Beep. Beep. Beep. 7 o’clock and I definitely don’t want to wake from my ignorance. “Oh my god,” I think, for the last blasphemous time this week, “What is it with religion and dawn?” Stumbling out of bed to light the incense, I burn my hand and know that I truly am suffering. Lotus, unfeasibly adopted, I imagine myself atop a mountainous precipice, my inner Buddhist sat cross-legged and Zen, my external Self, the blizzard blowing all around. Combining the two sides of my personality is impossible; the gale won’t be contained. I txt Wnstn, ‘Noble Truth Lvl 3. My suffering has ceased.’ As I sit cross-legged, meditating with Winston at lunch, I contemplate that thinking about nothing requires a lot of concentration. I find sitting on the floor of the chaplain’s office to be surprisingly comfortable, Winston less so.

What a glorious day to wake as a Buddhist! Self-improvement no longer a distant concept, inner peace begins now! The last two years a chemical assault, and now sex is something you do with yourself. Vrrhhmm, 1 New Msg. ‘Fuck how did you get the EXP? I’m haemorrhaging lvls today, Buddha would not be proud,’ I reply, prompting a reminder about swearing. Lunch, a heavenly bacon and sausage baguette sits in front of me, uneaten. “No meat,” John says. I hand it to Fran, the vegetarian, and sip on my pint of lemonade, hardly the beer I was longing for. I’d have felt embarrassed with it and jealous without, but Buddhism didn’t subscribe to such petty emotions. Perhaps meditation was the answer? Awkwardly becoming a lotus, breathing in time, humming and chanting; “Why are we here and where are we going? Why are we here and where are we going?” Not getting anything, I turned to distract John off his mountain Zen. Too late. “I was praying for a fart,” he grins. Buddha would be proud.

Even by Tuesday, somewhere in the midst of our meditative state, we were both finding solace. Today’s problem was that we couldn’t find any Sikhs and I guess that’s how the game started: “You go hide…and I’ll count to ten.” Last resort, we thought, ring them.
“Hi, my name’s John, I was wondering if…”
“This is Sikh temple.”
“Yes, yes I know. I was just wondering whether my friend and I could come to your gurdwara and learn some more about your religion…”
“No.” Dial tone…

A dawn breakfast of yoga and meditation finds me the epitome of Zen. The sand on the shore, the leaf in the wind and an evening of Hindu prayer. The musicality of the religion gives it a festival feel, the melodies as friendly and accepting as the participants. Practical life philosophies combined with strange metaphors dictates that the cow standing on one leg destabilises the fourth age. Winston and I manage to find ourselves at the front and the pressure is certainly on. Some clapping begins and I’m keen to get involved, but terrible timing keeps me on the back foot. I glance left and I can see the cogs of Winston’s mind working. “Should I join in? He’s doing it…” Five minutes and the first tentative clap later, followed by more out-of-time but rhythmical noises and suddenly we are doing it, we’re being Hindus and it’s great.

After taking off our shoes, we entered a room filled with incense and atmosphere. As we sat I immediately felt the awkwardness of a mass gaze burrowing into the back of my skull. “They shouldn’t be here.” “Why is he singing if he isn’t Hindu?” I was not singing, partly through lack of knowledge and partly out of a respect I didn’t realise I possessed. If Hinduism without Brahman is an open-minded philosophy, Abrahamic religion without God is borderline fascism; moral authoritarianism reveling in its own ignorance.

The next night, Shouldbe Ginger leant back in his chair with a slightly arrogant swagger. The fundamental logic of Christianity is that it’s consistently illogical – God is right, God is just, and all else follows from this; when questioned whether it’d be just for Him to send a murdered baby to hell, his answer was a straight-faced, unequivocal “Yes.” In an effort to unpicasso my bewildered expression, he continued, “I don’t believe that’s what he’d do, but if he did, then yes.” The Muslims explained that as every baby is born into Islam, a murdered one would be sent to heaven. Mid-discussion, Winky said, “I think of you two, who could be out there getting smashed, as truly blessed, because you’re in here, learning about these things.” I felt slightly guilty – he obviously hadn’t read our work. I later questioned the logic that Jesus could atone for all our sins via a tepidly brutal death, while if we wished to take responsibility for our own actions, eternity in the fiery pits of hell would be our only recourse. Islam conversely teaches that you atone for your own sins and God is a just figure who balances your good deeds with your bad. Taking responsibility for your own actions - active repentance over empty words - a school of thought that rests easy with me.

One of the great religious questions is, “If God loves us, why is there suffering in the world?” and I answer, “Because it is his means of control over “us”. If Earth was a utopia, there would be no desire to reach heaven.” “Erm…,” says Shouldbe, “I have no idea why he uses suffering, but he does.” As I thumb through the Qur’ân, I hope it has more answers.

Blindfolded and bound to secrecy, the Jew leads us to their Shabbat meeting place. “Just in case you’re terrorists,” he explains. “Winston,” I whisper, “Let’s not mess around with these guys, they’re renowned for using disproportionate force.” Short walk later and we’re at the safe house, blindfolds off. “Sorry guys,” apologises our host to the group, already waiting in the cold. “Jewish Mean Time!” Apparently GMT-1. The Reformist service begins with some prayers and I am handed a book, which I turn in my hands several times. I can’t seem to find the front or even turn the book the right way round. Dinner finds me amidst philosophical debate, sat next to a guy eating chicken bones and surrounded by people with names beginning with ‘J’. Coincidence? I begin to understand that Israel is their identity and giving it up is exactly that hard. And that world domination isn’t always on their minds. And that to pray properly you need at lest ten people. As we are leaving, a voice calls: “Are we still playing the Christians off against the Muslims on Sunday?” “Ssshhh,” insists another, “they’re still here.”

The Orthodox ringleader taps shoulders to rally a spinning circle of shouting, stamping and praying Jews. On second invitation, I join in. A moment late and a foot behind, my contribution to the forming dust cloud was still unhindered. “Asbestos!” came the cry, group laughter relieving my anxiety. Dinner time. HotJew argues with Bone Eater while I sinfully lust for my chicken soup. Reformist and Orthodox - fate predetermined; liberal v conservative, progressivism v traditionalism, the Old Argument. No intellectual institution escapes it. The arguement is over the fact women aren’t allowed to lead Orthodox prayer – a traditional sexism all too familiar in Abrahamic religions. Still, they knew how to make chicken soup, so I directed my judgement at that. Verdict: impeccable. As I went to leave, Ringleader relayed John’s fears that they would hold a secret meeting on our departure, illustrated by their map of world domination. Oh, how we laughed our paranoid laughs.

As we enter, the dirge of the organ music echoes through the church. Sober and sedate, we take a pew, waiting for the service to start. Hard-backed and un-cushioned, I remark that no one could fall asleep here. The service begins promptly with the ring of a bell and I stand only to look down at the prone form of Winston, asleep. As the sermon drones, I think: “I don’t believe in your religion, why am I a sinner? That’s your measurement. Temperature isn’t measured in metres, why should I be judged by your stick?”

The body of Christ left a foul taste in my mouth, and the Holy Water stung my forehead. Saturday Mass, our presence the result of being asked not to attend Alpha Course. They wanted to ensure a ‘comfortable’ environment for those more willing to leave their opinion at the door. Listening to the elderly pray, I noticed a distinctive tone. “Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.” Oh, my. I couldn’t believe these mechanical beings had ever really questioned their own faith, so called “tests” just the facts of life, ignored in the name of God. Losing a friend might hurt them, but losing Him will break them. I spend every day trying to disprove my own beliefs, but the saddest observation made during this week was that everyone we talked to already knew the Truth. They can’t all be right. Taking a seat in the confession box, I divulged my darkest transgressions. “All is forgiven my son,” came John’s voice through the screen, washing away my sins.

First published in the November 2006 edition of Impact

Playing games on Apple’s newest Macbook is like taking a lap dance from the Queen. It’ll satisfy a curiosity but undoubtedly leave you emotionally desolate and financially drained. Apple has a biannual tradition of announcing they’re getting serious about gaming, usually involving the illustrious John Carmack as if his mere stage presence was proof enough that they were bringing it all home. True to form, Doom 3 was severely delayed for OS X and the Mac continued to suffer a dearth of variety.

Gaming
The OS X catalogue is composed largely of strategy games like Age of Empires, casual games like The Sims and Lego Star Wars, as well as select hardcore titles such as Call of Duty 4 and Colin McRae Rally. However, you can forget playing these last two on your Macbook as the integrated Intel GMA X3100 graphics chip only provides just enough power to play games published during the stone age (or 2004). However, the lack of volume on OS X means that high-profile titles from four years ago are still considered high-profile today, at least by retailers: Rise of Nations is still £35 years after release, whereas the PC version can be found for less than a fiver.

If you don’t fancy waiting three years to play a game like Fable, the recent jump to Intel processors and the introduction of Boot Camp means that you can install Windows XP (or Vista, though I won’t patronise you) on a separate partition and play a wealth of semi-retro games for pittance. Though you’ll be losing a rigid amount of precious disk-space and potentially paying for a second OS, having games like GTA3 and Morrowind on the move is a blessing. You will start having problems with these older games not supporting the 13.3” screen’s native 1,280×800 resolution, leaving them stretched or bordered, but then you’ll already be making cosmetic sacrifices by giving a new definition to Leopard’s “Time Machine” feature and playing these relics in the first place.

Performance
With 2GB of RAM and the unparalleled multitasking abilities of OS X, it has no difficulties coping with simultaneous instances of any program you want to throw at it, though performance predictably suffers with 3D applications like Maya. The machine itself bares the Apple trademark of beauty – small and reasonably light, with a glossy screen that displays gorgeous images. Even so, Apple’s claim of “millions of colours” is the cake of colour depth as there’s noticeable use of dithering. The touchpad recognises limited gestures for scrolling which becomes indispensable after a few minutes use. The only real negative is that the clean lines across the rim of the machine are quite sharp and begin to dig in to your wrists over prolonged use.

Conclusion
Of course judging a Macbook on its gaming prowess is as unfair as judging the Queen on her aforementioned lapdancing abilities. They were both destined to do other things. If gaming is a secondary concern and, god-forbid, productivity is your primary, then the Macbook is an excellent choice. Spec-wise it’s a surprising equal to other laptops in its price-bracket, but also boasts excellent build quality and arguably the best OS on the market. With a 20GB Boot Camp partition you’ll also be able to indulge in some classic gaming action.

I’m sorry, but what the fuck is this? At what point in our sorry history did culture become something you bought rather than created? 1776? I’m sick of the society which defines self-expression as a combination of pre-sets and friendship as the acceptance of an e-invitation. It was as I walked home from Uni one day that it struck me; for all of society’s shallowness, the depth in which it wallows in its own vapidity is infinite. Words could never express just how vacuous and insignificant our lives have become. Worse, we try and fill our existential cavities with the stories of other, equally insignificant lives, as if the holes will overlap, magically producing meaning from shared worthlessness. Sitting outside WHSmiths eating my McSoulless, I suppress the urge to throw my burger at anyone leaving with a copy of Closer or Hello – though, if I succumbed, at least they’d have an actual problem of their own to worry and gossip about. Increasingly, via celebrity “culture” and 30-second ad slots, we’re fed our thoughts and wants; encouraged to express ourselves via mass-produced cartoon faces, ringtones, fragrances and clothes, when in reality we no longer have anything to express. You are what you eat, and we’re all regurgitating society’s capitalist faeces.

This bugs me because people aren’t genetically cultureless, yet there’s a clear divide between those who enjoy and create the Arts (rah rah) and those who read The Sun (tits hurrah). Something terrible happens in the economic trashcan that mutates innocent children into chavs and criminals, the result of familial breakdown, poor education and a Netto health that snowballs and manifests through generations. Children to whom “field trip” is a literal term, used to concrete football pitches. Disparity emerges between the faces and the faceless, until each becomes the drug for the other; mutually defining, overlapping holes. A smiling woman proudly stands next to the open boot of her car. Her family’s happy this Christmas because Asda gave her a 2 for 1 on crates of hard, legal drugs, enticing us to blow away our consciousness in a sad attempt at enjoying life in these dirty, overpopulated cities, tumours on the face of the world, interconnected via a latice of concrete veins that transport the cancerous cells, slowly killing the only mother we ever had. High streets and local radio stations; identikit logos for identikit counties. The same people in the same places, talking about the same sports in the same pubs, drinking the same beer to wash away the same lives. Talentless graffiti by pathetic punks yearning to make their mark on the world: “AJ”, “Max 06″, “Infinite”. Splintered pavement suffers the wrath of a suffocating Earth, splintered communities suffer the wrath of a suffocating populous, deprived of pride, culture and self-respect. Congratulations.

First published in the January 2007 edition of Impact