Kenan and Kel.

In my heady school days, it was common for rumours to reverb around the schoolyard. These rumours could be localised (a common theme was that two teachers of the same sex were co-habiting, or that a particular pupil was a test-tube baby) or international in scale.

The most ambitious and enduring form of the latter was the rumour that Kenan Thompson and Kel Mitchell, stars of a hit US television show called, imaginatively, 'Kenan and Kel', had been killed in a car accident in the late 90s.

This struck a chord with friends and I, as the show had been very popular with high school children. It operated on the simple 'dumb and dumber' format, with Kenan, a reasonably intelligent, overweight, constantly scheming teenager leading his less intelligent, and orange soda-addicted (a popular recurring sequence in the show was for Kel to proclaim his love for the soft drink) friend astray. I am unsure where the rumour started, but by the year 2000 most youths in the UK, myself included, believed our comedy heroes to be dead.

I mourned the duo for 18 months, only leaving the house in black, and avoiding orange-coloured drinks, before finding out their death had been a cruel hoax. However, I must admit, as the initial blow of their deaths had lessened with time, I found nagging doubts had begun to form.

The doubts weren't over the fact that the twosome were dead, but rather the manner of their demise. Kenan seemed to me to be more of a contender for coronary disease than dying in a car crash. My reasons for this were two fold - his excessive bulk obviously put him at risk of heart failure, but also, given that he could actually fit behind the wheel of a motor vehicle, his size would surely prohibit any car from going fast enough to engage in a serious crash.

Meanwhile, Kel's much vaunted dependency on orange soda would make him a surefire candidate for diabetes, which I saw as more likely to finish him off than any car related incident. As with Kenan, I also had doubts about his ability to drive a car, as his sugar dependency doubtless made him far too hyper-active to pass a driving test.

Poetry.

Studying English at university is a dangerous proposition.

Over-exposure to literature at a young, impressionable age can lead to one's feet being lifted from the ground, and fill a scholar's head with various notions of his or her own literary prowess. I speak from personal experience. Half way through my first year, and fresh from reading sonnets for two hours, (don't worry, it wasn't on taxpayers' money) I decided that I, too, could write great verse.

And why not? I got an A in English at GCSE after all. I considered myself intelligent. What is there to writing poetry anyway? I convinced myself that I was a natural poet, a gifted wordsmith, who need only threaten parchment with pen for my creative juices to spill forth, embellishing the page with literary flourishes and such epic language as had never before been witnessed. I studied English. I was a creative.

That night I shut myself in my room. I dimmed the lights to a suitably creative degree, and opened the bottle of wine I had secreted into my bag during my last visit home. I poured the vintage (Mateus Rosé) into my only wine glass, carefully took out my best pen (a Parker fountain). I was ready to write.

Two hours later, I sat back, spent. The wine was drunk, my ink cartridge emptied, the four pages of A4 I had set aside for my poetic indulgence filled. Curiously, my burning desire to right poetry sputtered after this, and was soon extinguished, as other matters (mainly night out matters) took priority. Eventually I cleared the sonnets I had so lovingly penned from my desk, packing them into an old briefcase, and quite forgetting the incident.

This very week, 4 years after my two hour creative spell, I came across these poems. I think it would be fair to say they fit the stereotype of an arts student; imagine a long-haired, houmous-eating, latte-swilling, tight-clothes wearing young man, and you've pretty much got the idea. Whilst there is nothing specifically wrong with this, there is plenty wrong with the poetry.

I selflessly include one here so that I may save others from falling into the same trap. Beware.

Sides

Two sides, hast I
One is shown,
One is shy.
One I own.
The other I do not.
It belongs to the public eye.
Forget me not,
For then I would die.