The sun breathed air



Its mood reflects a sunny irreverence,
Crash and burn in a 60 mph zone.
It’s throne betrothed, and a moon to behold,
Excel to find and unfold what ancient skies behold.

A shape unknown,
What we’ve outgrown.
Trees breathe, smoggy air
A cold, still cold atmosphere.
No sooner we arrive, from what we leave,
The second we touch down, an ultimate indefinite crown. 

I’ll come back. I’ll come back again.

Climb higher into the fog,
Where officers warn and travelers clog
A desperate smile a handshake outworn, torn between,
extremities and undertake the moon that cries

Whisper whisper, a sound unspoken, 
Two touches, red black heights,
The fight of your life. 
A country with no voice. 
Unlucky and unwilling to be told,
Your too far gone and insignificant to hold.

Touch my arm, how does it feel.
Soft warm and uncomfortable,
All that particular spiel.

Black white and freckles outspoken, 
Sun glassed eyes, with little to no cartilage.
The incline of the mountain, the convoy leads Broken.

With snow unbound to reach the very top,
Stop, flop and drop a pass to be seated,
Upon mental and chair, suspended reaching, branching for a touch or a tap of a bush overhanging. 
Remain seated, arms at the waist, time to get off no time to waste.

Strap, secure and adjust. 

The wind echoes either side, the sun reflecting angelically sparkling like sprinkles upon a cake.
Guess the ending, whilst chaos and blame ensue.


Being sober in a club.


Apres Avant-5.6.10 - 125We all know the drill with nightclubs right – drink, dance, smoke – increasingly frequent toilet brakes – then repeat in various different combinations – strangely the dancing usually consumes more of your time the more drunk you become. The experience, however, is entirely different when your not overspending on tequilas or dancing with single ladies your convinced want a piece – it is like a minefield, of crazed hormone-erratic  maniacs trying to seduce their woes into a numb salvageable pain.

The over-squirted scent of bubblegum and candyfloss cascade whilst bass-pumping and ground thumping speakers try their hardest to do the minimum amount of damage to your eardrums – and without the warm arms of alcohol to insulate your body standing in the cold is like taking a dip in an ice pool!

The weirdest thing is you start to try and justify what you’re doing, and why your trying to dance in that way, or pretend to smile at music you have no interest for, maybe trying to amuse yourself with two measly bitter-sweet drinks knowing that you can’t have anymore because you’ve got to drive home – either way, its like the worst experience in the world.

Even just trying to hold a drink among the screaming intoxicated rabble desperately trying impress their mates with a seemingly endless line of over-priced drinks is a mission. Just for the record the things that you think on a night out will be a great idea like people pretending to scream in selfies, or scantily clad women clambering tank-topped giants, with the elder gentlemen trying to fit in, gawking at what they’d wished they’d done in their youth – when your sober look damn right embarrassing, for all parties involved!

The  only solace that can be taken from an experience like this is that you realize you’re exactly the same on a night out – they are you, stumbling, fumbling and making an absolute fool out of themselves – a horrible realization – which has led me to the realization that clubs without alcohol would literally be the worst thing ever – like a year seven disco, replacing alcohol with sweets and fizzy drink!

Rule of thumb – if you’re going to a club sober, you’re going to have a bad time.

The view from the back of a lecture.



I am sat two chairs in on the back row. I see the backs of heads staring desperately day-dreaming, unwillingly trying to shrug the hangover from the previous nights alcohol consumption – sweltering among body heat, broken radiators and insulation – heat only comparable to a scene from the puzzling pig-masking, murder mystery thriller Saw.

Rustling handouts, proceeded to interupt the lecturer spreading yet more ephemeral words to non-concentrate recipients, sporting a vibrant discombobulation half golf and half hiking attire – from top to bottom. Unrelenting waves of yawns, creaks and sighs flooded the room erupting like volcanoes and dampening the already disinterested crowd, followed by whispers from a rowdy bunch near the front row – not so very quietly telling others of the blast she’d had with her gal-pals – it sounded like suffocating, scrambling for air as you panic, wish and hope but in your last moments think of doubt, fear and somewhat acceptance.

Students scattered in twos and three clinging like pack animals; I was alone. On my right the incessant tapping of mac books distract me from the task at hand; concentration. My eyes drift and land on a helping hand, the co-managing lecturer, of the subject, sits beside the entrance. Her hair mangled and untamed, like a student, broken and unappreciated she smirks chortling merrily compressing the disfigured wrinkly-skin hanging from her chin.

My mind drifts pacing slowly towards the window, there is a gap that only appears every so often from an inadequate breeze slowly creeping in pushing the blackened blind from its purpose. There is a fence towering above a puddle. Sometimes a bird will sit in it, often it doesn’t, but sometimes it stands perplexed holding its chest out looking nonchalant in a stationary manner. With no pen and paper I sat trying to must some sort of aspiration to maintain my attention.

The fact the slides were in widescreen mode wasn’t aiding my cause, an apology had been issued but technical appliances can only absorb so much incompetence from human users. His words sail awkwardly across the room, comfortably piercing our auditory receptors.

Purple, pink and blue, rest aggressively asserting in the corner of my eye. I turn facing this multi-coloured monster. Slabbed, draped and inconclusively strawberry short-cake splattered clown look-a-like wearing fake-glasses the size of the moon. She sits slumped chewing her necklace, when her phone vibrates. She instantly picks up, unlocks and replies to her “lover” ending the message in the more X’s than Simpson Halloween specials!

The time finally runs out, and coming to the end of something unbearably uninteresting could never have felt better, only afterwards realizing that I just paid £103 to not pay an ounce of attention.

Anarchy in the car park!


maxresdefaultToday, whilst on a weekly shop with my compadres, we experienced something that can only be described as anarchy. Shopping at Asda is our main source of food, so we go almost every week or so, but we never expected this!

After turning into the multi-story car park, we couldn’t believe what we saw. Animals they were, trying to weave, dodge, rev and cut in front of others just to get a space. They were wild; I had never seen anything like it. Their deathly stare as they tried to assert their dominance was grimacing.  Children crying in the back of eight-seaters because mothers and father a-like had been bellowing their horns, furious and outraged. We sat stationary; perplexed. It was like a mechanical scene from Mean Girls!

One particularly brazen individual, attempted to reverse into a gap he had narrowly missed – to which the man behind, supposed beta-male, decided that he was far superior and masculine to allow this self-righteous hick to take “his” spot that he had aligned so perfectly – ending in a battle of wits, until the two “gentleman” resorted to shouting , only ending the confrontation with one of them stepping down – I should probably write an e-mail to MTV, i’m sure they’d love to make a reality show of it – call it Cardiff Car Parks!

Why can’t courtesy exist among the parker’s of cars – there is something about it that is so blood-boiling and aggravating that leaves drivers incapacitated with rage. Although there are exception, as with everything. If everyone just took their turn the system would work much better. Or even a system that revolved around being given a space that is known to be free upon entering the car park – sorted – goodbye angry mothers, brothers and cousins! Rant, prematurely over, I guess.

On top of a table.


Upon the table stood a thirty-two inch Alba perching against the east facing wall which stared precariously over the condiments that were mangled, overlapping and oddly placed. A green translucent jug, sticky and overturned, lie between empty bottles of beer and cracked glass. Plates, scattered and covered in scraps of uneaten food. Post-stick notes together and separate, ripped and untouched stuck to deodorant cans and caps of bottle drunk. Tobacco pouches strewed and tawny orange stains littered the laminate wood, that it rested on. The pitter-patter of mouse clicks, keyboard keys, and Xbox buttons hung like wasted decibels only outweighed by the bellowing screams of a kettle. Disks, cards and sunglasses accompanied the collaborative mess almost pushing the boundaries close to falling off the edge. The remnants of takeaways past chewed, spewed and splattered with sauces of red, brown and white in a rustling grease paper box. A consumed peach schnapps bottle held its structural dominance standing triumphant among the scuttling rubbish surrounding it. Pointless receipts and stubby coloured glasses, designed for shots, held up a half full packet of JB like ants couriering their food to their queen. Carved keys, and wallets encapsulated the unending growth of the taxing environment that sustained all walks of life, from ants to moths. The smell of poultry, ash and regret licked effervescently above and beyond the table dissipating further into it’s surrounding. Cigarettes burnt and stubbed into, lids of plastic, tin and yoghurt pots still with foil half covering the only accessible point.  Green and continually bending plastic garden chairs tucked under, pushed out and somewhere in between allowed the makers of this wasteland to continue, essentially enabling the tables demise. Once friends they now feared one another, as the scratches and screeches of the chairs moving position startled the compressed fibers that made up the four legs of the table; striking fear, angst and disappointment within an old friend. It had long been since the table held nothing but it’s own weight, it wondered if it ever would.

Power Rangers The Movie Drinking Game



After coercing our film-loving, plot-illuminating housemate, Meg,  into watching the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. We decided that instead of watching this like the sober finches of the Galapagos, we would endure the ninety minute calamity-classic doing a shot every time we noticed a cliché catchphrase like “see ya later alligator” – Ivan Ooze, intentionally compromising pun “I’ve got a bone to pick with you” – White Power Ranger (whilst fighting dinosaur skeletons), and ridiculous music that is played over scenes of no importance at all.

So the rules are simple – a sip, of a prolonged duration for minor instances of cheesy: behaviour, lines, music, sayings, bad green screens – the key is to be understanding of where each incident could be categorically organized into a scale; so anything 5> would be sip and 6< would be a shot! The drink of course is your decision, the shot is always nice to have something between the strength of vodka but stronger than schnapps – not too much and not too little, that’s the dream!

After twenty minutes of rib-tickling, lip-smacking idioms of far too obvious description, a bottle and half of shots has been annihilated. Continuous hand shaking and rhino-mercenary but-kicking has lead me to believe that this is the future of student drinking games. Never before have over-dramatic news broadcasts, and villain-induced witticisms been so damaging to ones liver!

Just to mention: “uh oh, were in trouble” – is genuinely part of the soundtrack. They also have a giant red button which kick’s other specifically similar sized robots in the metal genitals – convenient.

During one scene, you may remember, a rhino explodes into thousand of pieces after being corkscrew kicked so hard – needless to say a lot of alcohol has been consumed. Not even mentioning the collective skating, hand shaking, cockpit-swaying, child-filled mono-railing, glass-shattering building shaking brilliance that the power rangers ensue,

One genuine issue about the film is the fist-pumping white ranger has to be the leader – of course, seems a little racist, considering the black ranger is reduced to being a frog! – well done Brian Spicer! Some may say it was a different time back then, others simply suggesting that being the black ranger surely the crotch is the most appropriate place for him – can hardly imagine the white ranger having an equally sized time down there – ah stereotypes.

So spread the word, drink the dream and think – what would Zordon do?!




I drift away, my mood coinciding with the dust on the ground. No movement or sound is heard, every drag bringing me closer to that moment. I Move towards the light. I see clarity. My body enthralled, shaking from side to side. Feet restless, conscious non-existence. My eyes close and my final breath fills me with thoughts of youth and beauty as I stare openly. Memories turn from black to gold. Then back again. Finally the darkness takes hold of me. Its hands cold, ominous and liberating. Sore vile nails pierce my skin. I screech. I am propelled through the floor boards. Cracking, banging and clanging into an endless chasm. Fear chasing me. It’s breath tormenting and unforgiving. When an unearthly entity slows my decent, pausing instantaneously before we touch the asphalt ground. I am confronted by two doors. The option toys with me. If I choose left, who knows. If I choose right, who knows. Curiosity bends my soul. My perspective unfocused. Eyes blotched. I choose. The door swings open; almost breaking the hinges. Smoke curls across the floor, crawling towards me. It surrounds me. No sight. No direction. No sound. No air. Nothing. Complete. Pure. Time stops.

Disparaged love.


57172Her name Claire, seeping like sap through a willow tree. It’s branches kissing the ground as they sifted the golden leaves around in the wind. That is where he met her. Her face white as snow, lips soft and her eyes shone green with beautiful dimples on the cheeks. Her blonde hair flowed down and the tips touched the lower region of her back.

He was non-the-wiser to the willow tree swaying and eerily creeping back and fourth. His hair was black. Fingernails dirty. Untamed eyebrows lived upon the upper half of his face. The nose that was betwixt the left and right side of his face was a solid example of his gene pool. His father, had the same nose and his father before that, and every ancestor of his was known to have his nose. It was one to be proud of; being ashamed of it was nothing to be proud of. His eyes, lit up whenever he saw anyone with a smile. He began walking.

His shirt was rustling in the wind as he made his move towards her. Her eyes squinted, trying to work out who it was. A boy she had never seen before, his face somehow familiar. Her thoughts scattered. He approached and startled her, as her brain was trying to complete a thought process.
He asked if she would take a walk with him?
She replied in a way that allowed him to see through her pretentious exterior. Err, I don’t often walk with strangers, but I guess this once won’t hurt.

A spark of excitement coursed through Johns body. His hands restless and his breathing had led her to believe he was something different. He wasn’t like the rest of them, he happened to be kind and grateful. They spent hours making conversation whilst staring into the sky comparing shapes and sizes of clouds. There was one sheep, two faces and too many cloud that were too shapeless to give a label too. Their young hearts were filled to the brim with compliments of love and beauty; after a while of conversing, a shout was heard from across the field.

“JOHN COME INSIDE NOW. YOU KNOW YOUR NOT MEANT TO… COME NOW!” It was to be presumed that it was his mother. Before Claire could ask he had scuttled back across the field, through the park and back into the house. His mother scowling at her. She felt uneasy and unwelcome. Her heart in her mouth, she wondered if she would ever see him again. But before she knew it, two years had passed.

It was December, the trees without leaves and the thought of snow fall was on everybody’s mind. It had rained the night before so the chances of snow were very slim. During that day Claire, had been to school. On her way home she saw, what at first seemed to be a stranger, but someone who felt so familiar. She dropped her bag and ran, not ran sprinted towards the figure of John. As she got closer she was perplexed to see it was him. After two years of wondering, wishing and contemplating eventualities, he was here. He was there in front of her. His face matured, his hair short and sharp. Before she could open her mouth he said “Good afternoon, miss. Would you like to go for a walk?”

She neither replied or denied John. She simply grabbed his hand and they ran past the willow that had once intertwined them and towards the forest, that was located beyond the field. So deep into the forest they had found themselves lost A compass without labels.

The light in the sky was a combination of red and orange, evening was fast approaching. Neither Claire or John would leave each others company. Their hands clasped and his eyes focused on her pure untouched body. He kissed her neck just once, her hands grabbed the back of his shirt holding him tighter and tighter. He continued up her neck until he kissed her lips. The forest surrounding them displayed their affection and innocence. A moment of pure passion. One hand on her hip and the other holding her neck in his hand. He said its time.

Just as she was about to take his jeans off. A lightning bolt hit the ground a couple of miles away. The thunder deafening. Nothing would stop them. Their love exerted in sweat and noise. The tree surrounding them were tall and empathetic. Rain poured over their naked bodies, John held her tighter covering her from the rain and they continued making love until the rain stopped beating on John’s back. Cold and wet. Dark and erie.

John dressed Claire and they returned to the village they had just earlier that day ran from. He smiled and looked at Claire and said “we will, we are and will always show them our love is as strong as we want it. We decide our fate. And our destiny and no one can stop us. Never forget.”

Claire, was in love. Her mind compelled. Her heart strung. She was now a woman of strong status.

Many years had passed, happily ever after they thought. John however was not. He had grown tired and ill tempered. The spark she had once seen had sizzled out and she felt trapped. As though stuck in a nightmare which was once exciting and new but had now become tedious and Mundane. They had been lovers for years now. She wondered what had changed and blamed herself for a while until she built up the courage to confront her, once beautiful, lover. She said my love, your hair has become lifeless, was it me that has done this to you or is it the lack of order in your priorities. In the eyes of John, she had become cynical, and even more pretentious than she had once been. Their love had faded and anxious apprehension had replaced the intimacy they had.
After work on a Tuesday. She would spend all afternoon cleaning their certainly middle-class home – they used to call it home. John would go to a club he had been a member of for years. Whilst she was cleaning the bedroom floor, she found something. A small object by nature but it grew increasingly suspicious in her mind.

When her husband, had returned she questioned him. His answer only being that he had left it there for her to find in order to add a little spice to their failing relationship. She was dumbstruck. She said nothing and so the week passed the same as any other.
So the next week, when her husband left, she followed him. Her mind hollow and her seatbelt fastened. She managed to keep a few cars distance at all times. She had never been to this part of town. Unfamiliar and strange. Shivers tickling her already nervous fingertips. His car stopped outside a house. The door was made of oak, windows translucent and the Door-mat outside read welcome home. He entered the house and she stayed in the car for a while. Just long enough that he wouldn’t notice her leaving the car and going round the back. As a youngster she had always made a good climber, sitting in trees for hours and letting the world roll by.

In the garden there were flowers across all three sides with a bird pond in the middle. The grass was perfectly cut and the smell of June hung sweetly in the air. She peered into the window. Nobody was there. Again in the kitchen. She decided to climb on top of the conservatory, which she immediately hated because it was a horrible cream colour. It reminded her of an argument John and her had, years ago. He wanted it and she didn’t. Their conflicting views made her miss the intimacy in their relationship, it was the last time she could remember when they had actually spoken.

On top of the conservatory, she peered through another window. The hallway was dark and she couldn’t see much.
One window left. She assumed that it would be where her husband was. Thoughts raced through her mind of what he was doing? Why was he there? What sort of club was this?

She froze, her feet stolen from her. Her jaw had dropped and nothing but anger filled her body. She took a while to process what she had seen. She composed herself and took off home. Awaiting the arrival of her ‘lover’. The door opened. For years she had been stuck wondering what it was that was missing from their empty loveless life. The fact the door creaked upon entering infuriated her on a good day; it was this time that it really drove her mad.

As soon as John saw the tears in her eyes, his throat closed up and his voice gained an empathetic quality which was almost subsided by the ring of a telephone. The phone was left to voice-mail. Claire spoke few words that night. All that was said was she thought their love was different from all over loves, a binding promise, betrothed to each other. All he had to say was he wasn’t sorry for doing it but sorry she found out. The night was bleak and as Claire looked into the sky she saw black. Nothing but black space. Everywhere. A thought arose that could just walk into the night and escape her life, her husband and escape from herself. Nevertheless, she stayed.

Needless to say that the house was quiet for some time. It was two weeks before either of them had spoken to one another.
John was in the kitchen. He heard nothing. He spoke nothing. He simply was. After a minute of listening to the sound of silence he decided to make it up to Claire. All his broken promises, the mistrust and every lie he had told.
The stairs, cream. The banister was carved by their old friend jack-the-black-carpenter. His name is slightly misleading considering he was was pale, short and stubby however great with his hands.

He stood at the bottom of the stairs looking aimlessly at the top, where a vase usually sat. The plant had died some time ago, it had become wilted and brown. Every step he took, the more anxious he felt. His palms sweating and beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. He approached the door. The scratched golden handle was hard to turn. It took a few turns to get it right. Once he’d opened it. He pushed it wide open. Turned the corner. There she was. Claire in all her beauty. In front of her. She lay. Peacefully.

On closer inspection she held a bottle in her hand. He unclasped her hand from the bottle. It read rat poison. He fell to his knees. His head lie in shame. He ran to the bathroom. He looked blankly into the mirror. His face grey and wrinkled. With his fist clenched he put his fist through the mirror. Shards of mirror lay in the sink and on the floor. There was blood where the mirror was, in the sink and on the floor.

He took the shards of glass that were scattered across the room. He ran it gently over his wrist. Imagining the pain that could be caused. The damage. He smiled. Clenching the glass he stabbed it into his wrist once, twice, three times. Blood squirted everywhere; whilst a pool of blood spread across the floor. Claire’s plan had succeeded.

All the commotion from the bathroom had woken Claire from a deep sleep. She had come to the conclusion that it must have worked. His body crashed to the floor with a thud so loud it shook the foundations of the house. She picked herself up, placed the pot on the side. She drifted around the corner and stood above her poor husbands bloody broken body and whispered, I gave you everything, I was yours, you took my life so now ill have yours. He neared the end, blood loss was his main concern, with a breathe he replied. Bu..b..but t..he poi…son. She said in a tone of voice which he had hard before, pretentious and softly she said I’ve had problem sleeping for a while. As she walked outside the room she turned to him and spoke “never forget”.

Review: Captain America, The Winter Soldier



Its a week late, but due to my poor finances I had to wait a week to see it – also trying to lower the price with a shared orange Wednesday ticket – oh, university, you make me so poor. However, moving on.

The film is a sequel to both the Avengers film and the original Captain America and features Scarlett Johansson as “Black Widow” and Samuel L. Jackson as “Nick Fury” – obviously. The film however, in my opinion, didn’t live up to its reputation.

Rogers, still unable to come to terms with the time period he has found himself in, beginning the film by smashing skulls, whipping shields, free-falling from jets and ripping apart mercenaries aboard a plot-twisting vessel. Beating up the badies is good yes, but it was graphic to the point where an excessive amount of ass-whooping is too much – I felt empathetic towards those poor brazilians mercilessly beaten to a pulp, their face of grimace as a red, white and blue fury of rage oscillated across the ship killing brother after brother of his. In essence, that is the major flaw in the film, I know Marvel are all about big plots, enigmatic twists always trying to go bigger and harder with each thrilling installment – but where does it end, how big is too big?

(Side note)
Why is Captain America’s costume so terrible? The Trillions of dollars of research going into S.H.I.E.L.D developing carriers built for exponential death and they can’t make a suit that can’t be washed over 30 degrees and has an ounce of style. I bet Chris Evans hates that suit – Superman looks amazing, Spiderman looks amazing, Iron Man is amazing – yet, the supposed “Captain of America” gets a navy blue cotton jumpsuit – poor show.

Also, if you love Scarlett Johansson – you will hate this film. Throughout the entire endeavor her hair is hideous and looks like a carved pumpkin – only with a more detailed face. Although her acting is impeccable she should definitely look into hiring a new stylist or something! Alongside agent Romanoff is Cobie Smulders! Whom featured as Fury’s number two in the Avengers film and maintains her awesome persona in this. A serious battle of the sexiest woman award – you may ask!

Nick Fury, for some reason intentionally fakes his own death with the Winter Soldier – which doesn’t make a lot of sense, although you do get to see what he’s hiding underneath that mysterious eye-patch of his – worth waiting for. By the end of the film, Fury is on the run and destroying his personal belongings – it is not mentioned why or what he does to his “wife”, we are just left to assume the conversation consisted of bullets, leather-coats and turtle-necks!

The plot line is convoluted at best and is intrinsically untrustworthy, the main theme i’m still unsure of and what becomes of the Winter Soldier is still unknown – with the ending snippet giving no clue to what is going to happen next we are just going to have to wait for the next Hollywood blockbuster to “justifiably” fill our screens with the next high-octane, explosion based, fandom tickling, comic-strip rippling adventure of Captain America.

I will not soon forget Stan Lee appearing as the janitor – what a wonderfully funny man.

Review: how i met your mother



(May contain Spoilers)

In 2005 when Ted was an emotionally invested, love lusted know-it-all desperately trying to find his perfect wife – even signing up to “” – it seemed as though the roller-coaster would never end. He was complicated, stupid and often just in the wrong place at the wrong time – which happens constantly. So, throughout the story he recaps indignant, self-loathing and character building moments throughout his adult life, until he inevitably – met the mother.

Then there was Barney. A sociopath womanizer, who dealt in numbers and clever colloquialisms always nudging Ted out of his comfort zone with games like “Have, you met Ted?” His character brilliantly brought to life by Neil Patrick Harris, of course. Barney transcends from a deeply troubled individual into a genuine person – which really was what let the show down in the end. After all those years of Lily nagging him to change his ways all it took was to knock a girl up – but what are you going to do?

Which brings us onto the perfect couple – acclaimed Mr and Mrs awesome – Lily and Marshall. The pair had their ups and downs but through it all they reminded us that love and life have no unchallenged paths – they’re long and meandering journeys that pushes one another’s boundries – bringing us to the finale!

The 43 minute episode follows the same style as the rest often flicking back in time to past events then to future events and then back to the present – trying to keep track of it, is somewhat difficult. The whole series that was spent leading up to the finale turns out to be a giant waste of time as just like before when Barney and Robin were together. They both ended up unhappy – maybe not because of over-eating or not caring for personal hygiene, but the result is and was still the same.

The mother, played by Christin Milioti, was a superb choice for the role. With giant boots to fill she was quirky, beautiful and an exact match for Ted. Over the last series she was introduced one by one to each of the other supporting roles playing a frequently influential part in their lives. So in the final episode it is confirmed that the mother had passed away due to “illness” – although it doesn’t, thankfully, specify an illness. I know is seems hard to handle but I genuinely think that was the only way they could have ended the show. The show has never tried to be a serious drama, or a serious comedy it just was – and why judge now when she gave Ted everything he’d ever wanted. Children, a house in the suburbs to call a home, someone to finish his crossword puzzles on a Sunday, a bass player, a dog lover – every ridiculous detail that Ted had ever chosen – Happiness.

After every great television show ends there is always a want for more, and they gave the audience a real development of the characters lives: changing, becoming increasingly more hectic, having children, finishing a night in the bar early to go home and working jobs they didn’t want to work to get by. Nonetheless everything worked out to some degree. If you had asked me four or five years ago who I wanted the mother to be – heartbeat – Robin. After everything that Ted had been through surely it stands to reason that he shouldn’t have to be alone because life took something from him. Now she isn’t technically the mother but it answers one question. It turns out that Robin was the reacher after all and Ted was the settler – oh, irony, you.

I for one am glad they didn’t butcher the ending with a fairy-tale rendition of how they always stayed in touch and still hung out in the same bar every-night, because that just isn’t realistic. It is after all just a television program, but I think it was a great example of the shows ethos: Love for as long as you can, because the universe has a funny sense of humour.

Goodbye, how i met your mother – you will be sorely missed.