This morning, at 3am, I awoke to the sound of someone being murdered.
How's that for a hook-line?
It had been a most eventful Friday evening indeed. After leaving work, I braved the hordes of meandering, slack-jawed oiks in Sainsbury's to purchase supplies for the weekend.
Now, ordinarily I'm uncomfortable with using the phrase 'purchase supplies' as I consider it most disagreeable and aggravating. Rather like the phrase 'a good bit of kit' I find that it's used largely by armchair warriors with an unnatural predilection for spouting vaguely-military sounding jargon in the vain hope, presumably, that it will make them sound dangerous, knowledgeable and exotic.
Well it doesn't. It simply makes them sound like idiotic wannabes, re-reading Andy McNab books and mentally masturbating over pictures of MIG 29's. Such people will often claim that they are "going out to 'recce' the pub situation" before trotting off down the road to smugly quaff warm ale while standing at the bar, surveying the other punters and considering which ones they could take out with a well-aimed karate chop to the neck. (Answer: none)
Nobody is impressed, so stop it at once.
However, in this particular case, the 'supplies' comment was actually fairly accurate for the following reason. When I go home on a Friday night, my ultimate plan is to walk in through the front door, close it and then not re-open it until Monday morning. To spend the whole weekend indoors (or partly out on the balcony if I'm feeling particularly adventurous) without having to rub shoulders, look at or talk to another human being is a thing of joy and I recommend it to all. And, of course, getting in enough food, booze and cigarettes to see you through is an integral part of this.
Having purchased lasagna, milk, bread, eggs, booze and plentiful cigarettes, I was ready to 'dig in'* for a couple of days.
*Yes, another military term. I was using it ironically. Fuck off.
Due to a minor week-long obsession with coconut which has involved the consumption of several bounty bars, I took the unusual measure of buying a small bottle of Malibu as the thought of delicious coconutty alcoholic drinks seemed like rather a jolly idea. Sadly, the reality wasn't as satisfying as the fantasy. Despite the deliciousness of Malibu, it is only 21% proof which means you have to drink 3 litres of it just to dull the shame of actually having bought the stuff in the first place.
Still, it was rather pleasant and I topped up my alcohol quotient with several very large, very harsh, dark rums, whilst eating a pleasingly cheesy lasagna, to which I had added extra cheese for the lovely bubbly, crispy topping effect.
I was in bed asleep by about midnight, belly full, and was dreaming by 3:00. I seem to recall that I was involved in a telephone call about work in which I was talking on my mobile to a group of people in the next room. For reasons unknown, one of the people was Simon Cowell, so it already had something of the nightmare about it. I was explaining the work I do, why it's important to the organisation, how I 'add value' and various other things that had me cringing in embarrassment as I remembered the details this morning.
As I schmoozed my way through the telephone call, I was staggered to suddenly hear the sound of someone being attacked.
A high-pitched shrieking could be heard over the phone, punctuated with furious, frenzied growling and roaring. In my dream, I ran into the other room to see what the hell was going on.
As I entered the room, I immediately saw several mutilated corpses littering the chintzy sofa and one person in particular being savaged to death by some sort of invisible force, rips and gouges opening up in their flesh right in front of my eyes.
It was such a shocking visual image that it actually woke me up and I lay there in bed, on my right hand side, eyes wide open. It took 2 or 3 seconds for me to fully move from dream-state to wide-awake, during which time I came to an awful dawning realisation that I could still hear the screaming.
This was no dream.
I froze, absolutely rigid, eyes like saucers, breath caught in my throat. There, unmistakeably, was the sound of some horrific creature roaring, spitting and shrieking. I listened, blinking myopically, still rooted to the bed, desperately trying to ascertain where the sound was coming from.
Was it outside? No, too close for that. Too loud. Which meant that...it was inside.
I still lay there, hearing that awful sound, as my brain flickered through the possibilities - was it in the living room? The kitchen? The bathroom?
The answer to every one of these questions was a resounding 'no'.
It was coming from the bedroom - the very room I was in.
I'm not exaggerating when I say that I was absolutely terrified. In a ridiculous, instinctual move, I slowly started to lift the duvet over my head in the hope that it would make the sound go away. I stopped after a few seconds though, scared that I might attract the attention of whatever was in the room. I hesitate to admit this, but I was almost on the verge of tears.
What is this? What's making this noise? Am I going to die?
I was half-asleep, confused, frightened out of my wits and sort of wished that I was already dead so I wouldn't have to listen to it anymore. I know that you're all used to my exaggerations for comic effect, but I'm telling the absolute truth when I say that I can't ever remember being that frightened in my life, and I genuinely thought I was going to die.
I played out my own death in my imagination and it seemed to go on for hours. In reality, of course, it was merely seconds. But I lay there and almost accepted that I would probably no longer be alive in a few more moments. All common sense and rationality completely evaporated. I kept telling myself "there simply can't be something in the room. It's impossible", but my mind wasn't listening. A deep, primal fear had kicked in and I was convinced of my impending doom.
Then, after a few more seconds, my eyes adjusted slightly and I realised that the room wasn't in complete darkness; there was, in fact, a bluish tinge to the walls, rather like the one you get when the television is on...
If I hadn't been clutching the duvet between my fists and silently weeping into the pillow, I would have slapped myself on the forehead with a sound like a starting pistol.
All at once, I recalled what I'd been doing when I'd gone to sleep 3 hours earlier...
...I'd been laying in bed watching An American Werewolf in London on DVD.
Turning over, I looked to my left and saw the TV was still on, and the DVD was endlessly looping. Griffin Dunne was on the screen, slathered with blood and gently steaming in the cold air of the moors.
I almost wept with relief.
Yes, folks, I fell asleep watching a horror film and woke up thinking there was a monster in my bedroom. I appear to have reverted to being 8 years old again.
I'd hoped that if I wrote about this, it would somehow cathartically absolve me of the enormous shame that I feel. Sadly, it hasn't worked. I am a moron. A blithering idiot of such extraordinary magnitude that I can barely believe it.
Thus, we learn these important lessons:
1) Don't eat 'extra cheese' before bedtime.
2) Don't fall asleep watching a horror film.
Oh, and:
3) Don't use military jargon. Ever.
Related Posts: Death Pays A Visit
6 February 2010
1 February 2010
Music Review of 2009
Steal from the best*. That's my philosophy on life. So, in that spirit, I have decided to pinch an idea from Piley, the author of the excellent 'Start The Revolution Without Me' blog. The idea, as presented on his blog, was thus:
E. F Rice hit on the genius idea that we all create a CD made up of your favourite tunes from the last 12 months, burn enough copies for everyone and then dish em out. The rules were simple, all of the tracks had to either: a) be taken from an album released in 2009; or b) from an album you bought in 2009 Either way, the CD was to contain songs that had shaped 2009 for you.
Seems like a rather good idea. Therefore, for your listening pleasure, I present to you my songs of 2009.
*Stolen from Francis Ford Coppolla.
Artist: Cybraphon
Album: Automaton Number One (2009)
Track: Coxsackie
This is an odd one. 'Cybraphon' is a project by an Edinburgh-based collective called FOUND. Essentially, it's a collection of robotic instruments residing in an antique display case, and the music it plays is affected by any comments made online about itself. It's mood changes from 'Desolation' all the way up to 'Delirium'. Utterly bizarre, of course, but it's been producing some rather impressive music. This track in particular, 'Coxsackie' reminds me a bit of recent Tom Waits' fare like his 'Black Rider' album and I keep half expecting a gravelly drawl to begin floating around over the whole thing. A very interesting piece of esoterica.
http://cybraphon.com/
Artist: Brand Violet
Album: Retrovision Coma (2005)
Track: Alien Hive Theme
I'm not sure what's happening with these chaps as their website states "Brand Violet have released two albums and have plans to release a third album in 2009", yet this fabled third album has yet to make an appearance. Despite this, their first album, 'Retrovision Coma', makes my list of 2009 purely because I'd never heard of them until a few months back. They were brought to my attention by a Twitter chum, @GarethDEdwards who has been responsible for directing me towards some fantastic music this last year. This track in particular simply delights me every time I hear it.
http://www.brandviolet.com/index.htm
Artist: Sparks
Album: Hello Young Lovers (2006)
Track: Dick Around
If you're a follower of Piley's blog 'Start The Revolution Without Me' (and if you're not, then shame on you) you'll be well aware of his devotion to, indeed 'obsession with', those insane Mael brothers and their creation Sparks. Like many others, I thought Sparks had done one song years ago and disappeared off the face of the planet. I was very, very wrong and Piley has successfully coaxed me onto the path of enlightenment. Sparks are very much alive and kicking, having produced something like 22 albums, and their later work is absolutely wonderful. Their 2006 album 'Hello Young Lovers' is that CD you simply can't stop listening to, no matter how much you might want to. I've played it so many times I should really be sick to death of it, but it's a truly wonderful accomplishment. Piley himself has described this track 'Dick Around' as a song on a par with Queen's 'Bohemian Rhapsody' in terms of its epic scale. Worryingly, I don't disagree with him...
http://www.allsparks.com/
Artist: ThumperMonkey Lives!
Album: We Bake Our Bread Beneath Her Holy Fire (2009)
Track: If it works for the cast of LA Law, it's going to work for me
Another recommendation from @GarethDEdwards of Twitter fame, this album has been a firm favourite on my MP3 player for some months now. How to describe Thumpermonkey Lives!? Well, their own website says, "Over-egging the pudding of good taste, Thumpermonkey shake up an ill-advised cocktail of post-metal sludge, Bowie-esque warcries and mathematics homework; dropping in a brine-tinged olive of 70's progressive rock, and finishing it off with a gaudy little umbrella."
I think that sums them up quite nicely, actually, even though it is cheating for me to use their own press in such a lazy manner. This album is, quite simply, wonderfully moreish. Most times I listen to it, I immediately put it back to track 1 again and sit through its insanity at least twice more in a sitting. Amazingly, their earlier albums are available online completely free of charge so, as the man says, "Fill your boots".
http://www.thumpermonkey.com/
Artist: ThumperMonkey Lives!
Album: We Bake Our Bread Beneath Her Holy Fire (2009)
Track: Abyssopelagic
Thumpermonkey Lives! again. I make no apologies. They're wonderful.
Artist: The Clockwork Quartet
Album: None released
Track: The Doctor's Wife
OK, I have to admit that I'm a fan of Steampunk - that glorious medley of Victoriana and steam-driven futurism. It's an extraordinary world. But, for me, there has never really been a Steampunk band that I could get behind. Sure, there are some who claim to carry the Steampunk banner, but as soon as I hear an electric guitar in there, the bubble is burst and I'm no longer lost in that world - yes, I'm looking at you Abney Park. Until, that is, The Clockwork Quartet came to my attention. This group of people (actually 13 of them, not 4 as the name suggests) create their music with banjos, accordions, violins and even typewriters. Yes, that's right, typewriters. Their sound is quite unique and utterly addictive. They have an album in the works, but there are two songs available on their website, both of which I have played far more than is actually healthy or sane. I'm actually giddy with anticipation about the release of their new album which, I'm hoping will be available some time in 2010. Listen to them. Fear them. Then love them.
http://www.clockworkquartet.com/index.php
Artist: The Clockwork Quartet
Album: None released
Track: The Watchmaker's Apprentice
Another from the undisputed masters of Steampunk music. Did I mention that they're brilliant? OK, just checking.
Artist: Baddies
Album: Do The Job (2009)
Track: Open One Eye
I've mentioned Baddies in the past and I continue to be amazed by them. Their debut album is an utter joy and has been in my CD player so many times over the last few months that I've now resorted to just leaving it in there at all times. I saw them play live in Southend around Christmas time and it was a fantastic gig. Piley was there too and seemed to really like it, so I feel I've repaid the favour of him introducing me to Sparks. This particular track was my favourite from day 1 and continues to be the one that always makes me grin like a shitting chimp. Buy it, listen to it, then thank me later.
http://www.listentobaddies.co.uk/
Artist: Diablo Swing Orchestra
Album: Sing Along Songs for the Damned & Delirious (2009)
Track: Lucy Fears The Morning Star
Diablo Swing Orchestra are, I believe, clinically insane. But I love them all the more for it. They're a Swedish avant-garde metal band who...wait, wait! Come back! Trust me, these guys are good! Right, what these lunatics produce is some of the most epic, swelling, thumping, tracks you're likely to hear. It's utter madness and sounds rather like a Friday night in the bowels of Hades where, of course, you can most definitely still smoke at the bar while sipping your fire-water. I'd like to see this group live, but fear I might never recover. You'll love them or hate them. Or fear them.
Artist: Matt Stevens
Album: Echo (2009)
Track: Spencer Park
Of course, no review of 2009 would be complete without mention of Mr. Matt Stevens. He was, you may recall, my blog pick for this year. You know that bit in The Big Lebowski where The Stranger says, "It's good knowin' he's out there, the Dude, takin' her easy for all us sinners." Well, I kind of feel that way about Matt - I find it strangely comforting that in the helter skelter insanity of modern life, he's out there somewhere, with his guitar and a bottle of something beery, happily making this wonderful music. The dude abides.
http://www.mattstevensguitar.com/
Artist: MooV
Album: Fold (2008)
Track: Fall Away
In the continuing spirit of lazy theft, I shall quote this: "Led by composer Colin Riley and featuring the distinctive voice of Norwegian vocalist Elisabeth Nyågard, MooV are made up of the enticing combination of voice, 'cello, bass guitar, percussion, keyboards and electronics'. Following three years of exploratory recording and development this bewildering band of cross-genre musicians has put together a musically aesthetic & evocative album of songs which challenge the rich territories between pop, electronica, the avantgard and jazz. Categorise if you can."
Yep, that about sums them up. One minute you're listening to a track which reminds you of early Diamanda Galas and her insane glossolollia, the next there are beautiful Bjork-ian melodies. This one, as they say, is a keeper.
There were, of course, many other songs/albums that I loved over 2009, but these are the ones that have sprung to mind. I hope they give you as much pleasure as they did me.
Next time on The Blog of Eternal Disappointment: something shouty about an unimportant event that is of little consequence even to me. Stay tuned!
E. F Rice hit on the genius idea that we all create a CD made up of your favourite tunes from the last 12 months, burn enough copies for everyone and then dish em out. The rules were simple, all of the tracks had to either: a) be taken from an album released in 2009; or b) from an album you bought in 2009 Either way, the CD was to contain songs that had shaped 2009 for you.
Seems like a rather good idea. Therefore, for your listening pleasure, I present to you my songs of 2009.
*Stolen from Francis Ford Coppolla.
Artist: Cybraphon
Album: Automaton Number One (2009)
Track: Coxsackie
This is an odd one. 'Cybraphon' is a project by an Edinburgh-based collective called FOUND. Essentially, it's a collection of robotic instruments residing in an antique display case, and the music it plays is affected by any comments made online about itself. It's mood changes from 'Desolation' all the way up to 'Delirium'. Utterly bizarre, of course, but it's been producing some rather impressive music. This track in particular, 'Coxsackie' reminds me a bit of recent Tom Waits' fare like his 'Black Rider' album and I keep half expecting a gravelly drawl to begin floating around over the whole thing. A very interesting piece of esoterica.
http://cybraphon.com/
Artist: Brand Violet
Album: Retrovision Coma (2005)
Track: Alien Hive Theme
I'm not sure what's happening with these chaps as their website states "Brand Violet have released two albums and have plans to release a third album in 2009", yet this fabled third album has yet to make an appearance. Despite this, their first album, 'Retrovision Coma', makes my list of 2009 purely because I'd never heard of them until a few months back. They were brought to my attention by a Twitter chum, @GarethDEdwards who has been responsible for directing me towards some fantastic music this last year. This track in particular simply delights me every time I hear it.
http://www.brandviolet.com/index.htm
Artist: Sparks
Album: Hello Young Lovers (2006)
Track: Dick Around
If you're a follower of Piley's blog 'Start The Revolution Without Me' (and if you're not, then shame on you) you'll be well aware of his devotion to, indeed 'obsession with', those insane Mael brothers and their creation Sparks. Like many others, I thought Sparks had done one song years ago and disappeared off the face of the planet. I was very, very wrong and Piley has successfully coaxed me onto the path of enlightenment. Sparks are very much alive and kicking, having produced something like 22 albums, and their later work is absolutely wonderful. Their 2006 album 'Hello Young Lovers' is that CD you simply can't stop listening to, no matter how much you might want to. I've played it so many times I should really be sick to death of it, but it's a truly wonderful accomplishment. Piley himself has described this track 'Dick Around' as a song on a par with Queen's 'Bohemian Rhapsody' in terms of its epic scale. Worryingly, I don't disagree with him...
http://www.allsparks.com/
Artist: ThumperMonkey Lives!
Album: We Bake Our Bread Beneath Her Holy Fire (2009)
Track: If it works for the cast of LA Law, it's going to work for me
Another recommendation from @GarethDEdwards of Twitter fame, this album has been a firm favourite on my MP3 player for some months now. How to describe Thumpermonkey Lives!? Well, their own website says, "Over-egging the pudding of good taste, Thumpermonkey shake up an ill-advised cocktail of post-metal sludge, Bowie-esque warcries and mathematics homework; dropping in a brine-tinged olive of 70's progressive rock, and finishing it off with a gaudy little umbrella."
I think that sums them up quite nicely, actually, even though it is cheating for me to use their own press in such a lazy manner. This album is, quite simply, wonderfully moreish. Most times I listen to it, I immediately put it back to track 1 again and sit through its insanity at least twice more in a sitting. Amazingly, their earlier albums are available online completely free of charge so, as the man says, "Fill your boots".
http://www.thumpermonkey.com/
Artist: ThumperMonkey Lives!
Album: We Bake Our Bread Beneath Her Holy Fire (2009)
Track: Abyssopelagic
Thumpermonkey Lives! again. I make no apologies. They're wonderful.
Artist: The Clockwork Quartet
Album: None released
Track: The Doctor's Wife
OK, I have to admit that I'm a fan of Steampunk - that glorious medley of Victoriana and steam-driven futurism. It's an extraordinary world. But, for me, there has never really been a Steampunk band that I could get behind. Sure, there are some who claim to carry the Steampunk banner, but as soon as I hear an electric guitar in there, the bubble is burst and I'm no longer lost in that world - yes, I'm looking at you Abney Park. Until, that is, The Clockwork Quartet came to my attention. This group of people (actually 13 of them, not 4 as the name suggests) create their music with banjos, accordions, violins and even typewriters. Yes, that's right, typewriters. Their sound is quite unique and utterly addictive. They have an album in the works, but there are two songs available on their website, both of which I have played far more than is actually healthy or sane. I'm actually giddy with anticipation about the release of their new album which, I'm hoping will be available some time in 2010. Listen to them. Fear them. Then love them.
http://www.clockworkquartet.com/index.php
Artist: The Clockwork Quartet
Album: None released
Track: The Watchmaker's Apprentice
Another from the undisputed masters of Steampunk music. Did I mention that they're brilliant? OK, just checking.
Artist: Baddies
Album: Do The Job (2009)
Track: Open One Eye
I've mentioned Baddies in the past and I continue to be amazed by them. Their debut album is an utter joy and has been in my CD player so many times over the last few months that I've now resorted to just leaving it in there at all times. I saw them play live in Southend around Christmas time and it was a fantastic gig. Piley was there too and seemed to really like it, so I feel I've repaid the favour of him introducing me to Sparks. This particular track was my favourite from day 1 and continues to be the one that always makes me grin like a shitting chimp. Buy it, listen to it, then thank me later.
http://www.listentobaddies.co.uk/
Artist: Diablo Swing Orchestra
Album: Sing Along Songs for the Damned & Delirious (2009)
Track: Lucy Fears The Morning Star
Diablo Swing Orchestra are, I believe, clinically insane. But I love them all the more for it. They're a Swedish avant-garde metal band who...wait, wait! Come back! Trust me, these guys are good! Right, what these lunatics produce is some of the most epic, swelling, thumping, tracks you're likely to hear. It's utter madness and sounds rather like a Friday night in the bowels of Hades where, of course, you can most definitely still smoke at the bar while sipping your fire-water. I'd like to see this group live, but fear I might never recover. You'll love them or hate them. Or fear them.
Artist: Matt Stevens
Album: Echo (2009)
Track: Spencer Park
Of course, no review of 2009 would be complete without mention of Mr. Matt Stevens. He was, you may recall, my blog pick for this year. You know that bit in The Big Lebowski where The Stranger says, "It's good knowin' he's out there, the Dude, takin' her easy for all us sinners." Well, I kind of feel that way about Matt - I find it strangely comforting that in the helter skelter insanity of modern life, he's out there somewhere, with his guitar and a bottle of something beery, happily making this wonderful music. The dude abides.
http://www.mattstevensguitar.com/
Artist: MooV
Album: Fold (2008)
Track: Fall Away
In the continuing spirit of lazy theft, I shall quote this: "Led by composer Colin Riley and featuring the distinctive voice of Norwegian vocalist Elisabeth Nyågard, MooV are made up of the enticing combination of voice, 'cello, bass guitar, percussion, keyboards and electronics'. Following three years of exploratory recording and development this bewildering band of cross-genre musicians has put together a musically aesthetic & evocative album of songs which challenge the rich territories between pop, electronica, the avantgard and jazz. Categorise if you can."
Yep, that about sums them up. One minute you're listening to a track which reminds you of early Diamanda Galas and her insane glossolollia, the next there are beautiful Bjork-ian melodies. This one, as they say, is a keeper.
There were, of course, many other songs/albums that I loved over 2009, but these are the ones that have sprung to mind. I hope they give you as much pleasure as they did me.
Next time on The Blog of Eternal Disappointment: something shouty about an unimportant event that is of little consequence even to me. Stay tuned!
14 January 2010
2010. New year, same disappointment.
I have no idea where this blog post is going, so I'm going to randomly start typing words in a bid to kick some life into my head. Daffodils and sausages and limericks and fellatio and Joseph Stalin and ignorance and javelins and moonbeams and lentils and soda pops.
That, right there, was a genuine train of thought. A technique used by many psychiatrists (at least in the films I've seen) is to say a word and get the patient to respond with the first thing that comes into their head. Those were the first words that I thought of. Sausages (nom) and fellatio (er, nom?) are pretty obvious choices for a man, but I'm buggered if I know where Joseph Stalin came from. If anyone reading this has a background in psychology, I'd love to know what it all means.
Right, back to the blog. My fingers are sufficiently limbered up and my brain pan has been lubricated by the judicious application of a couple of glasses of booze.
**************************************
There has been little action on the blog lately, mostly because I've been too angered by Christmas to even think straight. Additionally, nothing of interest has happened.
I did have one idea that briefly excited me - to write a review of 2009 in which I would visit a single event from each of the last twelve months and moan about it at length. I even decided that it would be a two-part post, each part covering six months.
Sadly, I soon realised it was turning into nothing more than a rather disturbing record of me gleefully cackling and rubbing my hands together over a selection of celebrity deaths. So, pretty quickly, that idea bit the dust. I'm not a monster.
So, I'm left with little choice but to recount to you something that happened to me earlier today. Make yourself comfortable, pour a drink, light a soothing pipe of dark Moroccan tobacco and read...
After a hard day at work, I decided that rather than walk home in the grimy Essex slush, I'd treat myself to a cab. As a single man, my pleasures are few and far between - a cigarette; a glass of something alcoholic, cheap and nasty; striking a recalcitrant child; frenzied self-abuse; or a taxi journey. These are the things that temporarily bring joy into my dull life.
Trudging over to the taxi rank, I found myself walking at the same pace as a young man in a suit. Being a generous chap, I slowed down, extended my hand in the universal gesture of 'no, after you' and he stepped into the first taxi on the rank and was driven away into the night.
I walked over to the second cab on the rank where a portly, silver-haired gentleman was sitting in the driver's seat reading a book. As I approached, I was startled to see something vaguely resembling panic in his eyes but, after a moment of initial concern, dismissed it as a trick of the light. Clambering into his sweltering cab, I quickly realised the reason for his wide-eyed horror at my approach...
Some thirty seconds prior to me bumbling down the street, the cab driver, possibly suffering from some particularly painful form of gastrointestinal dysfunction, had decided to loosen his sphincter and emit a lavish fart of such extraordinary pungency that before I could even say "Good evening" my face was frozen, mouth partially open in a silent retch, nostrils flaring at the absolutely astonishing reek.
By now, I was sitting in the back with the door closed, so it was too late to climb out again muttering some feeble excuse about forgetting to buy something in the shop.
There was a moment of silence. We were, briefly, at an impasse. He knew he'd done it. I knew he'd done it. But, of course, neither of us could say anything. He knew he couldn't apologise. I knew I couldn't make a comment. Thus were we locked together in a grotesque pantomime of societal politeness and mutual embarrassment.
Eventually, the silence was broken.
"Where you going to?" he stammered.
I replied with the name of my road and off we went.
Now, it's barely 5-minutes drive to my house, but I'm sure you can understand that it felt like several hours. For the entire duration of the journey, every breath I took caused a fresh wave of nausea to ripple through my body, starting at the stomach and ending in my mouth, locked away behind gritted teeth and a grimace so fierce that any witnesses might be led to believe I'd just eaten a dog turd dipped in lemon juice.
The cab was hot, stuffy and so extraordinarily odorous that I can only compare it to sitting in a fan-assisted oven on Gas Mark 8 with a 4-inch stack of used nappies on your lap.
Now, an hour later, I still don't know how I managed to stop myself spraying vomit over the back of the driver's head.
I considered opening the window, but things are rarely that simple. You see, if I'd opened it immediately, he would have known the game was up and his subsequent embarrassment would have made me feel guilty. Therefore, I had to leave it for a few moments. But how long? If I'd waited for a minute, he'd have thought "Phew, got away with that one. Maybe it hasn't travelled into the back yet" and visibly relaxed, grateful that he hadn't been caught out, whereupon I would open the window and he would immediately stiffen, silently mouthing the words, "Shit Shit Shit".
Therefore, I decided to wait a bit longer. Unfortunately, this was a very foolish and naive move. If you sit there for 2 minutes without opening the window and then you suddenly cave in and wind it down, the taxi driver might think, "Hold on. He opened the window but sat there smelling it for a couple of minutes first? What is he, some kind of olfactory pervert?" before kicking me out of the cab.
I was trapped. I'd missed my opportunity and the window HAD to remain closed.
At one point, he tried engaging me in conversation, presumably in a desperate bid to show that everything was fine and the taxi didn't smell at all like a latrine at Glastonbury, but I simply wasn't in the mood to exchange pleasantries as I breathed in his flatulence.
Now, on a side note, I should tell you about my aversion to beans.
Nothing on Earth is as mouth-watering as the smell of a cooked breakfast. Bacon sizzling under the grill; hot, plump sausages baking in the oven; the warm, nutty aroma of bread frying. The English Breakfast is an absolute treat for the senses and if there's one thing that can ruin it in a bloody heartbeat, it's the addition of a big wet puddle of baked beans. The cheap, sweet juice gets over everything and instantly taints the flavour of every other item on the plate. Baked beans are, quite frankly, an abomination and I despise them. The way they look, the way they taste, the way they smell - nothing about them is good and they make me very angry indeed.
Thus, it was with mounting horror, that I slowly realised the smell pervading every corner of the taxi, the stench that I was drawing into my lungs, smelled of beans.
I almost sobbed.
"Don't worry," I thought to myself, "you're nearly home. Just a bit further and you can get out into the fresh air. Keep your shit together, man."
I blinked away the tears and looked out of the window, eager to get a glimpse of the street sign that would announce I was only moments away from liberating myself from this dutch-oven of feculence. There it is! There it is!
I watched, mouth agape, head slowly turning 180 degrees as the taxi sailed straight past my road. The taxi driver had missed the turning. I was so distraught, I couldn't even speak. I genuinely sat there in complete silence, a tear springing to the corner of my eye as another wave of nausea surged through my body.
After a moment, the taxi driver said, "Oh, you wanted that one didn't you? Sorry."
I nodded dumbly, bottom lip quivering.
Of course, he didn't turn around straight away, oh no. Instead, we trundled down the road for another 45 seconds, as I continued to inhale his beany stench, passing several turnings that could have very easily taken me home. I was too upset to think, let alone say anything. After a moment, he turned and soon we were outside my flat.
The taxi ground to a halt and the driver looked at me in the mirror.
"Four quid please."
I paid him, wordlessly, scrambling at the door handle like an excitable puppy. I flung the door wide and leaped out, sucking in a huge lungful of fresh, untainted air. I was giddy with the rush of cold, clean oxygen. I'd made it. I was home. And I hadn't been sick over myself. This was indeed a victory.
And then, in a truly staggering moment of idiotic courtesy, I turned around, put my shaking hand on the door and said, "Thank you" before slamming it shut.
There's something quintessentially English about that which makes me simultaneously proud and so ashamed of myself that I could sob like a baby...
That, right there, was a genuine train of thought. A technique used by many psychiatrists (at least in the films I've seen) is to say a word and get the patient to respond with the first thing that comes into their head. Those were the first words that I thought of. Sausages (nom) and fellatio (er, nom?) are pretty obvious choices for a man, but I'm buggered if I know where Joseph Stalin came from. If anyone reading this has a background in psychology, I'd love to know what it all means.
Right, back to the blog. My fingers are sufficiently limbered up and my brain pan has been lubricated by the judicious application of a couple of glasses of booze.
**************************************
There has been little action on the blog lately, mostly because I've been too angered by Christmas to even think straight. Additionally, nothing of interest has happened.
I did have one idea that briefly excited me - to write a review of 2009 in which I would visit a single event from each of the last twelve months and moan about it at length. I even decided that it would be a two-part post, each part covering six months.
Sadly, I soon realised it was turning into nothing more than a rather disturbing record of me gleefully cackling and rubbing my hands together over a selection of celebrity deaths. So, pretty quickly, that idea bit the dust. I'm not a monster.
So, I'm left with little choice but to recount to you something that happened to me earlier today. Make yourself comfortable, pour a drink, light a soothing pipe of dark Moroccan tobacco and read...
After a hard day at work, I decided that rather than walk home in the grimy Essex slush, I'd treat myself to a cab. As a single man, my pleasures are few and far between - a cigarette; a glass of something alcoholic, cheap and nasty; striking a recalcitrant child; frenzied self-abuse; or a taxi journey. These are the things that temporarily bring joy into my dull life.
Trudging over to the taxi rank, I found myself walking at the same pace as a young man in a suit. Being a generous chap, I slowed down, extended my hand in the universal gesture of 'no, after you' and he stepped into the first taxi on the rank and was driven away into the night.
I walked over to the second cab on the rank where a portly, silver-haired gentleman was sitting in the driver's seat reading a book. As I approached, I was startled to see something vaguely resembling panic in his eyes but, after a moment of initial concern, dismissed it as a trick of the light. Clambering into his sweltering cab, I quickly realised the reason for his wide-eyed horror at my approach...
Some thirty seconds prior to me bumbling down the street, the cab driver, possibly suffering from some particularly painful form of gastrointestinal dysfunction, had decided to loosen his sphincter and emit a lavish fart of such extraordinary pungency that before I could even say "Good evening" my face was frozen, mouth partially open in a silent retch, nostrils flaring at the absolutely astonishing reek.
By now, I was sitting in the back with the door closed, so it was too late to climb out again muttering some feeble excuse about forgetting to buy something in the shop.
There was a moment of silence. We were, briefly, at an impasse. He knew he'd done it. I knew he'd done it. But, of course, neither of us could say anything. He knew he couldn't apologise. I knew I couldn't make a comment. Thus were we locked together in a grotesque pantomime of societal politeness and mutual embarrassment.
Eventually, the silence was broken.
"Where you going to?" he stammered.
I replied with the name of my road and off we went.
Now, it's barely 5-minutes drive to my house, but I'm sure you can understand that it felt like several hours. For the entire duration of the journey, every breath I took caused a fresh wave of nausea to ripple through my body, starting at the stomach and ending in my mouth, locked away behind gritted teeth and a grimace so fierce that any witnesses might be led to believe I'd just eaten a dog turd dipped in lemon juice.
The cab was hot, stuffy and so extraordinarily odorous that I can only compare it to sitting in a fan-assisted oven on Gas Mark 8 with a 4-inch stack of used nappies on your lap.
Now, an hour later, I still don't know how I managed to stop myself spraying vomit over the back of the driver's head.
I considered opening the window, but things are rarely that simple. You see, if I'd opened it immediately, he would have known the game was up and his subsequent embarrassment would have made me feel guilty. Therefore, I had to leave it for a few moments. But how long? If I'd waited for a minute, he'd have thought "Phew, got away with that one. Maybe it hasn't travelled into the back yet" and visibly relaxed, grateful that he hadn't been caught out, whereupon I would open the window and he would immediately stiffen, silently mouthing the words, "Shit Shit Shit".
Therefore, I decided to wait a bit longer. Unfortunately, this was a very foolish and naive move. If you sit there for 2 minutes without opening the window and then you suddenly cave in and wind it down, the taxi driver might think, "Hold on. He opened the window but sat there smelling it for a couple of minutes first? What is he, some kind of olfactory pervert?" before kicking me out of the cab.
I was trapped. I'd missed my opportunity and the window HAD to remain closed.
At one point, he tried engaging me in conversation, presumably in a desperate bid to show that everything was fine and the taxi didn't smell at all like a latrine at Glastonbury, but I simply wasn't in the mood to exchange pleasantries as I breathed in his flatulence.
Now, on a side note, I should tell you about my aversion to beans.
Nothing on Earth is as mouth-watering as the smell of a cooked breakfast. Bacon sizzling under the grill; hot, plump sausages baking in the oven; the warm, nutty aroma of bread frying. The English Breakfast is an absolute treat for the senses and if there's one thing that can ruin it in a bloody heartbeat, it's the addition of a big wet puddle of baked beans. The cheap, sweet juice gets over everything and instantly taints the flavour of every other item on the plate. Baked beans are, quite frankly, an abomination and I despise them. The way they look, the way they taste, the way they smell - nothing about them is good and they make me very angry indeed.
Thus, it was with mounting horror, that I slowly realised the smell pervading every corner of the taxi, the stench that I was drawing into my lungs, smelled of beans.
I almost sobbed.
"Don't worry," I thought to myself, "you're nearly home. Just a bit further and you can get out into the fresh air. Keep your shit together, man."
I blinked away the tears and looked out of the window, eager to get a glimpse of the street sign that would announce I was only moments away from liberating myself from this dutch-oven of feculence. There it is! There it is!
I watched, mouth agape, head slowly turning 180 degrees as the taxi sailed straight past my road. The taxi driver had missed the turning. I was so distraught, I couldn't even speak. I genuinely sat there in complete silence, a tear springing to the corner of my eye as another wave of nausea surged through my body.
After a moment, the taxi driver said, "Oh, you wanted that one didn't you? Sorry."
I nodded dumbly, bottom lip quivering.
Of course, he didn't turn around straight away, oh no. Instead, we trundled down the road for another 45 seconds, as I continued to inhale his beany stench, passing several turnings that could have very easily taken me home. I was too upset to think, let alone say anything. After a moment, he turned and soon we were outside my flat.
The taxi ground to a halt and the driver looked at me in the mirror.
"Four quid please."
I paid him, wordlessly, scrambling at the door handle like an excitable puppy. I flung the door wide and leaped out, sucking in a huge lungful of fresh, untainted air. I was giddy with the rush of cold, clean oxygen. I'd made it. I was home. And I hadn't been sick over myself. This was indeed a victory.
And then, in a truly staggering moment of idiotic courtesy, I turned around, put my shaking hand on the door and said, "Thank you" before slamming it shut.
There's something quintessentially English about that which makes me simultaneously proud and so ashamed of myself that I could sob like a baby...
17 December 2009
The Curse of Christmas
Never, ever try to do your shopping in a supermarket a week before Christmas. If you do, you will seriously consider murder, suicide, or murder followed by suicide.
My local Sainsbury's have gone the whole hog this year; jolly decorations in the most festive of reds and golds; cholesterol-laden cakes at prices so low you'll be haunted by visions of starving children for weeks afterwards unless you've already succumbed to a heart-attack so severe it feels like someone's applied a jack-hammer to your chest; intrusively joyous music so aggravating that you'd rather cut your ears off, eat them, vomit them into your cupped hands and smear them on your face than listen to another nanosecond of Slade, and dead-eyed staff with red felt hats jammed onto their heads in a display of enforced jollity so pernicious that you feel it could only be topped by Hitler making the Waffen SS attach glitterballs to the ceiling in Auschwitz in a bid to raise morale amongst the Juden.
Throw several hundred dull-witted imbeciles into the mix, all pushing trolleys piled eight-feet high with shit they can't possibly need, and you've just created my own personal hell, thank you.
None of this was helped by the dawning realisation that I seem to be the only human being on the face of the planet with the vaguest understanding of 'spatial awareness'. They dawdle about in a fucking dreamworld, screeching to a halt without a single moments thought, glaring at me when I smash into the backs of their legs. Here's a handy tip - treat your shopping trolley like you would a car. Look around. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. Don't blindly swerve about like Stevie Wonder at the dodgems with a ferret in his undercrackers, USE YOUR BASTARD EYES!
Fortunately, I was only buying a reasonably small selection of delicious breakfast items, so didn't have to stick around too long. Within ten minutes I was on my way to the tills.
Side Note: When I go to Sainsbury's, I write a list. This alone has earned me the opprobrium of certain friends who prefer instead to just browse and pick up what they fancy as the mood takes them. To me, that is insanity. If you don't have a list, how on Earth can you be sure you've purchased everything you require? Imagine wading through the river of faeces that is a supermarket in Southend only to discover when you burst through your front door, tears of hatred in your eyes, that you've neglected to pick up eggs. It doesn't bear thinking about.
Side Note 2: I also write my shopping list in order of where the items are in the supermarket. This, I will concede, is a bit mental. However, in my defence, there's nothing worse than getting all the way to other end of the store only to realise you didn't pick up the button mushrooms in aisle 1. My method is as follows:
1) Make a shopping list.
This is where you sit, gazing into space, jotting down tasty items of nommage as each one springs into your mind. "Home-made meatballs? OK, I'll need fresh beef mince, onions, Parmesan, garlic and eggs." Those items then go on the list, in the order you think of them.
2) Pick up a fresh sheet of paper and lick the end of your pencil.
3) Make a second list.
This is where you take the items from list one and put them in order of location. The fruit and veg aisle is first in the shop, so onions and garlic take pride of place at the top. The meat aisle comes next, so you write down 'minced beef x 1'. And so on.
In this manner, you avoid unnecessary buggering about and have a shopping experience that doesn't so closely resemble rubbing Scotch Bonnet peppers onto your cornea until you scream your lungs up so they hang down the front of your shirt like the ends of a particularly bulbous scarf.
Arriving at the tills, it appeared that in their rush to foist Christmas upon me whether I wanted it or not, Sainsbury's had neglected to address the reasonably important measure of actually hiring any staff. The queues were ridiculous.
In a moment of insanity, I ended up queuing behind a woman and her husband. The woman was one of those strange creatures who, in her younger years, was probably slightly eccentric in a way that was both amusing and very attractive. I could imagine the man, dark of hair and lean of stomach, looking at her and shaking his head, tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks, chuckling "you're mad!" and giving her a hug, convinced that she was the loveliest thing he'd ever laid his eyes upon. Fast forward thirty years and he clearly wanted to kill her. Fast forward thirty seconds and I wanted to kill her too.
Now, I should point out that when I'm unloading my trolley, I have a bit of a system. This involves placing items for refrigeration in a general heap and everything else can then be scattered around and about. Bread and eggs have to be placed at the end of the conveyor belt, obviously, or you end up with a loaf of wholemeal the size of a house brick and a fine smearing of albumen on your Coco Pops.
This insane woman in front of me, however, took the biscuit. Not only was she taking the items out one at a time, she was telling a little story about each one.
Broccoli - "Oh, we'll need this for dinner tomorrow. That can go next to the chops."
Paracetamol - "Right, I've got two of these, just in case. They need to go here."
Jelly - "Now, Mr. Jelly, you need to be over here, next to the evaporated milk."
Minute by painful minute, she cradled each item in her crazy hands, told a tiny story about it's history, what meal it was required for, or what bizarre scenario it might become an integral part of later, then reverently placed it on the conveyor before returning her gaze to the trolley, tapping her bottom lip, deep in thought, and picking up something else that she could have a conversation with.
Her husband stood at the far end of the till, desperately wishing he was somewhere else, like Baghdad for example, and failing rather spectacularly to do anything about the old witch.
My temper was starting to deteriorate and I was in real danger of shouting something inappropriate like, "Oi, Rainman, get a fucking move on!" but, of course, I didn't for fear of her suddenly rounding on me and tearing at my face with her clawed fingers which, I'm convinced, had probably dissected a thousand steaming turds over the years and smeared them across the bedroom walls.
My furious gaze turned to her husband who was still milling around six feet away, suddenly fascinated with a speck of lint he'd discovered on the lapel of his tweed jacket. She gave you a blowjob, you gave her a wedding ring, and you've regretted it ever since. Just because you've ruined your own life, it doesn't mean you have to ruin mine as well. Take some responsibility for your eccentric, grocery-loving wife and move the bloody queue along a bit.
Eventually, after she spent 3 whole minutes (I'm really not exaggerating here) examining the plastic wrapping on a fruit cake (the irony was not lost upon me) their trolley was empty and I was able to start unloading my own purchases.
Once they'd moved on, the till-assistant (is that the right word? I didn't want to say 'monkey') adjusted his Santa hat, flashed me a half-smile and apologised for the delay.
I told him it wasn't his fault, smiled (although it was probably closer to a sneer) and started to pack.
My local Sainsbury's have gone the whole hog this year; jolly decorations in the most festive of reds and golds; cholesterol-laden cakes at prices so low you'll be haunted by visions of starving children for weeks afterwards unless you've already succumbed to a heart-attack so severe it feels like someone's applied a jack-hammer to your chest; intrusively joyous music so aggravating that you'd rather cut your ears off, eat them, vomit them into your cupped hands and smear them on your face than listen to another nanosecond of Slade, and dead-eyed staff with red felt hats jammed onto their heads in a display of enforced jollity so pernicious that you feel it could only be topped by Hitler making the Waffen SS attach glitterballs to the ceiling in Auschwitz in a bid to raise morale amongst the Juden.
Throw several hundred dull-witted imbeciles into the mix, all pushing trolleys piled eight-feet high with shit they can't possibly need, and you've just created my own personal hell, thank you.
None of this was helped by the dawning realisation that I seem to be the only human being on the face of the planet with the vaguest understanding of 'spatial awareness'. They dawdle about in a fucking dreamworld, screeching to a halt without a single moments thought, glaring at me when I smash into the backs of their legs. Here's a handy tip - treat your shopping trolley like you would a car. Look around. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. Don't blindly swerve about like Stevie Wonder at the dodgems with a ferret in his undercrackers, USE YOUR BASTARD EYES!
Fortunately, I was only buying a reasonably small selection of delicious breakfast items, so didn't have to stick around too long. Within ten minutes I was on my way to the tills.
Side Note: When I go to Sainsbury's, I write a list. This alone has earned me the opprobrium of certain friends who prefer instead to just browse and pick up what they fancy as the mood takes them. To me, that is insanity. If you don't have a list, how on Earth can you be sure you've purchased everything you require? Imagine wading through the river of faeces that is a supermarket in Southend only to discover when you burst through your front door, tears of hatred in your eyes, that you've neglected to pick up eggs. It doesn't bear thinking about.
Side Note 2: I also write my shopping list in order of where the items are in the supermarket. This, I will concede, is a bit mental. However, in my defence, there's nothing worse than getting all the way to other end of the store only to realise you didn't pick up the button mushrooms in aisle 1. My method is as follows:
1) Make a shopping list.
This is where you sit, gazing into space, jotting down tasty items of nommage as each one springs into your mind. "Home-made meatballs? OK, I'll need fresh beef mince, onions, Parmesan, garlic and eggs." Those items then go on the list, in the order you think of them.
2) Pick up a fresh sheet of paper and lick the end of your pencil.
3) Make a second list.
This is where you take the items from list one and put them in order of location. The fruit and veg aisle is first in the shop, so onions and garlic take pride of place at the top. The meat aisle comes next, so you write down 'minced beef x 1'. And so on.
In this manner, you avoid unnecessary buggering about and have a shopping experience that doesn't so closely resemble rubbing Scotch Bonnet peppers onto your cornea until you scream your lungs up so they hang down the front of your shirt like the ends of a particularly bulbous scarf.
Arriving at the tills, it appeared that in their rush to foist Christmas upon me whether I wanted it or not, Sainsbury's had neglected to address the reasonably important measure of actually hiring any staff. The queues were ridiculous.
In a moment of insanity, I ended up queuing behind a woman and her husband. The woman was one of those strange creatures who, in her younger years, was probably slightly eccentric in a way that was both amusing and very attractive. I could imagine the man, dark of hair and lean of stomach, looking at her and shaking his head, tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks, chuckling "you're mad!" and giving her a hug, convinced that she was the loveliest thing he'd ever laid his eyes upon. Fast forward thirty years and he clearly wanted to kill her. Fast forward thirty seconds and I wanted to kill her too.
Now, I should point out that when I'm unloading my trolley, I have a bit of a system. This involves placing items for refrigeration in a general heap and everything else can then be scattered around and about. Bread and eggs have to be placed at the end of the conveyor belt, obviously, or you end up with a loaf of wholemeal the size of a house brick and a fine smearing of albumen on your Coco Pops.
This insane woman in front of me, however, took the biscuit. Not only was she taking the items out one at a time, she was telling a little story about each one.
Broccoli - "Oh, we'll need this for dinner tomorrow. That can go next to the chops."
Paracetamol - "Right, I've got two of these, just in case. They need to go here."
Jelly - "Now, Mr. Jelly, you need to be over here, next to the evaporated milk."
Minute by painful minute, she cradled each item in her crazy hands, told a tiny story about it's history, what meal it was required for, or what bizarre scenario it might become an integral part of later, then reverently placed it on the conveyor before returning her gaze to the trolley, tapping her bottom lip, deep in thought, and picking up something else that she could have a conversation with.
Her husband stood at the far end of the till, desperately wishing he was somewhere else, like Baghdad for example, and failing rather spectacularly to do anything about the old witch.
My temper was starting to deteriorate and I was in real danger of shouting something inappropriate like, "Oi, Rainman, get a fucking move on!" but, of course, I didn't for fear of her suddenly rounding on me and tearing at my face with her clawed fingers which, I'm convinced, had probably dissected a thousand steaming turds over the years and smeared them across the bedroom walls.
My furious gaze turned to her husband who was still milling around six feet away, suddenly fascinated with a speck of lint he'd discovered on the lapel of his tweed jacket. She gave you a blowjob, you gave her a wedding ring, and you've regretted it ever since. Just because you've ruined your own life, it doesn't mean you have to ruin mine as well. Take some responsibility for your eccentric, grocery-loving wife and move the bloody queue along a bit.
Eventually, after she spent 3 whole minutes (I'm really not exaggerating here) examining the plastic wrapping on a fruit cake (the irony was not lost upon me) their trolley was empty and I was able to start unloading my own purchases.
Once they'd moved on, the till-assistant (is that the right word? I didn't want to say 'monkey') adjusted his Santa hat, flashed me a half-smile and apologised for the delay.
I told him it wasn't his fault, smiled (although it was probably closer to a sneer) and started to pack.
4 December 2009
Thank you, world
For the last week, I've been suffering from headaches. Not constantly, just the occasional one that hits hard and sticks around for far too long.
On Monday, a headache hit me in the morning as soon as I woke up. Ah, those are the moments you cherish, when as you stir in your warm bed, the first early rays of sun creeping through the curtains, you're jolted into consciousness by raw, undulating pain beating ceaselessly through your cranium.
I stumbled in to work, vowing that I'd sort out some urgent business and then take the afternoon off to recuperate. Sadly, that particular dream was whisked away from me when my colleague snuck away from the office at noon never to return. Checking his calendar I found that he'd secretly booked the afternoon off without telling anyone. Being the dedicated little drone that I am, I decided it would be a bad idea for me to sneak off too, so I stuck with it, snapping grumpily at my co-workers if they so much as looked at me.
On Tuesday, headache still present, I crawled in to work and immediately booked the afternoon off before any other bastard could get in there. I viewed this, quite rightly, as a WIN.
I left work at 12.30, came home and went to bed, sleeping right through until 7. A little bit of internetting, several paracetamol and then back to bed until the following morning.
Wednesday - no headache.
Thursday - a bit of a headache. It passed.
Friday - 3 am. I woke up, head pounding like a kettle drum in a particularly violent production of Carmina Burana performed by the National Percussion Orchestra of Bolivia. Pills were scoffed, fruit juice was guzzled and I sat down in front of the laptop to try and fill my waking moments with some mindless entertainment in the vain hope it would take my mind off the agony. After a while, I went back to bed and watched a DVD. Then another one.
By this time, it was 8 am and there was no end in sight to my headache. I was, obviously, starting to wonder if I'd done something wrong in a previous life to explain the endless suffering that I'm experiencing in this one. I soon realised a startling universal truth - bad things happen to bad people. However, as I'm a wonderful person, this was clearly just some sort of blip and would soon pass.
I phoned work to let them know I wouldn't be in, which was a nightmare in its own right. The trouble with a headache is that you can't convey it over the phone. To all intents and purposes, it appears you're simply calling in because you can't be bothered to attend work. If you're fortunate enough to have the flu or a throat infection, you can cough, hack, bark and dribble down the line, leaving the person on the other end in no doubt that you're clearly very unwell. Headaches don't allow you that luxury. Additionally, it's a Friday so even if you're dying of consumption, your co-worker will simply nod at the other end of the phone, make unconvincing sympathetic noises and secretly curse you for your laziness. Fuck them, I say.
Soon, it was 11 am and I was in bed, just about fading into a much-needed sleep, the pain in my head subsiding slightly.
The doorbell rang and my eyes flickered open, rolling towards the ceiling. Can't I even die in peace now? I honestly think that one day I'll get hit by a truck, fly through the air like a rag doll, crumple to the ground in a flurry of broken limbs and, as my blood cools and congeals on the greasy tarmac, someone will tut and nudge me aside with their foot so they can get their shopping home before it defrosts.
Obviously, I ignored the doorbell. "Whoever it is, they can fuck off ", I thought.
Unfortunately, they obstinately refused to fuck off, preferring instead to ring the doorbell again. And again.
I crept out of bed and went to the living room, peering down from the window to see who it was. It turned out to be the elderly lady who lives in the flat below me, standing there with her niece.
Grumbling and whingeing, I shrugged on a shirt and went to open the door. I purposely didn't put any trousers on, deciding that the appropriate punishment for disturbing my peace and quiet was to be greeted by the sight of me in my shirt and pants. They'll think twice before ringing my doorbell again, I can tell you.
The niece took one look at me, resplendent in my shirt and pants combo and involuntarily shuddered - I saw the revulsion ripple through her body. She actually took two steps backwards, even though this meant her back was now pressed against the opposite wall. If she could have punched through the brickwork and crawled into the next room to be an extra two feet away, I'm sure she would have done so.
Through sheer force of will she managed to curl her lips into something approximating a polite smile and said, "Sorry to disturb you, but my aunt has locked herself out."
It seemed appropriate to explain why I hadn't answered the door so I said "Sorry I didn't answer, I was in bed. I've got a really bad headache."
Except I didn't say that, did I? Oh no.
For reasons that I simply cannot fathom, those words left my brain, travelled down my neck, shot into my jaw, and something entirely different came out. What I actually said, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why, was this:
Me: Sorry I didn't answer the door, I was in bed. I've got a really bad hangover.
Niece: (smirk)
Me: No! No, I meant headache.
Niece: (small nod)
Me: I don't know why I just said hangover, I'm just...I can't really think straight at the moment.
It was too late. The damage was done. The forced smile had left and the knowing smirk was there to stay. I immediately wanted to knock it off her face with a length of four by two.
No amount of protestation on my part could cause those words to be sucked back into my stupid mouth like they'd never existed. As far as they were concerned, I'd clearly been a very silly boy and was paying the price for my lack of self-control.
It transpired that the elderly neighbour had managed to lock herself out. She'd gone shopping on her mobility scooter and accidentally left the front-door chain on. She'd also accidentally locked the back gate when she'd gone out, so couldn't get in that way either.
Quite what they expected me to do, I don't know, but I felt that I should assist in some way if for no other reason than I could then go back to bed.
"Let me put some trousers on and I'll see what I can do."
I trudged upstairs and donned jeans, shoes and a coat, remembering to pocket my keys so that I didn't get locked out. See? Not difficult is it, elderly neighbour?
I could have just charged the front door bellowing "Hulk smash!" and taken the chain off with sheer, bullish force, but it didn't really enter my head. In retrospect, I rather wish that's what I'd done. Instead, I thought I'd be crafty and clamber in through the back garden. This proved to be both effective and very harmful.
There's an alleyway at the side of the property with gates branching off from it into various back gardens. Elderly neighbour's is first, mine is second. I headed through my gate and, wading through the viciously barbed plants that have taken over my small plot of land, I approached the fence that divides our gardens. It's only about 4 feet high, but I had to scale it in now muddy shoes which slipped dangerously every time I tried to get my footing. After no small amount of struggling, I was now standing precariously on top of the 4 foot fence, a wild tangle of thorns behind me, a large bush in front of me. I couldn't climb down into elderly neighbour's garden - I was going to have to jump.
Through the exertion, my head was now once again pounding like the interior of a chav's Citreon Saxo and beads of sweat were forming on my forehead. I looked like the anti-Spiderman, all clumsy bumbling and grazed elbows.
Deciding that I'd reached the point of no return, I braced myself and leaped forwards with cat-like agility and grace, arcing over the bush and promptly plummeting to earth like a concrete slab, slamming into the ground with jarring force.
I hit the grass, slick with dew, and crumpled to my knees, leg suddenly screaming with pain, glasses flying off my face and skittering across the garden. I imagine the sound was not dissimilar to someone dropping a large bag of potatoes from a first floor window directly onto a patio.
The wind was knocked out of me completely and, wheezing like an asthmatic hyena, I scrabbled about in the damp grass, squinting myopically for my glasses. I found them, wiped off the mud, crammed them onto my face and limped over to the gate, unlocking it and swinging it open.
There, on the other side, stood elderly neighbour and her niece. I couldn't even look them in the eye.
They thanked me profusely as I waved a filth-encrusted hand and limped my way back upstairs, sore, breathless and thoroughly fucking miserable.
In the past you've probably read my blog and figured that I'm just a whining loser with an irrational hatred of everything and everyone. Perhaps you're finally starting to see that it's not my fault. This shit just happens to me, whether I want it to or not.
I can't even lay in bed with a throbbing migraine without the universe conspiring to propel me, unbidden, into perilous situations where I end up either a) hurt, b) humiliated, or c) hurt and humiliated.
The final icing on the cake is that, without fail, elderly neighbour always rewards me for my endeavours. Whenever she locks herself out, or electricity goes off, she knocks on my door and I rescue her. It usually only takes a few minutes, but she's eternally grateful and I find, a few hours later, a little carrier bag outside my flat door with a gift in it. The first time it was a bottle of wine, the time after that a six-pack of Stella Artois. Gradually, however, these gifts have decreased in value. A few months back, there were two bottles of Old Speckled Hen (vastly preferable to the Stella, truth be told) and then, on the most recent occasion, a 4-pack of Co-Op own brand bitter.
Christ knows what it'll be this time. A carton of Ribena perhaps, or a half-eaten ham sandwich. The mind boggles.
Anyway, my head's throbbing like a bastard and I'm feeling so grumpy I may implode, so fuck off the lot of you.
UPDATE - It is now 8 hours later. Time for an update.
Headache: Temporarily abated. This is good.
Leg: Hurting like a motherfucker. I can barely walk on it and have become convinced that it's broken.
Gift: No gift whatsoever. Not even a can of Special Brew. Ungrateful old cow.
On Monday, a headache hit me in the morning as soon as I woke up. Ah, those are the moments you cherish, when as you stir in your warm bed, the first early rays of sun creeping through the curtains, you're jolted into consciousness by raw, undulating pain beating ceaselessly through your cranium.
I stumbled in to work, vowing that I'd sort out some urgent business and then take the afternoon off to recuperate. Sadly, that particular dream was whisked away from me when my colleague snuck away from the office at noon never to return. Checking his calendar I found that he'd secretly booked the afternoon off without telling anyone. Being the dedicated little drone that I am, I decided it would be a bad idea for me to sneak off too, so I stuck with it, snapping grumpily at my co-workers if they so much as looked at me.
On Tuesday, headache still present, I crawled in to work and immediately booked the afternoon off before any other bastard could get in there. I viewed this, quite rightly, as a WIN.
I left work at 12.30, came home and went to bed, sleeping right through until 7. A little bit of internetting, several paracetamol and then back to bed until the following morning.
Wednesday - no headache.
Thursday - a bit of a headache. It passed.
Friday - 3 am. I woke up, head pounding like a kettle drum in a particularly violent production of Carmina Burana performed by the National Percussion Orchestra of Bolivia. Pills were scoffed, fruit juice was guzzled and I sat down in front of the laptop to try and fill my waking moments with some mindless entertainment in the vain hope it would take my mind off the agony. After a while, I went back to bed and watched a DVD. Then another one.
By this time, it was 8 am and there was no end in sight to my headache. I was, obviously, starting to wonder if I'd done something wrong in a previous life to explain the endless suffering that I'm experiencing in this one. I soon realised a startling universal truth - bad things happen to bad people. However, as I'm a wonderful person, this was clearly just some sort of blip and would soon pass.
I phoned work to let them know I wouldn't be in, which was a nightmare in its own right. The trouble with a headache is that you can't convey it over the phone. To all intents and purposes, it appears you're simply calling in because you can't be bothered to attend work. If you're fortunate enough to have the flu or a throat infection, you can cough, hack, bark and dribble down the line, leaving the person on the other end in no doubt that you're clearly very unwell. Headaches don't allow you that luxury. Additionally, it's a Friday so even if you're dying of consumption, your co-worker will simply nod at the other end of the phone, make unconvincing sympathetic noises and secretly curse you for your laziness. Fuck them, I say.
Soon, it was 11 am and I was in bed, just about fading into a much-needed sleep, the pain in my head subsiding slightly.
The doorbell rang and my eyes flickered open, rolling towards the ceiling. Can't I even die in peace now? I honestly think that one day I'll get hit by a truck, fly through the air like a rag doll, crumple to the ground in a flurry of broken limbs and, as my blood cools and congeals on the greasy tarmac, someone will tut and nudge me aside with their foot so they can get their shopping home before it defrosts.
Obviously, I ignored the doorbell. "Whoever it is, they can fuck off ", I thought.
Unfortunately, they obstinately refused to fuck off, preferring instead to ring the doorbell again. And again.
I crept out of bed and went to the living room, peering down from the window to see who it was. It turned out to be the elderly lady who lives in the flat below me, standing there with her niece.
Grumbling and whingeing, I shrugged on a shirt and went to open the door. I purposely didn't put any trousers on, deciding that the appropriate punishment for disturbing my peace and quiet was to be greeted by the sight of me in my shirt and pants. They'll think twice before ringing my doorbell again, I can tell you.
The niece took one look at me, resplendent in my shirt and pants combo and involuntarily shuddered - I saw the revulsion ripple through her body. She actually took two steps backwards, even though this meant her back was now pressed against the opposite wall. If she could have punched through the brickwork and crawled into the next room to be an extra two feet away, I'm sure she would have done so.
Through sheer force of will she managed to curl her lips into something approximating a polite smile and said, "Sorry to disturb you, but my aunt has locked herself out."
It seemed appropriate to explain why I hadn't answered the door so I said "Sorry I didn't answer, I was in bed. I've got a really bad headache."
Except I didn't say that, did I? Oh no.
For reasons that I simply cannot fathom, those words left my brain, travelled down my neck, shot into my jaw, and something entirely different came out. What I actually said, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why, was this:
Me: Sorry I didn't answer the door, I was in bed. I've got a really bad hangover.
Niece: (smirk)
Me: No! No, I meant headache.
Niece: (small nod)
Me: I don't know why I just said hangover, I'm just...I can't really think straight at the moment.
It was too late. The damage was done. The forced smile had left and the knowing smirk was there to stay. I immediately wanted to knock it off her face with a length of four by two.
No amount of protestation on my part could cause those words to be sucked back into my stupid mouth like they'd never existed. As far as they were concerned, I'd clearly been a very silly boy and was paying the price for my lack of self-control.
It transpired that the elderly neighbour had managed to lock herself out. She'd gone shopping on her mobility scooter and accidentally left the front-door chain on. She'd also accidentally locked the back gate when she'd gone out, so couldn't get in that way either.
Quite what they expected me to do, I don't know, but I felt that I should assist in some way if for no other reason than I could then go back to bed.
"Let me put some trousers on and I'll see what I can do."
I trudged upstairs and donned jeans, shoes and a coat, remembering to pocket my keys so that I didn't get locked out. See? Not difficult is it, elderly neighbour?
I could have just charged the front door bellowing "Hulk smash!" and taken the chain off with sheer, bullish force, but it didn't really enter my head. In retrospect, I rather wish that's what I'd done. Instead, I thought I'd be crafty and clamber in through the back garden. This proved to be both effective and very harmful.
There's an alleyway at the side of the property with gates branching off from it into various back gardens. Elderly neighbour's is first, mine is second. I headed through my gate and, wading through the viciously barbed plants that have taken over my small plot of land, I approached the fence that divides our gardens. It's only about 4 feet high, but I had to scale it in now muddy shoes which slipped dangerously every time I tried to get my footing. After no small amount of struggling, I was now standing precariously on top of the 4 foot fence, a wild tangle of thorns behind me, a large bush in front of me. I couldn't climb down into elderly neighbour's garden - I was going to have to jump.
Through the exertion, my head was now once again pounding like the interior of a chav's Citreon Saxo and beads of sweat were forming on my forehead. I looked like the anti-Spiderman, all clumsy bumbling and grazed elbows.
Deciding that I'd reached the point of no return, I braced myself and leaped forwards with cat-like agility and grace, arcing over the bush and promptly plummeting to earth like a concrete slab, slamming into the ground with jarring force.
I hit the grass, slick with dew, and crumpled to my knees, leg suddenly screaming with pain, glasses flying off my face and skittering across the garden. I imagine the sound was not dissimilar to someone dropping a large bag of potatoes from a first floor window directly onto a patio.
The wind was knocked out of me completely and, wheezing like an asthmatic hyena, I scrabbled about in the damp grass, squinting myopically for my glasses. I found them, wiped off the mud, crammed them onto my face and limped over to the gate, unlocking it and swinging it open.
There, on the other side, stood elderly neighbour and her niece. I couldn't even look them in the eye.
They thanked me profusely as I waved a filth-encrusted hand and limped my way back upstairs, sore, breathless and thoroughly fucking miserable.
In the past you've probably read my blog and figured that I'm just a whining loser with an irrational hatred of everything and everyone. Perhaps you're finally starting to see that it's not my fault. This shit just happens to me, whether I want it to or not.
I can't even lay in bed with a throbbing migraine without the universe conspiring to propel me, unbidden, into perilous situations where I end up either a) hurt, b) humiliated, or c) hurt and humiliated.
The final icing on the cake is that, without fail, elderly neighbour always rewards me for my endeavours. Whenever she locks herself out, or electricity goes off, she knocks on my door and I rescue her. It usually only takes a few minutes, but she's eternally grateful and I find, a few hours later, a little carrier bag outside my flat door with a gift in it. The first time it was a bottle of wine, the time after that a six-pack of Stella Artois. Gradually, however, these gifts have decreased in value. A few months back, there were two bottles of Old Speckled Hen (vastly preferable to the Stella, truth be told) and then, on the most recent occasion, a 4-pack of Co-Op own brand bitter.
Christ knows what it'll be this time. A carton of Ribena perhaps, or a half-eaten ham sandwich. The mind boggles.
Anyway, my head's throbbing like a bastard and I'm feeling so grumpy I may implode, so fuck off the lot of you.
UPDATE - It is now 8 hours later. Time for an update.
Headache: Temporarily abated. This is good.
Leg: Hurting like a motherfucker. I can barely walk on it and have become convinced that it's broken.
Gift: No gift whatsoever. Not even a can of Special Brew. Ungrateful old cow.
28 November 2009
Exposing The Wizard
SPOILER ALERT: If you don't want to know how I create these magnificent blog posts, then stop reading. Don't spoil the magic. I'm pulling back the curtain to expose the wizard. No, that's not a euphemism for something filthy. Grow up.
Normally when I start writing a blog post, I have a hazy notion of where it's going and just let myself get carried there on a wave of preposterously over-worked similes, scatological comparisons and unnecessary swearing.
There's also something vaguely approaching a template that I tend to follow. It goes like this:
1) Start with a hook line to draw people in. This might be something like "I nearly had to call the police because I got trapped in a piece of plastic" or "This morning I was almost bitten by a dog". To you, these probably seem like amusing occurrences. For me, they're the ONLY occurrences. My life is, in general, so utterly bleak and uninteresting that I'm amazed my heart hasn't stopped beating out of sheer disgust just to put me out of my misery. Occasionally, when laying in bed at night, trying to envelop myself in the sweet release of unconsciousness, I suddenly realise that I've stopped breathing and have to take a panicked breath. I'm convinced that my body is conspiring against me - desperate to release itself from this hellish tragedy that I laughingly call a life.
Anyway, these hook lines are designed to pique the reader's interest, compelling them to wade through the rest of my hastily written, poorly conceived words. Sometimes I don't bother with the hook line at all, so I think you can safely assume that the next few points I make will be equally meaningless and open to interpretation. It's important to set out your stall early.
2) Waffle on for a while to give a little background into what it is you're going to be ranting about. This lets the reader settle down into the main thrust of the piece which, in fairness, is usually me being angry about something of no importance whatsoever.
3) Go off on a tangent, moaning about how dreary everything is, calling people made-up terms like 'fuck-knuckle' or 'rage-pig'. Using these sorts of words means you can avoid having to widen your vocabulary. You may wish to write single words on pieces of paper and then draw them, two at a time, to create exciting new combinations. For example, "fuck", "cock", "twat", "monkey", "bag" and "tard" are all excellent starting points. (note to self: use 'cock-tard' at some point, that appears to be a new one...)
4) Create some bizarre mental images usually involving bulging, tumescent genitalia, faeces, mindless violence and angry, simian shouting. These are all tried and tested techniques. The act of zoomorphism (the opposite of anthropomorphism) is particularly effective. You will notice that I often refer to myself as "hooting like an ape" or "bellowing like an enraged gorilla". This sort of animalisation works very well. Particularly when, like me, you actually do resemble a disgruntled orangutan.
5) Finish the whole thing with either a cyclical reference to an earlier part of the post, neatly tying the two ends together, or just let it fizzle out pathetically. The latter tends to happen a lot when I've grown tired of the sound of my own written voice.
So that's the template. It's not something that I actually stick to, it seems to just happen. Now that you know about it, you can create your own blog! Unfortunately, I will have to sue you for copyright infringement. Sorry about that.
Anyway, this particular post has fallen at the first hurdle as it's being written with absolutely no direction whatsoever. It's 2.30 a.m. and, due to me falling asleep in the armchair while watching The Ballad of Cable Hogue on TCM, I'm wide awake and a bit bored. I had a cup of coffee earlier which was a truly awful idea in retrospect, made some toast with marmite which was utterly delicious as one would expect, and am now desperately trawling around the Internet for something to look at that isn't pornographic in nature.
Twitter is pretty much dead at the moment because most of the UK folks are asleep and most of the Americans are out either enjoying their Friday night post-work celebrations or invading oil-rich countries (I went a bit Ben Elton there. Sorry about that.)
Frankly, I'm bored. Really bored. I've smoked far too many cigarettes in the last few hours and if I had something alcoholic to drink I would have guzzled it with gusto within minutes.
Philip Glass is flowing out of the speakers, the gentle repetition ebbing and flowing like the waves of a mighty yet gentle ocean. Normally, I love Glass' stuff but tonight his music seems to be mocking me - the endless re-occurrence of the same notes mirroring the pointless cycle of my own life. At least with Glass' music it builds and transforms, becoming something new and exciting. For me, this shit goes on and on every day without hope or mercy. It really is interminable.
I haven't even got anything to rant about. The last couple of days have been predictably uneventful to the stage that I've had to consider whether I should put myself into positions of mortal danger just to have something to write about.
The Stupidity of Me Part 2
"Today, I nearly got savaged by a lion when I accidentally fell into the enclosure at Colchester Zoo dressed as a springbok. LOL!"
See? Wouldn't work.
So here I sit, awake, bored, listless, unable to think of anything to write about. And yet, despite these seemingly insurmountable hurdles, I've still managed to produce a thousand words about precisely fuck all.
Frankly, I'm either a genius or a cock-tard (wink).
You be the judge.
Normally when I start writing a blog post, I have a hazy notion of where it's going and just let myself get carried there on a wave of preposterously over-worked similes, scatological comparisons and unnecessary swearing.
There's also something vaguely approaching a template that I tend to follow. It goes like this:
1) Start with a hook line to draw people in. This might be something like "I nearly had to call the police because I got trapped in a piece of plastic" or "This morning I was almost bitten by a dog". To you, these probably seem like amusing occurrences. For me, they're the ONLY occurrences. My life is, in general, so utterly bleak and uninteresting that I'm amazed my heart hasn't stopped beating out of sheer disgust just to put me out of my misery. Occasionally, when laying in bed at night, trying to envelop myself in the sweet release of unconsciousness, I suddenly realise that I've stopped breathing and have to take a panicked breath. I'm convinced that my body is conspiring against me - desperate to release itself from this hellish tragedy that I laughingly call a life.
Anyway, these hook lines are designed to pique the reader's interest, compelling them to wade through the rest of my hastily written, poorly conceived words. Sometimes I don't bother with the hook line at all, so I think you can safely assume that the next few points I make will be equally meaningless and open to interpretation. It's important to set out your stall early.
2) Waffle on for a while to give a little background into what it is you're going to be ranting about. This lets the reader settle down into the main thrust of the piece which, in fairness, is usually me being angry about something of no importance whatsoever.
3) Go off on a tangent, moaning about how dreary everything is, calling people made-up terms like 'fuck-knuckle' or 'rage-pig'. Using these sorts of words means you can avoid having to widen your vocabulary. You may wish to write single words on pieces of paper and then draw them, two at a time, to create exciting new combinations. For example, "fuck", "cock", "twat", "monkey", "bag" and "tard" are all excellent starting points. (note to self: use 'cock-tard' at some point, that appears to be a new one...)
4) Create some bizarre mental images usually involving bulging, tumescent genitalia, faeces, mindless violence and angry, simian shouting. These are all tried and tested techniques. The act of zoomorphism (the opposite of anthropomorphism) is particularly effective. You will notice that I often refer to myself as "hooting like an ape" or "bellowing like an enraged gorilla". This sort of animalisation works very well. Particularly when, like me, you actually do resemble a disgruntled orangutan.
5) Finish the whole thing with either a cyclical reference to an earlier part of the post, neatly tying the two ends together, or just let it fizzle out pathetically. The latter tends to happen a lot when I've grown tired of the sound of my own written voice.
So that's the template. It's not something that I actually stick to, it seems to just happen. Now that you know about it, you can create your own blog! Unfortunately, I will have to sue you for copyright infringement. Sorry about that.
Anyway, this particular post has fallen at the first hurdle as it's being written with absolutely no direction whatsoever. It's 2.30 a.m. and, due to me falling asleep in the armchair while watching The Ballad of Cable Hogue on TCM, I'm wide awake and a bit bored. I had a cup of coffee earlier which was a truly awful idea in retrospect, made some toast with marmite which was utterly delicious as one would expect, and am now desperately trawling around the Internet for something to look at that isn't pornographic in nature.
Twitter is pretty much dead at the moment because most of the UK folks are asleep and most of the Americans are out either enjoying their Friday night post-work celebrations or invading oil-rich countries (I went a bit Ben Elton there. Sorry about that.)
Frankly, I'm bored. Really bored. I've smoked far too many cigarettes in the last few hours and if I had something alcoholic to drink I would have guzzled it with gusto within minutes.
Philip Glass is flowing out of the speakers, the gentle repetition ebbing and flowing like the waves of a mighty yet gentle ocean. Normally, I love Glass' stuff but tonight his music seems to be mocking me - the endless re-occurrence of the same notes mirroring the pointless cycle of my own life. At least with Glass' music it builds and transforms, becoming something new and exciting. For me, this shit goes on and on every day without hope or mercy. It really is interminable.
I haven't even got anything to rant about. The last couple of days have been predictably uneventful to the stage that I've had to consider whether I should put myself into positions of mortal danger just to have something to write about.
The Stupidity of Me Part 2
"Today, I nearly got savaged by a lion when I accidentally fell into the enclosure at Colchester Zoo dressed as a springbok. LOL!"
See? Wouldn't work.
So here I sit, awake, bored, listless, unable to think of anything to write about. And yet, despite these seemingly insurmountable hurdles, I've still managed to produce a thousand words about precisely fuck all.
Frankly, I'm either a genius or a cock-tard (wink).
You be the judge.
26 November 2009
Time Makes Fools Of Us All
Whether it's biological coding, learned behaviour, or just simply fate, they say we are destined to become our parents. Yes, those irritating gits that wouldn't let us do what we wanted when we were teenagers, who always had a negative opinion of what we wore, said, watched or did - we will become them.
As youngsters, we said, "I'm never going to behave like my parents. I'm going to learn from their mistakes and be a better person for it."
Sadly, time makes fools of us all.
Something happened last week that made me realise my metamorphosis into my father has nearly concluded.
When I was in my teens, my father would sometimes be a little embarrassing when out in public. If he was in a shop waiting to be served and the assistant behind the till was chatting to their friend rather than doing their job, he'd say "Are you going to serve me or talk to your bloody mate?" If they dared to back-chat him, he'd slam the item on the counter and bellow, "Stuff it up your arse!", before walking out empty-handed. I like to think I've inherited his charm.
Often, he would then be forced to return home without the item that he wanted. To him, however, this was a victory. I believe the phrase is 'cutting off your nose to spite your face' and my father is an expert at it.
Back then, I was terribly embarrassed by his behaviour, completely failing to understand why he had to be such a grumpy old sod to everyone.
However, when I reached my twenties I suddenly found that when encountering poor service at a shop, restaurant or pub, my father's words would drift, unbidden, into my mind. Of course, I wouldn't actually say them out loud because that would be terribly rude, but they were there echoing around inside my cranium, straining to get out like hot, urgent flatulence during an important business meeting.
I'm now in my mid-thirties and have pretty much become my father, without the nose-cutting-off part of the equation.
Last week, I went into a pub to meet a friend. The pub (The Slug and Lettuce in Southend, if you're interested) is big and expensive-looking. It is also, on the whole, pretty empty for much of the week. This particular day, I wandered in and there were only about 8 people in the entire place, gazing listlessly at their pint glasses, or squinting at the tarnished coins in their hands wondering if they could afford another half of Fosters, desperately trying to delay the inevitable walk home to their depressing, nicotine-stained bedsit, full of scratched furniture, scuffed skirting-boards and stained bed linen.
Walking up to the bar, I perused the impressive selection of fine ales. Well, I say 'selection', a more accurate description would be "2". They had Bombardier or their special ale of the week, the name of which escapes me. This special ale apparently had a subtle flavour of chocolate and orange, making it a rather Christmassy affair. Intrigued, I smiled and engaged the stony-faced barman in pleasant conversation:
Me: Good afternoon.
Him: (silence)
Me: This chocolate orange beer, is it a bitter or a stout?
Him: Stout.
Manager: (from further down the bar) No, it's a bitter.
Me: Oh, a bitter. Good. What's it like?
Him: Dunno.
Me: It looks intriguing. Can I have a little taste of it?
Him: No, we don't do that.
Now, at this juncture I should point out that British pub etiquette suggest, nay demands, that if a customer asks about an unusual beer, the barkeep will (normally without being asked) pour half an inch of it into a glass for you so that you can sample it. It's a given. It occurs in every pub I've ever been to.
But no, not the Slug and Lettuce. In this pub, if you ask to try a beer, they'll look at you like you've just burst into their home on Christmas day, genitals extruding grotesquely from your trouser fly, and belched loudly into the face of their grandmother, all whilst tracking fresh dog shit across their cream carpets.
The barman was clearly an utter cock and completely failed to understand that I'm the customer and, as such, am always right.
As an aside, I should point out that I worked in a pub myself at one time. My philosophical approach to this was as follows: I'm being paid to provide a service. If the customer is slurring, can't make their mind up or is generally being a dick, then that's their right - I will not roll my eyes or sigh deeply. If the customer wants to talk to me about something or tell me a long-winded, deeply unfunny joke then as long as nobody's waiting to be served, I'll stand there while they do so. Most importantly of all, even if I was in a really bad mood, I would always smile when they approached the bar, always call them Sir or Madam, always say 'please' and 'thank you'.
The thing I was not there to do was read the newspaper disinterestedly at the end of the bar, sighing gloomily each time a customer wanted a drink, aggravated that they'd disturbed this special 'me time'.
They are the rules of the game. If you think you'll be unable to treat your customers in an appropriate manner, then I suggest you fuck off and let somebody else do the job.
This particular barman clearly viewed my presence there as an inconvenience to him. I started to lose my cool somewhat.
Me: You "don't do that?"
Him: No.
Me: Seriously? Every other pub does it.
Him: (Silence)
Me: Forget it then. Pint of Bombardier.
Him: (Silence whilst pouring the pint)
Me: I'm quite surprised actually. Every other pub in the known world will give you a taster of a beer if you ask for it.
Him: (Silence)
Me: It makes sense really. The customer may take a shine to that particular beer and decide to come back again later that week whereas, ordinarily, he might not have bothered.
Him: (Silence)
Me: Speculate to accumulate, and all that.
Him: Two pounds ten.
I handed him my money and flounced off to a table to occupy the moral high-ground of righteous indignation.
A couple of years ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of behaving like that. I would have just looked puzzled and ordered something else, averting my gaze and inwardly shaking my head sadly. But now, as middle age approaches, I'm changing. This is most obvious in the way I hold doors...
Now, I always hold doors for people. It's not a sexist thing, I don't think that women need to have the big heavy door wrenched open and held so that they can totter their fragile bodies through without fear of breaking a bone or dropping their shiny handbag - I'll hold a door for anyone, young, old, male, female, you name it. It's called manners.
However, when I'm standing there in the rain, arm outstretched so you can walk through without 8 feet of plate glass slamming into your skull, I do expect something in return - recognition. You don't have to suddenly drop to your knees and take me eagerly in your wet mouth, just a simple "thanks" or nod of the head will suffice. Even a smile, for fucks sake, would be something. But the sheer number of people who will breeze straight through without even a glance is utterly bewildering to me.
I've even had some people look at me with suspicion as they've walked through! This, of course, causes me to instantly fill with an incandescent rage so powerful that I worry a vein in my temple will burst, showering innocent passersby with jets of blood.
Why in the name of Jesus suffering Christ would you look at me suspiciously for holding a door open? I'm not expecting you to lend me one of your children for a romantic evening of The Little Mermaid and 'special hugs'. It's called common courtesy, you steaming bag of shit.
Now, in the manner of my father, I've taken to saying "You're welcome!" in an overly jolly manner to any scum-fuck that won't engage in civility. Even better, I sometimes say "Don't mention it!" in a jaunty bellow. This pleases me enormously because, you know, it's like ironic and shit?
How the hell has the world changed so much in just a few short years? Customer service, politeness, manners - they've all gone to hell and it irritates me enormously.
And do you know what the worst part is? I'm actually looking forward to the final leg of my journey, when my transformation into Rablenkov Senior is complete; when I can tell people to stick things up their arses in shops; when I can swear at complete strangers because they've had the audacity to ignore my courteous behaviour. I long for these things.
One day I will, obviously, say something to the wrong person and end up being beaten to death by a man with arms like ham hocks and thick, muscular hands adorned with sovereign rings, but by God it'll be worth it. As the blows rain down upon my cowering head, brain-pan rattling like a charity collector's tin, I will at least know I was absolutely justified in calling his wife a cum-whore for failing to say thank you.
I'd be happy to go like that.
As youngsters, we said, "I'm never going to behave like my parents. I'm going to learn from their mistakes and be a better person for it."
Sadly, time makes fools of us all.
Something happened last week that made me realise my metamorphosis into my father has nearly concluded.
When I was in my teens, my father would sometimes be a little embarrassing when out in public. If he was in a shop waiting to be served and the assistant behind the till was chatting to their friend rather than doing their job, he'd say "Are you going to serve me or talk to your bloody mate?" If they dared to back-chat him, he'd slam the item on the counter and bellow, "Stuff it up your arse!", before walking out empty-handed. I like to think I've inherited his charm.
Often, he would then be forced to return home without the item that he wanted. To him, however, this was a victory. I believe the phrase is 'cutting off your nose to spite your face' and my father is an expert at it.
Back then, I was terribly embarrassed by his behaviour, completely failing to understand why he had to be such a grumpy old sod to everyone.
However, when I reached my twenties I suddenly found that when encountering poor service at a shop, restaurant or pub, my father's words would drift, unbidden, into my mind. Of course, I wouldn't actually say them out loud because that would be terribly rude, but they were there echoing around inside my cranium, straining to get out like hot, urgent flatulence during an important business meeting.
I'm now in my mid-thirties and have pretty much become my father, without the nose-cutting-off part of the equation.
Last week, I went into a pub to meet a friend. The pub (The Slug and Lettuce in Southend, if you're interested) is big and expensive-looking. It is also, on the whole, pretty empty for much of the week. This particular day, I wandered in and there were only about 8 people in the entire place, gazing listlessly at their pint glasses, or squinting at the tarnished coins in their hands wondering if they could afford another half of Fosters, desperately trying to delay the inevitable walk home to their depressing, nicotine-stained bedsit, full of scratched furniture, scuffed skirting-boards and stained bed linen.
Walking up to the bar, I perused the impressive selection of fine ales. Well, I say 'selection', a more accurate description would be "2". They had Bombardier or their special ale of the week, the name of which escapes me. This special ale apparently had a subtle flavour of chocolate and orange, making it a rather Christmassy affair. Intrigued, I smiled and engaged the stony-faced barman in pleasant conversation:
Me: Good afternoon.
Him: (silence)
Me: This chocolate orange beer, is it a bitter or a stout?
Him: Stout.
Manager: (from further down the bar) No, it's a bitter.
Me: Oh, a bitter. Good. What's it like?
Him: Dunno.
Me: It looks intriguing. Can I have a little taste of it?
Him: No, we don't do that.
Now, at this juncture I should point out that British pub etiquette suggest, nay demands, that if a customer asks about an unusual beer, the barkeep will (normally without being asked) pour half an inch of it into a glass for you so that you can sample it. It's a given. It occurs in every pub I've ever been to.
But no, not the Slug and Lettuce. In this pub, if you ask to try a beer, they'll look at you like you've just burst into their home on Christmas day, genitals extruding grotesquely from your trouser fly, and belched loudly into the face of their grandmother, all whilst tracking fresh dog shit across their cream carpets.
The barman was clearly an utter cock and completely failed to understand that I'm the customer and, as such, am always right.
As an aside, I should point out that I worked in a pub myself at one time. My philosophical approach to this was as follows: I'm being paid to provide a service. If the customer is slurring, can't make their mind up or is generally being a dick, then that's their right - I will not roll my eyes or sigh deeply. If the customer wants to talk to me about something or tell me a long-winded, deeply unfunny joke then as long as nobody's waiting to be served, I'll stand there while they do so. Most importantly of all, even if I was in a really bad mood, I would always smile when they approached the bar, always call them Sir or Madam, always say 'please' and 'thank you'.
The thing I was not there to do was read the newspaper disinterestedly at the end of the bar, sighing gloomily each time a customer wanted a drink, aggravated that they'd disturbed this special 'me time'.
They are the rules of the game. If you think you'll be unable to treat your customers in an appropriate manner, then I suggest you fuck off and let somebody else do the job.
This particular barman clearly viewed my presence there as an inconvenience to him. I started to lose my cool somewhat.
Me: You "don't do that?"
Him: No.
Me: Seriously? Every other pub does it.
Him: (Silence)
Me: Forget it then. Pint of Bombardier.
Him: (Silence whilst pouring the pint)
Me: I'm quite surprised actually. Every other pub in the known world will give you a taster of a beer if you ask for it.
Him: (Silence)
Me: It makes sense really. The customer may take a shine to that particular beer and decide to come back again later that week whereas, ordinarily, he might not have bothered.
Him: (Silence)
Me: Speculate to accumulate, and all that.
Him: Two pounds ten.
I handed him my money and flounced off to a table to occupy the moral high-ground of righteous indignation.
A couple of years ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of behaving like that. I would have just looked puzzled and ordered something else, averting my gaze and inwardly shaking my head sadly. But now, as middle age approaches, I'm changing. This is most obvious in the way I hold doors...
Now, I always hold doors for people. It's not a sexist thing, I don't think that women need to have the big heavy door wrenched open and held so that they can totter their fragile bodies through without fear of breaking a bone or dropping their shiny handbag - I'll hold a door for anyone, young, old, male, female, you name it. It's called manners.
However, when I'm standing there in the rain, arm outstretched so you can walk through without 8 feet of plate glass slamming into your skull, I do expect something in return - recognition. You don't have to suddenly drop to your knees and take me eagerly in your wet mouth, just a simple "thanks" or nod of the head will suffice. Even a smile, for fucks sake, would be something. But the sheer number of people who will breeze straight through without even a glance is utterly bewildering to me.
I've even had some people look at me with suspicion as they've walked through! This, of course, causes me to instantly fill with an incandescent rage so powerful that I worry a vein in my temple will burst, showering innocent passersby with jets of blood.
Why in the name of Jesus suffering Christ would you look at me suspiciously for holding a door open? I'm not expecting you to lend me one of your children for a romantic evening of The Little Mermaid and 'special hugs'. It's called common courtesy, you steaming bag of shit.
Now, in the manner of my father, I've taken to saying "You're welcome!" in an overly jolly manner to any scum-fuck that won't engage in civility. Even better, I sometimes say "Don't mention it!" in a jaunty bellow. This pleases me enormously because, you know, it's like ironic and shit?
How the hell has the world changed so much in just a few short years? Customer service, politeness, manners - they've all gone to hell and it irritates me enormously.
And do you know what the worst part is? I'm actually looking forward to the final leg of my journey, when my transformation into Rablenkov Senior is complete; when I can tell people to stick things up their arses in shops; when I can swear at complete strangers because they've had the audacity to ignore my courteous behaviour. I long for these things.
One day I will, obviously, say something to the wrong person and end up being beaten to death by a man with arms like ham hocks and thick, muscular hands adorned with sovereign rings, but by God it'll be worth it. As the blows rain down upon my cowering head, brain-pan rattling like a charity collector's tin, I will at least know I was absolutely justified in calling his wife a cum-whore for failing to say thank you.
I'd be happy to go like that.
20 November 2009
Blog Tagging - Winner Announced
If the last few days have taught me anything, it's that there are an awful lot of people out there on the Internet with precisely nothing to say and, generally, they're saying it far too often for my liking.
I'm reminded of that scene in The Matrix where we see fields of glowing pods being harvested by machines before getting linked up to the matrix where they can then interact with their chums. Replace the glowing pods with perfectly cylindrical logs of faeces and you've got a pretty close approximation of how I regard the blogosphere - an almost infinite collection of winking brown-eyes popping out globs of steaming excrement with the same frightening regularity of a 20-something, chain-smoking single mother introducing her latest 'little miracles' into a world of Stella Artois, Sunny Delight and chicken nuggets.
(Note: That was misanthropy, not misogyny. Grow up.)
To say that I really didn't fancy having to wade through another batch of pointless blogs in a fruitless quest for something approaching 'interesting' would be an astounding understatement. The very thought of it was horrendous and made me want to crawl inside a bottle of vodka forever.
Funnily enough though, I was spared that awful task when, quite by accident, I realised that the person I wanted to blog-tag had been right in front of my eyes all along.
This person is someone I follow on Twitter and who, for reasons that can only be guessed at, follows me too. He (for it is a man) is always popping up and making the occasional comment, whether it be about the latest Doctor Who episode, a homemade Tauntaun costume he's seen on the net, or something truly wonderful like bacon-flavoured envelopes.
What he's really passionate about, however, is music. That passion, that absolute love for the art form, is extremely clear from the writings on his blog. He plays live gigs at venues, he also plays live gigs via the net on Ustream. A few months back I tuned in to one of his Ustream gigs and I was extremely impressed with the guys music. I haven't watched another one yet and will have to remedy that very soon indeed.
He is, currently, conducting a Radiohead-style experiment by selling his album in a 'pay whatever you think it's worth' manner. And, so far, it seems to be working, slowly but surely. His approach to the music industry can, perhaps, be best summed up in the following quote from his blog:
"Give some of your music away - if they like it they will most likely buy something later - win hearts and minds first and make friends. If they are interested in your music they are probably people you have loads in common with. Build a community and worry about making money later on."
I really like that approach. Here's someone who's all about the music first. To him, that's the most important thing - writing, performing, recording and above all, ENJOYING music.
For me, this whole blog-tagging thing is about taking someone who you admire and giving them a shout out to the people who already follow you. This guy is the perfect - the ONLY - candidate for that.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, Matt Stevens.
And so, finally, after much heart-break and pointless web-clickery, I can tag a blog.
1) Post a song that makes you happy.
Burning Bandstands - Matt Stevens
2) Tag another blogger.
Matt Stevens Guitar
3) Say at least one thing about the blog that will make the author smile.
Hopefully, I've covered this third part above with my effusive rambling. Go and see what Matt's up to. I think you'll like what he's doing.
EDIT: What I failed to do, and am correcting now, is mention the tagging stream so far. Here goes.
L'armadio del delitto tagged Lisa who tagged Suzie who tagged Chocolate Girl who tagged Mondo who tagged Piley who tagged me. There. Done.
I'm reminded of that scene in The Matrix where we see fields of glowing pods being harvested by machines before getting linked up to the matrix where they can then interact with their chums. Replace the glowing pods with perfectly cylindrical logs of faeces and you've got a pretty close approximation of how I regard the blogosphere - an almost infinite collection of winking brown-eyes popping out globs of steaming excrement with the same frightening regularity of a 20-something, chain-smoking single mother introducing her latest 'little miracles' into a world of Stella Artois, Sunny Delight and chicken nuggets.
(Note: That was misanthropy, not misogyny. Grow up.)
To say that I really didn't fancy having to wade through another batch of pointless blogs in a fruitless quest for something approaching 'interesting' would be an astounding understatement. The very thought of it was horrendous and made me want to crawl inside a bottle of vodka forever.
Funnily enough though, I was spared that awful task when, quite by accident, I realised that the person I wanted to blog-tag had been right in front of my eyes all along.
This person is someone I follow on Twitter and who, for reasons that can only be guessed at, follows me too. He (for it is a man) is always popping up and making the occasional comment, whether it be about the latest Doctor Who episode, a homemade Tauntaun costume he's seen on the net, or something truly wonderful like bacon-flavoured envelopes.
What he's really passionate about, however, is music. That passion, that absolute love for the art form, is extremely clear from the writings on his blog. He plays live gigs at venues, he also plays live gigs via the net on Ustream. A few months back I tuned in to one of his Ustream gigs and I was extremely impressed with the guys music. I haven't watched another one yet and will have to remedy that very soon indeed.
He is, currently, conducting a Radiohead-style experiment by selling his album in a 'pay whatever you think it's worth' manner. And, so far, it seems to be working, slowly but surely. His approach to the music industry can, perhaps, be best summed up in the following quote from his blog:
"Give some of your music away - if they like it they will most likely buy something later - win hearts and minds first and make friends. If they are interested in your music they are probably people you have loads in common with. Build a community and worry about making money later on."
I really like that approach. Here's someone who's all about the music first. To him, that's the most important thing - writing, performing, recording and above all, ENJOYING music.
For me, this whole blog-tagging thing is about taking someone who you admire and giving them a shout out to the people who already follow you. This guy is the perfect - the ONLY - candidate for that.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, Matt Stevens.
And so, finally, after much heart-break and pointless web-clickery, I can tag a blog.
1) Post a song that makes you happy.
Burning Bandstands - Matt Stevens
2) Tag another blogger.
Matt Stevens Guitar
3) Say at least one thing about the blog that will make the author smile.
Hopefully, I've covered this third part above with my effusive rambling. Go and see what Matt's up to. I think you'll like what he's doing.
EDIT: What I failed to do, and am correcting now, is mention the tagging stream so far. Here goes.
L'armadio del delitto tagged Lisa who tagged Suzie who tagged Chocolate Girl who tagged Mondo who tagged Piley who tagged me. There. Done.
18 November 2009
Blog Tagging Update
I still haven't found a blog to tag yet, but I'm working on it. According to this website, the number of blogs on the Internet in February 2008 was something in the region of 185.62 million. Factoring in an annual increase of 34% (based on figures that I've just invented, like, in my head) that brings the current number of blogs to...fuck it, I don't know. About 300 million.
Accordingly, this could take some time.
On the plus side, after considerable thought I've decided on my 'happy song'. It's a tune that always pleases me whenever I hear it. A gentle piece of music which examines the relationship between working class men, their hopes, struggles and fears, I think it's possibly the most beautiful thing I've ever heard in my life.
It is entitled, simply, Drink Motherfucker Drink.
*To gain the optimum enjoyment from this song, it is best listened to after at least 12 tankards of ale and whilst wearing a pirate costume.*
Ahh, sweet sweet music.
The artists are The Poxy Boggards, the album is Anchor Management. If you like, you buy, capisce?
Accordingly, this could take some time.
On the plus side, after considerable thought I've decided on my 'happy song'. It's a tune that always pleases me whenever I hear it. A gentle piece of music which examines the relationship between working class men, their hopes, struggles and fears, I think it's possibly the most beautiful thing I've ever heard in my life.
It is entitled, simply, Drink Motherfucker Drink.
*To gain the optimum enjoyment from this song, it is best listened to after at least 12 tankards of ale and whilst wearing a pirate costume.*
Ahh, sweet sweet music.
The artists are The Poxy Boggards, the album is Anchor Management. If you like, you buy, capisce?
Blog Tagging Failure
I've been made aware of something called 'blog tagging' that's occurring at the moment.
The rules are very simple indeed.
1) You have to post a song that makes you happy.
2) You tag another blogger - as many as you want, but it has to be at least one.
3) You say at least one thing about each tagged blog that will make the author smile.
Despite my obvious dislike of the human race and its many inadequacies, I think this is rather a nice idea.
I was made aware of it by Piley, whose blog is excellent and was actually responsible for me jumping back into the blogosphere myself - I saw his success and I coveted it! So far, I have been spectacularly unsuccessful in drumming up the large readership and critical plaudits that I desire, but at least it's given me something to do that isn't a) smoking, b) playing the xbox, or c) other (that's wanking, obviously)
I've managed to identify a song that makes me smile, although I should point out that it's more of a nihilistic sneer than actual mirth or 'happiness', but I'm hitting a brick wall as regards finding a blog to champion.
There are only a handful of blogs that I regularly read and most of them already have a popular following. These blogs are linked on the right hand side of this page - have a look at them, they're good. But the trouble is, they're already doing very well and I see little point in providing advertising to bloggers who have book deals, celebrity endorsements or anything of that nature. The only one that really sprang to mind was Piley's blog - but, of course, he's already done the blog tag thing and I can't really just link back to him in some almighty, Internet-based, self-congratulatory circle jerk.
What I really want to do is celebrate a little-known blogger; someone who has a small but loyal following and deserves greater exposure. Trouble is, I don't know anyone like that.
I decided, therefore, to use the 'next blog' function on Blogger and search through random blogs until I found one that I felt would benefit from some advertising.
This proved to be a soul-destroying activity that drained me of any last vestiges of good-humour and humanity that were residing within the dessicated shell of my heart. I trawled through approximately 300 blogs last night and I almost choked on my own bile while doing so.
I've identified several blog types in my travels which I would like to tell you about.
Teen-angst wankery
This genus is comprised of barely pubescent teens who are either whinging incessantly about their current partner, effusively babbling about the Twilight books (I almost called them 'novels' ha ha ha ha! Growl...) or just generally indulging in self-obsessed naval-gazing. Yes, I realise the irony of me complaining about self-obsessed naval-gazing. Shut up.
The worst thing about some of these irritating little shitbags is that they lay a trap on their blog page. After it loads, there are five seconds of blessed silence and then your speakers start blasting out some schmaltzy, vomit-inducing piece of homogenous arse-gravy by Lucie Silvas, Nora Jones or Evanescence. How dare you make Evanescence come out of my laptop! I consider this to be on a par with installing a trojan on my hard drive. Don't infect my ears with your turgid, twee pop-cockery or I shall don an Edward mask, come round to your house and curl out a steaming biscuit on your living room carpet whilst gibbering and high-fiving myself.
Travel Blogs
A number of blogs detail, day by day, a trip, expedition or general mooch around some part of the world. These aren't too bad in that they actually have a logical end to look forward to. Most blogs continue forever no matter how lifelessly dull and insipid they are. Like watching a lame dog haul itself slowly across an infinite expanse of burning, sun-beaten tarmac, all you want to do is raise your heel above its head and put the poor thing out of its misery, but you just keep watching as it inches further and further towards obscurity for eternity.
The travel blogs describe, in laborious detail, every single moment of this person's journey around already well-trodden tourist areas. You are not Phileas fucking Fogg, you are simply the latest in a long line of overfed, over-enthusiastic globe trotters who somehow thinks your travels will by some strange form of osmosis, imbue you with the character and charm that you so sorely lack.
One in particular was from a gentleman who traversed 200 locks in his canal boat. Clearly, his gentle jaunt around the waterways of the UK is of no interest to anyone with a semblance of sanity, but I'm sure your friends, who are doubtless few in number, will be grateful for the opportunity to say, "No, that's OK Roger, we don't need to sit through another seven reels of slides, we've already seen all your photos on the blog. Gosh, is that the time? We really need to head off. Oh, by the way, we're moving but we don't know where. No, we don't have a telephone number to give you. Look, just leave us alone."
Wannabe Photographers
There are a large number of people out there who have had the unique idea of taking 'a photo a day!' and uploading it for the delight of everyone who visits their blog, i.e. nobody at all.
365 photos a year, eh? So you took a photograph every day. Well done you. Sadly, the horrible, deeply unpalatable truth that you're trying so hard to avoid is that nobody cares about your photographs. You will never be famous. The only reason you have a blog with your photos on it is because you no longer have any friends to show them to. They have all been driven away by your sad, tragic obsession. Stop now while you still can. Oh, and just because it's in black and white, that doesn't make it artistically relevant. I could take a birds-eye photo of my latest bowel movement, remove the colour using photoshop and then post it on my blog and it would appear to be 'cool and arty'. That doesn't necessarily mean it is so.
Do us all a favour and convince yourself that your talent is so great you can become a wedding photographer. Then we can all sit back and wait for you to fuck up someone's big day and get beaten to death in a pub car park by a baying mob of angry, drunken neanderthals in cheap suits and thick gold jewellery.
Professionals
Christ above, there are so many of these utter shite-hawks on Blogger that I was genuinely close to angry tears.
This collection of pointless cunts includes NLP Practitioners, Economists, Neuropsychologists and Self-help gurus. They fill the Internet with their over-hyped nonsense until it's bursting at the seams.
I'm reminded of the 'B' Ark in Douglas Adams excellent Hitchhikers trilogy. For those of you unfamiliar with the books, one part of the story involves an alien civilisation, their planet apparently on the brink of destruction, which builds several 'arks': spaceships designed to carry the population away to another planet somewhere so they can start a new life. The 'B' Ark is sent away first, with the others promising to follow. Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect, the 'heroes', soon realise, however, that this ark is filled with telephone sanitation technicians, hair dressers and management consultants. There is no planet-wide disaster, the alien race were simply trying to get rid of the most useless third of their population.
Many of these 'Professional' bloggers would be given first class seats on the 'B' Ark.
Let's face it, if you're really a professional in your chosen field, why the suffering fuck haven't you got a website instead of a cheap-arsed, free blog? The obvious answer is that you actually aren't a professional at all, you're simply a pretender.
One person in particular caught my attention when they described themself thus (and this is a direct quote):
"Speaker, Coach, Mentor, Workshop Leader, Purveyor of Possibilities. I've taught hundreds of self-improvement workshops on marriage, parenting, happiness, & limiting beliefs as a Transformational Coach in the US and abroad, for the past 20 years."
Purveyor of possibilities. I don't think I've ever wanted to hunt down and slay someone as much as I do this person. Pray that we never meet, coachy, because I've got a few 'possibilities' of my own that I'd like to work out with you, you insufferable fuck-knuckle.
Thus, my traversing of the blogosphere was something of a disappointment. I've completely failed to find anyone to whom I can give a little free publicity.
Most worryingly of all, the whole episode has caused me to question my own existence. I have a horrible feeling that this blog itself is nothing more than a faux-misanthropic, thirty-something-angst-ridden, Charlie Brooker-lite barrage of rambling rants which are, effectively, nothing more than me saying "Look at me! Look at me! Please laugh at my antics!".
If that's the case, then good.
So, as a favour, can anyone recommend a good blog that I can champion because otherwise I'm simply going to have to tag myself and that would be awfully self-indulgent which, as you all know, is something that I find distasteful. Ahem.
The rules are very simple indeed.
1) You have to post a song that makes you happy.
2) You tag another blogger - as many as you want, but it has to be at least one.
3) You say at least one thing about each tagged blog that will make the author smile.
Despite my obvious dislike of the human race and its many inadequacies, I think this is rather a nice idea.
I was made aware of it by Piley, whose blog is excellent and was actually responsible for me jumping back into the blogosphere myself - I saw his success and I coveted it! So far, I have been spectacularly unsuccessful in drumming up the large readership and critical plaudits that I desire, but at least it's given me something to do that isn't a) smoking, b) playing the xbox, or c) other (that's wanking, obviously)
I've managed to identify a song that makes me smile, although I should point out that it's more of a nihilistic sneer than actual mirth or 'happiness', but I'm hitting a brick wall as regards finding a blog to champion.
There are only a handful of blogs that I regularly read and most of them already have a popular following. These blogs are linked on the right hand side of this page - have a look at them, they're good. But the trouble is, they're already doing very well and I see little point in providing advertising to bloggers who have book deals, celebrity endorsements or anything of that nature. The only one that really sprang to mind was Piley's blog - but, of course, he's already done the blog tag thing and I can't really just link back to him in some almighty, Internet-based, self-congratulatory circle jerk.
What I really want to do is celebrate a little-known blogger; someone who has a small but loyal following and deserves greater exposure. Trouble is, I don't know anyone like that.
I decided, therefore, to use the 'next blog' function on Blogger and search through random blogs until I found one that I felt would benefit from some advertising.
This proved to be a soul-destroying activity that drained me of any last vestiges of good-humour and humanity that were residing within the dessicated shell of my heart. I trawled through approximately 300 blogs last night and I almost choked on my own bile while doing so.
I've identified several blog types in my travels which I would like to tell you about.
Teen-angst wankery
This genus is comprised of barely pubescent teens who are either whinging incessantly about their current partner, effusively babbling about the Twilight books (I almost called them 'novels' ha ha ha ha! Growl...) or just generally indulging in self-obsessed naval-gazing. Yes, I realise the irony of me complaining about self-obsessed naval-gazing. Shut up.
The worst thing about some of these irritating little shitbags is that they lay a trap on their blog page. After it loads, there are five seconds of blessed silence and then your speakers start blasting out some schmaltzy, vomit-inducing piece of homogenous arse-gravy by Lucie Silvas, Nora Jones or Evanescence. How dare you make Evanescence come out of my laptop! I consider this to be on a par with installing a trojan on my hard drive. Don't infect my ears with your turgid, twee pop-cockery or I shall don an Edward mask, come round to your house and curl out a steaming biscuit on your living room carpet whilst gibbering and high-fiving myself.
Travel Blogs
A number of blogs detail, day by day, a trip, expedition or general mooch around some part of the world. These aren't too bad in that they actually have a logical end to look forward to. Most blogs continue forever no matter how lifelessly dull and insipid they are. Like watching a lame dog haul itself slowly across an infinite expanse of burning, sun-beaten tarmac, all you want to do is raise your heel above its head and put the poor thing out of its misery, but you just keep watching as it inches further and further towards obscurity for eternity.
The travel blogs describe, in laborious detail, every single moment of this person's journey around already well-trodden tourist areas. You are not Phileas fucking Fogg, you are simply the latest in a long line of overfed, over-enthusiastic globe trotters who somehow thinks your travels will by some strange form of osmosis, imbue you with the character and charm that you so sorely lack.
One in particular was from a gentleman who traversed 200 locks in his canal boat. Clearly, his gentle jaunt around the waterways of the UK is of no interest to anyone with a semblance of sanity, but I'm sure your friends, who are doubtless few in number, will be grateful for the opportunity to say, "No, that's OK Roger, we don't need to sit through another seven reels of slides, we've already seen all your photos on the blog. Gosh, is that the time? We really need to head off. Oh, by the way, we're moving but we don't know where. No, we don't have a telephone number to give you. Look, just leave us alone."
Wannabe Photographers
There are a large number of people out there who have had the unique idea of taking 'a photo a day!' and uploading it for the delight of everyone who visits their blog, i.e. nobody at all.
365 photos a year, eh? So you took a photograph every day. Well done you. Sadly, the horrible, deeply unpalatable truth that you're trying so hard to avoid is that nobody cares about your photographs. You will never be famous. The only reason you have a blog with your photos on it is because you no longer have any friends to show them to. They have all been driven away by your sad, tragic obsession. Stop now while you still can. Oh, and just because it's in black and white, that doesn't make it artistically relevant. I could take a birds-eye photo of my latest bowel movement, remove the colour using photoshop and then post it on my blog and it would appear to be 'cool and arty'. That doesn't necessarily mean it is so.
Do us all a favour and convince yourself that your talent is so great you can become a wedding photographer. Then we can all sit back and wait for you to fuck up someone's big day and get beaten to death in a pub car park by a baying mob of angry, drunken neanderthals in cheap suits and thick gold jewellery.
Professionals
Christ above, there are so many of these utter shite-hawks on Blogger that I was genuinely close to angry tears.
This collection of pointless cunts includes NLP Practitioners, Economists, Neuropsychologists and Self-help gurus. They fill the Internet with their over-hyped nonsense until it's bursting at the seams.
I'm reminded of the 'B' Ark in Douglas Adams excellent Hitchhikers trilogy. For those of you unfamiliar with the books, one part of the story involves an alien civilisation, their planet apparently on the brink of destruction, which builds several 'arks': spaceships designed to carry the population away to another planet somewhere so they can start a new life. The 'B' Ark is sent away first, with the others promising to follow. Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect, the 'heroes', soon realise, however, that this ark is filled with telephone sanitation technicians, hair dressers and management consultants. There is no planet-wide disaster, the alien race were simply trying to get rid of the most useless third of their population.
Many of these 'Professional' bloggers would be given first class seats on the 'B' Ark.
Let's face it, if you're really a professional in your chosen field, why the suffering fuck haven't you got a website instead of a cheap-arsed, free blog? The obvious answer is that you actually aren't a professional at all, you're simply a pretender.
One person in particular caught my attention when they described themself thus (and this is a direct quote):
"Speaker, Coach, Mentor, Workshop Leader, Purveyor of Possibilities. I've taught hundreds of self-improvement workshops on marriage, parenting, happiness, & limiting beliefs as a Transformational Coach in the US and abroad, for the past 20 years."
Purveyor of possibilities. I don't think I've ever wanted to hunt down and slay someone as much as I do this person. Pray that we never meet, coachy, because I've got a few 'possibilities' of my own that I'd like to work out with you, you insufferable fuck-knuckle.
Thus, my traversing of the blogosphere was something of a disappointment. I've completely failed to find anyone to whom I can give a little free publicity.
Most worryingly of all, the whole episode has caused me to question my own existence. I have a horrible feeling that this blog itself is nothing more than a faux-misanthropic, thirty-something-angst-ridden, Charlie Brooker-lite barrage of rambling rants which are, effectively, nothing more than me saying "Look at me! Look at me! Please laugh at my antics!".
If that's the case, then good.
So, as a favour, can anyone recommend a good blog that I can champion because otherwise I'm simply going to have to tag myself and that would be awfully self-indulgent which, as you all know, is something that I find distasteful. Ahem.
16 November 2009
In Memory of Edward Woodward
As a small tribute to the wonderful Edward Woodward who, sadly, passed away today, I'm throwing a few bits of music on the blog.
These tracks are all taken from Paul Giovanni's incredible soundtrack to The Wicker Man.
If you're already familiar with The Wicker Man, you won't want to read me banging on about it. If you're not familiar with it, go and buy it immediately - you won't be disappointed.
Additionally, this post may, potentially, help out a Twitter chum on her radio show. It's the Every Other Monday show and it's on tonight at 9. Listen to it. That's an order.
Here's the music.
Willow's Song.
Corn Riggs
The Landlord's Daughter.
The Maypole Song
These tracks are all taken from Paul Giovanni's incredible soundtrack to The Wicker Man.
If you're already familiar with The Wicker Man, you won't want to read me banging on about it. If you're not familiar with it, go and buy it immediately - you won't be disappointed.
Additionally, this post may, potentially, help out a Twitter chum on her radio show. It's the Every Other Monday show and it's on tonight at 9. Listen to it. That's an order.
Here's the music.
Willow's Song.
Corn Riggs
The Landlord's Daughter.
The Maypole Song
14 November 2009
The Misanthropist's Curse
There has been no update for the last week because, as my Twitter followers will already know from my painfully self-pitying tweets, I've been ill with the flu.
I developed a sore throat on Sunday evening and by Monday morning it felt like I'd eaten a light bulb and washed it down with a tube of facial scrub. It also felt like a nihilistic woodpecker had set up shop in my head and was taking lethargic, disinterested pecks at the inside of my skull.
Because I was awake at 4am, I arrived at work for 7 and dealt with a couple of things that really couldn't wait. By 9.30am, I was feeling absolutely terrible so left via Sainsbury's for some essential supplies.
This involved preparing a shopping list that an Alaskan survivalist would consider appropriate for an apocalyptic event: tins of soup, paracetamol, long-life milk, fruit juice, etc. Browsing the pharmacy section, I decided to treat myself to a bottle of Night Nurse.
Now I should point out that I've never had Night Nurse before. In fact, all I know about it is that, apparently, it can make you drowsy and you should refrain from operating heavy machinery. I've never operated heavy machinery before and, if everything goes according to plan career-wise, I hopefully never will. Additionally, at that particular point, 'drowsy' was proving to be a real selling point for me - the thought of guzzling several large mouthfuls of the stuff and then falling into bed for 12 hours was extraordinarily tempting. Night Nurse had, in my fevered imagination, become some sort of magical oblivion-bestowing elixir, a cross between Absinthe and Morphine. I had to have it.
It turns out, surprisingly, that you can't buy Night Nurse straight off the shelf. Instead, you have to speak to one of the Sainsbury's Pharmacy staff and ask them for it whereupon they engage you in a worrying round of questions and answers to determine whether or not you're allowed to have it.
"Are you currently taking any medication?"
"No."
"Nothing at all?"
"No."
"No blood-pressure medication?"
"Not yet. Continue asking me pointless questions and it may be a distinct possibility that some form of blood-pressure reduction will be required in the not too distant future but, right now, no."
"Nothing paracetamol-based?"
"No. Nothing. Nothing at all. Can I please have the medicine or would you like me to stand in the baked goods aisle and piss into a milk bottle first?" (I didn't say that, obviously)
Eventually, after a short lecture in which I was told that Night Nurse contains paracetamol and, accordingly, shouldn't be taken with any other paracetamol-based medication, for instance blood-pressure tablets which contain paracetamol, or Lemsip which also contains paracetamol or, obviously, paracetamol tablets, I had 1) one of those strange moments where a word completely loses its meaning and it's like you're hearing it for the first time (pa-ra-see-ta-molll - wow man, that's like, amazing) and 2) a bottle of Night Nurse.
Clutching the bottle of green potion to my chest, I shuffled away from the pharmacy, paid for my other goods and got a taxi home.
It is with enormous regret that I must tell you that was the most interesting thing to happen to me all week. I've spent the rest of my time sleeping badly at night, sleeping badly during the day, rubbing the skin around my nostrils raw with a campaign of sustained mucus-expelling and generally moaning grumpily at the walls of my empty flat.
This, you see, is one of the few downsides to being single. Most of the time it's absolutely wonderful. I can come home early from work, change immediately into my pajamas, eat cold macaroni cheese straight from the tin with a dirty spoon whilst watching a movie on the laptop, and I don't have anyone berating me for being a slovenly lummox.
If I so choose, I can wake up on a Saturday morning, completely forgo showering, and spend the entire day padding barefoot from room to room, alternating between the Internet, the xbox and the fridge.
I often hear single men bemoaning their situation and wishing they had a person to share their life. Usually they're pining for someone to snuggle up with on the sofa while watching TV; a person to chat to about their problems or their day at work; someone they can go for long autumnal, leaf-kicking walks with; or a companion to share the good times and the bad. Occasionally, they'll tell the truth and just admit that they're gagging for a blowjob, but usually they try to dress it up with romance and candles and ice cream and hugs.
Now, personally I find all of that more than a little bewildering. If I'm curled up on the sofa watching TV, the last thing I want is someone wittering away next to me asking stupid questions and making stultifyingly banal observations:
"Who's that man? Is he the one that ran the woman over?"
"Shhh."
"I'm only asking a question. Is he the man that ran her over earlier?"
"Yes, just watch it."
"I am watching it! I just wanted to know if that's the same man."
"Yes. Yes it is."
"So why did he do that then?"
"How the bloody hell should I know? You know as much as I do, for the love of Christ! I don't have some incredible mediumistic ability that allows me to prophesy the ending of the film! I haven't got a well-thumbed copy of the screenplay folded up in my back pocket! The only reason I know as much as I do is because I've been concentrating on the movie rather than blathering on about what happened to Cheryl in the office this week and whether or not we should buy those new towels you saw because they're 50% off in the sale and would really contrast well with the fucking carpet!"
"Well there's no need to get angry."
"Get out and never come back."
As for autumnal walks, I have never ever understood people who peer out of the window, observe a miserable overcast sky heavy with storm-clouds, litter skittering around the pavement like an excitable yorkshire terrier, and chirpily suggest getting dressed in thick clothing so that they can go for a stroll around a leaf-strewn, muddy park.
Why in the name of Jesus suffering Christ would you want to do that? What possible benefit will you gain from shuffling around in foliage-camouflaged dogshit, a penetrating Siberian gale blasting at your exposed cheeks, ears and nose until your face feels like it's been pressed into a bag of frozen peas for half an hour? It's a stupid thing to do and anyone who takes part in it should be lambasted and ridiculed for their idiotic behaviour.
We, as a species, do not need to aimlessly wander around outside in the bitter cold. Why do you think we invented houses, central heating and steaming mugs of tea?
So the usual trappings and enticements that one would expect from a relationship hold no interest for me whatsoever. What I do miss, however, is having someone to look after me when I'm ill.
Laying in bed, nose streaming, head pounding, voice like a hung-over Dalek, is not a pleasant experience at the best of times. Doing it alone is even worse.
When I'm ill, I want to be in a position where I can demand things!
"Ohhhhhhh...(cough).....ohhhhhhhh.......can I have a Lemsip? My throat (hack) is really sore. And I need (snuffle) some more tissues. And can you (hawk) change the DVD please? I can't move (snivel)."
One of the few pleasures to be derived from a period of illness is a brief glimpse into the world of the Edwardian gentleman - a world of finger-snapping and brusque orders; whisker-stroking and demands for attention. For an all too fleeting spell, one is waited on hand and foot and it's bloody wonderful.
But, alas, as a single man, there is nobody to plump my pillow, carefully dab my glistening brow, or refill my glass of fruit juice.
Such tasks must I carry out myself, sniffling and whining, body racked with pain, pitiful groans echoing emptily around the sparse, cold flat. A tragic, hunched figure shuffling through the kitchen like a sad, doe-eyed spectre.
This, my friends, is the misanthropists curse - to suffer alone, unloved, disregarded and ignored.
On the bright side, I don't have to share any of my ice cream so, you know, swings and roundabouts.
I developed a sore throat on Sunday evening and by Monday morning it felt like I'd eaten a light bulb and washed it down with a tube of facial scrub. It also felt like a nihilistic woodpecker had set up shop in my head and was taking lethargic, disinterested pecks at the inside of my skull.
Because I was awake at 4am, I arrived at work for 7 and dealt with a couple of things that really couldn't wait. By 9.30am, I was feeling absolutely terrible so left via Sainsbury's for some essential supplies.
This involved preparing a shopping list that an Alaskan survivalist would consider appropriate for an apocalyptic event: tins of soup, paracetamol, long-life milk, fruit juice, etc. Browsing the pharmacy section, I decided to treat myself to a bottle of Night Nurse.
Now I should point out that I've never had Night Nurse before. In fact, all I know about it is that, apparently, it can make you drowsy and you should refrain from operating heavy machinery. I've never operated heavy machinery before and, if everything goes according to plan career-wise, I hopefully never will. Additionally, at that particular point, 'drowsy' was proving to be a real selling point for me - the thought of guzzling several large mouthfuls of the stuff and then falling into bed for 12 hours was extraordinarily tempting. Night Nurse had, in my fevered imagination, become some sort of magical oblivion-bestowing elixir, a cross between Absinthe and Morphine. I had to have it.
It turns out, surprisingly, that you can't buy Night Nurse straight off the shelf. Instead, you have to speak to one of the Sainsbury's Pharmacy staff and ask them for it whereupon they engage you in a worrying round of questions and answers to determine whether or not you're allowed to have it.
"Are you currently taking any medication?"
"No."
"Nothing at all?"
"No."
"No blood-pressure medication?"
"Not yet. Continue asking me pointless questions and it may be a distinct possibility that some form of blood-pressure reduction will be required in the not too distant future but, right now, no."
"Nothing paracetamol-based?"
"No. Nothing. Nothing at all. Can I please have the medicine or would you like me to stand in the baked goods aisle and piss into a milk bottle first?" (I didn't say that, obviously)
Eventually, after a short lecture in which I was told that Night Nurse contains paracetamol and, accordingly, shouldn't be taken with any other paracetamol-based medication, for instance blood-pressure tablets which contain paracetamol, or Lemsip which also contains paracetamol or, obviously, paracetamol tablets, I had 1) one of those strange moments where a word completely loses its meaning and it's like you're hearing it for the first time (pa-ra-see-ta-molll - wow man, that's like, amazing) and 2) a bottle of Night Nurse.
Clutching the bottle of green potion to my chest, I shuffled away from the pharmacy, paid for my other goods and got a taxi home.
It is with enormous regret that I must tell you that was the most interesting thing to happen to me all week. I've spent the rest of my time sleeping badly at night, sleeping badly during the day, rubbing the skin around my nostrils raw with a campaign of sustained mucus-expelling and generally moaning grumpily at the walls of my empty flat.
This, you see, is one of the few downsides to being single. Most of the time it's absolutely wonderful. I can come home early from work, change immediately into my pajamas, eat cold macaroni cheese straight from the tin with a dirty spoon whilst watching a movie on the laptop, and I don't have anyone berating me for being a slovenly lummox.
If I so choose, I can wake up on a Saturday morning, completely forgo showering, and spend the entire day padding barefoot from room to room, alternating between the Internet, the xbox and the fridge.
I often hear single men bemoaning their situation and wishing they had a person to share their life. Usually they're pining for someone to snuggle up with on the sofa while watching TV; a person to chat to about their problems or their day at work; someone they can go for long autumnal, leaf-kicking walks with; or a companion to share the good times and the bad. Occasionally, they'll tell the truth and just admit that they're gagging for a blowjob, but usually they try to dress it up with romance and candles and ice cream and hugs.
Now, personally I find all of that more than a little bewildering. If I'm curled up on the sofa watching TV, the last thing I want is someone wittering away next to me asking stupid questions and making stultifyingly banal observations:
"Who's that man? Is he the one that ran the woman over?"
"Shhh."
"I'm only asking a question. Is he the man that ran her over earlier?"
"Yes, just watch it."
"I am watching it! I just wanted to know if that's the same man."
"Yes. Yes it is."
"So why did he do that then?"
"How the bloody hell should I know? You know as much as I do, for the love of Christ! I don't have some incredible mediumistic ability that allows me to prophesy the ending of the film! I haven't got a well-thumbed copy of the screenplay folded up in my back pocket! The only reason I know as much as I do is because I've been concentrating on the movie rather than blathering on about what happened to Cheryl in the office this week and whether or not we should buy those new towels you saw because they're 50% off in the sale and would really contrast well with the fucking carpet!"
"Well there's no need to get angry."
"Get out and never come back."
As for autumnal walks, I have never ever understood people who peer out of the window, observe a miserable overcast sky heavy with storm-clouds, litter skittering around the pavement like an excitable yorkshire terrier, and chirpily suggest getting dressed in thick clothing so that they can go for a stroll around a leaf-strewn, muddy park.
Why in the name of Jesus suffering Christ would you want to do that? What possible benefit will you gain from shuffling around in foliage-camouflaged dogshit, a penetrating Siberian gale blasting at your exposed cheeks, ears and nose until your face feels like it's been pressed into a bag of frozen peas for half an hour? It's a stupid thing to do and anyone who takes part in it should be lambasted and ridiculed for their idiotic behaviour.
We, as a species, do not need to aimlessly wander around outside in the bitter cold. Why do you think we invented houses, central heating and steaming mugs of tea?
So the usual trappings and enticements that one would expect from a relationship hold no interest for me whatsoever. What I do miss, however, is having someone to look after me when I'm ill.
Laying in bed, nose streaming, head pounding, voice like a hung-over Dalek, is not a pleasant experience at the best of times. Doing it alone is even worse.
When I'm ill, I want to be in a position where I can demand things!
"Ohhhhhhh...(cough).....ohhhhhhhh.......can I have a Lemsip? My throat (hack) is really sore. And I need (snuffle) some more tissues. And can you (hawk) change the DVD please? I can't move (snivel)."
One of the few pleasures to be derived from a period of illness is a brief glimpse into the world of the Edwardian gentleman - a world of finger-snapping and brusque orders; whisker-stroking and demands for attention. For an all too fleeting spell, one is waited on hand and foot and it's bloody wonderful.
But, alas, as a single man, there is nobody to plump my pillow, carefully dab my glistening brow, or refill my glass of fruit juice.
Such tasks must I carry out myself, sniffling and whining, body racked with pain, pitiful groans echoing emptily around the sparse, cold flat. A tragic, hunched figure shuffling through the kitchen like a sad, doe-eyed spectre.
This, my friends, is the misanthropists curse - to suffer alone, unloved, disregarded and ignored.
On the bright side, I don't have to share any of my ice cream so, you know, swings and roundabouts.
8 November 2009
The Stupidity of Me
I had an interesting day of manly pursuits yesterday, the events of which ultimately led me to seriously consider calling the police so that I could be rescued from a piece of plastic.
After a long, stressful week, I decided to achieve something in my non-work life, so formulated a plan of attack. This would involve 1) a haircut, 2) applying fresh sealant to the edge of the bath, 3) buying a bicycle, and 4) going for a ride on said bicycle. I was partially successful.
1) The Haircut
I went to my local barbershop at 7:45, wanting to get there before it opened at 8 and, thus, avoid the inevitable queue of hairy-eared old men in three-piece suits who seemingly get up at 4 am just so they can their day out of the way as quickly as possible. As a side note, this seems like a good plan and I might follow their lead. At that rate, I could be back in bed, smothered by the somnolent folds of my duvet by six in the evening, basking in a miasma of warm flatulence.
Unfortunately, there were already two early birds standing outside the shop and as there are only two barbers, I knew I'd have to wait. In a way this didn't overly bother me as I do gain a strange pleasure from allowing my eyes to wander around the barbershop and drink in the curious detail: the black and white pictures of elaborate, ridiculously crafted hairstyles which always seem to be far outside the reach of the barbers abilities; the bulbous bottles of multi-coloured hair tonics, aftershaves and potions; and, of course, the unique sight of a cardboard sheet of styptic pencils. Such are the delights of a barbershop - a strange, arcane collection of ephemera that you won't see in modern, faux-chic hairstylists. It's like wandering into a shop from a Harry Potter book.
After flicking through a 'Stuff' magazine and coveting many, many items, I was called to the chair and went through the usual routine of discussing 'topical items of interest'. This consisted of moaning about the amount of fireworks that people are letting off, grumbling about the fact that "it should be one day only, fireworks night, but it's been going on for two bloody weeks", and muttering about where people are finding the money considering we're in a recession/economic slump/depression. I came out twice as grumpy as when I went in. It was brilliant.
Indeed, I feel very much at home in the barbers. It's a place where grumpy men can sit in the total absence of females and moan ineffectively about what's wrong with the world. Sadly, there are one or two people who take this in an unpleasant direction and start ranting about "asylum seekers", which leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It's entirely possible to be a curmudgeonly git without resorting to xenophobia and casual racism, but some don't realise it. Such people fail to recognise proper barbershop etiquette.
2) Applying fresh sealant to the bath
It has taken me several months to actually go to the shop and buy the necessary sealant. It will now sit in a drawer, probably until next summer, when I shall eventually apply it hurriedly and amateurishly. Then, a couple of days later, I will recognise what a poor job I made of it and decide to redo it at some point. Thus the whole terrible cycle of failure perpetuates itself.
3) Buying a bicycle
I've put on weight. I need to lose it. I rarely leave the house apart from when I'm at work.
Cogitating on these seemingly insoluble problems, I eventually decided that what I really needed to do was buy a bicycle. The walk to work only takes me 15-20 minutes, but I figured that if I did it by bicycle, it would save me 10 minutes in the morning and another ten in the evening, and would also lead to me being able to go out for cycle rides in the crisp winter air. As a happy by-product of this physical exertion, I would lose weight. It seemed like a capital idea, so I went to my local bike emporium.
I won't bother going into detail except to say that I bought 1 bicycle, 1 rear light, 1 front light, 1 bicycle lock, and 1 puncture repair kit. The owner told me to come back in half an hour during which time he would adjust the bike to my height, affix the pedals and do general bikey things. Frankly, I don't know what the hell he was doing, but I nodded sagely and agreed that there were clearly many tasks he needed to perform before I could leave with my item. I went for a walk, returned and left with my purchases.
It took me about 5 minutes to get home from the shop, during which several things occurred:
1) I realised that the handlebars were too low and I was hunched over my vehicle like a gorilla riding a tiny motorbike in some bleak Eastern European circus
2) The plastic pedals on my bike were so cheap and badly constructed, that one of them actually split when I was only halfway up the road. There's "wear and tear" and then there's "cheap, badly-made shit".
3) The saddle seemed to have been built by a sadistic, disaffected child in a Bangkok sweatshop who's sole purpose in life was to make everyone else in the world as uncomfortable and miserable as he was. Previously, I'd been led to believe that the hardest substance known to man was diamonds. At 36 years of age, I've discovered that it is, in fact, bicycle saddles.
4) The shop had forgotten to give me the bike lock I'd paid for
5) I am so horrendously unfit that it would be laughable if it wasn't so utterly pathetic. To see a grown man wheezing and swerving around on the road is never a nice thing. Unless, of course, it's someone else in which case it's hilarious.
I got home and, weary beyond the capacity for rational thought, pretty much flung the bicycle into the back garden, went upstairs, sat down and drank a glass of red wine with shaking hands.
Later, after I'd regrouped, I returned to the shop with the bike where the lovely chap there gave me the lock I'd paid for, installed metal pedals at no extra cost, and sold me a saddle that wasn't designed specifically to flatten my arse into a slab of cold, dead ham. He also informed me that some extension pole things were coming in next week that could be used to raise the handlebars further. I was hoping that I'd be able to ride this item that I'd bought, but clearly one can't expect fucking miracles.
Although the bicycle shop man was very pleasant indeed and didn't try to unnecessarily sell me things I clearly didn't need, I do hanker after the days when you could go to a shop, purchase something, take it home and be immediately happy with it. Why is that such a difficult thing to do? This is the second weekend in a row that I've gone out, bought something and then had to take it straight back to the shop. Do other people have these problems, or does the universe reserve them solely for me? Is this some sort of punishment for my hatred of people? Is it karma?
Sadly, the universe had one more trick up its sleeve as I found later that evening.
The bicycle lock came affixed to a sturdy piece of cardboard, and was held in place with a small black cable tie.
The cable tie somehow found its way onto my computer desk and thus I found myself watching a film on the laptop and absent-mindedly fiddling with the small piece of plastic.
As I watched the movie, the cable tie was toyed with, first between my fingers, then between my thumbs. The cable tie then made its way onto my thumb, where I slid it backwards and forwards, unthinking, like someone fidgeting with a gold ring.
Suddenly, I found that I'd pulled the loose end and the cable tie was fixed firmly around the width of my thumb and wouldn't come off. I proceeded to give it my full attention.
Taking a craft knife in my fingers, I slid the blade under the cable tie but the angle was slightly wrong so I adjusted the tie a little bit. Unfortunately, in a moment of quite stupendous idiocy, I did this by grasping the loose end and pulling. The cable tie tightened by at least 5 notches, cutting right into the flesh of my digit. I now couldn't even get the blade of the craft knife underneath it without cutting myself. At this point, I started to panic.
Obviously, it's never a good thing when you have a problem of this nature to resolve. The shame of having done something so stupid is enough to contend with. When you proceed to make the matter significantly worse by introducing injury-related urgency into the equation, you're not really helping anyone.
My thumb was turning blue and starting to feel very cold and numb. Suddenly, I remember seeing a video on the Internet in which you cold unlock a cable tie using a needle (I watch a lot of crap on the Internet, yes. However, in this case, I felt absolutely justified. Knowledge is power.)
I took a needle and inserted it into the cable tie so that I could pull it apart. It didn't work. I tried several more positions until, finally, I found 'the sweet spot' and, excited by my inevitable success, managed to jab the needle directly into the flesh of my thumb. Bellowing like an enraged moose, I removed the needle and reconsidered my position.
By this point, all manner of thoughts were cascading through my perspiring skull. Would I have to call the fire brigade? They have equipment for cutting open car wrecks, surely they could help me with this? Actually, what about the police? Do they still use handcuffs or have they, as witnessed on another Internet video somewhere, moved over into the realm of the cable tie? If they put them on people, they must have a method for getting them off. Alternatively, I could always call for an ambulance. Surely they have to deal with this sort of moronic activity every day, don't they?
In the end, I decided that the shame would just be too much. I'd rather lose my thumb than be escorted from my flat, in full view of the neighbours, to have a three inch piece of plastic removed from my swollen appendage.
I remember being vaguely pleased that at least I'd placed it on my thumb and not, in a moment of extraordinary boredom, my penis (men do strange things when they're alone and restless). If that had been the case then, basically, I would have had to kill myself, no questions. I would have remained there until at least Monday lunchtime when, due to my non-appearance at work, someone would have undoubtedly called the police to break in. Thus, in a moment worthy of David Carradine, I would be found, slumped in my chair, garroted penis exposed to the world, blood-slicked craft knife in hand, throat neatly sliced open. Observing my mutilated genitals, one policeman would shake his head and mutter "Jesus fucking Christ. What's wrong with people?" whilst another vomited noisily into his hand.
Fortunately, it was just my thumb, so that didn't happen.
Eventually, I managed to free the cable tie by snipping away at it with a pair of nail-clippers, and all was right with the world.
Still, I couldn't help feeling very foolish indeed, like a curious cat with its head stuck in an empty tin can, bumbling around and knocking into the walls. This is why I shouldn't be left to my own devices - boredom and a staggering lack of foresight always kick in and, within minutes, I can find myself in perilous situations of such startling complexity that Jigsaw from the 'Saw' movies would shake his head and say, "Bloody hell, mate, that's fucked up."
On the plus side, I did manage to send a couple of tweets about my ordeal which elicited several amused retweets, but not much in the way of actual help. This is how you know who your friends are...
After a long, stressful week, I decided to achieve something in my non-work life, so formulated a plan of attack. This would involve 1) a haircut, 2) applying fresh sealant to the edge of the bath, 3) buying a bicycle, and 4) going for a ride on said bicycle. I was partially successful.
1) The Haircut
I went to my local barbershop at 7:45, wanting to get there before it opened at 8 and, thus, avoid the inevitable queue of hairy-eared old men in three-piece suits who seemingly get up at 4 am just so they can their day out of the way as quickly as possible. As a side note, this seems like a good plan and I might follow their lead. At that rate, I could be back in bed, smothered by the somnolent folds of my duvet by six in the evening, basking in a miasma of warm flatulence.
Unfortunately, there were already two early birds standing outside the shop and as there are only two barbers, I knew I'd have to wait. In a way this didn't overly bother me as I do gain a strange pleasure from allowing my eyes to wander around the barbershop and drink in the curious detail: the black and white pictures of elaborate, ridiculously crafted hairstyles which always seem to be far outside the reach of the barbers abilities; the bulbous bottles of multi-coloured hair tonics, aftershaves and potions; and, of course, the unique sight of a cardboard sheet of styptic pencils. Such are the delights of a barbershop - a strange, arcane collection of ephemera that you won't see in modern, faux-chic hairstylists. It's like wandering into a shop from a Harry Potter book.
After flicking through a 'Stuff' magazine and coveting many, many items, I was called to the chair and went through the usual routine of discussing 'topical items of interest'. This consisted of moaning about the amount of fireworks that people are letting off, grumbling about the fact that "it should be one day only, fireworks night, but it's been going on for two bloody weeks", and muttering about where people are finding the money considering we're in a recession/economic slump/depression. I came out twice as grumpy as when I went in. It was brilliant.
Indeed, I feel very much at home in the barbers. It's a place where grumpy men can sit in the total absence of females and moan ineffectively about what's wrong with the world. Sadly, there are one or two people who take this in an unpleasant direction and start ranting about "asylum seekers", which leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It's entirely possible to be a curmudgeonly git without resorting to xenophobia and casual racism, but some don't realise it. Such people fail to recognise proper barbershop etiquette.
2) Applying fresh sealant to the bath
It has taken me several months to actually go to the shop and buy the necessary sealant. It will now sit in a drawer, probably until next summer, when I shall eventually apply it hurriedly and amateurishly. Then, a couple of days later, I will recognise what a poor job I made of it and decide to redo it at some point. Thus the whole terrible cycle of failure perpetuates itself.
3) Buying a bicycle
I've put on weight. I need to lose it. I rarely leave the house apart from when I'm at work.
Cogitating on these seemingly insoluble problems, I eventually decided that what I really needed to do was buy a bicycle. The walk to work only takes me 15-20 minutes, but I figured that if I did it by bicycle, it would save me 10 minutes in the morning and another ten in the evening, and would also lead to me being able to go out for cycle rides in the crisp winter air. As a happy by-product of this physical exertion, I would lose weight. It seemed like a capital idea, so I went to my local bike emporium.
I won't bother going into detail except to say that I bought 1 bicycle, 1 rear light, 1 front light, 1 bicycle lock, and 1 puncture repair kit. The owner told me to come back in half an hour during which time he would adjust the bike to my height, affix the pedals and do general bikey things. Frankly, I don't know what the hell he was doing, but I nodded sagely and agreed that there were clearly many tasks he needed to perform before I could leave with my item. I went for a walk, returned and left with my purchases.
It took me about 5 minutes to get home from the shop, during which several things occurred:
1) I realised that the handlebars were too low and I was hunched over my vehicle like a gorilla riding a tiny motorbike in some bleak Eastern European circus
2) The plastic pedals on my bike were so cheap and badly constructed, that one of them actually split when I was only halfway up the road. There's "wear and tear" and then there's "cheap, badly-made shit".
3) The saddle seemed to have been built by a sadistic, disaffected child in a Bangkok sweatshop who's sole purpose in life was to make everyone else in the world as uncomfortable and miserable as he was. Previously, I'd been led to believe that the hardest substance known to man was diamonds. At 36 years of age, I've discovered that it is, in fact, bicycle saddles.
4) The shop had forgotten to give me the bike lock I'd paid for
5) I am so horrendously unfit that it would be laughable if it wasn't so utterly pathetic. To see a grown man wheezing and swerving around on the road is never a nice thing. Unless, of course, it's someone else in which case it's hilarious.
I got home and, weary beyond the capacity for rational thought, pretty much flung the bicycle into the back garden, went upstairs, sat down and drank a glass of red wine with shaking hands.
Later, after I'd regrouped, I returned to the shop with the bike where the lovely chap there gave me the lock I'd paid for, installed metal pedals at no extra cost, and sold me a saddle that wasn't designed specifically to flatten my arse into a slab of cold, dead ham. He also informed me that some extension pole things were coming in next week that could be used to raise the handlebars further. I was hoping that I'd be able to ride this item that I'd bought, but clearly one can't expect fucking miracles.
Although the bicycle shop man was very pleasant indeed and didn't try to unnecessarily sell me things I clearly didn't need, I do hanker after the days when you could go to a shop, purchase something, take it home and be immediately happy with it. Why is that such a difficult thing to do? This is the second weekend in a row that I've gone out, bought something and then had to take it straight back to the shop. Do other people have these problems, or does the universe reserve them solely for me? Is this some sort of punishment for my hatred of people? Is it karma?
Sadly, the universe had one more trick up its sleeve as I found later that evening.
The bicycle lock came affixed to a sturdy piece of cardboard, and was held in place with a small black cable tie.
The cable tie somehow found its way onto my computer desk and thus I found myself watching a film on the laptop and absent-mindedly fiddling with the small piece of plastic.
As I watched the movie, the cable tie was toyed with, first between my fingers, then between my thumbs. The cable tie then made its way onto my thumb, where I slid it backwards and forwards, unthinking, like someone fidgeting with a gold ring.
Suddenly, I found that I'd pulled the loose end and the cable tie was fixed firmly around the width of my thumb and wouldn't come off. I proceeded to give it my full attention.
Taking a craft knife in my fingers, I slid the blade under the cable tie but the angle was slightly wrong so I adjusted the tie a little bit. Unfortunately, in a moment of quite stupendous idiocy, I did this by grasping the loose end and pulling. The cable tie tightened by at least 5 notches, cutting right into the flesh of my digit. I now couldn't even get the blade of the craft knife underneath it without cutting myself. At this point, I started to panic.
Obviously, it's never a good thing when you have a problem of this nature to resolve. The shame of having done something so stupid is enough to contend with. When you proceed to make the matter significantly worse by introducing injury-related urgency into the equation, you're not really helping anyone.
My thumb was turning blue and starting to feel very cold and numb. Suddenly, I remember seeing a video on the Internet in which you cold unlock a cable tie using a needle (I watch a lot of crap on the Internet, yes. However, in this case, I felt absolutely justified. Knowledge is power.)
I took a needle and inserted it into the cable tie so that I could pull it apart. It didn't work. I tried several more positions until, finally, I found 'the sweet spot' and, excited by my inevitable success, managed to jab the needle directly into the flesh of my thumb. Bellowing like an enraged moose, I removed the needle and reconsidered my position.
By this point, all manner of thoughts were cascading through my perspiring skull. Would I have to call the fire brigade? They have equipment for cutting open car wrecks, surely they could help me with this? Actually, what about the police? Do they still use handcuffs or have they, as witnessed on another Internet video somewhere, moved over into the realm of the cable tie? If they put them on people, they must have a method for getting them off. Alternatively, I could always call for an ambulance. Surely they have to deal with this sort of moronic activity every day, don't they?
In the end, I decided that the shame would just be too much. I'd rather lose my thumb than be escorted from my flat, in full view of the neighbours, to have a three inch piece of plastic removed from my swollen appendage.
I remember being vaguely pleased that at least I'd placed it on my thumb and not, in a moment of extraordinary boredom, my penis (men do strange things when they're alone and restless). If that had been the case then, basically, I would have had to kill myself, no questions. I would have remained there until at least Monday lunchtime when, due to my non-appearance at work, someone would have undoubtedly called the police to break in. Thus, in a moment worthy of David Carradine, I would be found, slumped in my chair, garroted penis exposed to the world, blood-slicked craft knife in hand, throat neatly sliced open. Observing my mutilated genitals, one policeman would shake his head and mutter "Jesus fucking Christ. What's wrong with people?" whilst another vomited noisily into his hand.
Fortunately, it was just my thumb, so that didn't happen.
Eventually, I managed to free the cable tie by snipping away at it with a pair of nail-clippers, and all was right with the world.
Still, I couldn't help feeling very foolish indeed, like a curious cat with its head stuck in an empty tin can, bumbling around and knocking into the walls. This is why I shouldn't be left to my own devices - boredom and a staggering lack of foresight always kick in and, within minutes, I can find myself in perilous situations of such startling complexity that Jigsaw from the 'Saw' movies would shake his head and say, "Bloody hell, mate, that's fucked up."
On the plus side, I did manage to send a couple of tweets about my ordeal which elicited several amused retweets, but not much in the way of actual help. This is how you know who your friends are...
6 November 2009
The Stupidity of Other, Part 2
Well, what a busy week it's been. First, I avoided writing any blog posts, which took up 22% of my time (I keep a thorough diary and extensive spreadsheets) and then I didn't appear on Twitter for a few days, which took care of another 47%. The remaining 31% was taken up with not doing the housework.
I've barely had time to sit shouting at the television and sneering into my cracked highball-glass of Sainsbury's own-brand scotch whisky.
I don't usually talk about my day-job for a number of reasons, chief amongst them being that there's rarely anything more agonisingly tedious than listening to someone bang on at length about something that is of interest to only themselves. However, on this occasion, I'm going to break my own rules and tell you a little bit about it.
For confidentiality reasons (dear God in heaven, that sounds appallingly wanky but is actually true) I can't disclose the organisation I work for. Suffice to say, it's a national company and employs approximately 70,000 people.
My job is to oversee the investigation and reporting of major security incidents. Basically, anything that would cause the shrivelled heart of a tabloid journalist to skip a sullen beat, require us to go snivelling to the Information Commissioners Office like a child who's spilt Sunny Delight in the DVD player, or make the living Thunderbird puppet Alistair Darling choke on his chocolate digestive, will all be escalated to me.
Now, Data Security is a serious business. Barely a week goes by without one organisation or another downloading the names and addresses of a hundred thousand children onto a memory stick and then accidentally dropping it in the car park of the local halfway house for recovering paedophiles. Indeed, even today, Play.com managed to successfully screw the pooch by e-mailing out personal information in some almighty, dunderheaded cock-up.
There's a saying that "The weak link in any security system is the people operating it." This is a polite way of saying that people are, on the whole, idiotic, slack-jawed mouth-breathers who, if you don't watch them every moment of the day, will take the tax records, library-book history, Tesco clubcard balance and sexual preference of every human being who ever lived, burn it to DVD and then leave it on the front doorstep of a group of Russian hackers, simply because nobody told them they shouldn't.
One of the most popular security incidents is that of people having items "stolen" on the train. You will notice, of course, that I've used quotation marks in that last sentence. This is because it is demonstrably untrue. The sort of thing I receive is this:
"Mr. B was on the 00.12 train from London to Shoeburyness. He placed his briefcase, containing a mobile phone and ID card, on the rack above him. Due to illness and tiredness, Mr. B then fell asleep. He awoke when the train pulled into his station and immediately departed the train. As he walked down the platform, he realised that he did not have his briefcase. Contacting the railway authorities, a search was conducted but the briefcase could not be found. It is assumed to have been stolen."
Seems like an open and shut case, no?
You couldn't be more wrong. The critical analysis of these kind of reports is a fine art. If I saw the one above, I would immediately know the following:
Mr. B left work at 5 and went straight to the pub. After seven pints of Fosters, he switched to vodka and coke for the remainder of the evening, then did at least four shots of flaming Sambucca before being summarily rejected by a blonde with too much foundation on, and leaving with the hump. Once on the train, he casually flung his briefcase onto the overhead rack and proceeded to fall into a loud, drooling sleep. Waking up at his station, he legged it drunkenly off the train, tripping over at least three people on the way and collapsed onto the platform. Grabbing a kebab from "Ali's Abrakebabra" mobile fast food van, he returned home and fell asleep in the armchair, grease dripping down his elbow, and vomit dribbling from the corners of his mouth.
Waking up in the morning with a screaming hangover, Mr. B gradually pieced together the events of the previous evening and realised that he'd left his briefcase on the train.
Terrified that he would be sacked, he concocted a ridiculous tale of illness and theft in order to cover up the fact that he's a massive fucking idiot who deserves nothing less than a slow painful death at the hands of a sadistic brown bear with a really bad headache.
Oh, and by the way, what he hasn't mentioned in the security report is the 6-inch thick sheaf of Top Secret paperwork that was in the briefcase along with the mobile phone. He is hoping that you won't ask about it.
Of course, I always ask about it. And if I find out you're lying, as I inevitably will, then we will most likely have a falling out of reasonably epic proportions.
This week, I've had two major incidents to deal with, neither of which I can tell you about, both of which are the result of nothing more than staggering stupidity and lack of foresight. A quick tip: if you're sending sensitive information abroad, don't rely on 50% Chinese Whispers and 50% sheer hope. Go to the post room and fucking well make sure. If your package goes missing and you later find out that it wasn't sent via tracked airmail but, instead, was strapped to the back of a donkey who was then pushed in the general direction of the airport, you've got nobody but yourself to blame.
Similarly, if you send an entire box of data to a random stranger and they phone you up to tell you, politely take their details, hang up the phone, put your little coat on, get in your car and collect the bastard thing immediately. Don't um and ah about it and hope vaguely that they won't go to the media. Do something, you unfeasibly dull prick.
I hoped typing some of this out would be cathartic. It isn't. All it's done is serve to remind me of why I hate people so much. If it wasn't for 'people' then my life would be one long, delightful round of sipping gourmet coffee, surfing the net, nipping outside for smoke breaks and dazzling female colleagues with my endless wit and charismatic charm. Instead, I am forced to try and make sense of the nonsensical; to see through the smoke, mirrors and arse-covering so that we can identify what's gone wrong, who's to blame and how high we can expect them to sail when a boot is aimed towards their rectum at high velocity.
Jean Paul Sartre famously said, "Hell is other people." If truth is beauty, then I think that may be the most heart-breakingly beautiful thing I've ever heard. Now fuck off, the lot of you.
I've barely had time to sit shouting at the television and sneering into my cracked highball-glass of Sainsbury's own-brand scotch whisky.
I don't usually talk about my day-job for a number of reasons, chief amongst them being that there's rarely anything more agonisingly tedious than listening to someone bang on at length about something that is of interest to only themselves. However, on this occasion, I'm going to break my own rules and tell you a little bit about it.
For confidentiality reasons (dear God in heaven, that sounds appallingly wanky but is actually true) I can't disclose the organisation I work for. Suffice to say, it's a national company and employs approximately 70,000 people.
My job is to oversee the investigation and reporting of major security incidents. Basically, anything that would cause the shrivelled heart of a tabloid journalist to skip a sullen beat, require us to go snivelling to the Information Commissioners Office like a child who's spilt Sunny Delight in the DVD player, or make the living Thunderbird puppet Alistair Darling choke on his chocolate digestive, will all be escalated to me.
Now, Data Security is a serious business. Barely a week goes by without one organisation or another downloading the names and addresses of a hundred thousand children onto a memory stick and then accidentally dropping it in the car park of the local halfway house for recovering paedophiles. Indeed, even today, Play.com managed to successfully screw the pooch by e-mailing out personal information in some almighty, dunderheaded cock-up.
There's a saying that "The weak link in any security system is the people operating it." This is a polite way of saying that people are, on the whole, idiotic, slack-jawed mouth-breathers who, if you don't watch them every moment of the day, will take the tax records, library-book history, Tesco clubcard balance and sexual preference of every human being who ever lived, burn it to DVD and then leave it on the front doorstep of a group of Russian hackers, simply because nobody told them they shouldn't.
One of the most popular security incidents is that of people having items "stolen" on the train. You will notice, of course, that I've used quotation marks in that last sentence. This is because it is demonstrably untrue. The sort of thing I receive is this:
"Mr. B was on the 00.12 train from London to Shoeburyness. He placed his briefcase, containing a mobile phone and ID card, on the rack above him. Due to illness and tiredness, Mr. B then fell asleep. He awoke when the train pulled into his station and immediately departed the train. As he walked down the platform, he realised that he did not have his briefcase. Contacting the railway authorities, a search was conducted but the briefcase could not be found. It is assumed to have been stolen."
Seems like an open and shut case, no?
You couldn't be more wrong. The critical analysis of these kind of reports is a fine art. If I saw the one above, I would immediately know the following:
Mr. B left work at 5 and went straight to the pub. After seven pints of Fosters, he switched to vodka and coke for the remainder of the evening, then did at least four shots of flaming Sambucca before being summarily rejected by a blonde with too much foundation on, and leaving with the hump. Once on the train, he casually flung his briefcase onto the overhead rack and proceeded to fall into a loud, drooling sleep. Waking up at his station, he legged it drunkenly off the train, tripping over at least three people on the way and collapsed onto the platform. Grabbing a kebab from "Ali's Abrakebabra" mobile fast food van, he returned home and fell asleep in the armchair, grease dripping down his elbow, and vomit dribbling from the corners of his mouth.
Waking up in the morning with a screaming hangover, Mr. B gradually pieced together the events of the previous evening and realised that he'd left his briefcase on the train.
Terrified that he would be sacked, he concocted a ridiculous tale of illness and theft in order to cover up the fact that he's a massive fucking idiot who deserves nothing less than a slow painful death at the hands of a sadistic brown bear with a really bad headache.
Oh, and by the way, what he hasn't mentioned in the security report is the 6-inch thick sheaf of Top Secret paperwork that was in the briefcase along with the mobile phone. He is hoping that you won't ask about it.
Of course, I always ask about it. And if I find out you're lying, as I inevitably will, then we will most likely have a falling out of reasonably epic proportions.
This week, I've had two major incidents to deal with, neither of which I can tell you about, both of which are the result of nothing more than staggering stupidity and lack of foresight. A quick tip: if you're sending sensitive information abroad, don't rely on 50% Chinese Whispers and 50% sheer hope. Go to the post room and fucking well make sure. If your package goes missing and you later find out that it wasn't sent via tracked airmail but, instead, was strapped to the back of a donkey who was then pushed in the general direction of the airport, you've got nobody but yourself to blame.
Similarly, if you send an entire box of data to a random stranger and they phone you up to tell you, politely take their details, hang up the phone, put your little coat on, get in your car and collect the bastard thing immediately. Don't um and ah about it and hope vaguely that they won't go to the media. Do something, you unfeasibly dull prick.
I hoped typing some of this out would be cathartic. It isn't. All it's done is serve to remind me of why I hate people so much. If it wasn't for 'people' then my life would be one long, delightful round of sipping gourmet coffee, surfing the net, nipping outside for smoke breaks and dazzling female colleagues with my endless wit and charismatic charm. Instead, I am forced to try and make sense of the nonsensical; to see through the smoke, mirrors and arse-covering so that we can identify what's gone wrong, who's to blame and how high we can expect them to sail when a boot is aimed towards their rectum at high velocity.
Jean Paul Sartre famously said, "Hell is other people." If truth is beauty, then I think that may be the most heart-breakingly beautiful thing I've ever heard. Now fuck off, the lot of you.
21 October 2009
When Dogs Attack!
Today, as I trudged through the permeating Essex drizzle of a soul-destroying Wednesday morning, ennui wrapped around my soul and dragging me down like a brass diving suit, I was nearly savaged by a dog.
The owner, a stocky, oriental-looking fellow who I thought resembled "4th Gang Member" from every Hollywood gangster film ever made, had elected not to follow the standard convention of putting a collar and lead on the dog, choosing instead to let it run rampant around the streets, slavering and snapping at innocent passers-by.
Coat dripping with rain, man-bag slung diagonally across me, I just wanted to get to work with the minimum of fuss and spend the day trudging ceaselessly towards the sweet release of death. Instead, I had to deal with Triad-Boy and Cujo.
As the dog came running towards me, eyes fiery with hatred and blood lust, I immediately sensed it didn't want to "just say hello" but had other more nefarious plans coursing through its thick melon of a skull.
The owner shouted something at the dog like, "Oi!" but the animal, virtually smacking his lips by this point, disregarded his master's command and continued to approach, claws clicking on the wet concrete.
As the dog got within a foot of me, I froze, hoping that he might become confused and suddenly think "Well goodness me, there was I thinking that I'd seen a delicious, bipedal morsel just ripe for some early morning nomming, and it seems I was quite incorrect in this regard! In my haste to sink my teeth into a delicious stranger, I appear to have mistaken this impressively hewn statue of what must surely be a Greek God with a bedraggled member of the public. In all honesty, I feel slightly stupid for making this extremely basic, easily avoided error of judgement."
Unfortunately, I think I overestimated this particular beast's reasoning faculties. Instead, he ploughed on regardless, leaping up, mouth wide, and planting his front paws on my thigh.
It seemed like an eternity, but was less than a second. We regarded each other, hunter and prey, he with demonic malice, I with trouser-fouling terror. Although I couldn't smell it, I imagined that his breath reeked of rotten meat and cigarette butts that he'd snuffled off the ground, like a truffle-seeking, rage-pig. In all honesty, my breath probably smelt much the same, if not worse, so I deemed it unfair to criticise him on this minor point of personal hygiene.
At that moment, just as the dog was about to rend the flesh from my body, the owner shouted "Don't even think about it!".
This bemused me slightly.
First, the statement would presuppose that the dog had some elaborate thought process going on. I'm fairly confident that this slavering hell-hound had no subtle modus operandi or carefully reasoned rationale behind his actions other than a pretty fundamental aspiration to "KILL THE MAN".
Second, what kind of thing is that to say to a bloody dog? Personally, I might have chosen, "No!" said very sternly whilst administering a series of violent kicks to the genitalia. Alternatively, I might have bellowed, "Come here!" while staring menacingly and flexing a broken car aerial between my clenched fists. But no, 4th Gang Member chose the bizarre "Don't even think about it" as his opening gambit in what was obviously a mighty power struggle that had been ongoing for some months.
Amazingly, however, it actually worked. The dog stopped, teeth bared, claws digging into my leg, and fixed me with a malevolent gaze which seemed to say, "You win today, fuckface, but I'll be back, don't you worry. Keep looking over your shoulder you tubby bitch."
And with that, he hopped back to the ground and stalked away, shoulders rolling like a silverback gorilla.
The owner curtly threw a "Sorry mate" in my direction and carried on walking, possibly late for a drug deal or something involving a quantity of illegal firearms.
I continued on my way to work, slightly shaken and deep in thought.
And then the awful, crushing realisation hit me - I had come very close to being successfully mauled! I might have needed a rabies injection, or reconstructive surgery! I might even have required a state of the art prosthetic hand capable of crushing steel bars like bread sticks, impressing all those around me who would say in awed whispers, "Who is that man?", receiving the reply, "That's Dan, the man with the iron fist."
Men would want to be me, women would want to be with me. Finally, my life would have turned around and I wouldn't be a massive loser anymore. Everyone would know my name and utter it in hushed tones. I would never have to buy another drink for the rest of my days. Whilst walking down the street, people would nod respectfully. I would be 'The Man'.
But, of course, it didn't happen. The dog was successfully lured away and I continued my journey. Another opportunity for greatness snatched away.
I briefly considered pursuing the dog and pushing a disposable lighter up its bottom in a bid to anger it into violent retribution but, looking back up the road, I could see neither it nor its owner.
Arriving at work, I conjectured that, tragically, this failed attack was probably going to be the highlight of my day.
I was right.
EDIT: Just re-read this today. Nearly a 1000 words on not being bitten by a dog. Hopefully, if I'm not bitten by a dog again tomorrow and for the next six months, I should have enough material for a book by the summer. Woo and yay for pointless bloggery!
The owner, a stocky, oriental-looking fellow who I thought resembled "4th Gang Member" from every Hollywood gangster film ever made, had elected not to follow the standard convention of putting a collar and lead on the dog, choosing instead to let it run rampant around the streets, slavering and snapping at innocent passers-by.
Coat dripping with rain, man-bag slung diagonally across me, I just wanted to get to work with the minimum of fuss and spend the day trudging ceaselessly towards the sweet release of death. Instead, I had to deal with Triad-Boy and Cujo.
As the dog came running towards me, eyes fiery with hatred and blood lust, I immediately sensed it didn't want to "just say hello" but had other more nefarious plans coursing through its thick melon of a skull.
The owner shouted something at the dog like, "Oi!" but the animal, virtually smacking his lips by this point, disregarded his master's command and continued to approach, claws clicking on the wet concrete.
As the dog got within a foot of me, I froze, hoping that he might become confused and suddenly think "Well goodness me, there was I thinking that I'd seen a delicious, bipedal morsel just ripe for some early morning nomming, and it seems I was quite incorrect in this regard! In my haste to sink my teeth into a delicious stranger, I appear to have mistaken this impressively hewn statue of what must surely be a Greek God with a bedraggled member of the public. In all honesty, I feel slightly stupid for making this extremely basic, easily avoided error of judgement."
Unfortunately, I think I overestimated this particular beast's reasoning faculties. Instead, he ploughed on regardless, leaping up, mouth wide, and planting his front paws on my thigh.
It seemed like an eternity, but was less than a second. We regarded each other, hunter and prey, he with demonic malice, I with trouser-fouling terror. Although I couldn't smell it, I imagined that his breath reeked of rotten meat and cigarette butts that he'd snuffled off the ground, like a truffle-seeking, rage-pig. In all honesty, my breath probably smelt much the same, if not worse, so I deemed it unfair to criticise him on this minor point of personal hygiene.
At that moment, just as the dog was about to rend the flesh from my body, the owner shouted "Don't even think about it!".
This bemused me slightly.
First, the statement would presuppose that the dog had some elaborate thought process going on. I'm fairly confident that this slavering hell-hound had no subtle modus operandi or carefully reasoned rationale behind his actions other than a pretty fundamental aspiration to "KILL THE MAN".
Second, what kind of thing is that to say to a bloody dog? Personally, I might have chosen, "No!" said very sternly whilst administering a series of violent kicks to the genitalia. Alternatively, I might have bellowed, "Come here!" while staring menacingly and flexing a broken car aerial between my clenched fists. But no, 4th Gang Member chose the bizarre "Don't even think about it" as his opening gambit in what was obviously a mighty power struggle that had been ongoing for some months.
Amazingly, however, it actually worked. The dog stopped, teeth bared, claws digging into my leg, and fixed me with a malevolent gaze which seemed to say, "You win today, fuckface, but I'll be back, don't you worry. Keep looking over your shoulder you tubby bitch."
And with that, he hopped back to the ground and stalked away, shoulders rolling like a silverback gorilla.
The owner curtly threw a "Sorry mate" in my direction and carried on walking, possibly late for a drug deal or something involving a quantity of illegal firearms.
I continued on my way to work, slightly shaken and deep in thought.
And then the awful, crushing realisation hit me - I had come very close to being successfully mauled! I might have needed a rabies injection, or reconstructive surgery! I might even have required a state of the art prosthetic hand capable of crushing steel bars like bread sticks, impressing all those around me who would say in awed whispers, "Who is that man?", receiving the reply, "That's Dan, the man with the iron fist."
Men would want to be me, women would want to be with me. Finally, my life would have turned around and I wouldn't be a massive loser anymore. Everyone would know my name and utter it in hushed tones. I would never have to buy another drink for the rest of my days. Whilst walking down the street, people would nod respectfully. I would be 'The Man'.
But, of course, it didn't happen. The dog was successfully lured away and I continued my journey. Another opportunity for greatness snatched away.
I briefly considered pursuing the dog and pushing a disposable lighter up its bottom in a bid to anger it into violent retribution but, looking back up the road, I could see neither it nor its owner.
Arriving at work, I conjectured that, tragically, this failed attack was probably going to be the highlight of my day.
I was right.
EDIT: Just re-read this today. Nearly a 1000 words on not being bitten by a dog. Hopefully, if I'm not bitten by a dog again tomorrow and for the next six months, I should have enough material for a book by the summer. Woo and yay for pointless bloggery!
14 October 2009
Do The Job
I should point out that I have a hidden agenda with regard to this blog post. I won't reveal what that is until the end, because I want you to discover this little bit of magic for yourself. For now, read on, oh faithful blog-reading-person.
There's a band doing the rounds at the moment who've been lauded as 'one to watch' by various people, websites, magazines and dictatorships.
'They' are absolutely right - you should watch out for this band because I think they're going to hit big time.
Stop reading, right now, and watch this:
Good, wasn't it? That, my pretend friends, was Baddies and they, if I may use a common parlance much beloved by Essex folk and @lebrini (who, it appears, is now my literary agent) are "the shit".
Formed in 2007, Baddies have been variously described as an amalgam of (deep breath) Talking Heads, Blur, Manic Street Preachers, Kaiser Chiefs, Queens of the Stone Age, Rocket from the Crypt, The Futureheads, and so many others that it would bore me to type their names.
Suffice to say, Baddies are pretty damn good.
I saw them live in Southend and, to be absolutely honest, didn't enjoy the gig hugely. I'm a little old-fashioned when it comes to live music: I like to hear an album first, grow to love the songs, and then whoop like a chimpanzee when I hear those same songs performed live. With Baddies it was the other way round - I heard them live, couldn't make much sense of it, and walked away none the wiser.
However, they have now released their first album entitled 'Do The Job'. The title is a reference to the absolutely superb film 'Sexy Beast' starring Ray Winstone and Ben Kingsley (in a career topping performance as Don Logan).
For me, their status was cemented in my mind when I was able to find a pre-release version of their album on a warez site, for illegal download. When you hit the illegal download sites, you've arrived. Being a man of strong ethics and robust moral fibre, I immediately procured it and threw it on my MP3 player.
Christ above, what an album.
Let me present another track for you so you can judge for yourself how amazing it is:
That's my favourite track. Amazing, eh?
Baddies were originally a group of guys working for E-On, the power company. This led to a tongue-in-cheek nickname of The Kings Of E-On but, mercifully, it was nothing more than an in-joke and they persevered with their current nomenclature.
Once the album was released, I purchased a legitimate copy and it's barely been out of my CD player since.
I'm not an expert on music. I can't wax lyrical about a particular track and name its influences. Fuck, I can't even think of appropriate musical terms to use. All I can say is, as someone who just likes music and doesn't give a rat's anus where it came from, this album is fucking magic.
One more track before I finish:
Amazing. I love these guys, and I love the fact they had the balls to give up their jobs, pool their resources and go on tour, trying desperately to break through against the odds and be something a bit special. I wish I had their cajones.
If you enjoy reading my blog posts and appreciate my pointless ranting, please do me one favour in return: gather together £8 and buy the Baddies album. I regard it as an investment. You will gain more than £8 worth of pleasure in the repeated listenings you will undoubtedly enjoy.
Oh, and to clarify my hidden agenda, I used to work with and share a flat with the bass player, Danny Rowton. He's a great bloke (I, sadly, was a shit flatmate and we lost contact for a while - entirely my fault because I'm a huge cock-monkey and degenerate loser) and I really am extraordinarily proud of what he's achieved. This motherfucker has worked hard for his music and it's so good to see him getting some success.
Good luck Danny. Good luck Baddies.
And as for the rest of you - "you're just going to have to turn this opportunity yes". Buy the album. Do the job.
There's a band doing the rounds at the moment who've been lauded as 'one to watch' by various people, websites, magazines and dictatorships.
'They' are absolutely right - you should watch out for this band because I think they're going to hit big time.
Stop reading, right now, and watch this:
Good, wasn't it? That, my pretend friends, was Baddies and they, if I may use a common parlance much beloved by Essex folk and @lebrini (who, it appears, is now my literary agent) are "the shit".
Formed in 2007, Baddies have been variously described as an amalgam of (deep breath) Talking Heads, Blur, Manic Street Preachers, Kaiser Chiefs, Queens of the Stone Age, Rocket from the Crypt, The Futureheads, and so many others that it would bore me to type their names.
Suffice to say, Baddies are pretty damn good.
I saw them live in Southend and, to be absolutely honest, didn't enjoy the gig hugely. I'm a little old-fashioned when it comes to live music: I like to hear an album first, grow to love the songs, and then whoop like a chimpanzee when I hear those same songs performed live. With Baddies it was the other way round - I heard them live, couldn't make much sense of it, and walked away none the wiser.
However, they have now released their first album entitled 'Do The Job'. The title is a reference to the absolutely superb film 'Sexy Beast' starring Ray Winstone and Ben Kingsley (in a career topping performance as Don Logan).
For me, their status was cemented in my mind when I was able to find a pre-release version of their album on a warez site, for illegal download. When you hit the illegal download sites, you've arrived. Being a man of strong ethics and robust moral fibre, I immediately procured it and threw it on my MP3 player.
Christ above, what an album.
Let me present another track for you so you can judge for yourself how amazing it is:
That's my favourite track. Amazing, eh?
Baddies were originally a group of guys working for E-On, the power company. This led to a tongue-in-cheek nickname of The Kings Of E-On but, mercifully, it was nothing more than an in-joke and they persevered with their current nomenclature.
Once the album was released, I purchased a legitimate copy and it's barely been out of my CD player since.
I'm not an expert on music. I can't wax lyrical about a particular track and name its influences. Fuck, I can't even think of appropriate musical terms to use. All I can say is, as someone who just likes music and doesn't give a rat's anus where it came from, this album is fucking magic.
One more track before I finish:
Amazing. I love these guys, and I love the fact they had the balls to give up their jobs, pool their resources and go on tour, trying desperately to break through against the odds and be something a bit special. I wish I had their cajones.
If you enjoy reading my blog posts and appreciate my pointless ranting, please do me one favour in return: gather together £8 and buy the Baddies album. I regard it as an investment. You will gain more than £8 worth of pleasure in the repeated listenings you will undoubtedly enjoy.
Oh, and to clarify my hidden agenda, I used to work with and share a flat with the bass player, Danny Rowton. He's a great bloke (I, sadly, was a shit flatmate and we lost contact for a while - entirely my fault because I'm a huge cock-monkey and degenerate loser) and I really am extraordinarily proud of what he's achieved. This motherfucker has worked hard for his music and it's so good to see him getting some success.
Good luck Danny. Good luck Baddies.
And as for the rest of you - "you're just going to have to turn this opportunity yes". Buy the album. Do the job.
12 October 2009
An anonymous comment
A while back, I wrote a blog post about the entirely avoidable death of an infant because her parents chose to use homeopathy instead of proper medical treatment.
A comment arrived today from 'Anonymous' (sad that this person decided to hide behind anonymity rather than reveal their name) which said the following:
The second thing that struck me, was the claim itself that medical treatment in the US is the third largest cause of death. Something about it didn't ring entirely true and I was disinclined to believe it.
However, as a sceptic, I never form an opinion on something until I've had an opportunity to examine the evidence. This, sadly, is a trait that you will not find in many homeopaths.
I researched the quoted article and guess what? 'Anonymous' was absolutely right.
It rocked me back on my heels a little bit, to tell you the truth. But such is the nature of scepticism and rationality - when you find out you're wrong about something, you look into it, learn from it and incorporate it.
In 2000, the Journal of the American Medical Association published a study by Dr. Barbara Starfield in which she discussed the state of the American health-care system and made comparisons to other countries, namely Australia, Belgium, Canada, Denmark, Finland, France, Germany, Japan, the Netherlands, Spain, Sweden and the UK.
Without doubt, the most sobering conclusion the report offers is that after heart disease and cancer, the third largest cause of death in America is iatrogenic damage. Or, in other words, ill-health or adverse effects resulting from medical treatment.
That is an absolutely astounding and tragic finding.
So what could possibly cause this? How has conventional medicine failed us so badly?
The answer is that it hasn't, no matter what 'Anonymous' may want us to think.
For one thing, the criticism in the article was focused entirely on the American health-care system. It did not focus on worldwide health-care, it did not focus on conventional medical techniques, it looked solely at how medicine is operating in the U.S. Let's briefly look at that now.
In the U.S. their health-care system is largely for-profit in nature. Corporations, Health Maintenance Organisations and pharmaceutical companies exist to make a profit. Indeed, they are legally required to maximise their profits for shareholders. What is the best way to achieve this?
Well, you increase sales and reduce costs. It's as simple as that.
In the American health-care system, you reduce costs by providing lower quality service. At the same time, you increase your sales by selling more drugs and performing more expensive, and potentially unnecessary, technical treatments. These increase your income vastly.
The problem in America is not the huge amount of medical knowledge being drawn upon, or the incredibly effective treatments available, it's the fact that companies are administering all of this with the sole intent of making as much money as possible. If the shareholders are happy, everyone's happy - except for the patients.
In the U.S. it's not necessarily about what is best for the patient, it's about what's best for the profit margins.
So you see, what 'Anonymous' has sought to do is present an article criticising the American health-care system in a light that will make it seem that conventional medicine is 'broken'. At the same time, they claim that homeopathy is being unfairly singled out for criticism.
Frankly, that's a disingenuous and very weak argument. Let's call a straw man a straw man.
Conventional medicine works. The problem is, sometimes, in the administration of it. That means the issue is not with the medicine, but with the companies running the system.
Homeopathy was singled out in my blog post for one reason and one reason only - it does not work as advertised.
Homeopathy is no better in clinical trials than placebo. There is no magic in your water. There is no memory of the active ingredient that has been diluted into extinction. Your
bottle of liquid or handful of pills contains nothing of value whatsoever.
To try and compare homeopathy with conventional medicine is like comparing apples with oranges - one works and one doesn't.
A comment arrived today from 'Anonymous' (sad that this person decided to hide behind anonymity rather than reveal their name) which said the following:
in the US, allopathic (western) medical treatment--proper treatment--is the third largest cause of death behind heart disease and cancer. This as reported by the Journal of the American Medical Association, nonetheless. What makes me sad is that nobody brings these failures out one-by-one for public examination, just the cases where *other* forms of treatment fail. It's massively hypocritical.The term that immediately caused alarm bells to ring was 'allopathic'. This is a term invented by Samuel Hahnemann, father of homeopathy, to describe conventional medicine. This causes me to surmise that the person leaving the comment is an avid supporter of homeopathy, otherwise they wouldn't use such a term.
The second thing that struck me, was the claim itself that medical treatment in the US is the third largest cause of death. Something about it didn't ring entirely true and I was disinclined to believe it.
However, as a sceptic, I never form an opinion on something until I've had an opportunity to examine the evidence. This, sadly, is a trait that you will not find in many homeopaths.
I researched the quoted article and guess what? 'Anonymous' was absolutely right.
It rocked me back on my heels a little bit, to tell you the truth. But such is the nature of scepticism and rationality - when you find out you're wrong about something, you look into it, learn from it and incorporate it.
In 2000, the Journal of the American Medical Association published a study by Dr. Barbara Starfield in which she discussed the state of the American health-care system and made comparisons to other countries, namely Australia, Belgium, Canada, Denmark, Finland, France, Germany, Japan, the Netherlands, Spain, Sweden and the UK.
Without doubt, the most sobering conclusion the report offers is that after heart disease and cancer, the third largest cause of death in America is iatrogenic damage. Or, in other words, ill-health or adverse effects resulting from medical treatment.
That is an absolutely astounding and tragic finding.
So what could possibly cause this? How has conventional medicine failed us so badly?
The answer is that it hasn't, no matter what 'Anonymous' may want us to think.
For one thing, the criticism in the article was focused entirely on the American health-care system. It did not focus on worldwide health-care, it did not focus on conventional medical techniques, it looked solely at how medicine is operating in the U.S. Let's briefly look at that now.
In the U.S. their health-care system is largely for-profit in nature. Corporations, Health Maintenance Organisations and pharmaceutical companies exist to make a profit. Indeed, they are legally required to maximise their profits for shareholders. What is the best way to achieve this?
Well, you increase sales and reduce costs. It's as simple as that.
In the American health-care system, you reduce costs by providing lower quality service. At the same time, you increase your sales by selling more drugs and performing more expensive, and potentially unnecessary, technical treatments. These increase your income vastly.
The problem in America is not the huge amount of medical knowledge being drawn upon, or the incredibly effective treatments available, it's the fact that companies are administering all of this with the sole intent of making as much money as possible. If the shareholders are happy, everyone's happy - except for the patients.
In the U.S. it's not necessarily about what is best for the patient, it's about what's best for the profit margins.
So you see, what 'Anonymous' has sought to do is present an article criticising the American health-care system in a light that will make it seem that conventional medicine is 'broken'. At the same time, they claim that homeopathy is being unfairly singled out for criticism.
Frankly, that's a disingenuous and very weak argument. Let's call a straw man a straw man.
Conventional medicine works. The problem is, sometimes, in the administration of it. That means the issue is not with the medicine, but with the companies running the system.
Homeopathy was singled out in my blog post for one reason and one reason only - it does not work as advertised.
Homeopathy is no better in clinical trials than placebo. There is no magic in your water. There is no memory of the active ingredient that has been diluted into extinction. Your
bottle of liquid or handful of pills contains nothing of value whatsoever.
To try and compare homeopathy with conventional medicine is like comparing apples with oranges - one works and one doesn't.
10 October 2009
I can't be trusted to do anything...
On occasion, I write blog posts dealing with my screenwriting. These posts are, invariably, not at all amusing, nor are they meant to be - I leave the amusing stuff for when I'm ranting about inane nonsense. When I'm writing about screenplays, another side of me comes out. You could call it the sensible, rational side, but I couldn't possibly comment.
But I am concerned that it makes for a rather changeable and, at times, stilted blog.
I briefly considered creating another blog just to write about, well, writing. I then realised that would be a ridiculous idea as 1) I barely have enough readers to keep one blog going, let alone two, and 2) having a couple of blogs on the go at once would be a ludicrously egotistical move - quite frankly, I'm nowhere near important enough to be spouting my nonsense from two places at once. Therefore, I'm afraid you'll have to put up with the mix 'n' match aspect for now.
So, on to writey news.
I met up with Mike last night, author of Mortal Remains which I've been banging on about for a while here and here and in other posts too.
Mike had read my redraft of his screenplay and we had a good chat about it over a few pints of delicious beer. There were parts that he really liked and parts that he wasn't so keen on, which is entirely to be expected with these things.
However, over the course of a couple of hours, something quite astounding occurred.
We discovered that I'd made an almighty fuck-up with my script rewrite.
Essentially, what I'd done (and this was quite unconscious) was to take an idea that had been formenting in my head for a while and graft it onto Mike's screenplay. In essence, the location that I'd placed the protagonists in was a character all in itself - one with a history, a gravitas, a presence. The location was the main character.
When Frank (the bad guy) was introduced into the equation, it felt somehow wrong, like an intrusion. He arrived on the scene, with his sharp, witty dialogue, and it felt slightly at odds with what I'd written up to that point. I continued anyway, hoping that it'd be sorted out along the line with another draft. I now realise that this was my subconscious saying "You know he doesn't belong there, don't you? You've created something entirely new and interesting, and now Frank's being crowbarred in".
I should probably listen to my subconscious more often.
After another pint and some more conversation, myself and Mike came to the conclusion that I'd smashed together two very good ideas into one screenplay, but they both needed the appropriate amount of breathing room. Basically, this script wasn't big enough for both of them.
So, it looks like we're now back at square one with regard to Mike's script, and also at square one with a brand new screenplay that I'm going to write.
It was a very interesting conversation and there is certainly no ill will between myself and Mike as a result of this. In fact, he's expressed an interest in working with me on the new script as well as Mortal Remains.
It's strange how the writing process works out sometimes.
The moral of the story is: never ask me to do you a favour. You may end up with twice the problem you started with...
But I am concerned that it makes for a rather changeable and, at times, stilted blog.
I briefly considered creating another blog just to write about, well, writing. I then realised that would be a ridiculous idea as 1) I barely have enough readers to keep one blog going, let alone two, and 2) having a couple of blogs on the go at once would be a ludicrously egotistical move - quite frankly, I'm nowhere near important enough to be spouting my nonsense from two places at once. Therefore, I'm afraid you'll have to put up with the mix 'n' match aspect for now.
So, on to writey news.
I met up with Mike last night, author of Mortal Remains which I've been banging on about for a while here and here and in other posts too.
Mike had read my redraft of his screenplay and we had a good chat about it over a few pints of delicious beer. There were parts that he really liked and parts that he wasn't so keen on, which is entirely to be expected with these things.
However, over the course of a couple of hours, something quite astounding occurred.
We discovered that I'd made an almighty fuck-up with my script rewrite.
Essentially, what I'd done (and this was quite unconscious) was to take an idea that had been formenting in my head for a while and graft it onto Mike's screenplay. In essence, the location that I'd placed the protagonists in was a character all in itself - one with a history, a gravitas, a presence. The location was the main character.
When Frank (the bad guy) was introduced into the equation, it felt somehow wrong, like an intrusion. He arrived on the scene, with his sharp, witty dialogue, and it felt slightly at odds with what I'd written up to that point. I continued anyway, hoping that it'd be sorted out along the line with another draft. I now realise that this was my subconscious saying "You know he doesn't belong there, don't you? You've created something entirely new and interesting, and now Frank's being crowbarred in".
I should probably listen to my subconscious more often.
After another pint and some more conversation, myself and Mike came to the conclusion that I'd smashed together two very good ideas into one screenplay, but they both needed the appropriate amount of breathing room. Basically, this script wasn't big enough for both of them.
So, it looks like we're now back at square one with regard to Mike's script, and also at square one with a brand new screenplay that I'm going to write.
It was a very interesting conversation and there is certainly no ill will between myself and Mike as a result of this. In fact, he's expressed an interest in working with me on the new script as well as Mortal Remains.
It's strange how the writing process works out sometimes.
The moral of the story is: never ask me to do you a favour. You may end up with twice the problem you started with...
9 October 2009
Join Me
Danny Wallace is doing OK for himself.
You may have heard of him, possibly seen one of his TV programmes, or even read one of his very entertaining books.
He likes to be nice, pleasant, friendly and altruistic. He embarks on what are described as 'stupid boy projects', much to the bewilderment of those around him, seeking to make the world a better place. Let's take a look at some of these projects in detail:
Join Me
Wallace decides, after attending the funeral of his great uncle Gallus, to follow in his relative's footsteps and start some sort of commune. Placing an advertisement in Loot, he soon gets enquiries from curious members of the public, wanting to join him but with no real understanding of what for.
This book is meant to be uplifting and show that all people are, at heart, good and kind. It seeks to hold a mirror up to society and present us as considerate, cheerful folk who really want to be as helpful and generous as possible.
This is, of course, utter balls.
All it shows is that if you put a vague advert in a free paper, you're guaranteed to find scores of bored, disaffected idiots who will willingly join together in a desperate bid to introduce some excitement into their pointless, inconsequential lives. The fact that the outcome of this repulsively banal granfalloot is a scheme entitled 'Random Acts of Kindness' fills me with dread and causes me to pine even more than I usually do for a 30-kilometre wide meteorite to plunge into the surface of the planet, destroying all the morons in one go.
Join me? No, I think not. I'd rather sandpaper my genitals and douse them liberally with organic Red Wine vinegar, while eating the contents of a medical-waste bin, thank you.
Random Acts of Kindness (365 ways to make the world a nicer place)
In this slim tome, Wallace suggests many ways in which you can be nice to people. The question that he never asks is 'Why in the name of all things holy would I want to do that?'.
The world is filled with despair, misery and abject horror. That pleases me greatly.
I enjoy nothing more than sitting, alone, in my flat, picking at the lining of my threadbare armchair and gulping down cheap own-brand vodka, while chuckling wheezily at small children falling into stinging nettles on You've Been Framed. Why would I want to ruin that by doing something pleasant for someone and, God forbid, feeling 'nice'?
Read this quote from an anonymous reviewer on Amazon: "I defy anyone to read this book & not want to go out & help strangers! A top notch, A grade, tip top, super dooper, slice of fried gold of a book which I'd recommend to anyone & everyone!"
Jesus Christ, I'd love to meet the person who wrote that insipid, childish shit and kick their teeth in. Then I'd take a lump hammer, position the teeth, root-first, on their forehead and pound their own molars into a giant exclamation mark, as they seem to love them so bloody much. "Hey! Look! A giant exclamation mark! Cool, huh!?!"
Yes Man
This book is the worst offender of all.
While on a bus, Wallace is addressed by a 'mysterious stranger' who, clearly under the influence of some mind-altering drug, tells him he should "Say 'yes' more".
Any normal human being would recoil in horror at a fellow passenger engaging them in conversation on public transport, reaching instinctively for their phone so as to call the police and report what is obviously an escaped lunatic. However, Wallace being the most credulous man on the planet, takes this tossed-away comment from a transient, interfering maniac and turns it into some sort of mantra.
He decides that from now on he will say Yes to everything. Thus begins a series of stultifyingly dull 'adventures' in which he engages in a selection of tedious encounters and ill-conceived actions. He learns nothing and achieves even less.
The reason I hate this book is because I bought it at Heathrow Airport on the way to a holiday with my brother touring Thailand and Cambodia. Trust me, the last thing you want before you arrive in The Land of Ladyboys and deep-fried insects, is to read a book that brainwashes you into saying Yes to everything. I still have nightmares.
You may have seen a pattern emerging within these brief summations of Wallace's work. His books are, without exception, all about being bored and trying to find magic and meaning in the simple act of interacting with people.
Utter nonsense.
Who wants to interact with people? In fact, who wants to 'interact' at all? It's a stupid word which I classify as meaningless management-speak on a par with 'liaise', 'engage' and 'work closely with'.
So, as an antidote to this frighteningly popular middle-class trend of 'being nice', I've decided to start my own club.
It's called the 'fuck you' club and the rules are very simple.
1) You must maintain, at all times, a sour expression of utter disdain. I find a combination of unbridled scorn and barely-concealed disgust to be a particularly pleasing mix.
2) If you find yourself in a situation where you can help someone, don't. Turn around and walk away. Even better, stand there, laugh in their faces, revel in their misfortune, then walk away.
3) There is no 3. Everything you need to know is covered in the first 2 points. It's a very basic philosophy.
Someone's bag has torn and they've dropped their shopping?
Fuck you. You should have packed it more carefully at the supermarket.
An elderly woman has dropped her key and it's fallen down a sewer grate?
Fuck you. Not my problem, granny. Tie it to a piece of string next time, you grizzled harridan.
A tearful child has just witnessed their cat being flattened by the mighty wheels of a passing articulated lorry?
Meh. Nothing lasts forever, everything ends. All good things disappear in time like the flavour of a meal, the memory of a kiss, or the blissful caress of a lover. Existential angst, pervading melancholy and painful reverie will haunt you for the rest of your days. Get used to it, kid. Oh, and fuck you.
There is one final thing about the 'fuck you' club that it's very important to observe. There is no membership. You can't join my 'fuck you' club. If you try, I will merely observe rule 2 and say "Fuck you, start your own club".
Thus will there be a myriad of 'fuck you' clubs, each comprising a single, miserable, hatred-filled individual. There will be no meetings and you will not receive a newsletter - unless, of course, you decide to create one that you proceed to e-mail to yourself and read bitterly whilst sipping a cup of cheap instant coffee and eating a garibaldi, commonly regarded as "the devil's biscuit". Frankly, that would just be weird and possibly symptomatic of some underlying psychological condition that requires urgent attention. Don't write a newsletter.
So, that's the 'fuck you' club. I consider it my gift to mankind.
You may have heard of him, possibly seen one of his TV programmes, or even read one of his very entertaining books.
He likes to be nice, pleasant, friendly and altruistic. He embarks on what are described as 'stupid boy projects', much to the bewilderment of those around him, seeking to make the world a better place. Let's take a look at some of these projects in detail:
Join Me
Wallace decides, after attending the funeral of his great uncle Gallus, to follow in his relative's footsteps and start some sort of commune. Placing an advertisement in Loot, he soon gets enquiries from curious members of the public, wanting to join him but with no real understanding of what for.
This book is meant to be uplifting and show that all people are, at heart, good and kind. It seeks to hold a mirror up to society and present us as considerate, cheerful folk who really want to be as helpful and generous as possible.
This is, of course, utter balls.
All it shows is that if you put a vague advert in a free paper, you're guaranteed to find scores of bored, disaffected idiots who will willingly join together in a desperate bid to introduce some excitement into their pointless, inconsequential lives. The fact that the outcome of this repulsively banal granfalloot is a scheme entitled 'Random Acts of Kindness' fills me with dread and causes me to pine even more than I usually do for a 30-kilometre wide meteorite to plunge into the surface of the planet, destroying all the morons in one go.
Join me? No, I think not. I'd rather sandpaper my genitals and douse them liberally with organic Red Wine vinegar, while eating the contents of a medical-waste bin, thank you.
Random Acts of Kindness (365 ways to make the world a nicer place)
In this slim tome, Wallace suggests many ways in which you can be nice to people. The question that he never asks is 'Why in the name of all things holy would I want to do that?'.
The world is filled with despair, misery and abject horror. That pleases me greatly.
I enjoy nothing more than sitting, alone, in my flat, picking at the lining of my threadbare armchair and gulping down cheap own-brand vodka, while chuckling wheezily at small children falling into stinging nettles on You've Been Framed. Why would I want to ruin that by doing something pleasant for someone and, God forbid, feeling 'nice'?
Read this quote from an anonymous reviewer on Amazon: "I defy anyone to read this book & not want to go out & help strangers! A top notch, A grade, tip top, super dooper, slice of fried gold of a book which I'd recommend to anyone & everyone!"
Jesus Christ, I'd love to meet the person who wrote that insipid, childish shit and kick their teeth in. Then I'd take a lump hammer, position the teeth, root-first, on their forehead and pound their own molars into a giant exclamation mark, as they seem to love them so bloody much. "Hey! Look! A giant exclamation mark! Cool, huh!?!"
Yes Man
This book is the worst offender of all.
While on a bus, Wallace is addressed by a 'mysterious stranger' who, clearly under the influence of some mind-altering drug, tells him he should "Say 'yes' more".
Any normal human being would recoil in horror at a fellow passenger engaging them in conversation on public transport, reaching instinctively for their phone so as to call the police and report what is obviously an escaped lunatic. However, Wallace being the most credulous man on the planet, takes this tossed-away comment from a transient, interfering maniac and turns it into some sort of mantra.
He decides that from now on he will say Yes to everything. Thus begins a series of stultifyingly dull 'adventures' in which he engages in a selection of tedious encounters and ill-conceived actions. He learns nothing and achieves even less.
The reason I hate this book is because I bought it at Heathrow Airport on the way to a holiday with my brother touring Thailand and Cambodia. Trust me, the last thing you want before you arrive in The Land of Ladyboys and deep-fried insects, is to read a book that brainwashes you into saying Yes to everything. I still have nightmares.
You may have seen a pattern emerging within these brief summations of Wallace's work. His books are, without exception, all about being bored and trying to find magic and meaning in the simple act of interacting with people.
Utter nonsense.
Who wants to interact with people? In fact, who wants to 'interact' at all? It's a stupid word which I classify as meaningless management-speak on a par with 'liaise', 'engage' and 'work closely with'.
So, as an antidote to this frighteningly popular middle-class trend of 'being nice', I've decided to start my own club.
It's called the 'fuck you' club and the rules are very simple.
1) You must maintain, at all times, a sour expression of utter disdain. I find a combination of unbridled scorn and barely-concealed disgust to be a particularly pleasing mix.
2) If you find yourself in a situation where you can help someone, don't. Turn around and walk away. Even better, stand there, laugh in their faces, revel in their misfortune, then walk away.
3) There is no 3. Everything you need to know is covered in the first 2 points. It's a very basic philosophy.
Someone's bag has torn and they've dropped their shopping?
Fuck you. You should have packed it more carefully at the supermarket.
An elderly woman has dropped her key and it's fallen down a sewer grate?
Fuck you. Not my problem, granny. Tie it to a piece of string next time, you grizzled harridan.
A tearful child has just witnessed their cat being flattened by the mighty wheels of a passing articulated lorry?
Meh. Nothing lasts forever, everything ends. All good things disappear in time like the flavour of a meal, the memory of a kiss, or the blissful caress of a lover. Existential angst, pervading melancholy and painful reverie will haunt you for the rest of your days. Get used to it, kid. Oh, and fuck you.
There is one final thing about the 'fuck you' club that it's very important to observe. There is no membership. You can't join my 'fuck you' club. If you try, I will merely observe rule 2 and say "Fuck you, start your own club".
Thus will there be a myriad of 'fuck you' clubs, each comprising a single, miserable, hatred-filled individual. There will be no meetings and you will not receive a newsletter - unless, of course, you decide to create one that you proceed to e-mail to yourself and read bitterly whilst sipping a cup of cheap instant coffee and eating a garibaldi, commonly regarded as "the devil's biscuit". Frankly, that would just be weird and possibly symptomatic of some underlying psychological condition that requires urgent attention. Don't write a newsletter.
So, that's the 'fuck you' club. I consider it my gift to mankind.
7 October 2009
Reasons to become a hermit, #1
I have, over the course of the last few years, become ever more disillusioned with humanity as a whole. People are generally a bad idea. They are loud, boorish, ignorant, stupid show-offs and not the sort of thing that any right-minded individual would have anything to do with.
So it is that I've been cultivating a deep-seated mistrust of society, shunning human contact wherever possible and working hard on my ultimate dream which is to never have to deal with another human being for the rest of my natural life.
The events of this evening have done little to disabuse me of the above notions, nor dissuade me from my goal.
Let me explain. This is what should have happened this evening:
1) Leave work.
2) Go and have something pleasant to eat in town.
3) Meet my flick buddy (similar to a fuck buddy, except instead of sleeping together you go to the cinema) and see 'Moon' at the Odeon.
Even for a curmudgeonly, sour-faced bastard like me, an evening such as that would be something to look forward to and cherish.
Sadly, things never quite work out the way you want them to.
I left work at 7 and wandered into the high street. We are fortunate enough in Southend to have a cornucopia of restaurants and eateries to choose from, each serving a splendid array of cuisines. Gastronomically, we are blessed with an embarrassment of riches.
French, Spanish, Italian, Chinese, Thai, Indian, Portuguese, Moroccan, Sri Lankan - all of these are available in the Southend area.
It is with some shame then that I have to admit I went for the easy option. So I wouldn't sit in the cinema reeking of garlic or other delicious foodstuffs, I decided to go to Frankie and Benny's for something simple.
Now, the last time I went to Frankie and Benny's in Southend was about 2-3 years ago with my father and his partner. They ordered fish and chips, if memory serves, and I chose a steak. My specific order was "the steak, medium-rare, with a jacket potato and sour cream". Immediately, the disinterested waitress informed me that I couldn't have sour cream with the jacket potato. Instead, I would have to order the 'jacket potato with sour cream' from another part of the menu.
"Won't I then have two jacket potatoes though?", I asked, slightly bewildered.
"No," she replied, chewing gum, "I can write down 'no jacket' on your steak order."
I mulled this over.
"So," I ventured, "will the steak cost less because a major part of the dish is missing?"
She continued masticating her gum for a few seconds before fixing me with a steely glare that was, impossibly, both hate-filled and indifferent all at the same time.
"No. You'll still have to pay the full price."
By now, I was intrigued as to whether she might, at some point in the conversation, remember I was the customer and that a reasonably integral part of her job description was to give me what I wanted (within the bounds of reason) as my satisfaction was directly linked to the amount of gratuity she was likely to receive.
Suddenly, inspiration struck.
"How about," I carefully explained, "I order the steak, medium-rare, and the jacket potato, and you just give me a side-dish of sour cream which I can apply to the jacket potato myself, thus completely bypassing this apparently insurmountable complication?"
She stopped munching on her gum and eyed me suspiciously, as one might regard someone who has just offered you a boiled sweet, opened their trouser pocket wide, and invited you to reach in and help yourself.
A moment passed.
"Yeah, OK", she said, scribbled in her notepad, and was gone.
Pleased that we'd been able to discuss the matter like adults and reach a mutually beneficial solution, I sat back and waited for my delicious repast.
30 minutes later, the food arrived. My medium-rare steak had been cooked well-done, the field mushroom on my plate had, apparently, been slow-cooked in the deep-fat fryer and sucked up approximately a third of a litre of vegetable oil in the process, and the diaphanous paper cup balanced precariously next to my jacket potato contained a generous dollop of mayonnaise, not sour cream.
Barely containing my anger, I proceeded to try and gain the attention of a member of the waiting staff (and this is genuinely no exaggeration) for about 20 minutes, before finally giving up and staring balefully at the rapidly emptying plates of delicious fayre in front of my father and his other half.
I swore never to return.
So, tonight, I made the fatal mistake of assuming that things must have improved somewhat at Frankie and Benny's and perhaps I should give them another opportunity.
I ordered this:
Tender salmon, fresh red pepper and mozzarella cheese fishcakes.
Fresh rocket and Italian hard cheese garnish (Italian hard cheese? Is it possible to describe an item of food and make it sound less appetising?)
Your choice of herb potatoes, house fries or a jacket.
Tartare sauce on the side.
What I received was this:
Frozen, mass-produced fishcakes, fresh from the deep-fat fryer.
Wilted rocket leaves with no Italian hard cheese.
A dry jacket potato with no butter.
Tartare sauce in the ubiquitous paper cup.
The rocket leaves looked as if they'd been nuked in the microwave for 30 seconds and then drizzled with cooking oil - the last time I saw something so limp, greasy and unappealing was when I had the misfortune to mistakenly watch an episode of Supermarket Sweep - and the jacket potato was so dry that I was afraid to breathe on it in case the contents blew away like a puff of talcum powder from the bottom of a flatulent infant. The fishcakes, in all fairness, were actually edible.
After toying disconsolately with the potato for a few minutes, I decided, like Marlon Brando, that the judicial application of some butter might improve things. Thus, I spent the next 15 minutes trying to attract the attention of the waitress who seemed to be doing little more than passing between tables at the far end of the restaurant, eyes resolutely glued to the floor lest one of those pesky customers actually require something and drag her away from the infinitely more important task of chatting to the kitchen staff.
Eventually, I managed to collar the manageress and ask for some butter with which to introduce some much-needed moisture to my dessicated jacket potato. She disappeared for a moment and then brought back two sticks of butter in yet another of those damn paper cups. Unfortunately, the butter had been in the fridge and was so hard that I feared if I exerted too much pressure, the knife would shatter in my hand and propel shrapnel at my eyes.
Iced dairy products and cold talcum powder are not a good combination and, rather than a pleasing medley of yummy jacket potato and delicious melted butter, I was left with something that resembled the yellowing, curdled ejaculate of a elderly greyhound.
Finally, after another few minutes, I put down my scratched cutlery, grabbed my bag and walked up to the waitress asking for the bill.
I took care to explain that my meal was largely inedible and didn't contain the ingredients listed on the menu, so she called the manageress over and they had a brief, whispered discussion about what to do. After some frenzied tapping at the till from the manageress, she handed me the bill saying, "I've taken 50% off your meal."
"Well that's handy," I replied, "because I only ate 50% of it. It was one of the worst meals I've ever had."
She turned and walked away without another word and, weary from hunger, I pathetically handed over my debit card. Yes, yes, I should have insisted that the entire cost was taken off the bill, but I was fast approaching the point where, if I'd given vent to my anger, I may well have ended up doing something regrettable, and possibly illegal, involving an un-buttered corn on the cob and one of the manageress' orifices.
All I wanted was a nice meal. Instead, I received a heaping platter of bitter disappointment.
Welcome to Schmucksville, population: me.
So it is that I've been cultivating a deep-seated mistrust of society, shunning human contact wherever possible and working hard on my ultimate dream which is to never have to deal with another human being for the rest of my natural life.
The events of this evening have done little to disabuse me of the above notions, nor dissuade me from my goal.
Let me explain. This is what should have happened this evening:
1) Leave work.
2) Go and have something pleasant to eat in town.
3) Meet my flick buddy (similar to a fuck buddy, except instead of sleeping together you go to the cinema) and see 'Moon' at the Odeon.
Even for a curmudgeonly, sour-faced bastard like me, an evening such as that would be something to look forward to and cherish.
Sadly, things never quite work out the way you want them to.
I left work at 7 and wandered into the high street. We are fortunate enough in Southend to have a cornucopia of restaurants and eateries to choose from, each serving a splendid array of cuisines. Gastronomically, we are blessed with an embarrassment of riches.
French, Spanish, Italian, Chinese, Thai, Indian, Portuguese, Moroccan, Sri Lankan - all of these are available in the Southend area.
It is with some shame then that I have to admit I went for the easy option. So I wouldn't sit in the cinema reeking of garlic or other delicious foodstuffs, I decided to go to Frankie and Benny's for something simple.
Now, the last time I went to Frankie and Benny's in Southend was about 2-3 years ago with my father and his partner. They ordered fish and chips, if memory serves, and I chose a steak. My specific order was "the steak, medium-rare, with a jacket potato and sour cream". Immediately, the disinterested waitress informed me that I couldn't have sour cream with the jacket potato. Instead, I would have to order the 'jacket potato with sour cream' from another part of the menu.
"Won't I then have two jacket potatoes though?", I asked, slightly bewildered.
"No," she replied, chewing gum, "I can write down 'no jacket' on your steak order."
I mulled this over.
"So," I ventured, "will the steak cost less because a major part of the dish is missing?"
She continued masticating her gum for a few seconds before fixing me with a steely glare that was, impossibly, both hate-filled and indifferent all at the same time.
"No. You'll still have to pay the full price."
By now, I was intrigued as to whether she might, at some point in the conversation, remember I was the customer and that a reasonably integral part of her job description was to give me what I wanted (within the bounds of reason) as my satisfaction was directly linked to the amount of gratuity she was likely to receive.
Suddenly, inspiration struck.
"How about," I carefully explained, "I order the steak, medium-rare, and the jacket potato, and you just give me a side-dish of sour cream which I can apply to the jacket potato myself, thus completely bypassing this apparently insurmountable complication?"
She stopped munching on her gum and eyed me suspiciously, as one might regard someone who has just offered you a boiled sweet, opened their trouser pocket wide, and invited you to reach in and help yourself.
A moment passed.
"Yeah, OK", she said, scribbled in her notepad, and was gone.
Pleased that we'd been able to discuss the matter like adults and reach a mutually beneficial solution, I sat back and waited for my delicious repast.
30 minutes later, the food arrived. My medium-rare steak had been cooked well-done, the field mushroom on my plate had, apparently, been slow-cooked in the deep-fat fryer and sucked up approximately a third of a litre of vegetable oil in the process, and the diaphanous paper cup balanced precariously next to my jacket potato contained a generous dollop of mayonnaise, not sour cream.
Barely containing my anger, I proceeded to try and gain the attention of a member of the waiting staff (and this is genuinely no exaggeration) for about 20 minutes, before finally giving up and staring balefully at the rapidly emptying plates of delicious fayre in front of my father and his other half.
I swore never to return.
So, tonight, I made the fatal mistake of assuming that things must have improved somewhat at Frankie and Benny's and perhaps I should give them another opportunity.
I ordered this:
Tender salmon, fresh red pepper and mozzarella cheese fishcakes.
Fresh rocket and Italian hard cheese garnish (Italian hard cheese? Is it possible to describe an item of food and make it sound less appetising?)
Your choice of herb potatoes, house fries or a jacket.
Tartare sauce on the side.
What I received was this:
Frozen, mass-produced fishcakes, fresh from the deep-fat fryer.
Wilted rocket leaves with no Italian hard cheese.
A dry jacket potato with no butter.
Tartare sauce in the ubiquitous paper cup.
The rocket leaves looked as if they'd been nuked in the microwave for 30 seconds and then drizzled with cooking oil - the last time I saw something so limp, greasy and unappealing was when I had the misfortune to mistakenly watch an episode of Supermarket Sweep - and the jacket potato was so dry that I was afraid to breathe on it in case the contents blew away like a puff of talcum powder from the bottom of a flatulent infant. The fishcakes, in all fairness, were actually edible.
After toying disconsolately with the potato for a few minutes, I decided, like Marlon Brando, that the judicial application of some butter might improve things. Thus, I spent the next 15 minutes trying to attract the attention of the waitress who seemed to be doing little more than passing between tables at the far end of the restaurant, eyes resolutely glued to the floor lest one of those pesky customers actually require something and drag her away from the infinitely more important task of chatting to the kitchen staff.
Eventually, I managed to collar the manageress and ask for some butter with which to introduce some much-needed moisture to my dessicated jacket potato. She disappeared for a moment and then brought back two sticks of butter in yet another of those damn paper cups. Unfortunately, the butter had been in the fridge and was so hard that I feared if I exerted too much pressure, the knife would shatter in my hand and propel shrapnel at my eyes.
Iced dairy products and cold talcum powder are not a good combination and, rather than a pleasing medley of yummy jacket potato and delicious melted butter, I was left with something that resembled the yellowing, curdled ejaculate of a elderly greyhound.
Finally, after another few minutes, I put down my scratched cutlery, grabbed my bag and walked up to the waitress asking for the bill.
I took care to explain that my meal was largely inedible and didn't contain the ingredients listed on the menu, so she called the manageress over and they had a brief, whispered discussion about what to do. After some frenzied tapping at the till from the manageress, she handed me the bill saying, "I've taken 50% off your meal."
"Well that's handy," I replied, "because I only ate 50% of it. It was one of the worst meals I've ever had."
She turned and walked away without another word and, weary from hunger, I pathetically handed over my debit card. Yes, yes, I should have insisted that the entire cost was taken off the bill, but I was fast approaching the point where, if I'd given vent to my anger, I may well have ended up doing something regrettable, and possibly illegal, involving an un-buttered corn on the cob and one of the manageress' orifices.
All I wanted was a nice meal. Instead, I received a heaping platter of bitter disappointment.
Welcome to Schmucksville, population: me.
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