Jenni Ajderian

(originally published by  The Student )      Though uniting the likes of Howard Moon, Ned Flanders and Mr T, the stand-alone moustache has largely been shaved off the face of society. An association with seventies porn stars and paedophiles has given the fashion what one can lightly call a bad reputation- one which Movember, the Australian-born month-long charity moustache-a-thon, wants rid of.      On top of its aim to bring back the lost art of the solo Mo, the Movember Foundation raises huge amounts of money and awareness for the fight against male cancers. From an initial seven members way back in 2003, Movember recently crowned its one-millionth Mo Bro and last year raked in a huge £26 million for its partners worldwide. Not bad for a bunch of guys refusing to shave for a month. Now in its seventh year, Movember straddles the globe, and one-month moustaches are grown by hundreds of thousands of formerly clean-shaven Mo Bros. At the last count there were over 107,00

(originally published in The Student)      Two waiters and a cook are drinking their boss' stolen wine in the kitchen of a London restaurant and swapping poker tips and stories. One, Mugsy, leaps onto a chair to recount the heart-wrending tale of when he last lost a game. The other waiter sniffs and says simply-“Play the man, not the cards.”      These words resound throughout Patrick Marber's blisteringly funny play about a simple night of cards after work. A standing tradition for the owner and his staff, the night turns sour when debts are called in and we're asked if money and mates can mix.      One half of us sits behind Sweeney's kitchen counters while the other watches from the front face of the restaurant, meaning we can see Dealers Choiuce from every angle. Come the second half, we encircle the poker table along with the boys from the restaurant. We laugh along with them, and watch for a tell in the poker face opposite us.      This second half was the best

     When thrown head-first into the comic-book world of Bryan O'Malley's Scott Pilgrim, it's natural to feel a little apprehensive. Are those graphics going to come up for every sound effect? Is Pilgrim (Michael Cera) ever going to grown a backbone ? But then a certain charm kicks in, whether it's through Pilgrim's horribly funny one-liners, the dialogue between his bandmates, or a particular brand of magic realism which allows the first of seven evil exes to propose a duel to the death via email.      What ensues is a simple story of boy-meets-girl, boy makes a fool of himself but still convinces girl to come see his awful band play, and subsequently has to defeat her seven evil exes in Arcade fight scenes that would put the makers of Pokemon to shame.      It's rare to find an indie film with such great special effects, let alone one which speaks in precisely the same language as its target audience. By the time we're done watching Pilgrim and Ramona Flow

During the Edinburgh Fringe, Bristo Square is home to the E4 Udderbelly- a giant inflatable purple cow, which lies on its back with hooves and udders proudly pointing towards the sky.      But in Freshers' Week it's populated by students- whether milling around between events and lectures and awkwardly forming flash-in-the-pan friendships in the daytime, queing for Potterow at night or, after a night at the SU, resembling the aforementioned cow, lying on their back with hooves and... well, you get the picture.      And just as the Summer loves Tourists, so the Autumn loves Freshers. The ever-present flyerers of the Fringe have a new lease of life in the first few weeks of September as we are offered student discount cards, drinks promotions, club events, soc events, and even the odd chaplaincy meet-and-greet. The clever ones start their pitch with the word 'free'.      "Free sweets!" (and a leaflet encouraging you to attend a Christian Discussion Session) &

I could be worse employed Than as a watcher of the void Whose part should be to tell What star if any fell   I saw four shooting stars tonight. Lying on the grass in my back garden I was wondering why I know so few constellations and so little about the universe.      The thought used to be truly comforting. That however huge and important we think our lives are, there are things a hundred times older than we will ever be, and which will keep burning a hundred times longer. And we can see them only as one fleeting after-image of a life that may be already extinguished.      I've sat under the stars with a friend and talked the world to rights. I've watched a starry sky turn into a sunrise over the sea, and heard a thousand strangers cheer the setting sun and the emerging moon.      A kind of paganism seems built in. It's the part of us that swears at the rain even though all we're really talking to are bags of water hanging in the air. It's the bit that turns

That is the sound of the last two months going by.      Once you've been to so many cities and X amount of museums and Y amount of art galleries and Z amount of top-of-the-world best-panoramic-view-ever places, they start to blur into one a little bit. Memory becomes a flip-book. Each image on its own makes no sense, but as part of a swift-moving whole they are imperative to the overall effect. Though separated by a bus journey or a series of roadsigns, each city, museum, tall place visited forms part of one big multi-coloured moving drawing.      Once you return home, you get asked How Was The Trip, challenged to describe the last couple of months in a few choice words. I still can't do it. I sat in a sweat lodge for four hours with scantily-clad strangers, I've climbed mountains and weeded vegetable patches and pulled all-nighters in New York and New Orleans, I've made pancakes with the natives and taken a bike around Stanley Park. Been at the top of the CN Tower a

     A late bus brought me not to the home of my next WWOOFing host, but to his uncle Clément, the sixty-year-old who responded to my explanation that I was on une année sabbatique (a gap year) with the explanation that he was on  une vie sabbatique.      Sitting in the midday sun at Marché Jean-Talon sipping face-twitchingly strong coffee, you could easily be convinced you were in Europe. Here in the depths of the francophone part of Montréal there is barely a shred of english in sight, and now in the absence of a travel companion (apart from the ever-loyal Boogie Bear, of course), I find myself feeling a little more intimidated by the city. Grand in every sense of the world, it teems with a life hidden in some respects by this language barrier and simultaneously improved by it.      Following a day of working in 36-degree heat, my new hosts came to pick me up. The trip back to the farm lasted an hour and drove us into humidity so dense my cheek went numb as I rolled down the windo

Jazz On The Park Hostel-      4 nights' stay with ISIC discount <$115      4 mornings' worth toast, eggs & coffee = free Attractions seen-      Statue of Liberty (from Staten Island Ferry) = free      Empire State Building (from the ground) = free      Time Square = free      Brooklyn Bridge = free      Band Leeroy Justice performing & filming video on Brooklyn Bridge = free      Central Park = free Museums-      MOMA = free (friday night)      Guggenheim = $1 (by donation saturday night)      the Metropolitan Museum of Art = $1 (by donation) Starbucks      Branches seen (so far) =  17    25      Money spent = $0 (see above, Jazz on the Park coffee) Food      New York Cheesecake = $4 (from a gorgeous deli / fast-food place near City Hall)      Pretzel = $2 (from a street vendor outside the Met)      Quaesadilla = $6 (from a nice little hole-in-the-wall near the hostel)      Hard Rock Cafe = $30 (because apparently the one on Time Square do

Three and a half days wasn't really enough for Montréal.      It's not exactly that there are thousands of things to do- not for a European, anyway- but just to soak up enough of the rich atmosphere would probably take another week.      As far from Vancouver as from Europe, Montréal is a truly bilingual city. Though all signs are written only secondarily, if at all, in English, most people speak both this and French, and maybe a couple more languages as well. One of my favourite things has been starting a conversation in English, et puis qu'on continue en Francais. The city is even roughly split in two by its two half-heritages, the business district ruled by the literal-minded anglophones and the cool centreville by les francophones who remain so proud of their language.      We managed to spend the weekend here going to only one museum- any longer touristy stay would merit visiting a couple more, considering their abundance in the city. This is one of those rare plac

On the 8 th  of October, 1871, Catherine O'Leary was out milking her cow.      It was the dead of night, so she had an oil lantern next to her, overlooking the fact that the barn was a giant fire hazard and that cows can get twitchy when someone's pulling on their udders.      Well, wouldn't you?      The resultant fire destroyed 4 square miles of Downtown Chicago and killed hundreds of people, leaving thousands more homeless. A third of the city's property value was turned to rubble, and over 70 miles of roads burnt up beyond recognition.      So, what do you do with a chargrilled city? You rebuild, of course. Nineteenth-century Chicago found itself in prime position for all the new waves- on the northern end of the Mississippi, and the hub of most trade routes, the 'Second City' had a huge influx of funding from the federal government which was easy to divert into its rebuilding. Turned out this was desperately needed, as the population just kept growing.

"Program Change: Earth, Wind and Fire will perform today, ARETHA FRANKLIN WILL NOT APPEAR" Yeah. Annoying.      Still, Iman, Ellie and I saw reams of brilliant musicians at JazzFest this year, both inside and outside the festival grounds. The calibre of the average busker is incredible in the Big Easy, as is that of the bands playing the clubs in town- often an artist will play to the JazzFest audience, who've payed up to $60 apiece for a day's ticket, then head to Bourbon Street and play to people who got in for five dollars, or even for free.      Trombone Shorty did it the other way around- on Saturday night he and his band Orleans Avenue played Tipitina's Uptown, finished at about five in the morning, had breakfast, then headed into the racecourse and did it all over again.      The man does not have a single bad review. Everyone and anyone you talk to about Trombone Shorty will say how great he is, how fun the show is, and sometimes how they'r

Boogie Bear and I thoroughly enjoyed our two days in Vancouver.      The parents of Fiona, my last WWOOFing host, live in North Vancouver and are absolutely wonderful. They've opened their doors to me for my little sejour in Vancouver- not only that, but after picking me up from the Seabus station I was hailed as elegant and offered a glass of wine. Following a six-hour Greyhound bus ride and the customary short hike with the 80-litre backpack, this was more than welcome.      This morning was spent walking through the Capilano Canyon with the dogs, before I jumped back on the Seabus and into the big city of Vancouver. From thousand-year-old trees to skyscrapers, I wandered a little bemusedly through city streets and the glittering Downtown all spruced up for the Olympics. This is all only a short walk from Gastown, the infamous Amsterdam Café, Chinatown and finally the eastern edges and the highway. Staying on a single road there is a tangible difference in the air as you

Well, it seems the wind changed and blew the whole Icelandic ashcloud out of the way!      Winds have been changing here, too- I'm supposed to be in a place called Rossland right now, 283km east of where I actually am.      But rolling with the punches is an important part of travelling. I made two mistakes in this part of the journey- number one was trying to organise so much so far in advance- I first emailed my WWOOFing place in Rossland about three months ago, but due to one thing and another I now felt less and less inclined to go there. Nonetheless, Zan and I jumped in the van (named Morgan Freeman, of course), and started on Highway 3 heading south to Rossland My second mistake came when Zan  handed me the map. When we hit Grand Forks, about 100km west of Rossland, I realised what I'd done, and we came up with another plan. And so here I am in Penticton. After a seven-hour drive in a van that goes at exactly the speed it chooses, and a restless night's sl

The news of the Icelandic Volcano filtered through the other-worldly media of Nelson and reminded us that reality exists outside of the town.      The last week has been incredible. Staying in the centre of Nelson means being a block away from the best coffee and two from one of the most eventful streets you could find in a teeny tiny city. As well as JusDance me and the incredible Zan have been to yoga, open mic nights, a hike up Pulpit Rock (giving a view of all of Nelson- very pretty) and numerous wanders down to the lake for tarot readings and meet-ups with whoever happened to be there.      Out of town we hitch-hiked out to Ainsworth Hot Springs, which was an experience in itself. After a measly half-hour wait we got two lifts which hopped us up there, stopping in Balfour, where a guy from Open Mic recognized us and waved hello from the queue for the ferry, and a guy in a Bakery recognised us as the two girls painting the house across the street.            There has been

Zan and I were kind of uncertain whether to go out, having spent the day shovelling gravel, re-laying a path and climbing a mountain. The usual life of a WWOOFer in British Columbia.      I showed up to JusDance completely over-dressed. I thought it would be something more akin to a silent disco, but then, waiiit, this is Nelson. Whatever you're expecting, it will turn out to be completely different.      And so I stood in my skinny jeans, nice top, even wearing mascara, watching people in tank tops and yoga trousers swaying and dancing to music completely unfamiliar to me.      There are a few important rules to JusDance- No shoes, No speaking, No alcohol. You're encouraged to move around the space a lot and to interact when the 'vibe' is right (very important Nelsonian word there), and, crucially, to dance exactly how you want to, because "ain't no one's lookin".      In focusing completely on your own body and your connection with the music, and

There are numerous advantages to WWOOFing or CouchSurfing instead of just crashing in a hotel.      There's the free food, free roof over your head, the skills you learn- but most importantly, there's your host. Without this person letting you take up some of their personal space for a while, you'd never get so much of an insight into someone else's life, and never get to muscle in on certain experiences orchestrated by a friend-of-a-friend.      I sure as hell never would have been to a Sweat Lodge if I was just in the Best Western down the street.      The people at Buie's place were up on the hill at 9am building the fire and preparing the grandfathers- the heated rocks -for the lodge, so that by the time we got there a couple of hours later, the two fire demons were well practised in levering another log onto the great tipi of heat. Behind it our Elder stood whittling what looked like a longbow. What followed was an introduction to the group, which was o

Banff National Park, Alberta "In Canada, I will make a video that will make me cry. In unbearable frost and thin air I shall hold my shivvering dried-up heart in my hand..."      If the Walter Philips Gallery had more than one exhibition going, I didn't see the rest. I was pretty contented with Ragnar Kjartansson's The End- a video installment in 5 parts projected simultaneously onto the walls of a pitch-black, blacked-out room. The words Video Installment usually make me cringe too, to be honest I was expecting something more akin to the Miss Chief video in Calgary.      But in February of last year Kjartansson and musician David Por Jonsson went out to the Rockies, donned Davie Crocket caps and played guitars, banjos, drums, bass, piano and electric guitar in temperatures as low as -20 degrees C. The result is 'a five-channel video installation synched together as a single disfigured country music arrangement in the chord of G', and absolutely sublime.

Yesterday I ran around the city a bit, trying to see as much as possible for as little as possible...      It was hard.      The walk from Sean's place in Renfrew was long but scenic. Cold and crisp, Calgary did turn out to be mostly suburb, with a pretty concentrated centre with all your usual tourist hangouts just south of the Bow river where a lot of money can be spent very easily. Like $14 for going up Calgary Tower, $9 for a student ticket to the Glenbow Museum, and all those malls! They're all interconnected, so you could probably walk from shop to shop most of the way across the city without having to see sunlight. This is probably the idea behind the Plus Fifteen, too- a heated walkway above the streets so the Calgarians don't have to freeze in winter.      The Glenbow offered your normal mix of traditional art, weird modern stuff, rooms full of the extensive and glorious history of Alberta, all 150 years of it, and then some disco music and a sequin-clad Native

Just a quick update, and the results of a quick Google search which lead me to a few quotes from Robert Louis Stevenson-- " I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move. ” " To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive. ” Musing on these as I rush my things together before driving to the airport. Four Canadians so far who basically helped me to stay alive-      Plane lady- saw I didn't order a veggie meal so convinced an air hostess to bring me a plate of cheeses from first class      Bus lady- saw I was looking fatigued & confused so asked where I was headed, if I had a place to stay, if I knew where I was going...      Bus driver- told me which way to walk to find Sean's house (very important stuff)      & last but by no means least, Sean- the guy letting me camp out in his house for 2 nights, hop on his Wifi, and who made me Chai Tea & gave me hummus as soon as I walked through the

     Having seen just a few clips of the queues outside Iraqi polling booths this week, I've started casting my mind out to May and the forthcoming general election here. I'll be out in Canada, so it'll be a postal vote for me. Which means deciding even sooner. Grand.      Also on my viewing schedule recently was BBC 3's attempt at Question Time aimed at first-time voters. The panel started off looking respectable enough- Shadow Culture Secretary Jeremy Hunt, Higher Education Minister David Lammy (who held his own very, very well), Lib Dem Communities Spokesman Julia Goldsworthy, Tim Campbell, first ever winner of reality hiring agency The Apprentice (um...), satirist Rory Bremner (um..? but ok, he knows his stuff), and Jamelia, (what?) singer and Prince's Trust Ambassador (what??), and all hosted by that well-known political commentator Dermot O'Leary (WHAT??).     So kudos to the BBC for trying to talk down to, sorry, relate to, the younger population filli

Paolo Nutini has been sitting under a strange kind of sun lately.      2009's Sunny Side Up album may have won him a Brit Awards nomination, but I think Nutini fans may be a little disappointed by the songs that make it up. If you were expecting something of the same calibre as the single Pencil Full of Lead , you're in for a surprise- aside from the misleadingly upbeat 10/10 which heads up the twelve-track CD, the album is mostly populated by reflective, ambiguous, mellow songs. Some are even a bit slushy. Maybe this was the reason for the eggs in the title.      A couple of years ago my mum and sister saw dear Paolo at Glastonbury singing I Wanna Be Like You to a toy orangutan, drunk as a lord. But here Nutini's certainly sounding more mature and sober- his vocals deepen one minute and croon in falsetto the next, his guitar swaps between chugging through a country chord sequence and humming melodiously under borderline-religious lyrics. The track Coming Up Easy speak

I'm adding them on  Facebook . I'm reading through their  MySpace  looking for gigs in Bristol. I'm wailing along with their songs and learning to play them all on guitar. I think it's love.       Mumford and Sons ' album Sigh No More currently has pride of place in my CD collection. The London quartet, formed a scant two years ago, have been nominated for scores of awards by the NME, XFM, triple-J and probably quite a few other acronymous music awarding bodies in categories toasting New Music and Breakthrough Acts. But the music they're playing is far from new- the four bonded over a love of Bluegrass, Folk, Country... The acoustic guitar, the banjo, the references to crops and harvests are normally present in a kind of music associated with old men in pubs and slender women with flowers in their hair. So what is it about Marcus Mumford, Country Winston, Ben Lovett and Ted Dwane which gives their version of Folk such a huge popular appeal? Why are they played

There was a philosopher who once dreamed he was a butterfly, but when he awoke he wasn't sure whether he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was a man.      When Jake Sully awakes from the butterfly world of the Na'vi, where he spends his time jumping from treetops, walking through ultra violet forests and riding huge blue alien dragons, only to see the same old research shack in the mountains, his understanding of which side he's on starts to slip.      What follows is a three-hour film which can only be described as epic, and which follows the same vein as the scifi parable District Nine. It's no coincidence that the film centres on an American mining company wanting to bulldoze alien holy sites for the rich minerals that lie deep in the ground. A small programme is set up by Doctor Sigourney Weaver to use Avatar bodies to infiltrate and learn from the Na'vi, with the aim of finding a diplomatic solution- so the wheelchair-bound Jake

ca·thar·tic / kəˈ θ ärtik /  • adj. 1. providing psychological relief through the open expression of strong emotions      Examples of cathartic text being the Shakespearian plays Hamlet and Julius Caesar, as well as the entire contents of WHSmith's Tragic Life Stories section. Six shelves of books sit and document the tragic life stories of children, adults, small fluffy things probably and anyone else the author can get their hands on- sometimes even themselves. With eyesnatching adjectives for titles such as "Betrayed" (Lyndsey Harns), "Worthless" (Marilyn Hardy) and "Disgraced" (Saira Ahmed), each promises to be some variation on the theme of harrowing childhood stories of misuse and neglect; tense emotional battles in which the subject's sole ally is a kindly stranger/ sister/ author; all in all a life-changing, tear-filled tale that is, by definition, cathartic. By the time you've read it, you feel pretty happy it didn't happen to