This is Leicester. Here, our city motto is Semper Eadem. This means "Always The Same", and should tell you all you need to know. To get a closer look, please read on...

"Y'know, one day I'd love a house round here." I say to my friend Neil as he pulls his car up into the parking space. I give a small pause before continuing, "So I can burn it down."

I've joined Neil as he goes to pick up the work van. He does heavy shifts for the NHS, transporting dirty utensils all around the country to be sterilized, then brings them back. Right now, the van sits idle outside the last drivers house, on the St. Matthews estate within the city limits. Neil notices straight away that someone has tried tampering with the lock on the passenger door. As I get out the car, I take a good look around its deserted streets, and sigh.

"Fuck it; let's just burn the whole place down." I say. Neil approves, but we decide to grab the van instead.

St. Matthews is a very poor area of Leicester. Some would call it "multicultural", and it really is a home for immigrants of all kinds. Those who come into England with barely the most basic concept of English at their disposal, either working or claiming benefits from the government. Just from driving for five minutes, we see only one white couple walking quickly to their flat, and the rest are crowds of African men loitering like school kids, or Muslim wives walking home in pairs. The very nature of the area has brought out the worst in it, and whores and dealers roam the streets in the evening - A feast of sins available to anyone who even dares walk to walk the area, or even stop briefly in their car to pick their fancy. It is not a safe area to walk alone, or loiter for long.

Now, if anyone reading this is thinking that I am taking the worst case scenario of Leicester - My home town since I was born - Then you would be right; there aren't many places as vile or depraved as St. Matthews. But why should I not start here? These are the streets of Leicester, where families let their children play freely in the roads during the day, and herd them into the relative safety of their cheaply built flats at night.

This is a reflection of many places in the UK. But this is Leicester, whether I like it or not.

Not a fifteen minute walk from here, you will enter the city centre. Leicester itself is going through a dramatic urban renewal, and has been for many years now. The High Cross - Formally The Shires Shopping Centre - Has doubled in size, expanding onto the edges of the city with a fancy apartment complex adjoining it. But the work is still ongoing, and - From what we are told - Severely over budget. Yet all attention is here, as opposed to the all-but inhospitable estate but a stones throw away from it.

Earlier that day, I walked to the high street from some late afternoon shopping. Having made my way around the ever changing maze of construction fences, cordoning off huge chunks of sidewalk for the public and bottlenecking the crowds, I head down to my store, but not before looking for a bin for place my empty drinks bottle. And then it hits me. There are none. The entire street does not even have portable bins in place, in the busiest part of the whole town. I rest my bottle on top of the electricity junction box with the other litter around it, not giving it another thought as I move on.

Later that night, me and Neil have parked up in an industrial estate, and he is busy siphoning the fuel he swiped from the drum and into his car. I take a wonder while the Jungle beats blast out from the sub in his car. Hopping over the wall, I stand on the bank of the River Soar and marvel at it somewhat. You don't even know you're in the city from here; the sound of cars and people are long gone, only the water lapping against the walls of the bank. I look up a little further, and see the remains of the old factories from long ago. The path across the river is unused, not a sole in sight. The walk along must be wonderful, but no one wants to know it seems.

I sigh loudly, finishing my drink. I take a piss into the river, knowing full well no one is here to see me.

I leave for Canada in over two weeks. A better life awaits me there, I know it. But I couldn’t just leave without take a look at the city where I grew up. Like many people, if you live in a place too long to become dumbed down to its faults, knowing they’re there but not caring. Oh sure, I know there are places here that are beautiful – Bradgate Park and Abbey Park instantly spring to mind for me – But this is the city. This is my home from home, and it deserves to be observed.

And I hate it. I hate this city. I hate its bullshit promises of renewal and growth, and seeing nothing change year after year. I hate how we all scuttle on with our lives and not see the real beauty that’s hidden away, and choose to either ignore where the TLC is needed, or invest where the money will be.

I hate Leicester. But like all homes, I will miss it. Whether I like it or not.

So, it's emerged today that Peaches Geldof stopped breathing after suffering an overdose. And it is my sad duty to inform the world that Peaches, unfortunately, started breathing again shortly afterwards. Shocking.

I must not be the only one sick and tired of these fucking rich kids being splashed out over the front pages for doing stupid shit. I'm at a loss as to who to blame here - The newspapers, for wasting the money I've spent on their tabloids assaulting me with a two page spread about her, or Peaches herself for being so bored of her privileged life that she decides to mess herself up! Must be a hard life...

I have no real love for her father, Sir Bob - Y'know, the guy famous for not saving Africa - But I find great comfort in the fact he's probably gonna give this uppity little sow the bollocking of her life, for going down the same route as her mother. If it were me, I would throw the ungrateful little runt into a room with nothing but a bed and a bucket and lock the door behind her.

Not to make her go cold turkey. I just fucking hate her!

I'm not saying I'm all that innocent, mind you; I was young, I experimented, I have no shame in admitting that. So what's the difference between me and her? We've both seen the damage drugs can do, and where I have learnt and moved on, Peaches seems to carry on like it's all fun and games.

And really, what else is she famous for other than being the spawn of a Geldof? I've heard the word socialite thrown around, and that says it all really... Someone who smiles and looks pretty and hogs the nation’s attention because they have the money. The word celebrity is as fickle and flimsy as the people who prance around in other people's limelight and has no real value anymore - Not even to the people who have actually earned it. People like Peaches Geldof have turned it into a joke.

So she swans around on the red carpet of the new Batman movie, fresh from her near-death experience and looking more of a slapper than usual... And what, I'm supposed to be impressed by her? One or two television spots here and there does not a celebrity make; you have to earn that by proving you have the talent to back up your upbringing.

At this moment in time, I am on the last leg of a Creative Writing course and I am working on my final portfolio piece; in typical fashion for me, I am doing a script for a comic book series, set in a futuristic Earth. What with visions of the future being what they are, the term "cyborg" is bound to crop up sooner or later.

However, upon writing the word on Microsoft Word, it automatically underlined it as a spelling error. How odd that is it that this word is not recognised by the spellchecker, I thought. * I mean, it's not a word we folk use in everyday conversation - Unless you work in a comic book store, then I suppose it is! - but I would like to think that it would have a bit more notoriety for it to be included in such a well-used program.

However, the real fun started when I right clicked to see what alternative spellings there could be for it:

cyber
Vyborg

What the hell is a Vyborg? Is it some kind of insect-based organism, sent from the future to enslave the human race? No, because according to this Wikipedia article, Vyborg is a town in Russia with a population of just under 80,000 people. They are a big producer of paper for the economy.

Not so exciting now, is it?

Now, not knocking the good people of Vyborg - They have a lovely town, and I've already told my girlfriend that we're gonna go there for a vacation - but seems to me that, from the list of words to have and not to have on a spellchecker used for a western user, those two would be pretty obvious choices; I'm pretty certain that aside form the inevitable water cooler rant tomorrow, it'll be a long time before I use the word again...

Then again, in this world where people are "LOLing" and "ROFLing" their way into a grammatically-retarded future, nice to know I can still find a few words that get me talking and raise my interests above the norm. Time to brush up on my Russian, methinks...

So it comes to pass that another series of Doctor Who finishes, leaving many British fanboys are split down the middle as to how they felt about the season finale.

In my opinion, it was good. But just good. And that's the problem really, isn't it?

The season on a whole has been a big disappointment. And, rather ironically, it hasn't been anything to do with Catherine Tate, who has been the biggest accomplishment throughout the series; turning her from the mouthy cow she was into someone you could genuinely feel for (I think that started to happen around Planet of the Ood.)

But no, the series suffered because of how uninspiring most of the scenarios were. First episode is a prime example; last season we had a hospital lifted onto the Moon because some intergalactic police were hunting an alien threat. This season we get cute little fat creatures that look like Domo-kun roaming the streats and making everyone go "Awe!" Then there was the severely underused Jenny, the illigitimate daughter of the Doctor. Obviously a set up for something to come in the future, but was very badly handled. Even the invasion of the Mr. Potato-Heads Sontarans felt a little weak, and deserved to be delved into a lot more.

But the season finale was very, very badly handled. Was there any real need to have Billie Piper back in the show? Aside from presenting her with her own little Doctor to get freaky with back in the alternate universe? No, 'cus she did next to naff all during the finale, other than stand there and look intense while Davros rolled around patting himself on the back. It just seemed like an excuse to squeeze everyone in from the last four years, with the new girl saving the day.

In fact, that's exactly what it was!

I'm not denying that this season had it's good points - The return of the Ood, the brilliant story set in the Library by Steve Moffat (Who'll be taking over as head writer!) and poor Donna's sad exit form the show - But in all honestly, I'm glad we're getting a clean slate to start from with all this.

Here's to the Christmas special... And hopefully the end of the not-so-subtle subtext RTD seems to like smearing over each episode.