My cute, curvy Cuban friend Jossie (what kind of name is Jossie anyway? Is it a nickname of Josalyn?) recently posted a picture from her childhood. She told a sad tale to accompany her salad days photo from a school yearbook; a tale of her mum oppressing her wishes to look less like a floppy-haired, goofy blood clot (my description, not Jossie’s — don’t hurt me!) Not one to miss an opening, I thought I would share my childhood woes: the struggle and strife, and life, of a bowl-cut Beatles lookalike.

Unfortunately the haircut was not fleeting. It stalked me ruthlessly throughout my formative years, with my mother only allowing me to grow it after my 16th birthday. To this day I’m still haunted by brief visions of John Lennon out of the corner of my eye when I look in a mirror. Perhaps it was a rite of passage: become a man, develop body hair, lose my virginity, and stop looking like a poor, podgy, pudding basin child. My mother swears she wasn’t doing it out of spite, or some kind of cruel and unusual punishment. She also denies a childhood infatuation for the Beatles.

In actuality, I think my curse goes back another generation, to my grandmother. I’ve seen photos of my mother as a child, and she has the exact same hair cut as me. The contagious nature of nurturing!

While other parents beat their children, continuing the chain of abuse from their parents, my mother abused me mentally, with a formless and floppy coiffure.

Why am I making such a fuss about a haircut? Well, the clue was in the title — my haircut was really the only thing that plagued me through my childhood. Mind you, I didn’t have a girlfriend until I turned 18, and that sucked. I was always the one looking on and sighing wistfully from afar. I wish someone had told me back then that girls like guys to be confident and go-get-’em. It was only after I left school that my sister informed me that all the girls I fancied had a crush on me. I think that was the saddest day of my life, knowing I’d missed out on kissing some seriously beautiful European girls, and that I might never get a second chance. Thinking back, maybe it was the hair that scared them all away when I got close… Damn you, mother.

I was also bullied for a year or two, which caused some self-esteem issues throughout school (and was the main reason I never had the balls to ask a girl out). It was stupid, being bullied for being the brightest kid in school — and having a stupid hair cut (Damn you, mother!) Really, it’s depressing that such groups of people exist; they weren’t even bad on their own! I was friends with some of them individually, but when they grouped up… Ugh.

Anyway, I’m still a little mentally scarred from the bullying, and it’s probably my only mental ‘flaw’: I lack self-esteem when it comes to girls. I don’t actually believe a girl could be interested in me. It’s OK, while I’m talking, but when it gets right down to it, it becomes that that classic question: ‘How do you get a girl that’s laughing at your jokes into your bed?’ If anyone knows the answer to that, let me know.

With a grown-up view of things, I can see that my self-confidence issues are without merit and totally insane; but hey, who said fear or self-deprecation of any kind was rational?

But back to the happy childhood: you can see from the blurry background of the photo, that I was at Disneyland, at the age of 3 (I was a very large child!) By the age of 3 I’d been to Disneyland and Disneyworld and I’d walked up the steep hills of San Franciso. Back in England I was liberally educated, studying whatever I wanted to study — and excelling. I disliked sports, so I stopped running around and kicking balls. Instead I spent my time dissecting and rebuilding computers, and later programming and playing games on them.

The problem with a happy childhood is that there are no real stand-out moments that I can easily relate to and write about. I remember running around a lot — something I don’t do any more — and being a lot more bouncy than I am now. I remember being given a lot of attention from both my parents, and my inquisitive nature was never quashed. There’s a lot to be said for gentle guidance and the continual feeding of a young, impressionable mind.

I don’t propose to know more about parenting than anyone else — God knows I’ve not done it myself yet — but bringing up a child ‘correctly’ must be an interesting balancing act, if ‘correctly’ can even be defined (something to do with societal norms, I guess). I have friends that were brought up by completely claustrophobia-inducing and burgeoning parents, and I also have friends that might as well not had parents. Obviously I can’t be objective, as I’m the one in the middle, but I definitely think I’m the most ‘balanced’ of any of my friends.

It reminds me of my first week at university — do you know who partied the hardest, drunkenly slept with the most people and got horrendously sick? The kids that came from very strict backgrounds.

Temperance is the way forward!

Oh, just to tie it all up… Despite the hair, I do look a lot cuter in the picture than the modern-day hairy Sebastian, right? You can even see my dimple! Nice comments might encourage me to do a ‘Sebastian as a teenager’ entry (still sporting the Beatles bowl-cut!! Thank you, mother).

I also want to add that I still own the Transformer that you can see at the bottom of the photo… it’s on a shelf behind me, looking very dirty, dusty and worse for wear, but still very much my favourite toy.

Last week, after I uploaded that picture of me sporting a dorky bowl-cut, I also updated my Facebook profile with the picture.

Obviously, I was instantly inundated with ‘Awww, cute!’ from the girls and ‘Hey Seb, you shaved?’ from the boys. My cousin also replied, and he instantly transported me back to a moment in my childhood. I promised I would track down a photo that I have of me and him, riding some kind of truck. Warning, this is incredibly cute:

I haven’t named him, but if he wants to come here and claim his fame, please do! This picture mirrors the paradigm of our relationship — he was always ‘the bottom’. I would do the pushing  around; he would always do my bidding.

This post about my childhood should provide some good background reading for my About page; it will explain my motivations behind what makes me tick today.

The Age of Mobility

Sadly, I’m just kidding. My cousin is 10 months my senior and from what I’m told, I used to follow him around and do whatever he did. That’s why I love that picture so much; it shows that even at a young age, even with kids older and stronger than me, I was developing leadership skills that were to see me to be forever… mounted. I guess, even when I was just a few years old, I had a charisma that could enable me to get away with just about anything.

My childhood is full of stories of me doing crazy things and getting away with it. Until I was 2 or 3, we lived on the premises of a school (my mum was a teacher). When I was 2, I took the keys to a school bus (from the main office), walked outside, climbed into the bus and started it up. I also used to go walking… walking for a long time. Into the woods, around the out buildings. I assume there were people keeping an eye on me, but I really don’t remember!

I’m told I would go and talk to the grounds keepers, or mechanics. I was highly inquisitive as a child, and I’ve certainly kept that trait as I’ve grown up. I like to refer to these first 3 years as ‘the age of mobility‘, as it was the only time in my life where I was so active that it was actually troublesome for my parents to keep up with me. I slowed down a lot once I discovered computers — but computers just gave me access to millions of other people to work into a stupor through sheer charismatic enthrall.

Now have a completely random and adorable black and white picture of me from a photo booth. Aged 1 or 2 I guess — the next frame is of my mother, but I haven’t included it, as I should probably ask her first!

I told you that bowl-cut plagued me…

The Age of Inquisition

I was incredibly inquisitive as a child, often to a fault. That I disassembled over 10 video machines as a child is a fact my mother likes to remind me of on a regular basis. I remember sliding my sandwich into the hole, and then taking the machine apart to find out why the sandwich had stopped it from working. Later, as I became brighter, I would take them apart just try and work out what each bit did. I located and interrogated the capacitors, the integrated circuits, the magnets. While I stopped destroying video machines after a few years, I’m probably still the best person to ask for help if you have a faulty one (but I don’t think anyone has one any more, do they?) Maybe I should ask my mum if I can take apart the DVD player… or three.

When I wasn’t at home taking apart radios, washing machines and video players, I would be asking why? every 30 seconds. In the car, in my pram, walking — Why mummy? Why is it like that?

That trait still plagues me today, although my knowledge of the world is so vast now that asking why? rarely rewards me with an answer. Now I have to find out things for myself; I have to tear down reality and poke around at the mechanics of the world — and people  — to find out the answers I so desperately need.

That’s the main reason I travel: to see new environments and new cultures. I won’t be content until I know what makes everyone tick. It’s that kind of general knowledge that draws people to me for advice, and why I’m often considered wise.

A lot of people today are quite happy just to accept things they see and experience as given. When they ask Why? they are content with an answer of Because. I couldn’t imagine living in a world where everything happens just because. Cars whiz by, planes roar overhead and data is transferred across the span of the world at the speed of light — don’t you want to know how it happens?

I guess the next update on my childhood has to be of my teenage years… Maybe I can just get away with a crappy picture of me as a teenager, and leave it at that. Hmm.

After getting all too serious on the subject of religion yesterday, I thought it’d be a fun idea to run off tangentially and talk about everyone’s favourite topic: kiddie porn.

I should probably cease the sensationalism and just tell you what I really want to talk about: the current fad of teenagers sending naked, or very revealing, photos of themselves to other people. It’s even garnered its own portmanteau word: sexting.

Sexting is the same as texting, only… sexing it up a little, either with a photo, or even a little video clip! People have been doing it for years now — God knows I’ve received my fair share of dirty SMSes over the years (even some very naughty photos from angles that to this day I can’t work out). The problem is, kids have started doing it too; really young kids. I’m talking about 9 year-olds taking photos of themselves in just their underwear and sending it to a friend. More worryingly they’re being sent to boyfriends and girlfriends too.

If you don’t find that idea worrying enough, it’s also quite common for children to upload photos to social networking sites like Facebook, MySpace and Bebo — these kids just can’t get enough!

The reason it’s come into the media spotlight is because these images could be considered offensive, illegal material. If a girl sends a lewd photo to a friend of theirs, their friend could technically be arrested on the grounds of collecting child pornography. If their friend then goes one step further and uploads the image to a website, or sends it to other friends, they are then distributing child porn! This is an even more heinous offence, an offence which can land them some jail time, and a juicy entry in the sex offenders register.

A recent report found that 10% of all imagery and photography involving under-age children is self-produced — and that startling fact was from a child protection agency that has catalogued more than 9 million articles!

The risk here, as always, is that kids don’t know the potential harm that might befall them. Long-gone are the days when children were hardly ever let out of their parents’ sight. Long-gone are the days when innocence and chastity were virtues to be extolled above all others.

But most importantly, long-gone are the days without computers and mobile phones. They are undoubtedly the root cause of the problem, and the reason I am so interested in this ‘outbreak’ of self-manufactured kiddie porn. Computers are so infinitely powerful; they put so much raw, unrefined power at our fingertips that it must come as no surprise that uneducated use of them can result in alarming situations like this.

We, as a population, know so little about just how much a computer enables you. In just 200 years the world has gone from being immensely huge and undiscovered to infinitesimally small, with every nook and cranny inspected and exposed — because of computers! Just 20 years ago you would’ve had to wait 5 days for a response to a query by mail. Today you get antsy if you have to wait more than 5 seconds for Google to return the correct result.

Kids, normal, non-prodigal kids, must surely be unaware of the self-inflicted risks they are introducing by taking photos of themselves. How can they possibly know the risks when the normal source of such  information, our parents, aren’t any wiser? In the past, parents knew what dangers their children could expect. Those potential dangers changed slowly — from poisonous plants, to motor cars, to getting into a car with a stranger with a lolly pop — so slowly that parents could easily keep a tab on developments.

Fast forward to today and it’s simply impossible to keep up with all of the possible pitfalls that your children might unwittingly stumble into. The parents don’t know, the kids don’t know, and I would bet that even the security services are playing catch-up most of the time.

I’ll leave you with this hypothetical situation (although it’s probably not all that hypothetical…)

A young girl sends an older boyfriend a naked photo of herself. The boyfriend uploads it to the internet (not maliciously, perhaps just to another male friend, who knows). Then, an online predator finds the image which helpfully had a filename that matched the girl’s real name.

This predator is only a couple of steps away from finding the girl’s address, checking out her home on Google Maps Street View, analysing the apparent security, the number of cars outside, if there’s a fence or not and… well, you get the idea.

The Internet is a predator’s haven; for your sake of your children, or your friends, tell them to value their little, still-innocent bodies a bit more.

I want to tell you a story. It’s not a particularly exciting story, but it perhaps goes some way to explaining why I didn’t kiss a girl until I was 18, and until very recently didn’t know which hole was the ‘right’ one.

You see, I was never given ‘the talk’. I can only assume this was because my parents noticed just how little testosterone I had. A soggy noodle probably had more testosterone than teenage Sebastian. My skin was clear, with spots only developing under my long, froppy fringe (bangs). When my voice finally decided to break, it took about 5 years; my balls just didn’t know when to stop their voice-deepening descent!

See! I look like a damn girl! I even have a beauty spot, like that damn super model Cindy Crawford! And I TOLD you that bowl-cut would continue to haunt me for years to come!

Looking back, I probably should’ve asked my mother for hormone injections or something; I have her to thank for my limp-wristed effeminacy that ensured my complete lack of  action at school — zero, zilch. Even if our school had a bike shed, I would’ve had no one to use it with (I made up for that when I got to college, though — I had sex behind a bike shed! Hah!) On Valentine’s Day I would always be the one sending flowers and getting nothing in return; only ’secret’ love notes from my lovely mother. I blame my young, undefined, pretty face! Moving along now… (I told you I would post a picture from my teenage years!)

I was quite afraid of girls throughout my formative years; a fear that today shows itself as an awful lack of confidence when it comes to the actual ‘pulling’ of a girl. While all of my friends were playing spin the bottle and playing that ‘5 minutes in the cupboard’ game (where you were meant to come out with switched clothes! Were we the only kids that played that game?), I was sitting at he edge of the circle, or in the corner, praying the bottle didn’t land on me. As it turns out (and I wish someone had told me sooner, as I might’ve tried to change!) girls really dig a confident guy. Above all else maybe, girls nearly always want a guy that knows what he’s doing; and that certainly wasn’t me.

So, my teenage years, with a complete lack of sex or even sexuality were dull. That isn’t to say I didn’t do anything interesting, just nothing teenagery and interesting. I won competitions, and both my education and vocabulary were both growing at an alarming rate but… but there was no damn sex! Occasionally a girl would look at me with her big eyes and look downwards, blushing… but at the time, I had no idea that she liked me. No one told me what girls do when they like you! As I’ve said before, it was only after I left school that my sister told me about all these girls that had crushes on me…

But, you know what? I don’t blame my complete lack of sexuality entirely on my apparent lack of testosterone, or my ineptitude at talking to women. Sure, it would’ve been nice to receive ‘the talk’ from my parents, or at school, but I don’t blame that either.

I blame a certain teacher. A teacher that treated sex like a sin that would send you directly to Hell, without even the briefest glimpse of Purgatory. The kind of teacher that took a black marker to our textbooks and removed everything that could in some way be related to sex — even the novels we had to read for English! I remember picking up Pride and Prejudice and finding chapter upon chapter with blacked-out blocks of text.

It’s unsurprising then, as a teenager, I might’ve thought sex was a bit like the MI5 or the secret police: you know it’s going on, somewhere, somehow, but you don’t talk about it, and you certainly don’t act upon any urges you might be experiencing.

Now, the great thing about most schools is that even if you get a bad teacher, you know that next year you’ll have a new one! You know that no matter how bad it was, and how awfully you might’ve behaved, next year things will be better — you’ll have a new teacher, and a clean slate.  It was the same logic which drove me, on the last day of the school year, to spread glue on this teacher’s chair and laugh in her face when she tried to get up to write on the blackboard.

Imagine my horror when, after a gloriously long summer break, we swung the classroom door open to find the same teacher grinning at us from behind her big, mahogany desk. Our mouths hung open in what she can only have assumed was awe, but was in fact 10 kids displaying their combined rictus of mortal terror. ‘Welcome back, little children of God, to my shrine of celibacy and all things pure’ she said. Well, she didn’t really, but that was the thought racing through all of our minds. Would we really be having another boring year of sexless education?

Sadly, we would — another year passed; another year without even a lingering hug from a girl, or a nervous grope from my shaking hands. I was now 14, and whether I liked it or not, my voice was starting to break. I was starting to find hair in new and exciting locations. I was having to stay seated behind my desk while the class emptied with increasing, and alarming (but not unpleasant) regularity.

And then, the impossible, through some wicked twist of fate became… possible. The infinitely improbable somehow occurred. Someone, up there — the God of Schadenfreude, if she exists — was obviously having a rather hearty laugh at our expense.

We had the same teacher for the third year running.

By this stage, most of the girls were already wearing burqas and avoiding unnecessary contact/communication with the boys on pain of death by stoning. The boys had pretty much forgotten what a crafty, under-the-desk erection felt like. I was fully expecting to be handed a chastity belt as I walked into her classroom for the third year running; a chastity belt that had no key and was sealed with an unbreakable resin glue.

Some way through the third year, it was someone’s birthday, and it was normal for us to have a little birthday party on Friday afternoon to celebrate — you know, some music and decorations, some cake and ice cream. Normally someone would bring in the latest-and-greatest pop album and we’d dance and laugh for hours. This time though, someone had a great idea, a great idea that would resonate through the ages: let’s make a mix tape… a mix tape with naughty songs on it. Songs like… Let’s talk about sex, by Salt-n-Pepa.

God, looking back, we were so excited about the prospect of one-upping our draconian, prude, preacher freak of a teacher. We talked about it for days in hushed whispers during class. The giggle fits which inevitably followed only resulted in the removal of yet more privileges, which eventually led us to behave. We were mortified that she might actually cancel the party and ruin our glorious, immature plans!

The day of the party finally arrived. The girls had dressed prettily. The sporadic and not wholly unwelcome erections were back. Spontaneous, girly giggles could be heard regularly; lingering touches could be felt during and after hugs. After the party, with hot, red blood coursing through our systems and with pheromones thick in the air, surely this was it. Surely this was going to be my first kiss. At worst it would be my first tentative grope. I was ready; this was it. Bring it on!

4pm came and class finished. I got the tape player out with a bounce in my step and a grin on my little (effeminate!) face. I pushed the symbol of our freedom into the machine, pressed play.

She’d got to the tape.

Somehow that witch of a woman had got to our mix tape. There was a rather severe lack of Salt-n-Pepa; instead, the soft, sultry tones of Cliff Richard wafted into the air. The soft, completely devoid-of-sexuality notes of Summer Holiday hit our ears like a sonic boom; the silence that followed was deafening. The sexual tension that had positively thrummed throughout the day dissipated in an instant. Today wasn’t going to be the day of my first kiss; it wasn’t even going to be the day of my first sweaty-palmed grope. It was to be yet another disappointing day in the life of teenage Sebastian.

Fortunately, just a few months after that party, and after three long, boring years, the winds of luck finally changed: we got a new teacher!

For years afterward though, the playing of Let’s talk about sex as loud and as often possible was the signature prank of my class — preferably from outside her window.

“Youth is happy because it has the ability to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.” Franz Kafka

Franz Kafka was a Czech author of fiction, born in Prague, who was unfortunately only successful posthumously. He wrote in German, so that quote is merely a translation: an incredibly accurate and astutely-observed deduction that he only reached

That quote will be the basis for this article. I will expand it out and try to apply some of my own wisdom. I will try to explain why a world once so beautiful is now drab and dreary. Surely it is painfully obvious that the world we live in is still beautiful: those photos in National Geographic, or those TV shows of weird, otherworldly panoramas — they’re not lying. Those places are real and this world is still beautiful.  Objectively, we must be able to agree that the world is full of beauty. You might gripe and balk, claiming things ‘aren’t what they used to be’. You might claim that the world is a scarier place than when you were younger, fearless, running through a field of tall grass to escape your mother’s clutches.

These are subjective views of the world, a view of the world through your jaded eyes.  A view interpreted by your bitter brain. It’s not rational. The world is not ugly or dysfunctional. The world still is beautiful. We just don’t see it that way any more.

I was so easily pleased as a child. An ice cream or a new rattle would make me grin like a fool. Something as simple as a casette tape that I could grab with my pudgy hands and gnaw with my new teeth could keep me entertained for hours. Everything back then was so new and shiny; you really can’t leave any stone unturned when you’re a kid, the curiousity would eat you alive! What happens when you stick your finger in there? Why does the cat scratch me when I put it under the tap? Who comes running if I scream as loudly as I can?

Where does that wide-eyed look of amazement go? Why don’t adults jump out of bed, look out the window and smile? Perhaps they smile, but only until self-awareness returns and reality snaps back into sight. The mantle of stress settles back down upon your shoulders and the smile disappears.

Why, as adults, are we so damn hard to please? Why can’t we find pleasure in the simple act of surviving, or discovering something new? Why does being an adult like feel like nothing more than 60 years of receiving socks for your birthday?

Go back to when you were younger. Shut your eyes, if that helps, and recall a time when you were a child. A time when you were reckless; stomping around the garden, running away from your parents at an amusement park, stealing candy from the cupboard. You probably can’t remember the exact details, but you can probably recall the emotion you were feeling, or perhaps a strong smell or visual memory. You’re grinning now, right, in recollection?

Our childhood is simply full of those memories — the memories of first-time experiences. Adult life is a little more sparse, but you probably still remember your first kiss, or the first film you saw at the cinema — they are probably even more intense, undulled by the passage of time. You also remember the bad first times: when you fell from your bike and scraped your knee, or when your best friend dumped you for someone else.

These experiences (and thus memories) are so intense and so memorable that they inevitably form the basis of who you will become. This is, in fact, nurture. Nurture isn’t just being slapped for eating candy before dinner, or being told that you’ll get hairy palms if you continue so fervently. Nurture is everything that happens to you, from birth through to death. Nurture governs, through good experiences, what will become the love and passion of your life. Conversely, and this is the important bit, your bad experiences dictate what will become your fears and distrusts.

It is through bad experiences — the presence of pain, both mental and physical — that we learn what to avoid in the future. When we are stung by a bee as a child that nearly always develops into a fear of bees when we’re older. When we’re scolded by our mother for running around the house, we’re unlikely to grow into Olympic athletes.

This isn’t a new thing — it’s incredibly ancient, probably going back millions of years. Even the most basic of animals do the same: they avoid pain at all costs. It’s a survival trait! You do something wrong, it causes pain, you don’t do it again in the future. This is basic, basic stuff to ensure the continued existance of your race.

And that’s what causes us to become dull. Eventually, with enough painful experiences, we become jaded. Our decision making is so clouded by every single one of those pains that it becomes very hard to simply have fun. You can’t go skydiving because you fell and hit your head when you were younger. You can’t stand under a waterfall because you almost drowned when you were a child. It’s a survival instinct, but it’s not necessarily rational.

We’re living in a world with an infinite number of possibilities and an infinite source of beauty. Our ability to see that beauty — and reach Peter Pan’s Never Land, if you believe Kafka — is impeded only by our fears. As children we were endlessly energetic and reckless because we didn’t know of the pains that awaited us. The only difference is that now we approach everything with such boring cautiousness.  We don’t pick it up and shake it around — we’re afraid it’ll blow our hands off!

A world composed of people living in fear, unable to see the innate beauty of our surroundings is a world devoid of creative inspiration. When everyone is afraid of getting their hands dirty, or doing something just to see what happens, that’s a dead world.

Just remember, next time you have a wild idea — something fun, something awesome — don’t let what occurred 20 years ago get in the way. Just do it!

I had planned a fantastic post today about immortality (as one does…) but as I sat down to type it out, my mother called up the stairs:

‘Don’t forget, it’s your birthday tomorrow!’

Thanks for reminding me, mum.

‘25! That’s a quarter of a century! A third of your life, GONE!’

You can shut up now, mum.

‘By the time I was your age, I was married and had you!’

I shut my door, sat down and… pouted. How am I meant to think philosophically about immortality — the soul, your mind, infinity — when my mother’s busy reminding me of my own, pesky mortality?

‘I expect grandchildren sooner rather than later, Sebby.’ Somehow, her nagging had penetrated my door. Remind me to buy some high-density foam with my birthday money. To soundproof my room. Though, I could probably smother her with it, too; and no, not in ’smothered in cream’ sense — I’m not Oedipus.

And so it is with anger in my fingers that I bash out this blog entry. I’m not old damnit. I have plenty of time to get things done, to find the next love of my life and to spawn a son suitable for inheriting my universal empire. Oodles of hours and a slew of centuries — however you measure it, it’s still time, a slave destined to bend to the wishes of its master: us. Mark my words, friends: we will live forever.

Laying aside that particular topic, I have a bunch of fun photos to share with you, to celebrate the first 25 years of my life. But first, as with all living things, there was a birth. I was born after 48 hours of labour, by Caesarean section (fitting, considering my aspirations), to a rather tired mother. I was almost called Dominic (of all names, why Dominic?) but thankfully my mother’s crush for Sebastian Flyte in Brideshead Revisited prevailed. I can’t imagine being called Dominic now; it’s hardly the name of an intergalactic imperator.

That’s me, a month or two old — it’s hard to tell, because I was a huge baby, 10lbs or more (remember, ladies, 48 hours. 2 days of labour). The Brits will recognise the gesture I’m making; the rest of you will just have to believe me when I say it’s a fitting flick of the fingers. Looking through our Hall of Fame (we have a corridor dedicated to our old photos), I hardly recognise myself until I’m about 2 or 3. New-born, I look like my mother — a year or two later, I start to look like my father. By the age of 4, I’m a bit of both but a new ingredient has been thrown into the mix: cuteness.

It’s kind of sad to realise, looking through the hall of fame, that I’ll never be as cute as that again. I peaked at the age of four. Perhaps my mother is right — perhaps I do need to find a wife as soon as possible. Perhaps, as each day ticks by and another year is sliced from my mortality, I’m getting uglier. Ugh. Oh well. I’ll just tell every girl that I meet that I actually look just like the photo above, if I shave it all off. That’ll work.

Things got a little wonky after that, and I shan’t be posting pictures from my teenage years again. If you really want to see what I look like, go and read my childhood entries. Warning: I look a bit like a girl.

Moving swiftly on, from the androgynous Beatles-lookalike stage of my life, I bring you kicking-and-screaming to my 21st birthday!

I’m having more fun than it looks, I promise. I’m just making it quite clear that the bits of foil stuck on my face were not my own doing, and they kept falling off into my food. Japanese food deserves better than that, damnit! Fun side-story: the phone being looked at in the background has naked photos of my ex-girlfriends on, and they’re just about to find them. And one of them was my girlfriend at the time (hah, that’ll teach them to pry!) It’s also the phone I eventually lost on a bus, making some guy (or girl) very lucky indeed… sorry, girlfriends. I’m sure they can’t identify you from that angle, anyway.

I’ll finish with a photo from my last summer ball — the final event in the university’s social calendar — with what seems to be a very happy girl in my arms:

It’s shocking how much I look like my cousin, but that’s another story for another day! By the time you read this, I’m probably in bed, trying to catch a few fleeting hours of sleep before my mother bounds into my bedroom to celebrate the passing of yet another significant milestone in my life. Twenty-one, check. Quarter-century, check. The next must surely be ‘get married’… Or will thirty come and go…?

It’s not too late to send me a birthday present! I accept almost any form of gift/keepsake including, but not limited to: book token, personalised poem, (un)used underwear, cash or banker’s draft.

Following on from the rampant, run-away success of last week’s column, I now bring you three more fresh and exciting problems for me to sink my teeth into. Only this week there’s a twist — I’ve invited the eccentric Mr. Apron to also offer his… alternative… point of view on the questions I’ve been sent this week. There’s a chance he’ll get his own column here on this blog, but let’s see how this goes first…

Dearest Sebby,

Can I ever compare to Katee Sackhoff? She’s so hot. Maybe I should just give up and hand my boyfriend over to her now. Of course I probably make better cakes than her, but I think he’d probably still be happier with her.

Please lavish me with your opinions o’ great geek,
Apollo’s Dad Is Sexier

Seb

Well the good news is that Katee — Starbuck from Battlestar Galactica — isn’t conventionally beautiful. There’s certainly something about her though — that rough, craggy exterior that only occasionally breaks open to reveal a soft, supple interior; much like an armadillo, really. By the end of the final season of BSG she also has an attractive element of mystery — what is she?! — something, let’s face it, you can probably never compete with.

My tip to you, like most style gurus, is to accentuate on your strong traits. If your hair is ruddy blonde — bleach it! Heck, even if it’s not, bleach it anyway! If there’s something about you that your boyfriend really likes, work it! If he likes the dirty, greasy, raw look — who are you to deny him that pleasure? If all else fails: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Smother him in baked goods, spread yourself eagled on the bed, covered in nothing but crumbled pieces of meringue and Chantilly cream.

For further advice, please send me a large slab of chocolate brownie.

Apron

Dear Katee Wannabee,

I must not watch enough television– I had no idea who this bitch was.  I had to Google Images her and was disappointed to see that, even with the SafeSearch filter turned off, there were no money shots anywhere.  I disagree with Sebastian on the matter of her beauty, intrinsic or otherwise.  Am I the only one who’s noticed that her left eye is all weird?

Then again, Wannabee, I guess your boyfriend isn’t spending too much time staring at her left eye.

Can you ever compete with her?  No.  Can you bash her in the leg with a lead pipe?  Well, it worked for Tonya Harding, but I wouldn’t recommend it.  Look, seriously, all you can do is put out more.  Five, six times a day if you have to.  Sure, your boyfriend will be thinking about Katee Sackhoff each and every time, but at least you’ll be keeping him busy and off Google Image with the SafeSearch filter off.

I disagree with Seb also, (sorry, mate) that you should alter your appearance by bleaching your hair to satisfy your schmuck boyfriend but, if you do decide to do that, I think you should then shave it all off and mail it to Katee Sackhoff.  That’ll teach her to be sexy.

Feel free to mail me brownies or whatever, too.

Dear Dr Sebby!!!

How the hell do I get an audio player to work on my blog? I think it involves converting MP4 files (like I know what that is) to MP3 (which sounds slightly familiar).

Or I need to know the “location” to something? Basically I want to play 99 red balloons on my blog and I don’t know how!!!

HELP ME NOW PLEASE!!
- Distressed Blogger

[I stripped out lots of punctuation, but I felt the three exclamations and ALL CAPS had to be left in -S]

Seb

I assume you mean the, um, German classic by Nena? I’m not sure how I feel about helping you spread German propaganda, and I’m sure my counterpart Apron will have something to say about that too. Fortunately, I will see past any prejudices I might have and fulfil my Hippocratic oath.

• It sounds like you need to start by converting the MP4s to MP3 by using a program. There’s a guide on how to use it, but it looks fairly self-explanatory: drag music in, click convert, enjoy your new MP3s.
• Next, you need to upload them to the Internet. This is slightly trickier. Start by registering at DivShare and then following the prompts to upload your MP3 files. When you’re done, you should have a link across the top of your browser window — you can either use this direct link in your MP3 player of choice, or click the link, then ‘Embed/Sharing Options’, and use their MP3 player (it’s up to you).
• If you decide to use your own MP3 player (which it sounds like you already have set up?), you then place the above link (http://www.divshare.com/download/something-123.mp3) into the embed code, and voila!

(If you have no idea what ‘embed code’ I speak of, there’s a great YouTube video that’ll walk you through the entire process, if you can put up with some kind of hideous English/Indian/Chav/Something?? accent.)

Apron

Dear Distressed,

I’m so sorry to hear that you’re having issues with playing music on your blog.  What a serious bummer.

Here’s a thought: instead of trying to snazz your blog up with music to distract your visitors’ attention from the fact that you have no meaningful content, why don’t you try to focus all the energy you’ve exhausted trying to figure out how to set up an MP3 player on your blog and put some of that effort into the actual writing?!

Now there’s a novel idea, isn’t it?  A blog with words.  That people read.  If people want to hear music, they’ll open Pandora [We can't use this in Europe any more, very sad -S] in a different window and listen to music while they read your blog.  If you want to share the music you love so much with the rest of the world, make us mix tapes, you hopeless romantic, you.

Your blog is also probably rife with exciting graphics and YouTube clips and pictures of cats wearing stupid hats saying “I Can Has Cheezburger?” isn’t it?

Jesus Christ.

Monsieur Seb,

I have a bit of a tricky one for you, one that I think might not have a right answer, but I’ll give your ‘Ask Me Anything’ a shot!

I’m in love with my brother’s girlfriend, or at least I think it is love. She’s 3 years older than me, but that hasn’t changed matters. I don’t think my brother knows, but he must be at least somewhat suspicious. I guess he just trusts us enough that he hasn’t entertained the thought of his girlfriend and me flirting.

But yeah, the problem is: she also likes me. We kissed last week, in the living room! Stupid, I know, and my brother came in after we’d finished. We both had the most telling, embarrassed faces. I don’t know how long we can keep it up. Should we elope to Vegas? Haha. His girlfriend has told me she really likes me, but she’s not sure who she likes more… Aaaargh!

Help me, Sir Seb!
In Love And Confused, USA

Seb

There’s definitely no easy solution to this one, sorry. It happens to us all: we fall for the forbidden fruit, the fruit that’s all the more ripe and tasty because someone else has already picked it. It’s like someone has already certified the fruit ‘highly tasty’ and you just gotta have a bite. It’s more commonly seen amongst adults as the ‘wedding ring’ syndrome — married men especially get chased a lot by women seeking a nice man!

Your situation is all the more complicated because it sounds like you’re still living at home, so your brother’s girlfriend is always about the place — no doubt you’ve caught her in pyjamas or other revealing clothing too…?

But to the resolution: first, you should try and forget all about her. Your brother got there first and she says she likes him. That’s the obvious solution. Without knowing the details of your brother’s relationship, it’s hard to say whether you should chase or let go of the girl — if she’s not happy with your brother, or your brother mistreats her… perhaps it’s worth chasing? You’re both young, and if you really love her, go for it! Unless this girl is the love of his life, of course, in which case, forget it.

No matter which route you take, you will have to talk to your brother sooner or later — preferably before he actually catches you doing something dishonourable, so you should probably start with that!

Apron

Dear In Love (Though Probably Not),

I’d love to know how old you are.  From the tone of your letter, I’m guessing you’re fourteen.  Son, you have to be old enough to drive before you can “elope to Vegas” and then you have to be old enough to get married.  As far as I know, the only people in America who can get married at 14 are the Amish, and they have enough problems.

Sebastian, I can’t believe you’re advising this kid to talk to his brother about this– what’s wrong with you? [Sorry, call it my 'inner belief in all things good and proper'... -S] First of all, Americans don’t “talk” to each other, about anything.  They text each other.  Second of all, this kid’s older brother is probably some square-jawed, Neanderthal, knuckle-dragging high school senior who will bury his hockey stick inside this kid’s head at the mere mention that he’s got the hots for his girlfriend.

I’ll bet she is pretty fucking hot, though, isn’t she?  Tank-tops, little shorts all rolled up at the waist, too, I’ll bet.  Mmmmm…

Which brings me quite neatly to the solution to your little problem: it’s this crazy new thing all the teens are doing these days.  It’s called: masturbation.  See, friend, you don’t have to fuck every chick you think is attractive, especially the one who happens to be attached to your brother’s midsection.  You think she’s hot?  Great.  Jerk off while thinking about her.

Problem solved.

P.S. Don’t you love how Sebastian and his fellow Brits write “dishonourable” and “pyjamas?”  Cute!

It’s been a while since I last wrote about music. Listening to music, like the appreciation of all art forms, is a very personal and subjective thing. You might like rock and I might like soul, but as long as we both get what we’re looking for, who cares? Well, I care! I listen to contemporary pop and sigh. It saddens me to think that, for some people, this is as good as it gets.

If we’re not careful the King of Pop will be nothing more than an honourific title thrown around by future generations in the playground: ‘Dad says the King of Pop died recently.’ ‘Yeah, sucks. Did you hear the latest Britney Spears song? It rocks!’ Unless someone — you or I — steps in and reminds children of what real music once sounded like and where their music originally came from, we can forget all hope of there ever being another King of Pop, Soul or Rock ‘n’ Roll.

* * *

The King of Pop, Michael Jackson. Not the Baron or Prince or Godfather — the King; the top dog upon which all comparisons are made and will be for years to come. I’m not going to talk about the last 20 years of his life but instead I will focus on the first 30, the three decades that revitalised a flagging music industry. In those thirty years, Michael Jackson became the greatest and most influential musician of our time. To those amongst us that appreciate music and its power; to those of us that are prone to bouts of aural sex: we have a lot to be grateful for! I just hope I can do Michael justice and nail the most important aspects of his influential and protean career.

While certainly successful, the first ten years of his life as the lead singer of The Jackson 5 were hardly monumental. The Jackson family were recognised as a musically-gifted family and Michael was nothing more than a charismatic and spectacular performer. But he could only grow so much, restricted by Motown’s draconian production rules and an oppressive father. The Jacksons were destined, unless something changed, to be a flash in the pan — certainly one of Motown’s biggest success stories (four successive number ones is nothing to be ashamed of!), but minuscule compared to what the Jackson family in general and Michael in particular were capable of. Perhaps the most important role of the Jacksons would be to become the first black teen idols. Breaking down barriers would be a recurring aspect of Michael Jackson’s life at the forefront of the music industry.

Stifled by Motown, The Jacksons jumped ship to CBS in 1975, a move that would finally grant the band the creative freedom it required. The Jacksons produced lots of albums in the following decade, but none of them approaching the success of their early Motown hits. But for Michael, it would be a different story indeed: in 1978 he met Quincy Jones on the set of The Wiz — “I hated doing The Wiz… I did not want to do it,” Quincy said later — they didn’t know it then but Quincy’s involvement with the film would soon change musical history and forge the greatest, most influential and successful collaboration in music history. Quincy Jones is a musician and conductor whose career and incredible influence spans five decades. With 27 Grammys and countless other awards, Quincy, like the Jacksons, broke down barriers that would allow future African-Americans to succeed in the culturally-biased media industry. The scope of Quincy Jones’ work is so varied and vast that it’s hard to comprehend: we’re talking about a legend that played alongisde Miles Davis during the creation of modern jazz and bebop, but then later produced the largest-selling album of all time (Thriller). He’s worked with Sinatra, Spielberg and even Bill Cosby. However, after Bad, his production and arrangement days were over — perhaps, after five decades of musicianship, the impresario had finally set down on paper the notes and themes that had run through his head for fifty years. Perhaps it was time to make way for future generations?

But I digress: it was on the set of The Wiz that this partnership of mentor and young prodigy begun. Off The Wall was born from the marriage of orchestral jazz, soul and 70s disco. Off The Wall fused sounds and melodies and dazzlingly energetic themes that had been building up for decades but never fully exemplified until this album was mastered and distributed. It’s worth noting, though their influences were not particularly significant, that both Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney wrote tracks for Off The Wall — perhaps this shows just how much confidence these musical geniuses had in Michael?

If Quincy and Jackson’s first collaboration hadn’t quite cemented things — Off The Wall only sold 20 million copies! — their next album would prove beyond doubt that they’d hit the spot. Thriller would be the first and only album to become something more than just a finely-crafted collection of songs. The astronomical number of sales — 109 million — would thrust Thriller into the category of ‘household staple’ rather than ‘commodity’ — families would go to the supermarket to buy bread, milk and a copy of Thriller. To this day, Thriller has more than doubled the next-largest album (45 million — Dark Side of the Moon) and its universally popular appeal will no doubt continue its reign of supremacy.

The bone of contention that one usually comes across when examining Jackson’s career is thus: how much of the success was actually due to him? Did Michael’s career begin as a vehicle for Motown’s music machine and end as nothing more than the pop industry’s poster child? Is it important? If we can learn one thing from history it’s one thing: for better or worse, the outcome is what counts, not the minutia, not those that fall by the wayside. If you discount his later work and simply focus on his early-adult albums — Off The Wall, Thriller, Bad and Dangerous – you have a body of work that was not only phenomenally successful but also more influential than the creations of any other artist in the last 40 years. It’s because of Jackson that we have hip-hop and rap music. Jackson revitalised a pop industry that was suffocating under the burgeoning force of uncreative, uninspired electronica. The phenomenon of Michael Jackson caused a rebirth of popular music that inspired and influenced almost every modern R&B, funk and pop musician.

I haven’t even begun to touch on the immortal influence that Michael Jackson had on both the youth and adults of the world with his music videos and live performances. Jackson created the music video that we know today; he single-handedly launched MTV to stardom with Thriller. Jackson, through sheer artistic brilliance, destroyed the last vestiges of African-American inequality in the media. Michael Jackson’s choreographic style — oh, that white trilby, those hip-thrusts and those gloves — had an effect more profound than anything since Fosse’s jazz or Jerome Robbins’ West Side Story.

I hope that the world, the media-consuming public, can in the next few years put aside any moral objections they have to the man himself and simply focus on what he created. It is irrelevant to wonder whether he is solely to thank for his wondrous advances in music or if he was merely the focus of myriad prodigious input from Quincy Jones. The matter of the fact is thus: Michael Jackson pioneered and sat atop the pinnacle of a musical, a rich cadence that had been bubbling and building up for decades. It finally exploded with Michael Jackson’s solo albums and the world is a richer place for it. From Miles Davis to Stevie Wonder and the entire R&B, jazz and soul libraries that flutter and reside in between, Michael Jackson created, embraced and become the very embodiment of modern pop music.

* * *

The two best albums you could buy a child or musical neophyte are Davis’ Kind Of Blue and Jackson’s Off The Wall. There is no better way to be quickly brought up to speed on the roots and direction of modern music. And if you haven’t heard either of them, you are doing yourself and rest of the world an injustice!

RIP, Michael Jackson. Surely one of your sons must be reaching the age where he might show an interest in singing or dancing…

No picture of me in a doctor’s jacket again! What a gyp! (Note the interesting derivation on ‘gypsy’ — never knew that!) You must be so disappointed in me yet again. But in my defence, this week’s been a really unpleasant mix of heat, humidity and stiflingly oppressive stillness. The only breeze is that which has been stirred up by the feeble fan that’s currently keeping my feet cool. So you get some angstily-answered questions this week and a re-used picture of me that you’ve probably seen before. If you’re not interested, go and watch my video blog from yesterday. Or go ask me a question!

Every question this week has something to do with love or sex or relationships!
(Sorry, I know it’s a bit over the top… but yes, now you know what my eyes look like… yay!)

Dear Sex-pert Seb, [This feels more like a tabloid each week, excellent -S]

I want to do something for my man which will make him smile every time he thinks about it… and I don’t mean baking an amazing cake! I mean something naughtier.

As someone who is obviously experienced in naughty things, what can you suggest?

- Sexless in Seattle

A juicy one to start with. It probably comes as no surprise to you, me being a man and all, that the only real thing I’ve been able to focus my thoughts on over the last week, during this heatwave, is… sex. I’m all hot and sweaty and so my thoughts inevitably drift to when I was last hot and sweaty. Not being the kind of person to do any exercise outside of the bedroom, my mind wanders to all of the beautiful women that I’ve made love to.

You came to the right person: Sex-pert Seb! I’ve read a lot of girl magazines (Cosmo, Marie Claire, etc.) over the years (I told you, I’m inquisitive) and consider myself a bit of a guru when it comes to this particular topic. The suggestions tend to vary from downright-weird to the hmm-that-sounds-quite-nice-actually but they nearly all revolve around one thing: oral sex (or cooking for him, misogyny be damned!)

There are a lot of variations, some more difficult and/or degrading than others — I’ll give you an easy one to start with: go down on him while he’s asleep, in the morning. It’s a very, very good way to wake up, I assure you.

For more information, search the Internet for the many guides on the topic, but here’s SexInfo101’s to get you started: Fellatio I – Basics.

Geek Master S,

I write to you in greatest secrecy because… because it’s about a girl that I like. But she’s a geek, so she might be able to find this if I give you too much information. Anyway, there’s this girl I like, but I don’t know how to make her love me! Or at least for her to take me seriously! She’s more of a geek than me. She likes all sorts of weird stuff like comics and TV shows with vampires in. I watched Buffy though, and that’s alright, but the rest… I dunno.

Anyway, my question is, how can I be the guy she wants? We are good friends right now, but sex/relationships seem like the last thing on her mind, but I must make her mine!

Live long and prosper (that’s what you geeks say right?),
Clueless Wannabe Geek

Ah, young padawan (that’s a trainee Jedi, from Star Wars), you have much to learn — but it is a good, ripe topic worthy of your focus! The geeks will inherit the world, if they have not already done so, and it’ll be a better place for it! Fortunately, I’m about as big a geek as it gets, so I’ll try to impart some useful knowledge that’ll hopefully a) make you a better person (more of a geek) and b) get into her pants.

First, you need to at least be interested in her and what she does (this is good advice for any girl, incidentally). If she likes vampires, you better start liking vampires, or at least try to read the latest Twilight book. Or invite her around for a Buffy/True Blood marathon. If she likes comics, ask her which super hero/universe is a good one to start with, and go buy it! For bonus points, accompany her to some kind of comic/geek convention and dress up according to her wishes.

As long as you’re interested, she should fall into line pretty quickly. You don’t even have to be an alpha geek yourself, she’d probably be more than happy with someone that doesn’t hush into silence her latest thoughts on the ‘continuity of Star Trek: The Next Generation episode 42′.

For more information, I have to refer you to my own awesome Geek Guides: Why geek girls are awesome (well duh), Geeks make good lovers (this is why you want to make her yours, trust me…)

Sebby-poo, [I got called this for a short period at school by girls. It was not a good time in my life. -S]

I think I’m gay… I like girls. I don’t know if it’s a problem per se, or if it will become a problem later on… but right now, I’m just a bit confused, you know? Is it a phase? Should I tell someone to get it off my chest, or will that only make it worse in today’s day and age? I guess that’s what I’m doing now by telling you?

I suppose I’m looking for advice, if there’s anything I should know. Some background info: I’ve had a few boyfriends but nothing long-term. I’ve had sex with one boy and it was… nice. Nothing special! I recently kissed a girl at a house party… we were drunk… turns out she’s liked me for ages though… and it did feel nice, leaving me wishing something more had happened!

Help me! Am I gay or straight or just…

- A Confused Girl

Well this one’s tricky and ‘are you gay?’ is a good place to start. Sexuality has always been a contentious topic: is it genetic? Nurtured? Instilled by popular culture? The prevailing theory at the moment is that it’s a big mix of nurture and nature — your genetics and hormonal balance might play a big role in it, but so does your upbringing and experiences. No one really knows to be honest (no doubt we’ll learn more about it in the next few decades now that homosexuality is becoming ‘OK’ in modern society). The only real measurement of gayness is: do you feel more attraction (in the full sense — mental and physical, ’till death do you part) to other women? If so, then you’re gay.

But that’s OK!

It’s quite important to remember that being gay does not lock you into various stereotypes and mannerisms. You don’t have to cut your hair short and adorn yourself with tattoos. You don’t have to slap on some lipstick and make out with other girls in clubs (though you can do either if you like). You already have a potential girlfriend lined up, which is good; she can show you the ropes, and you won’t have to wander into the treacherous and seedy world of ‘gay bars’ to experiment. Talking of experimentation: who knows, it might turn out that you’re not actually into girls after all. Perhaps you’re simply curious about things, or you’re out of a disaffected relationship with a boy!

Most of all, don’t worry. Being gay is more socially accepted now than ever before! That doesn’t mean you’ll fit in everywhere, especially in mature or religious communities, and you must accept that their point of view on homosexuality is as valid as yours, and a lot more entrenched. Life as a lesbian might not always be easy, but the important thing is that you’re happy and able to be yourself.

I didn’t have time to finish yesterday’s story of hellish automobile disaster, so instead you get some pretty photos to look at.

This is just to prove that I am capable of portrait photography and not just pretty landscapes! (And if you haven’t bought one of my Faroese photo prints yet, why not?)

First up, one in colour:

And now a close-up of his eye, because you can see me and the reflection of his arm, which is pretty neat:

And finally, two black and whites of a kid that’s waaaay too photogenic:

Can you make out ‘Ray Ban’ on his glasses? Damn poser.

But the t-shirt makes up for it: