I needed some more cash. The cashpoints outside Camden Town tube station are hardly hidden away and are generally well-lit, so I told A and T to hang on where they were, to look after my drink and my coat, so I could run across to the bank and get some more of my hard-earned wages to fritter away on wine and song. A sensible plan, I'm sure you agree.

Cashpoint etiquette in Camden is quite a tricky proposition, due to the popularity of Camden market at the weekends. A rough rule of thumb for Sundays is to skip NatWest completely (it's next to The World's End/Underworld, so all the money will have been taken out on Saturday night), skip the Royal Bank of Scotland point on Camden High St (opposite the tube, therefore most people head there first) instead using the RBS point on Parkway (it's around the corner, so the morons don't spot it), and you might be able to gamble on one of the two HSBCs working (Kentish Town Road one is probably your best bet). If you're feeling particularly energetic, you could walk further on to the Lloyds TSB, which is a useful safety net.

I had chosen HSBC because it was close to the Camden Tup, the establishment where I had met up with A and T. I went there, extracted some cash from the bank while watching my ever-depleting balance sink further into the extremely red, and then proceeded to saunter back to the pub. Just as I was about to walk into the pub, I found myself to be spinning around, propelled by the rather large arm of a man whose instructions were simple: "Give me the money or I'll cut you". Clearly a man of Hemingwayesque brevity and clarity of purpose.

I was pinned up against the (glass) doorway of the Tup while trying to get hold of the guy's arms, not knowing whether he actually had a knife, which hand said knife was in, or indeed whether the knife was of the Swiss Army variety or something more machete-like. Grabbing both his arms seemed the safest way of ensuring that he didn't manage to exercise his option two. We struggled for a little bit and I felt myself being rocked forward by something and rocked backward by the man. After what could have been a few minutes, a minute or a few seconds, his enthusiasm waned and he ran off.

The 'something' which had been rocking me forward turned out to be one of the bar staff who had been trying to push open the door to (a) get out, (b) knock me into the other guy to knock him off his balance, and (c) help me. My would-be assailant, though quite strong, was no genius, as his decision to mug me for money had been directly in the doorway of a glass-fronted, glass-doored, brightly-lit, semi-busy pub. The Australian barman asked me what had happened and I tried to work it out in my head, eventually coming up with something so poetic, apposite and moving that its beauty still touches me: "Guy jumped me". I suppose descriptive ability is the first casualty of war.

You wonder what success rate he had estimated for this particular mission, though when you factor in that his opponent was a skinny, badly-dressed, bespectacled white guy, I suppose he thought that on balance, he'd probably come out on top. As it turned out, the whole exercise was pretty futile for both him and me: he neither got any money nor did he cut me effectively; I didn't get back into the pub on time nor did I completely escape his bladed ministrations.

When I got back inside the pub, A and T looked at me and asked what the hell I had been up to. I explained, briefly, and rubbed my forehead to find that I was bleeding. I went to the bathroom, cleaned myself up a bit, checked out that I had grazes/minor cuts on my hands and one or two on my forehead and cheek, but was otherwise in peak fighting condition. I then went back, lit a cigarette, had some more of my pint and starting wondering whether I would be able to calculate precisely how stupid I had been to resist the mugger rather than just give him the bloody money and avoid any potential harm. Still, I guess that I was just a bit lucky.

L is for Lyrics
I was in a band once. There were three of us and we played acoustic indie-type stuff. 'Stuff' is most advisedly the word to describe us, as 'music' might be going a little bit too far. A, the guitarist, was accomplished and wrote very good, catchy guitar chords and riffs. J, the violinist/pianist, was technically very good but lacked a certain natural feel for playing; I think she was better at playing other people's songs than contributing ideas to our own songs, but she brought a certain sense of discipline to the group. I was the singer and lyricist. Although I have virtually no stage presence (is there such a thing as 'stage diffidence'?), I was a competent enough singer. The one problem was the lyrics.

The music I've listened to and loved has always been strongly lyrically-driven; I basically like music I can sing along to. I would be flattering myself vastly to say that I sing anywhere near as well as the singers in my favourite bands, but if I can at least get somewhere near the notes they are reaching, then I consider that to be a minor success. As already stated here, I've been listening to Absolution an awful lot recently. I don't have Matt Bellamy's range, but I can get close-ish, and that's good enough for me. Fortunately, Neil Tennant sing-speaks many of his songs, so I don't have to strain too much, apart from in the upper register, to sing to them. Neil Hannon again has a wide range, but I tend to hum along to those anyway, and Brett Anderson is fairly good to mimic, apart from when it all goes operatic on Dog Man Star.

The easy part is that they have already written all their music and their lyrics. I can remember the words to songs within a few listens, as I have a fairly good musical memory. When I was in a chamber choir, this came in very handy, as I was the only person out of the twenty who didn't play an instrument and who couldn't sight-read. So, I just listened to the pieces beforehand and worked out how to do the tenor line. And that worked. It was when I had to write my own lyrics to songs which A and I had co-written which proved slightly more problematic. A, though a good songwriter, unfortunately couldn't sing to save his life. He wrote lyrics to some of his own songs, but needed me to sing them. Again, not a problem. Our co-operative songs, though … ah. Oh. I'd best get some coffee and work out what I'm going to write.

As seems to be the case with many people I know, I am incapable of conducting an evening's worth of conversation without including verbatim quotations from films and songs. There's a character in one of Kinky Friedman's novels who only speaks in song lyrics, which Kinky himself finds infuriating. Although I sympathise, I'm probably the other side of that particular divide. I don't know whether it's because I find it easier to express myself in the words of someone else, whether these little couplets, verses and choruses stick in my head and are available when I'm lost for words, or whether it's because music is so important to me that it's started to take over some of the verbal cognitive processes in my brain, swapping original thought for a back catalogue of pop libretti. Probably some combination of all three.

This is, I think, the basis for the old 'our song' idea. As well as a song bringing back memories of the first time people met, their eyes meeting across a crowded blah blah, it's also a substitute for saying things that we are otherwise too unwilling or too inarticulate to say. In Nervously, there is the line "We don't talk of love, we're much too shy, but nervously we wonder when and smile". Quoting someone else's thoughts and words makes it easier to express ourselves coherently, but also allows a certain remove from what we're saying. Maybe that's why more people make compilation CDs for the object of their affections than write original poetry for them: it's less exposing to use the art of others to convey our message than to bare our own hearts.

I make no pretence to be unique – I like what I think everyone else likes in songs: a little bit of humour, a little something that tugs at emotions, a reference which I can understand or which I notice, and maybe a little bit of cleverness or wordplay. Neil Hannon is particularly good at satisfying these criteria. One of my favourite Divine Comedy songs is Commuter Love, a love song written to someone he has seen on the train but never actually met:

Freezing Monday morning
She is waiting for her train to come
I brush past her, smell her perfume
Watch her hair move as she turns to go

She doesn't know I exist
I'm gonna keep it like this
I'm not gonna take any risks this time

She's not like the others
With their papers and their headphones on
She reads novels by French authors with loose morals
She can do no wrong

It's not just lyrics, of course; the actual titles which artists give their songs are often wonderful in their own right. If I Were You (I'd Be Through With Me), You Only Tell Me You Love Me When You're Drunk, Thoughts Of A Dying Atheist, Protect Me From What I Want, I Don't Know What It Is, Don't, Don't Tell Me No, Not So Manic Now, How Can You Expect To Be Taken Seriously? – if you go through your own music collection and collate song titles and lyrics, you might never need to speak an original word again.

The Matrix Trilogy – Deleted scenes #5
INT. The Matrix.

Agent Jackson: I am knackered.
Agent Brown: Tell us about it, we spent the first film running about like you wouldn't believe.
Agent Jones: I really hate it when we have to morph into people.
Agent Brown: Uh?
Agent Jones: It's not the morphing, it's more when we have to take over ugly people.
Agent Brown: Why?
Agent Jones: I just don't like it.
Agent Jackson: Yeah, well, I've been trying to track down Smith all day.
Agent Brown: Oh, yeah, he's gone a bit crazy.
Agent Jones: Yeah, I read about it in the office.
Agent Brown: Hang on, trying to track down Smith? How the hell can you miss him?
Agent Jones: You mean 'them'.
Agent Brown: Yeah.
Agent Jackson: Well, he keeps monkeying about with that human.
Agent Jones: I love that guy.
Agent Brown: Oh, he's good.
Agent Jones: Yeah, can you get his autograph for my daughter? She's a big fan.
Agent Jackson: I'm slightly more concerned about the whole war between humans and machines.
Agent Jones: But if you could …
Agent Jackson: Okay, okay.
Agent Jones: Thanks.

[Agent Smith enters]

Agent Smith: Good af-ter-noon, gen-tle-men.
Agent Jones: Hi.
Agent Jackson: Hello.
Agent Brown: Hey.
Agent Smith: You app-ear to be con-spi-ring here, gen-tle-men.
Agent Jackson: Us?
Agent Brown: No way.
Agent Jones: Well …
Agent Brown: Shut up.
Agent Smith: Do you have some-thing to say to me?
Agent Jones: Erm, okay, well, the thing is, we wanted to wait …

[Pause]

Agent Smith: Wait … for what?

[Neo enters]

Agent Smith: Mi-ster An-der-son, I will des-troy you.
Neo: Wait up, Smithy.
Agent Jones: Yes, there's just one thing we have to say first.
Agent Smith: Yes?

[Pause]

Agents and Neo: Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Agent Program Smith, happy birthday to you.
Agent Smith: You rem-em-bered!
Agents and Neo: For he's a jolly good program, for he's a jolly good program, for he's a jolly good program, and so say all of us.
Agent Smith: That's so sweet. I love you guys.

[Pause]

Agent Smith: But I must des-troy you.

[Pause]

Neo: Oh, shit.

The Matrix Trilogy – Deleted scenes #4
INT. The Matrix.

The Merovingian: Bonsoir. I am very French.
Persephone: And I am chè bella.
Trinity: I don't like you.
Morpheus: I still prefer Niobe.
Persephone: But I want to kiss Neo.
Neo: Suits me, Monica, you're well fit.
Trinity: Don't even think about it.
Persephone: If I don't get to kiss Keanu, then the whole film ends right here, right now.
The Merovingian: I am still très French.
Trinity: And I will get really mad if she kisses Neo.
Neo: I'm game.
Trinity: Shut up.
Morpheus: No, Trinity, Neo's right.
Trinity: You always take his side, don't you?
Morpheus: He is The One.
Neo: I'd give her one.
Morpheus and Trinity: Shut up.
Persephone: No kiss, no Keymaker, no rest of trilogy. Simple choice.

[Pause]

The Merovingian: Did I mention that je suis French?
Morpheus: Yes. I mean oui. I mean yes.
The Merovingian: Bon.
Trinity: Alright, you can kiss her. But no tongues.
Neo: Dude!
Trinity: You heard me.
Neo: Okay.
Persephone: But you must make me believe that you are really in love with me.
Neo: How about I make you believe that I really fancy you?
Persephone: Close enough. Let's go, big boy.

[They kiss]

Persephone: You are lucky, Trinity, but such a thing cannot last.
Trinity: Not if he goes round kissing every woman in the film, no, it bloody well can't.
Morpheus: Will you take us to the Keymaker?
Persephone: Okay.
Trinity: Neo?
Neo: Yup? Oh, sorry, I was just wondering whether I'd convinced her enough. I could try again.
Trinity: You wait until we get home to the real world.
Persephone: Are you ready?
Morpheus: Yes. I believe that what this night will bring is what Fate has destined for … oh, come on, let's go, I want to get back to Niobe.
The Merovingian: Oh, l'amour.

The Matrix Trilogy – Deleted scenes #3
INT. The Matrix.

Agent Smith: Mi-ster An-der-son. Sur-prised to see me?
Neo: Well, not really.
Agent Smith: And why not?
Neo: We have to meet up. And it's raining, which means I have to fight you.
Agent Smith: I see. Do you un-der-stand what con-nects us, Mi-ster An-der-son?

[Pause]

Neo: The fact that both our voices are easily parodied, dude?
Agent Smith: Pre-cise-ly.
Neo: Whoa.

[Pause]

Agent Smith: You see, when I tried to kill you, you died. And then you did not die. And then you made me die. But I did not die. I came back. To make you die. Or you make me die. In ve-ry short sen-ten-ces.
Neo: Awesome.
Agent Smith: And I get to say in-ev-it-a-ble an awful lot.
Neo: Yeah, I know that.
Agent Smith: But do you know why we are here?

[Pause]

Neo: The Oracle told me some stuff, but I think she put something funny in the cookies.
Agent Smith: We are here, Mi-ster An-der-son, because you can-not be trust-ed. You can-not be trust-ed with imp-or-tant di-a-logue on your own. You need me, Mi-ster An-der-son. Or else no-one would un-der-stand what goes on. There would be con-fu-sion. Because of you, Mi-ster An-der-son, because of you and your all too poor act-ing. Pur-pose, Mi-ster An-der-son, is what con-nects us, what drives us and, ul-ti-mate-ly, what will make this fran-chise millions of dol-lars. Pur-pose. Just as a pro-gram was written to go-vern Joel Sil-ver, so was a pro-gram written to govern geeks and phi-lo-so-phers into think-ing that this is more than a gun-fest.
Neo: Bogus.
Agent Smith: Your poor thes-pi-an skills are like a vi-rus, Mi-ster An-der-son. I fear they will in-fect me soon. I fear that something of you will imprint on me. There is no escaping rea-son, no de-ny-ing pur-pose, because as we both know, with-out pur-pose, WB would not make money.
Neo: Hey, at least you got in the Lord of the Rings franchise as well, man. You're raking it in.
Agent Smith: Even Hob-bits act better than you, Mi-ster An-der-son.

[Pause]

Neo: Fuck you and your receding hairline. I'm going to kick your ass.
Agent Smith: Not with-out wire work, Mi-ster An-der-son, or green screen.
Neo: And I'm in a rock band, too.
Agent Smith: I hope you're unplugged.

The Matrix Trilogy – Deleted scenes #2
INT. The Nebuchadnezzar.

Link: Captain Morpheus?
Morpheus: Yes.
Link: You know this Neo guy?
Morpheus: Yes.
Link: Well, you believe him to be the One?
Morpheus: Yes.
Link: You believe that he will bring balance to the force?
Morpheus: Er, what?
Link: Neo has the highest mitichlorian count you have ever seen?
Morpheus: Link, have you been drinking Dozer's special brew again?
Link: All I'm saying is that you believe that the skinny white guy is going to be the saviour of humanity. Right?
Morpheus: Indeed.

[Pause]

Link: You know that thing where he blows up sentinels with his outstretched hand?
Morpheus: Yes.
Link: Jedi powers, man.
Morpheus: Link, I am relieving you of your duties.
Link: Oh, come on. Even those little sentinels that roll out and then unfold look just like the ones in The Phantom Menace.
Morpheus: Shut up.
Link: And you're a little bit Qui-Gon Jinn yourself there, buddy.
Morpheus: What?
Link: You know, the big Irish fella.
Morphus: Link, I want you away from those controls right now.
Link: Oh, come on.
Morpheus: You're only here for the comedy double-takes and pop culture references anyway. Get out.
Link: Dammit. But I promised Marvin Gaye's daughter that I'd drive the ship.
Morpheus: I don't care.
Link: [hums a bit of 'Sexual Healing']
Morpheus: Stop it.
Link: You ain't got no soul.

[Link leaves in a huff]

Morpheus: [over comm] Trinity, please report to the bridge-like ship-steering room.

[Morpheus waits]

Trinity: Hi, Morpheus.
Morpheus: Trinity. I want you to pilot the ship.
Trinity: I can't do that.
Morpheus: Why not?
Trinity: Well, in the real world, all I get to do is shag Neo, or look worried about him and mop his brow.
Morpheus: Oh.
Trinity: Sorry.
Morpheus: Well, I guess I'll have to borrow Will Smith's wife instead then.
Trinity: 'Fraid so.
Morpheus: I was in Apocalypse Now, you know.
Trinity: I have to go now.

[Trinity leaves]

The Matrix Trilogy – Deleted scenes #1
INT. The Matrix

The Oracle: So you've come back, Neo.
Neo: You knew I would.
The Oracle: Yes, I did. Cookie?
Neo: You know whether I'm going to take one.
The Oracle: Yes, I do.
Neo: No, thanks.
The Oracle: Suit yourself.
Neo: Okay, then, yes.
The Oracle: All right.
Neo: I mean no.
The Oracle: That's fine.
Neo: Er, I mean yes.
The Oracle: That's fine too.
Neo: Did you put hash in these cookies?
The Oracle: You already know that.
Neo: Cool.

[Pause]

Neo: I fancy Trinity.
The Oracle: I know that. You don't have to be an Oracle to know that you are exactly the type to go for a bike-riding, PVC catsuit-wearing tough chick.
Neo: Oh.
The Oracle: I suppose you want me to explain the plot to you.
Neo: It'd be nice.
The Oracle: Well, I'm not going to.
Neo: Go on.
The Oracle: No, I'm going to be cryptic for another ten minutes and ramble about choices.
Neo: Do you have to?
The Oracle: Yes.
Neo: But why can't you just tell me what's going to happen?
The Oracle: You already know the answer to that question.

[Pause]

Neo: Because that way Morpheus doesn't get to gabble on about believing in me?
The Oracle: Bingo.

[Pause]

Neo: Where's that little bald kid gone?
The Oracle: To pester Uri Geller.

[Pause]

Neo: Figures.

G is for Grandmother
My gran is a remarkable person. Most grandparents are, at least in the eyes of their grandchildren, but my gran is especially so. She's Irish and came over to England with four of her seven children (oh yes, she's Roman Catholic too) in the 1960s. I don't know whether it was the appeal of swinging Sixties London (baby, yeah), but I very much doubt it. She's done a wide variety of mostly low grade jobs, bringing money in so that she, my long-suffering and mostly silent grandfather – whom she refers to as her 'toy boy'; she is 81, he is about to turn 80 – and my uncle can live in modest comfort in their Hackney council flat. And she is remarkable.

Exhibit A
She is bionic. Well, that may be a slight exaggeration, but she had a hip replacement operation recently and, during the procedure, her heart stopped for a few minutes. For an eighty-one year old this is not necessarily a good sign, yet she was successfully resuscitated and, within days, was causing merry hell in the hospital by criticising the quality of the food, berating my sister and aunt at any given opportuntity and attempting to sneak out despite the obvious problem that most prison breaks are not made by octogenarians on crutches. She is, both metaphorically and literally, unstoppable. They make 'em strong in Galway.

Exhibit B
Every year, the family make it a point to telephone Gran on St Patrick's Day; along with Christmas, Easter and her birthday, Paddy's Day is one of the most important days of the year for Gran and so we all have it flagged in our calendars with a big note reading 'Ring Gran'. Two or three years ago, my mother attempted to ring Gran in the early evening to wish her a happy day, to find that no-one was answering the phone. My sister had tried. I had tried. No answer, until the small hours when we all gave up. Naturally, worry abounded: perhaps Gran had hurt herself and couldn't get to the phone? Perhaps someone had burgled the flat? Perhaps aliens had abducted her? Wild theories spun round, until we managed to get in contact with her the next day. What happened? Where were you? Are you alright? Gran's answer: "Sure, wasn't I at the ceilidh!" Not only bionic, but also an over-70s party animal.

Exhibit C
Gran makes it a point to visit family back in Ireland as much as she can. About eight or ten years ago, Gran went on one of her trips back to the west coast of Galway to see the folks. Although flights are easier and more convenient, Gran tends to get the Rosslare to Fishguard ferry and be picked up by someone the other side, once the usual passport checks and customs palavers are all done. After this particular trip, we met Gran the day she came back and she seemed inordinately proud of herself. "You'll never guess what I have," exclaimed our clearly excited grandmother, "but didn't I only bring back one of the biggest rainbow trout you'll ever see." A. Rainbow. Trout. My gran, the international fish smuggler. Not drugs, not booze, not rare artefacts. No, … a fish. So: bionic woman, party animal, and global law-breaker. There's an FBI list with her name on it somewhere.

Exhibit D
Reading matter over at Gran's flat is fairly standard and, I should imagine, has been that way for years and years: The Daily Mirror, The Connacht Tribune, Ireland's Own and The Irish Times. Yes, there's a definite bias there. She also avidly watches television news, showing no real partiality to BBC or ITV and is frighteningly well-informed. Although of advanced years, she has her finger on the current affairs pulse most definitely and shows no sign of wishing to be less of a media junkie at all. Her only weak spots in news or political conversation are Oliver Cromwell (bad), Princess Diana (good), Prince Charles (bad) and her willingness to believe any health scare involving chicken, beef, eggs or, indeed, any foodstuff whatsoever.

Exhibit E
As you might expect from an elderly Irish lady with a large family, Gran is a dab hand in the kitchen, with years of experience to prove that she can make a meal out of nothing (and that's not confined to the kitchen either). She is a baker by hobby, and occasionally by commission. Every family marriage has had the wedding cake made by Gran. Most birthdays are celebrated by blowing out the candles atop a Gran culinary creation. Cakes, scones, biscuits, gingerbread men; the list goes on and on, and I'm amazed that a childhood based on all this hasn't made me far fatter than I am. And, as you also might expect from an elderly Irish lady, she extols the virtues of potatoes at any given opportunity. One of the more esoteric meals I have ever eaten was spaghetti bolognaise with boiled potatoes and carrots. She seems unaware of overstarching. However, on the plus side, she does the best boiled bacon and cabbage this side of Ardrahan.

Exhibit F
At times, Gran seems to forget that she is her age, which is a good thing; she doesn't want to be some old doddering fool, and to be honest I think she would be spectacularly bad at it. One little weakness, though, is that she forgets people's names. Well, not quite 'forgets', that's not fair, but it generally takes her a few attempts. I have been called, in the course of being identified by her on the phone, the names of my four uncles, my grandfather, my father, my mother, my aunts and my sister. One particular phone call, after Ireland drew with Germany in last year's World Cup (Gran loves it when Ireland do well in any sport) ran for about ten minutes before Gran actually asked who I was. When I told her it was Mark, she replied laughingly, "Didn't I think it was Louise!". I'm sure that she does this to wind up the rest of the family, conning us into thinking she's losing her marbles; secretly she knows exactly what's going on and she's just toying with us. Master manipulator, that's her.

So, combining the facts that my grandmother is partly robotic, a bit of a raver, a wanted felon, a newshound, a cordon bleu chef and a practitioner of Machiavellian arts, as well as being funny, kind, loving, generous, thoughtful and generally wonderful, I have reached the conclusion that she is truly remarkable. I rest my case, my lord.

B is for Beauty
I wish I could define what it is that makes a person or object beautiful or not, but my knowledge of aesthetics is confined (along with most of the rattlings in my head) to a more personal, emotional level. I know what I believe to be beautiful and, on occasions, I can tell why I see and feel such beauty, but to be able to ascertain the precise reason or calculation is certainly beyond this bear of little brain. Perhaps it's because real beauty engages us less on a rational or clearly explored level and more in the twisting kaleidoscope of our feelings and intuitions. Perhaps I'm even asking the wrong question; should I ask not why I find someone beautiful, but how?

My friend Dave has a catchphrase: "It is for the beauty," generally said in a Spanish/Italian hybrid accent. It's become a standing gag that whenever we can't think of a reason to do something, or when we decide to have, do, or say anything – however mundane or run of the mill – the reason will simply be "for the beauty". It gets the rest of our friends laughing, for the sheer inadequacy of providing this as a rationale and also because, pace The Fast Show, repetition done well can be funny. When I write it down, though, it seems less obviously ridiculous. After all, people do many things for beauty. The Greeks of legend went to bloody, costly war with Troy over the beauty of Helen; I can't then see why we should be immune from beauty as motivation for our own lives.

People do many things for beauty, but perhaps it is the combination of beauty and love which drives them. We can see the link between love and beauty more clearly than beauty alone as a basis for our actions. The two have a natural dependency: what we find beautiful, we are bound to love, and what we love we will find beautiful. Which is cause and which is effect? I would say neither and both, because more often than not, the two will arrive at the same time; it's an intense, heady feeling, isn't it? It makes you understand why people can be said to be 'in love with love itself' – we could even bastardise Keats to say that "Beauty is love, and love beauty. That is all we know on Earth and all we need to know."

The dependency is not absolute, though. When either attribute fades, this doesn't mean the necessary demise of the other. When love ends, beauty can remain, and when beauty wanes, love may carry on. It's because the love we feel and the beauty we perceive are not just internal musings and ruminations: we transfer them to an object or person and they become part of his/her/its intrinsic being, perhaps as definable as height or weight. And so as looks fade through the years, love will remain as strong as the day it was first conceived, because they have countless other qualities of beauty to entrance us, so may the beauty of something or someone hold fast while the love felt has diminished, because our affections have dissipated, transferred or been suppressed. And of course, both love and beauty may remain together, but for the unfortunate individual, they have become distant, beyond reach.

This goes some way to explaining why we do such strange and wonderful things for beauty, sometimes going against what others see us to be, sometimes even surprising ourselves with the extent of our conviction in our pursuit of and belief in the radiance and brilliance of others. The relationship between love and beauty drives us, whether it is years of studying the same painting or statue, whether it is months of rereading the same book or poem, or whether it is weeks of striving to be with someone; our notions of beauty provide for us an elusive clue that gives us some sense beyond what we see or touch, as well as the first inexplicable and exciting spark to get us moving.

In ways, it is a romantic notion of beauty, to be sure; a little niche where sensitivity and senselessness can meld, no matter that our pragmatic and process-driven selves are constantly running to timetables or schedules, ticking boxes or crossing off items from lists. I believe that we need this sense of romance and wonder which we associate with a painting, a loved one or a sonnet, to reassure ourselves that life isn't one long 'To Do' list. The difficult part is usually to find the object or person who can inspire us so, and the easy part is our own personal appreciation of that beauty.

Z is for Zola Budd
At my school, along with acres of playing fields, a cricket pavilion, an institutionalised trend of mental rather than physical bullying, and a dependence upon Oxbridge admissions in order to recruit bright young fee-paying things, there was a House system. I think that the official purpose of this was twofold: (i) belonging to a House would bind pupils closer to their peers in their common endeavour to beat other Houses, and (ii) because it made timetabling easier for the chemistry teacher whose sad and dreary responsibility that was. My own opinion on the purpose behind a House system was also twofold: (i) divide and conquer, and (ii) it made the school more 'public school' than it actually was. Quite a difference in opinion, I'm sure you'll agree.

So, every student in the school belonged to one of six Houses, named after former masters of note. I can't remember what the founder of my House did and, quite frankly, neither I nor any of my fellow House members could care less. The origins and formations of the system didn't concern us at all; we had been given an instant identity without having to lift a finger. We had been placed into a mini-Mafia and encouraged – even organised – to compete with the other five mobs for supremacy. We had been given instant belonging.

And for a while it was good. In the first year of secondary school, we had not yet developed any finely-attuned critical faculties, never mind the essential tool which would have seen the House system as just another way to slice the student population pie: a bullshit detector. Instead, we toddled our way through all the nouveau detritus of House points, impositions, detentions, House assemblies, House ties, House colours and all the other ephemera which encouraged us in some idealised notion of British character: put your House before yourself, play a straight bat and you'll win glory for your House, remember to work together, etc, etc, bore, yawn.

I was a forgetful child, it must be admitted. Scarcely a school week passed without a cricket jumper, an exercise book, a note from my parents, a school report or some other required item being left at home, despite the fact that it would be in the most obvious place to help me remember to bring it. I was not, and am still not, capable of bringing multiple items anywhere; if an activity needs more than one bag plus a backpack, the chances are that I won't attend because I hate being encumbered by multiple bags. Just a quirk, I suppose, and it must have originated from my school days where six or so bags seemed necessary for all the different activities which schools insist on for their pupils.

Sports were a big thing at our school. Rugby in the winter and cricket in the summer were the main two, with athletics, swimming, water-polo, hockey and football also catered for. For the more esoteric sportsman, there were options in sixth form to take fencing or rifle-shooting, options which I gladly took up rather than get murdered on the rugby field. And, of course, wherever there is sport, there is competition. Inter-House competitions were keenly anticipated – by Housemasters, not the pupils of course. There were also school teams who competed against equally public school-wannabe institutions around the area, with varying degrees of flair and success.

As unlikely as it may seem for anyone who has met me, I was actually not too shabby at sports, at the Inter-House level anyway. One particular cricket match saw me score four 4s all placed in exactly the same place in the field with a sweeping square-cut, a cheaply stolen single and then my partner played a nice, solid defensive shot. The first ball of the next over was when I was bowled clean out. Number of balls faced: six. Number of runs scored: 17. This placed me as second highest scorer for our XI that day. Not a bad innings, especially for a wicketkeeper (my preferred role) but not exactly worthy of a place in the England team, either.

Rugby was another area which saw me enthusiastic but hardly skilled. I was, improbably, a full back. Though traditionally the full back is heavy, aggressive, solid and, for want of a better phrase, built like a brick shithouse, I was light, placid, slim and built like a feather quill. However, unlikelier players have been full backs (or so I was told) and so I duly took my position on the field. During some of the first few inter-House matches, things went relatively well; by this, I naturally mean that when we lost, it was not directly my fault and therefore no blame attached to me, and when we won, I could share in the team's glory. I did pick up one or two minor injuries, including a knee-knack which persists to this day, but hell, I could have been killed out there, so I don't think I did too badly.

Athletics was a bit better, however. Having a body shape at that age which a whippet would have paid a plastic surgeon to emulate was no great boon when an enraged prop-forward is motoring down at you, but proved surprisingly effective when attempting to run 400m or 800m in a circle faster than five other people. In fact, it was a downright asset. I even represented the school at 200m once, at one of those inter-school athletics meets. I didn't particularly want to do it, but my father seemed so keen that he wouldn't have to rely on my sister to be the sporty one (which she ended up becoming) that I relented for his sake. I came third or fourth out of seven, I think.

The real moment which sticks in my mind of my otherwise inglorious and grossly forgettable sporting career was an inter-House competition, however. Combining my ability to be pointed at a finishing tape and told, "Oi, Mark, scarper!" with my appalling memory led me to the school sports day where I had left half my kit at home. Although not quite at the 'shirts vs skins' level, our PE staff tended to despise the sort of boy who would leave his kit at home and thus try to dodge, evade, shirk or otherwise worm his way out of having to be supervised by sadists. So, I was lent a spare pair of shorts from the lost property office and told to borrow someone's plimsolls. Not likely. People who had brought their plimsolls were the people who were running and those without were not; ergo, no spare shoes.

So, I made the executive decision to run the race barefoot. It was summer, the grass was quite soft and though my feet are not webbed, I felt I could maintain a fairly good grip on the track to put in a decent showing. Needless to say, neither the sports master nor my Housemaster were too impressed with this idea, but they didn't have anyone else to put into the 400m and so acquiesced. I lined up with my equivalents from the other five houses, the smirks on their faces barely concealed, and got ready for the off.

The starter gun went, and so did I: once round the circuit for the 400m, a race which requires very little tactical preparation other than remembering to turn up and belt it for the finishing line. When I got to the finishing line I found, to my great pleasure and surprise, that I had arrived there before anyone else; I had won. Suddenly the derisive cries of "Zola Budd" didn't really seem to have the same mocking quality.

Snooze
Moving contents of one flat into two separate locations + 3 hours' sleep + Delayed Thameslink + beginnings of cold/sore throat combo = one tired, dull Mark. See you Monday.

M is for Mad World
(Gary Jules, from Donnie Darko OST)

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for the daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head, I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow

And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad
These dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
When people run in circles it's a very, very…
Mad world, mad world

Children waiting for the day they feel good
Happy birthday, happy birthday
And they feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen, sit and listen
Went to school and I was very nervous
No-one knew me, no-one knew me
Hello, teacher, tell me what's my lesson
Look right through me, look right through me

And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad
These dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
When people run in circles it's a very, very…
Mad world, mad world

Enlargen your world

Mad world.

A is for Absolution
I think I've listened to this album virtually every day since it was released and this trend shows no sign of abating. For those not familiar with them, Muse are a three-piece band hailing from Teignmouth in Devon, specialising in over-the-top pomp-rock, led by singer/guitarist Matt Bellamy with Dom Howard on drums and bassist Chris Wolstenholme. The most common and lazily clichéd comparison is Queen meets Radiohead. A muso wit who I am pleased to call my good friend Tim described them as 'Vanessa Mae-diohead', so that should give you an indication of how little he likes Muse. Absolution is their third album, after 1999's Showbiz and 2001's Origin of Symmetry. Though not overly keen on Showbiz (despite the wonderful single Sunburn), I loved Origin of Symmetry and wondered exactly how they would follow it up. But goodness, they did.

And how. And in what overblown, grandiose and inventive style. Intro kicks it all off with the sound of stomping feet for less than half a minute, taking you into the big, big piano chords of Apocalypse Please, a sweeping song which exhorts "And it's time we saw a miracle / Come on, it's time for something biblical / To pull us through". It's hard to describe because it marries a pounding, crashing piano with a relentlessness and an urging that's quite incredible. I should say at this point that although I generally advocate listening to music at reasonable levels bearing in mind damage to eardrums and damage to relationships with neighbours, Absolution begs you, it simply implores you to turn the volume up.

And then comes the sleazy and playful Time Is Running Out. Muse do straightforward loud guitar-rock very well and this is probably one of their finest moments: "You're something beautiful / A contradiction / I want to play the game / I want the friction". Of course, it's not Muse unless some wandering keyboards feature somewhere and they duly appear. The interplay between gentle lamentation and teeth-clenched persistence makes for some wonderful build-ups and breakthroughs, especially when it asks "How did it come to this?". When it all comes together, it's completely worth it. Sing for Absolution is something more ethereal, a Marshall amp wrapped in gossamer. There is a delicate grace about the song, a pleading hymn-like testament to loss: "Tiptoe to your room / A starlight in the gloom / I only dream of you / And you never knew". It's also here that you hear the extent and range of Bellamy's voice, reaching up to the heavens while he is falling from grace.

Their first single from the album, Stockholm Syndrome, turns the celestiality into something far, far more earthy. At least at the beginning. It's more of an out-and-out rocker with Howard surely deserving double pay or overtime at least for his drumming. I hate myself for writing this, but the word 'rock opera' does actually fit here. (I'm going to hell, I know I am.) The ending riffs are reminiscent of all the heavy metal I had to listen to at friends' houses in the early 90s but fortunately they apply it well and thankfully briefly. And straight into Falling Away With You, with its gentle acoustic beginning belying the sadness. "So I'll love whatever you become / And forget the reckless things we've done / I think our lives have just begun." This is perhaps the most Radiohead-like song on the album: anguished vocals underlined by tight bass and drumming, with the guitars and keyboards running around to create organised chaos.

Pause. You're only halfway through. You're probably a bit tired by now, if it's your first couple of listens to the album. The emotions in which Muse have engaged you will make you need to stop and take a breath. Maybe even have a quick cigarette. Ready again? You should be, because you're about to hit the core of the album, possibly the planet.

Hysteria hits you in the stomach from the minute it kicks off, and this song really does kick off. The guitars pull you around the room, the beat keeps you moving, all dragging you unrefusingly towards a chorus that could keep psychiatrists in work for decades. "I'm not breaking down / I'm breaking out / Last chance to lose control." The song simply screams 'power' in the lyrics and in the sound and once you're reeling from this aural onslaught, Blackout sneaks up on you. I have a weakness for string sections in pop music, but this will make you go and check that you've got the same CD in the player: it is so uncompromisingly, unequivocally beautiful – if it doesn't evoke something close to tears in you, check with your GP that you still have a pulse. And then we come to the album's apex:

Change everything you are
And everything you were
Your number has been called

Fights and battles have begun
Revenge will surely come
Your hard times are ahead

Best, you've got to be the best
You've got to change the world
And use this chance to be heard
Your time is now

Don't let yourself down
And don't let yourself go
Your last chance has arrived

This has everything I want. Butterflies and Hurricanes starts innocuously enough with a wasp of an electronic beat dragging the lyrical mantra forward while the other instruments are layered in carefully, slowly, purposely and precisely. It starts as a drop, builds up to an ocean, lowers down to a river and then, incredibly, becomes a tidal wave when you thought that it would get no further or intense. As you might have guessed, it's my favourite song on Absolution because it sounds as thought it was a labour of love just to bring the message out, and it is an album in itself.

There's a slight dip in form now, as The Small Print, good though it is, doesn't really sound as though it deserves to be in the other songs' company. It's like finding a £20 note in a bundle of £50s; it's still worth quite a lot, but you feel a bit short-changed. There is however the rather fun line: "I'm the priest God never paid". Some reviewers have pointed out that it could have belonged on Origin of Symmetry and they are probably right. Good song, maybe just not good enough. Any feelings of disappointment or anticlimax you might be feeling right now are just about to dissipate, however, because Endlessly is next, and it's frankly superb. The keyboards as music and as rhythm are perfect and the simplicity of the raw emotion trickled over the lyrics is like watching the individual grains of sugar as they fall out of your spoon, sweet but alone: "Hopelessly, I'll love you endlessly / Hopelessly, I'll give you everything / But I wont give you up / I won't let you down / I won't leave you falling / If the moment ever comes".

Thoughts of a Dying Atheist brings you back to your senses momentarily, as a more straightforward guitar song and a bit of a flag-waver. Tight, competent and enjoyable. It's when Rule by Secrecy starts in an almost religiously incense-laden way that you're probably getting a bit overloaded by the album's overstatement, but it's well worth hanging on. You're nearly there. The song starts unassumingly and with a whispered, confessional vocal, then slowly climbing up to a peak of ambition and back down again. And it's over. You'll probably want to listen to it all over again. It is, quite simply, a masterpiece of conviction, power and ambition.

Results
100 people cast 100 votes, and here are the results:

What would you like?	Votes
'Art Of'/'Science Of' series	6%
More Deleted Scenes	1%
More Walking With Mark	22%
A New Londonmark 'Case Of'	3%
More Londonmark Guides	7%
Something New	26%
Enforced Hiatus	4%
Mark To Stop Blogging	31%

Executive summary
Fine, thanks. Oh, you didn't ask. Well, here's a few things I've learned over the weekend:

• Gliding past the queue and chatting to the owner at a late-night drinking establishment is very, very pleasurable, especially when you are with your sister who never believed you to have any street credibility whatsoever.
• Eagle-Eye Cherry is a very pleasant chap, even though he felt the need to mention that he was off to Brazil in a while, leaving the rest of us in cold, grey London. Tough life.
• Army of Darkness is not only strange but hilarious. "Gimme some sugar, baby" is too funny for words.
• Internet cafés should not smell of cabbage. It does not enhance the user experience.
• For those in the Camden area, High Society will be playing at The Dublin Castle this evening, anticipated to be onstage around 10.00-ish; I heartily recommend you attend as they are pretty good.

I couldn't learn much else because work gave me homework to do over the weekend and they made me promise that I wouldn't do it in front of the television. Grrr.

You, the people, decide
Now that guesting at Troubled Diva is nearly over, I thought I would try something a little bit different and I'd like your opinion. I want to know what's next.

Powerful
Isn't it amazing how a few little words can fuck up your entire day?

Monkey magic
If it takes an infinite number of monkeys with typewriters to write the complete works of Shakespeare, do you think I could borrow just a few of them to help me out for a while? If so, how many would I need? I'm not sure how industrious these monkeys are.

Oh dear
The fact that getting a new security pass at work represents a significant improvement in my quality of life is sad.

You have been warned
Thanks to London's buses, trains and tubes, I am in a murderous mood this morning and would advise you to stand well back. Although slow to anger and quick to forgive and forget, there is something so staggeringly inept about the city's transport infrastructure whereby every tube line had something wrong with it this morning that it makes me want to take up arms and go hunt down the Underground's management.

Oh, hang on. It's all going to get better when the system's privatised, isn't it?

Yeah, right.

Attention, please
I probably should have mentioned this yesterday but over at Troubled Diva Towers, Mike has been inviting in a few guests and this week I'm one of them. It's a top-notch lineup this week, with me tagged on as well, and so I heartily recommend that you get yourself over there and prepare for a feast of prose.

Can I have my money now, Mike?

The art of asking
In order to get what we want, we should be prepared to ask for it. Ah, the root of so many arguments:

"I didn't know you wanted [whatever]."
"Well, why else was I standing here?"
"I don't know."
"It's not for the good of my health, is it?"
"I'm not psychic, you know. You could have mentioned something."
"I shouldn't have to ask."

Asking in public
The first word from your mouth should be 'Please' and the last words should be 'Thank you'. It's a simple rule and one which will get you far in life. Asking a waiter for some more coffee, asking an usher in a cinema where your seat is, asking a flight attendant to get the man with the permanent nosebleed next to you to go away; all of these should be framed within the Ps and Qs. Although manners cost nothing, they remain very precious mainly because not many people seem to bother these days*.

* This is not a lament for the "good old days" when you could leave your back door unlocked, when kids could play in the street and when you could get a nine-course meal for under a tenner and still have enough change for your bus fare home. No golden reminiscence here.

Politeness aside, sometimes it's possible to overdo the courtesy. For example, one "please" per sentence is good enough. Two is good but verging on the obsequious, whereas any more than two will make you seem vastly insincere, utterly sarcastic, a gibbering fool, or some combination of the three. Likewise, the more you repeat the words "thank you", the more you will sound as though you are a fan at the stage door, desperate to get their autograph; throw in a quick "I love your work" and the picture is complete.

Being courteous about your requests may also pay dividends of a more material nature, as well as your own recognition that although the person in the shop or behind the counter may be having a rotten day, at least you're not adding to their misery. A friend of mine once spotted a wallet in the sale section of a large department store which had been placed in a display where all the items were marked down to a ridiculously low price, much lower than it should have been even in the sale. She took this up to the counter and enquired whether it had been marked correctly. She stood, chatting with the assistant while the price was checked. The initial price was wrong, and the sale price was at least treble what my friend had hoped it would cost. She expressed her disappointment but thanked the assistant for checking.

Perhaps it was her chattiness, perhaps she and the assistant had bonded at some level, but the assistant allowed her to buy the wallet at the much lower price even though there was no real mis-labelling or consumer issues involved. I remain convinced that it was because my friend had remained calm and reasonable throughout the entire transaction and had been polite, unlike what I understand to be the average clientèle in that particular department store. It shouldn't be your main reason for civility, but sometimes niceness pays off. You only have to ask.

Asking someone out
Sometimes asking takes great courage. Asking for the first date definitely falls into this category, combining courage, nervousness and probably a healthy dose of paranoia. Sitting in a restaurant, a bar, at a concert, at a party; wherever you are when you see the person who not only catches your eye but sends small waves of pleasure mixed with hope up your spine and over your skin, it doesn't matter. You may feel that you can't ask, you may feel that you can't even speak in their presence, but from somewhere you summon up courage and go over to them. Perhaps there's some small talk, perhaps not, but there is always the question. And then the acceptance or the rejection.

It is of course this last result which inhibits many people from asking. You have to be brave, confident, besotted or drunk to wander up to strangers, or even people you know, for that matter, and simply ask them out. And whichever of those four you are, it will show clearly and audibly to the subject of your affections. Bravery is good (but can easily slide into desperation), confidence is essential (and equally essential is that you don't veer into overconfidence, also known as arrogance or 'loving yourself'), besotted is okay (provided that you don't propose marriage before you have even told them your name), and drunk is most definitely the wild card option: it could be fine, it could be disastrous, but it will be definitely be funny.

As well as how you ask, there is the small matter of what you ask for. Asking a woman sat at the bar with her girlfriends whether she will run away with you to a paradise island right now might be a little presumptious – you should at least offer to send her friends home in a cab first. Punctuating your conversation with 'umm', 'aah' and 'er' will seem as though you have no idea what you are doing and are incredibly nervous: this might work for you (charming, inexperienced at approaching strangers, endearingly romantic) or it might work against you (indecisive, hamfisted, muddled). Wandering up with an overly rehearsed approach or a chat-up line that is older than the wine you should be offering will probably portray you as a bit of a smoothie: again this could be either good (you are clear in your mind that you definitely want to see this person again, that you have a sense of humour) or bad (that you have no originality, that you ask people out every single night, possibly more than once per night).

You have to be ready when you ask. Preparedness is everything; don't ask a lady whether she would like a drink if you only have your bus fare left in your pocket. Don't ask her to run away to that paradise island when your car doesn't have petrol or if you get travel-sick. Think ahead, there's a chance (often a remote chance, but that's a chance nevertheless) that your potential paramour may agree to see you again. I'm assuming that this is the desired result of you asking them out; if you're only doing it for a bet, then give up now. Remember the secondary things like complimenting them, listening to what they say and asking further questions (try and make them relevant and intelligent if you can). And ask like you mean it.

Asking for it
There are people around who are said to be 'asking for it'. What this generally means is that they are setting themselves up for a fall, that they are displaying hubris, or just that they are really sodding irritating and may well be deserving of a very hard slap. It's sometimes hard to define precisely why people are asking for it, and indeed often hard also to define what exactly the 'it' is for which they are asking. However, in the spirit of empirical research and strict adherence to facts (ahem), we can examine a few examples and determine who these people are and what they are asking for.

• David Blaine. Who? Third-rate fraud and charlatan. Asking for? Another 44 days in a box, preferably made of lead and suspended underneath the ocean (airholes removed).
• Denise Richards. Who? Actress (allegedly). Asking for? Banishment to a maximum-security penitentiary where she will be unable to film, be filmed, watch films, hear the word 'film' or have anything further to do with the motion picture entertainment industry.
• Rupert Murdoch. Who? Media mogul and interferer-general. Asking for? A change in the world's economy whereby the more companies you own and the more monopolies you create, the fewer limbs you are allowed to remain attached to your body.
• Robbie Savage. Who? Footballer and world diving champion. Asking for? A ten-round bout with Roy Keane; two enter the ring, only one can leave.
• Ben Affleck. Who? Gossip rag fodder and occasional celluloid simperer. Asking for? Being forced to watch his shampoo advertisement until his ears bleed.

These may seem harsh to you, but whether their request is accurate or not, it can be agreed that they are all asking for it. 'It' is often regarded as someone's comeuppance: the person who claims to be the local ace at darts and is then beaten soundly by a fifteen year old is said to have asked for (and received) it. I don't know whether this is a specifically British phenomenon, where the desire to see people excel is usually tempered with the desire that they please don't mention that they're actually quite good, or whether it is a universal truth that people are equanimous until forced to confront braggards and bounders. The 'it' for which people ask is often different from the 'it' which they are full of, by the way.

Asking when you don't want to
This is also known as the 'asking your friends/parents for money' bit. A lot of the people I know are not very rich at all, and when it comes to the end of the month, we're mostly in some kind of financial cul-de-sac, waiting impatiently for the last day of the month when salary cheques go through and when we can finally resume buying all those luxury items which make life so interesting: food, water, paying rent, travelcard … you know. Those final days of the month must somehow be endured, and there might just be someone around with a little bit of spare cash who could help you out, if only you were to ask.

The key question is: how? Some people try the hail-fellow-well-met approach, which is to schmooze you for a little bit, then pop the question seemingly seamlessly into the conversation. Others will try the more blunt (but I feel more honest) approach of simply walking up to you, checking that they're not interrupting and then quietly explaining the situation and making their request. I have known people who attempt to guilt-trip others into lending them money, recalling past favours traded in an effort to prove that they may not be owed money, but they are certainly owed something, preferably to be returned in legal tender form. Still others, possibly of a more Machiavellian leaning, will engage a third-party to do their borrowing for them: Person A asks Person C to go to Person B and ask for some money. Person B lends to Person C, who then gives it to Person A. Person A thus has the dual benefits of achieving their financial alleviation and not having to move a muscle or do any work to get it.

Whereas asking in public requires that you not humiliate or debase yourself while in a transaction, asking for money from friends may well require precisely those forms of grovelling. Promises of immediate repayment are all well and good, but it may be advantageous to hint at some kind of extra-transaction benefit: "when I get paid, I can give you the money back and you should come over for dinner as a thank you" might be a suitably gracious way of doing things, though it might be easier just to buy them a pint.

Pintage, however, may not quite be adequate when borrowing from parents. Substitute the bribery of alcohol with a detailed and rigorous repayment schedule and you're getting closer to the mark, though this assumes that you have managed to borrow in the first place. Twenty quid borrowed from a friend so that you can get into a gig and have a few drinks while you're there is an eminently possible achievement. The same money for the same purpose might not be so forthcoming from your mother who still hasn't seen the tenner you borrowed in 1989 and promised faithfully that you would return later that day. The few options here are to base your arguments on family loyalty, the fact that you wouldn't try to cheat out of a debt to your own parents and, if all else fails, the classic teenage argument that "you just don't love me". It didn't work then, but it might work now.

Depending upon your entreaty, the art of asking can either be very simple or very difficult. Or somewhere in between. Maybe. Hey, don't look at me, I don't have all the answers. I shouldn't need to ask.