Ho ho hoes

I am Santa Superior!

Nadolig Llawen!

Sikhism in the Welsh capital

Below: Sagoo Singh-Gurcharan, project manager at the Gurdwara temple in Splott (left) and Varinder Singh-Bhogal, Gurdwara president (right)

The panj kakkar, informally known as the five k's, are an integral part of Sikh tradition. Comprised of kaccha (undergarments), kara (bracelet), kanga (comb), kirpan (strapped sword or dagger) and kesh (uncut hair), these were the symbols devised by the 10th Sikh guru Gobind Singh to solidify the visual identity of all baptised Sikhs.

Last month Aberdare Girls' School excluded 14-year old student Sarika Singh for wearing her kara bracelet, in apparent contradiction to the school's strict regulations regarding the display of jewellery.

Sarika Singh's family are contemplating judicial review, arguing that the school is infringing on her religious expression.
“I think if she believes in it she should be allowed to wear it,” says Sagoo Singh-Gurcharan, the project manager at the Gurdwara temple in Pearl Street, Splott.

In light of this recent case, he displayed some insight regarding his views on Cardiff, where he has been living for nearly 40 years.
“I came [to Cardiff] in 1970, but prior to that I was in Chesterfield for 10 years and before that I was in Manchester for three years so I’ve been in this country for a while. In fact the longest time I’ve been in any country is Britain," he says, “Although I was born in India, as a child my family moved to Kenya, my schooling was in Kenya and then I came over to Britain to study my degree in civil engineering. I personally have never had any problems in this society – in fact I think this is a very admirable society.”

Despite these positive assertions, I still wondered if this was the case for any of Sagoo Singh’s friends, to which he replied “Over the years you meet so many people; I would say yes, people have experienced, you know, difficulties, but is there anybody who doesn’t? There is always somebody in life who will find difficulties.”

The temple itself has two floors, with a capacity for around 200 people. Upstairs, there is a prayer room, architecturally designed so that beams of light from the window above can shine onto the altar where the Guru (the Sikh holy text) is placed during prayer.

Downstairs, the prominent Sikh symbol of Ek Onkar hangs on the back wall. The Gurdwara’s president, Varinder Singh Bhogal is a figure without religiosity or defensiveness, who is also a contrast to the clean shaven Sagoo Singh, wearing both a turban and a long, white beard.

“A Sikh is always learning – it takes a long time to become pure,” he says. He goes on to explain Ek Onkar more clearly as the principle of oneness with God.

Sikhism does not believe in conversion, but always attempts to offer assistance to people of all different religious backgrounds, “My daughter-in-law is a born-again Christian and I am a Sikh but we just get on very well,” says Sagoo Singh, “We share the greatest respect and I will often ask her for books on Christianity and vice versa.”

This openness expressed by Sagoo Singh is reflected in the weekly Sikh practice of langar, a meal made every Sunday which is open to visitors of all religious denominations. Although Sikhs are not strictly vegetarians, langar food contains no meat so as not to exclude vegetarians from the proceedings.

The practice of kesh, or never cutting one's hair, has an important religious symbolism for Sikhs, who grow their hair as a symbol of God's grace. In recent times, there has been a move away from this tradition, particularly among younger Sikhs. Earlier this year in Scotland, a Sikh boy made claims he was assaulted and had his hair cut off by a gang, but it transpired that he had in fact been lying about it as a convenient and sadly plausible excuse.

Sagoo-Singh has short hair and is clean-shaven, and cites practicality and integration as motivating factors for his emotionally-charged decision.
“I came to this country in 1957 and cut my hair in 1964, when my first child was born," he says, "And I had to ask myself, 'is my child going to have long hair or not?', and I couldn’t see any real reason why he must have, and then I questioned myself ‘if he is not having long hair then why should I have long hair?’”

He then says, “That is not to say there aren’t people who would insist on having long hair…I am one of those who perhaps has slightly moved away [from traditions], but I still believe in the Sikh values.”

On an interesting final note, the taxi driver who provided transportation from the temple, David, has some interesting revelations about his working environment when I mention Sikhism.

“We’ve got a Sikh fella called Dai-Singh, he’s got the turban and all that,” he says, added by “He’s the only one who speaks Welsh out of all of us,” a telling sign of diversity and adaptation within Cardiff’s Sikh population.

Find more music like this on Cardiff University Online Journalism 2007

Rolo Tomassi - Music in the Key of Doom

Jesus Christ. Certainly not my personal saviour, but nonetheless the only apt expression to convey the visceral power of Rolo Tomassi. I had entered the venue cold, with no knowledge of this band whatsoever, and left a convert to a cause I can't quite explain. I could assume at least, that they must have dug LA Confidential, and that was ok by me.

I was told by crowd members that the band had been touted due in part to the relative youth of its members (teenagers all), but any preconceived notions were smashed once vocalist Eva Spence took the stage. The growls are guttural, the screaming intense and I realise I've stumbled upon a wonderful, unholy mess of a band.

Keyboardist James Spence is gesticulating wildly, and is gentleman enough to lend his vocal chords to the chaos, making a noise that shares the wavelength of two braying walruses mid-heat.

Guitarist Joe Nicholson is a constant, at times the only member not seemingly in the throes of musical seizure, while drummer Ed Dutton's arms are beating the pigskins so fast that he's taken on the illusion of the multi-limbed Shiva.

Thor knows if I can remember the names of most of the songs - I'll be perfectly honest on that point. The band slapped me in the face too hard to remember the details.

I recall Film Noir - I'm listening to it now in fact - and it is what can only be described as music in the key of doom.

By Cirque de Funk I can't tear my eyes away. "This isn't music, it's noise," I keep telling myself. "Yes it is," growls the voice in my head, "and what's more, you love it to death."

High points were the band's final jolts of Seagull and Curby (which I had mistakenly assumed was spelt 'Kirby' in reference to the legendary pink glutton of SNES fame).

The former is the best song of the evening, never settling into one particular style in its five epic minutes. It's part jaunt, part dirge, part sonata - nobody knows quite where Rolo Tomassi are going with this lark but everyone's glad they're in on it.

Eva's an erratic dancer and her movements are distracting me by this point. They've just finished with closer Curby and she's muttering a shy 'thank you' to the crowd. Some guy walks by me and compares them to (bizarrely) Beethoven and I'm feeling pretty much as deaf as said German maestro.

Post-gig I am a little drained, and I know that I'm going to have yet another late night writing about this experience. I rush for a pen and some paper.

This is the band's second time in Cardiff and they are enthusiastic. Bassist Joe Thorpe implores me to get their ages right as it's a point of consternation for the band's portrayal in the music press. I have overcome this difficulty by simply not bothering to note age. It shouldn't matter anyways with material of this calibre.

Singer Eva is accommodating regarding my request for a chat and I'm kicking myself for not preparing better questions, but this is the trade-off for the energy that comes with spontaneous writing. She hands me a Rolo Tomassi badge (I feel like I'm on Blue Peter) and we part ways. We don't even talk about the music, there really doesn't seem the need to.

Hearing it is quite enough.

Blade Runner the Final Cut review

This is my review of the recently released DVD of Blade Runner the Final Cut, which is a wonderful update of this classic film. Hope you enjoy it!

Remembering Tiger Bay

I shot and edited this film of historian Neil Sinclair, who reminisces about his youth in Tiger Bay, Cardiff. The Album Leaf provides the soundtrack and the interview was conducted by Laura Murphy.

The Cardiff Dead

This is my first foray into film-making. Last week saw Cardiff attempt a Guinness world record for the largest number of zombies in one area. They failed by a fairly large margin but set a Welsh record of 258.
With two Nokia N95 camera phones on loan from the journalism department of my University we went out and took advantage of the situation, resulting in this film, which we have submitted for competition to Nokia Trends Labs. Enjoy.

The greatest headline of all time.

That is all.

Madness

Can't we all...

...just...

...get along? x

Excelsior!

I have made it my mission, nay my (epic) quest to get in touch with this guy. The grimace says he's hungry for basilisk blood. The shoulders are tense, the stance ready to go mace-to-face with any level 12 umberhulks that could tear through his fetching velour curtains at any moment.

And that face! The sunken eyes tell stories of distant lands and forgotten realms, a time where monsters roamed the fields and women actually liked getting rescued by musclebound suitors.

For the purpose of the blog, he must be named. I have no right to impose a name on a person I have never met, but I have no such qualms about applying one to his alter ego, the green-skinned Defender of Realms, who shall be known henceforth as:

His anger seems indicative of our sad time where the electronic wizardry of World of Warcraft et al has stolen the thunder from the humble d6, and Gary Gygax's mythos is reserved for the basement dwellers of this world.

The die-hard, labelled throughout their adolescence as outcasts, queers, geeks, Poindexters, nerds, loners and weirdos will surface at the time of reckoning to slay the dragon, and they will be led tusk-first by this man.

He will raise his chromatic mace on high to shine a beacon of light for the faithful, strong in their conviction to the cause that they dreamed one day might come.

Or alternatively, the day will not come. The world will stay intact for a little while longer and Nazgor!!! will continue to dream.

He will dream in the office, he will dream in the home and he will dream during the car ride 'twixt the two (where his Daihatsu is a dragon).

The mousey girl at work will wonder why he ignores her, and his friends will wonder why he hasn't got rid of his Boris Vallejo calendar from San Diego Comicon 1997. The below image, from April of said year, holds particularly fond memories for him as it is when he received his first kiss from a drunk girl named Shah'tek at a Klingon-themed house party when he was at University:

Nazgor!!!'s friends fail to understand that the painting is obviously Vallejo's metaphor for the struggle of the proletariat against the Shining Path in the artist's native home of Peru (the serpent represents the guerrila MRTA, see?)

His idiotic friends also struggle with the concept that the calendar is clearly a collector's item, and they won't be smirking so much when he sells it for a Merc in ten years time. If only people could be less ignorant and more like me, he mutters (in Old Orcish, so no-one can debate him).

One day, Nazgor!!! Swing your mace on high, and live the dream for the rest of us too awkward, scared or heavily steeped in the age of irony (instead of the Iron Age) to appreciate you for who you really are.

Zombie

If I could be a zombie for a day, I would definitely opt for a traditional lopsided gait and extreme decomposition. The shuffle/moan/general odiousness conforms to all zombie stereotypes of course, but the satisfaction of being slow and pungent allows potential victims that much more time to study my every disgusting detail.
Eye dangling out of its socket, exposed bone, charred flesh and pulsating brain bits? Bloody lovely, thank you please. The obligatory hapless girl screams at me, recoiling in horror even though I'm still thirty feet away and as slow as sin.
I'm quite sated because I ate a postie earlier in the day but I just fancy some larks really.
She's still catatonic on the floor by the time I reach her and I'm jsut going in for a cwtch when some annoying square-jawed Dan Dare of a farmer brains me with the butt of his shotgun.
He's got my gib all over his sheepskin jacket and is really quite irate, so he proceeds to unload both barrels into my tum, which splays my innards all over the pavement like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Obviously being a zombie, I don't feel any pain per se, but it is bloody confusing for a while until it clicks that my legs are off walking by themselves and I've got to drag along the ground by my well-gnawed digits (a habit seemingly carried over from the old days when I still had a gait in my step and life was less gooey).
Farmer Giles has got the stupid bint wrapped round his neck and she's crying and kissing and being annoying.
She's giving it all "Oh thank you! Oh God, thank you God!" into his ear.
He's got the second shell in when I bite into his stem like a juicy suckling pig.
"Arghhh!" he exclaims with much gusto as he tries to shake me off, prancing about like Michael Flatley.
I'm holding on the best I can and I tell you, I'm having a grand old time, swaying back and forth flopping around with my legs gone walkabout and my face starting to resemble a burnt burger patty.
I'm too far up his leg for him to get a good shot in, so I've got my fingers stuck in his neck and am giving him a cheeky little nipple tweak with what's left of my teeth.
You thought he'd be game for a giggle but instead he's crying and screaming like a bloody great pansy as I get stuck in and tear his shoulder blades out.
The girl's throwing up all over the place, the bloody booze hound, while I've got my face buried in the big fella's guts. She's a bit skinny anyway, so I let her go as I get into my tuck.
Ooh, sweetcorn!

The Cwtch

The cwtch is deified in the hearts and minds of the lonely. It can be a prelude or postscript both to sexual frolics, or a warm reminder to friends of their treasured status.
The cwtch is truly universal, and a marvellous human achievement - one of the greatest gifts the arms can give; a magic strong enough to inspire feeling in the limbless.


Michaelangelo's muscled limbs transformed the Sistine into a pictorial Biblical saga that people had never seen before. For the majority of us with less overt gifts however, the humble cwtch is an equally worthy artistic endeavour, capable of eliciting emotional responses paintings may never attempt to replicate.

Greetings and salutations

Welcome one and all to the bastion of public voice that is the internet web log. I promise myself not to abuse the unprecedented wonders of such a service with bouts of narcissism. If I appear to indulge in such displays I'm probably just proving a point.
I have never used one before, for which I am shameful, but it has never been in my character to chronicle events in my life with anything approaching regularity.
Despite friends' assertions that it would help shape me as a person, I was never a diary keeper, having always found the concept to be slightly self-aggrandising.
I am aware for some they provide a release for abuse, loneliness and confusion with the state of the world and that is wonderful, but I fear my life was never interesting or controversial enough to warrant the ink.
Tomorrow when I am more collected I may look back on this post with malice but for now it fits to serve its purpose as a bow and tip of the hat to any who are kind or curious enough to take an insight into my life. Thus begins this digital diary; my memoirs of the mundane.