The Blog of Eternal Disappointment

Heartless spectacle-selling bastards

2011-06-19T19:07:00.006+01:00

I'm moved to write about a TV advertisement which, every time I see it, chills me to the bone and causes whatever semi-digested meat-based snack is in my intestines to lurch upwards to my gullet in sour anger.

I refer, of course, to the Specsavers advert featuring the elderly sheep-shearer.

If you're not familiar with it, the story is as follows:

An elderly farmer on a windswept Scottish hillside herds his flock of sheep with the assistance of his faithful border collie.

Safely ensconced in the pen, he proceeds to shear them by hand, his rough fingers jerkily snipping the shears through their thick fleeces.

Finally, after all of the sheep have been shorn, the dog walks faithfully up and tentatively licks his master's hand.

Squinting, perhaps myopically, perhaps against the cold wind blowing across from the loch, the farmer snips away once more.

As the sheep hustle past the camera, we suddenly see the border collie, thin and shivering. It's coat has been snipped away by the short-sighted farmer.

The final image is of the farmer looking out across his land, grasping two fence posts to aid his balance. Across the centre of the screen, the words "Should've gone to Specsavers" appear.

Now, to many this advert will be an amusement. "Ha ha!", they will say, spraying Cornish Pasty crumbs from between their glistening, oil-smeared lips, "That stupid farmer sheared the dog because he can't see properly!" They will then attempt to brush the crumbs from the front of their acrylic sweatshirt, but only succeed in grinding the greasy short-crust pastry into the weave of the material, before continuing to watch Animals Do The Funniest Things! as a way of filling the fifteen-minute void in their lives before Britain's Got Talent comes on.

I, however, am not laughing. I will now take you on a journey to explain why. It will be a journey of imagination and supposition in which I make many assumptions and leaps of logic. Indeed, you may feel that I go too far and, at some point part-way through this blog post, we part company; I forwards to my aggrieved, entirely-manufactured-for-comic-effect conclusion, you to some other blog where the author isn't such a miserable, humourless bastard. If you do come with me on this journey, I can promise you nothing other than it will, eventually, end.

So, let's take a look at this farmer's story.

You will notice that there are no other people in the advert, just the farmer. We can reasonably assume therefore that he is all alone in the world. "Wait a second!", you may shout, "how can we possibly know that? Perhaps his wife is in the farmhouse baking a pie as we speak and warming his slippers* by the fire!"

*The vast majority of men's slippers are tartan. Is this the case in Scotland or are they rather more serious about tartan than we are? Would it be seen as a terrible faux pas to wear a generic, mass-produced tartan in Scotland, or are they relatively relaxed about the whole thing? Would they, perhaps, clad themselves in the Diana Princess of Wales memorial tartan as sold by Mackenzies of Piccadilly (available as scarves, capes & serapes) as a tribute to the Queen of Hearts? These are the sort of questions that keep me awake at night and prevent me from masturbating myself to sleep.

To answer the wife question, I direct you to Exhibit A, the full-length version of the Specsavers TV advertisement. I will embed the advert at the bottom of this blog so that you can watch it in all of its hideous, money-grubbing glory.

7 seconds in, there is a shot of an old church. Next to that church is a graveyard. In that graveyard are several graves. On two of those graves are very white crosses which contrast harshly against the general gloom of the black and white picture. I put it to you that these crosses are specifically being shown to suggest to the viewer that these are unforgiving highlands which only a fool would treat with disrespect. Life there is hard and many people have paid a terrible price for seemingly inconsequential errors of judgement, like going out without their coat on or trying to treat a persistent cough by sucking a toad, which I understand is a popular medical treatment in certain areas of Scotland.

Thus, we are drawn to the inevitable conclusion that the farmer's wife is no longer among the living. He is, to all intents and purposes, alone. We may never know what malady took his wife from him, but I shall certainly invent something later on in this post.

Now we must take a look at sheep farming itself.

After conducting in-depth research into sheep farming, I present to you Exhibit B. This is a question asked on 'Yahoo Answers' by a fledgling farmer who is eager to avail himself of the valuable knowledge held by the patrons of Yahoo. His question is as follows:

How much money can i get by selling sheep wool?
i am moving and becoming a sheep farmer but i don't know how much money i will make and how many sheep i need

You may be thinking, as I did, that this man is clearly a trenchant buffoon. Without knowing a single thing about the financial implications of becoming a sheep-farmer, he has already committed to move away from his loved ones and purchase a smallholding for the purposes of raising livestock. He will most likely get it all wrong, incur enormous bank charges, make himself bankrupt and unemployable, and spend the rest of his life stroking a curl of wool in the pocket of his threadbare jacket while reminiscing about those halcyon farming days.

However, that would be an incorrect assumption to make. We must give him some credit as, after some careful consideration, he followed that original post with some additional detail that I feel will enable him to be in full possession of the facts and pursue his dream more effectively:

and how much sheep would i need to make enough money to pay bills and get food and cloths and take care of the sheep with out getting a job

Oh, gloating Internet hoards; how you scorned him. Personally, I think he might be more suited to keepin' rabbits and growing alfalfa and livin' off the fat of the land, but whichever career path he chooses, I wish him the best of luck.

The answer provided by the thoughtful and knowledgeable Yahoo community is that "The price of wool for commercial use is way way down. In the UK it barely pays for the shearing."

Indeed, further research suggests that the fleece of a sheep is worth a paltry 10p. Our Specsavers farmer, of course, can't afford to pay for his shearing to be done so carries out the task himself, ensuring that each fleece is pure profit.

However, if you pause the advert at 0:19 you can see the farmer's entire flock which, according to my hasty count, is comprised of only about 35 animals. For the extremely specialised work that he carries out, he can expect to earn a paltry £3.50.

So far, we have learned that this farmer lives alone since the tragic death of his wife, and earns a pittance for back-breaking manual labour that most of us simply couldn't carry out. But what of his future?

Later that day, with the sun far below the horizon (I'm reliably informed that in Scotland it gets dark at about 1 o'clock in the afternoon and that's at the height of summer) the farmer enters his humble house and sustains himself with a meagre repast of thin Scottish soup; little more than lamb-bone stock with shreds of mutton and a misshapen potato. As he sits in front of a small fire which provides little in the way of either heat or light, he sees a slowly shifting blur of movement by his feet and realises that the dog has sat down to warm its weary bones by the faintly glowing sticks collected from the shores of the loch. Reaching down with a cold, gnarled hand, he strokes the dog gently.

He stops, a puzzled look creeping across his weather-beaten face, like the enormous shadow of a cloud moving across the craggy hillside of his home . His hand feels around the dog's neck and back and hind legs. The awful realisation hits him like a blow to the stomach. He places his other hand in front of his face and stifles a sob.

An avalanche of memories tumbles through his mind; memories of rain and wind, earth and stone, thorn and flower, and Morag...and Morag. His long-dead wife. She was his one, his only, his very first love.

They met at a ceilidh and danced the night away, inhaling the smell of whisky from each others breath. All the other lads were jealous and kept trying to cut in, but he laughed, pushed them away, and danced and danced, delighting in the sparkle of her eyes and the flash of her smile. He was the happiest man alive and knew, right then, that this woman would be his wife.

They were married within the month. The entire village attended the wedding. Morag looked so beautiful in her borrowed wedding dress that he thought his heart would burst. He clutched the brim of his hat so fiercely that he made a crease in it that never came out, but of course he never actually tried to remove it.

When his father died, he took over the family farm. He didn't have any choice in the matter, but even if he had, any alternative would have been unthinkable. For eight generations this little plot of land had belonged to his family. It was his birthright, his destiny, and he would tend the sheep until the day his own son took over from him, continuing their noble family tradition.

Six months later, the good Lord saw fit to bless them with pregnancy. Morag had good child-bearing hips and carried the baby well for 9 months. One night, he came into the farmhouse after a long days work and found her on the floor, a broken mixing-bowl next to her white outstretched hand, blood soaked into the material of her maternity dress and gathered in a thick pool on the rough stone floor, a stain that would never fade no matter how hard he scrubbed it.

Morag and their bonny wee boy were buried together in the churchyard beneath two dazzling white crosses. He would never cross the threshold of the church again.

The thought of finding another wife never crossed his mind. How do you replace your one true love? So, instead, he tended the farm; shearing the sheep, toiling in the soil, earning his living the only way he knew how. Even when the rest of the village moved away, tired of the daily battle against the harsh elements, he stayed.

He hasn't cried for forty years, since Morag's death, but as he sits there clutching the partially-shaved dog in his arms, he greets like a bairn*.

*Cries like a baby, for English-speakers.

He has no money for eye-tests. Sheep wool has fallen alarmingly in value over the last few years and he has no savings with which to supplement his income. With that one simple act, the accidental shearing of the dog, he realises that he can no longer look after the farm. With no son to pass the responsibility to, his livelihood is gone, his home is gone, his future is gone, his past is gone, and the countless thousands of hours of labour that he, his father, and his father's father put into the land are nothing more than wasted effort and folly.

His life is at an end.

And Specsavers think that's a suitable story with which to sell you some glasses. The bastards.

My Father

2011-06-14T18:12:00.004+01:00

This is a blog post that I've put off writing for a few weeks now. Primarily, I suppose, this is because I'm reluctant to manufacture a happy ending where one does not yet exist, but nonetheless I feel that it's important to let my thoughts tumble out onto the page.

My Father, after six months of harsh Chemotherapy treatment, has been given the all clear. Sort of.

The doctors at Kingston Hospital have stated that they cannot detect any leukemic cells within his blood using current medical techniques. This doesn't mean that he's completely cured, but rather that their devices are only accurate to a certain level. It's entirely possible that the leukemia is still in his body somewhere, hiding and waiting, eager to resume its battle against his immune system.

He is required to attend the hospital once a month for the next year so that tests can be performed. After this time, his visits become bi-monthly. This then continues for an additional 4 years and if, after that, no leukemic cells are detected then he will be given a clean bill of health.

I feel decidedly undecided about the whole thing. On the one hand, it would be absolutely unforgivable if I had the temerity to complain about the matter, after all it could have been a significantly different result. But I'm unable to totally relax and consider the issue resolved. Indeed, I find my heart faltering whenever my phone rings and I see 'Dad' appear on the screen. For a few seconds, I hold my breath until it becomes apparent that he's just phoned up for a chat rather than to impart some bad news.

Overall, this makes me feel like one of those insufferably precocious and spoiled teenagers on My Super Sweet Sixteen who howls like a stabbed alsatian because they've been given a $30,000 car two days before their birthday instead of on the day itself.

In my defence, I think part of the reason I'm so on edge about the whole thing is due to something my Father told me a few weeks ago. After visiting him in London, we went to his local pub for a couple of pints. On the walk back to his home, he said something that I'm having difficulty shaking from my mind. He spoke about how draining the treatment had been and how helpless it had made him feel. "I've got to tell you, Dan" he said, "if it comes back, I don't think I'm going to go through this all again."

It's entirely possible that this was merely him blowing off some steam and, if faced with a recurrence of the leukemia, he would be back in hospital like a whippet. But I fear that he was telling the truth and has no intention of receiving treatment should it reoccur. This obviously increases my fear that it will return, but I'm trying not to think about that. A phrase I like to smugly use on other people is, "Worry is like interest paid in advance on a debt that never comes due." I continue trying to live my life by that tenet, but it's harder than I'd previously imagined.

I've had some amazing support over the last few months and this whole matter has certainly helped me to recognise those people who are worth hanging on to, whether it be for their care and attention in discussing my father's health, or for simply engaging me in normal conversation without feeling they have to walk on eggshells, allowing me to carry on with life as normal. I won't name names because these people already know who they are.

My Father is now at home recuperating and is hoping to get back to work very soon. Indeed, the support he's received from his employers has been astonishing. Despite being ineligible for contractual sick pay, they put him on full wages for two months. Then, after that, his colleagues continued to give him his share of the 'tips pot' right up until the present day. This is something they didn't need to do, but it has prevented him from worrying about how the bills will be paid.

On the subject of work, there's a story that I'm compelled to relay.

My Father works in a major London casino. Sometimes, if a big player has had a particularly fruitful day on the tables, they will engage in a ritual that involves lining up all the drivers, doormen and receptionists, and walking the length of the line handing over tips, usually £50 a head. A few weeks ago, this noble tradition was taking place when, upon reaching the end of the line, the Big Player said, "Right, is that everyone?".

One of the drivers replied, "Yes. Well, everyone except Ray."

The Big Player asked where my Father was and the driver explained that he was in hospital being treated for leukemia.

Without a moment's thought, the Big Player nodded, reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a plastic-wrapped bundle of cash. He handed it to the driver and said, "Give this to Ray with my regards."

It was a thousand pounds.

I have difficulty telling that story without crying.

It's been such a long haul, that it's easy to forget how lucky my Father has been and, by extension, how lucky I've been. A few weeks ago, for instance, it was my 38th birthday. My Father, for the first time in almost a year, was able to catch the train down to Southend.

We went to the local Wetherspoons and spent a fantastic 6-7 hours trying the guest ales, eating steak and kidney pudding, and just chilling out. Earlier that day, I'd been a little bit annoyed that I'd received no birthday cards, except from my parents, and no presents, except for some money from both of them. Indeed, a very good friend completely forgot my birthday, which I have not yet forgiven her for.

As we left the pub, my Father and I hugged and he wandered off to the train station. I watched him go, then walked in the opposite direction towards the high street.

Once there, I sat down on a bench and lit a cigarette, cogitating on the day so far and bemoaning my lack of presents. All at once, a moment of realisation came upon me and I actually laughed out loud at how stupid I was. Far from being 'the birthday where I got no presents', this was quite probably the finest birthday that I'd ever had.

The best presents are those that you never thought you'd get.

A quick post about music

2011-01-14T19:33:00.002Z

I was inspired last year to write a blog post discussing the music I'd been listening to during 2009. The original idea comes from Piley's blog. Indeed, you can check out his 'Music of 2010' here. It's worth a read and, of course, a listen.

This year, it's been a bit up and down for obvious reasons and I haven't managed to sort out a list of the music I've been listening to.

However, there is one artist that I want to mention.

Just before I found out about my Dad's leukemia, I was listening to Stuart Maconie's excellent Freakzone show on BBC6 Music and heard a magnificent song by a chap called Sufjan Stevens.

I immediately purchased a couple of his albums - All Delighted People and The Age Of Adz. On my travels between Southend, Putney and Kingston, these albums were never off my mp3 player. I found them soothing and beautiful and, somehow, transporting. Sitting on the train or bus, watching the world going by, these albums (particularly All Delighted People) became a source of incredible comfort.

Pretty soon I realised that, depending on how things turned out, these would either be fondly remembered and often played albums that represented an extraordinary time in my life, or music that I couldn't bear to listen to again. Either way, they've formed a sort of soundtrack to the last three months of my life.

I'm throwing a few YouTube videos on the blog so that you can have a listen and see what you think. Whatever happens over the course of the next few months, this music will have been an integral part of the whole experience, for good or bad. Hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

The Last Two Months

2011-01-07T11:43:00.003Z

The last two months have been very strange. For most of the time, I've felt like I was somnabulating wearily through a dream world, never fully engaging with anything going on around me. So successful have I been in compartmentalising my fears and feelings, that I've grown increasingly concerned about the dam eventually breaking and submerging me in an inescapable torrent of emotion. Fortunately, I've also managed to stow away that increasing concern as well.

I've spent a ridiculous amount of time sleeping uncomfortably on the sofa at my father's house, travelling to and from the hospital, watching both the leukemia and chemotherapy take their toll on his body. Despite his strength, composure and stubborn tenacity, not even he has been able to shrug off the effects, although I suspect the real strain has been psychological rather than physical. Confined to an isolated room for the best part of six weeks, he became petulant, grumpy and unappreciative of the efforts being made on his behalf. Whilst both myself and Carol, his partner, appreciated that it was clearly very difficult for him, it didn't make it any easier for us.

One particular incident involved his Public Carriage Office licence that was up for renewal. Due to his inability to attend the optician's, a particular form couldn't be completed so, in an effort to buy some more time, I wrote an email to the PCO explaining the situation and asking for an extension to the deadline. They acted with an astonishing lack of sympathy and promptly wrote to my father demanding the return of his licence and badge within 7 days or they would revoke it entirely.

This, of course, was entirely my fault. My father blamed me for sending an email to them and was convinced that he would now have no job to go back to. Although I understand that it's important for him to have something to aim for - a successful return to work - I couldn't help thinking that there were more important things to consider first, namely his return to good health. Nonetheless, I was angry at his disappointment with me, although I couldn't show it of course. I've made a concerted effort to be as supportive as possible and if I tore him off a strip it would help neither one of us. So I simply accepted the accusation and its associated guilt.

The first round of chemotherapy progressed and his body grew weaker. Hair started to come away from his scalp in clumps. He lost over a stone in weight in just two weeks. Weariness etched itself into his face. The words 'Leukemia' or 'Cancer' didn't scare me. They are, after all, only words and hold no power. Instead other words, and their physical and emotional manifestation, upset and terrified me: 'Frail', 'Helpless', 'Scared'. These things that had become such an integral and encompassing part of his time in the hospital room, were what frightened me the most. To see him shrink and wither was heartbreaking.

After another week and a half on the sofa, I decided to go home for a week to recuperate and make sure my flat hadn't burned to the ground in my absence. Packing my suitcase, I excitedly boarded a bus, then a tube and, finally, a train. As I sat down on the Southend-bound train, I was surprised to find my initial excitement had drained like someone pulling the plug in a bath. Watching the snowy countryside flash by outside, I realised that what had been pleasure at the thought of going home had become agonising guilt that I was abandoning him while he was at his lowest point.

At home, it wasn't the oasis of peace and calm I'd expected. My usual pastimes of watching movies or playing flash-games on the laptop seemed to lose their entertainment value. I became acutely aware of just how much of my life I was wasting on unimportant, totally valueless activities. I only managed a few days back at home before I realised that I had no other choice than to go back to London to be with my Dad.

The chemotherapy did its work and stopped the bone marrow from producing blood cells. The next step was for the bone marrow to gradually start producing cells again. Unfortunately, this didn't happen. The doctor's explained that they would administer a drug to kick-start blood cell production but that this would very likely mean the bone marrow would go back to producing leukemic cells too. Essentially, this would put us back to square one. Strangely though, this didn't matter to us because we were more interested in one thing - getting him back home for Christmas. In the grand scheme of things, we felt this was more important to his psychological well-being.

On Christmas Eve, I left the office early and went to the hospital. As my father slept on the bed, I sat in a chair and did some work, waiting to hear that they were letting him out for Christmas. Several hours ticked by and then I received a work phone call which I took outside in the corridor. Re-entering the room, I was shocked to see my father dressed in his going-home clothes and packing a bag. While I was outside, the doctor had come in and informed him that he could go home. Armed with a bulging carrier bag of medication and injections, we left the hospital together.

Christmas, if I'm completely honest, was a rather boring affair. We all sat around, tired and listless. After so much rushing about, so much time and energy consumed, we were all exhausted. I cooked Christmas dinner and we ate it gratefully but with little real pleasure. It was, however, wonderful to watch my Dad enthusiastically demolish a bowl of ice cream, savouring every delicious mouthful. Despite telling myself that this was quite possibly the last Christmas he would see, I was unable to delight in the fact; something that I still haven't figured out yet.

To fast-forward to the present, I took the day off work today. I haven't been sleeping well, even though I'm at home and have the comfort of my own bed. Last night, I was unable to get to sleep until 2.30 am and, even then, what sleep I did have was fractured and did nothing to restore me.

Then, this morning, I received a phone call. My Dad informed me that the hospital had been in touch with him to discuss the results of his latest bone marrow test, an awful procedure where they literally corkscrew a sliver of marrow from your hip like Antarctic scientists taking a core sample. The test results showed that the Leukemia had gone into complete remission.

I sat in silence, stunned beyond the capacity for thought. From my initial stubborn refusal to accept that my father would succumb to this cancer, I had gradually started to plan for his death. That may sound morbid, but I deemed it the most appropriate course of action for my own psychological benefit. Pretending everything will be OK works for a while, but must eventually make way for common sense and reality.

Complete remission is a term that means no leukemic cells can be detected with current diagnostic methods. It doesn't, however, mean that there aren't some remaining. This is why he will undertake at least one more round of chemotherapy in a process called 'consolidation' which aims to destroy non-detectable levels of leukemic cells.

Of course, he isn't cured. With leukemia that simply doesn't happen. It may return, possibly in weeks, months or years. There is a hopeful possibility that it may never return for the rest of his life.

But right now, I'll take that wonderful piece of news on face value.

I sat back earlier and thought about my previous blog post, so full of bravado, dripping with optimism, and it made me smile in the same way that you benignly grin when you recall, fondly but with embarrassment, your foolish actions as a teenager. At the time, I had to look to the future and hope for the best, otherwise I was in danger of falling apart which I couldn't allow, for my father's sake. Now, a couple of months later, I look back on it with, to steal a phrase from the late Denis Potter, a tender contempt. And yet, conversely, I was right.

That imagined pint of beer with my father in a July pub garden is so close I can almost taste it.

Toast, Ribena and Beer

2010-11-28T13:58:00.002Z

Two and a half weeks ago, I padded into the kitchen in my pyjamas and proceeded to make tea and toast. Blinking myself awake like a sleepy bear, I spread butter on the first slice with my clumsy morning fingers and managed to rather expertly flip the piece of toast out of my grip. It cartwheeled through the air and came to rest on the floor...butter side up!

I deduced that this was a victory of epic proportions and surely signified my mastery of The Fates. Munching my now-salvaged toast, I swaggered into the bedroom and sat down at the computer desk, grinning broadly and thoroughly enjoying my new found status as a master of the universe, able to bend physics and accepted-wisdom to my will.

Unfortunately, when extraordinary good fortune comes your way, life seeks balance. Chaos theory, the Butterfly Effect, call it what you will, but a price must be paid.

At 7 am I received a telephone call. Lifting my mobile, I looked at the display and saw the name 'Carol' flashing up. My heart sank.

Carol is my Dad's partner and I could think of only one reason she would be phoning me at this time of the morning - something was wrong.

She explained to me that my Dad had been rushed into A&E the previous night with chest pains and extreme difficulty breathing. After various tests and an x-ray, they detected that he had pneumonia.

This was not the sort of news I wanted to hear.

Since then, it's been a hectic and upsetting fortnight.

My father's pneumonia was due to a severe drop in his immune system. That sort of thing doesn't just happen by itself, so tests were performed on his blood as well as a rather painful procedure that involved corkscrewing a small amount of bone marrow out of his hip, something that he didn't particularly savour.

A few days later, I received a telephone call at work from Carol. My father's condition had deteriorated and he'd been in a lot of pain, so could I leave work and go to the hospital? I didn't need to be asked twice.

It was a strange, surreal journey during which I juggled various possibilities around in my head, trying to find the best way to deal with it all.

Walking nervously into his hospital room, I found my Dad sitting up in a chair, pyjama'd and dressing gown'd, reading his Kindle and sipping a cup of tea. I almost cried with relief. Unfortunately, that relief was very short lived. The test results had come back, he explained to me. There was an underlying cause to his reduced immunity. The doctors had diagnosed him with Acute Myeloid Leukemia.

For the briefest moment, my face crumpled and tears sprang to my eyes, before something inside me sharply said, "No. Don't do that. He doesn't need your tears and self pity, he needs strength and support." I sniffed my tears away and nodded.

"Right," I said, "so at least we know what we're battling against. How are they going to cure it?"

Almost two weeks later, he's been treated with chemotherapy, which is still ongoing. I always envisaged large machines, white-coated serious-faced technicians and plastic tents like something from E.T. The reality, of course, is rather less impressive. Two to three times a day, they inject him with what looks suspiciously like Ribena, and then he carries on reading his Kindle, playing games on his iPod Touch or watching films on his portable DVD player - he really is a fan of technology, frequently purchasing items that I enviously examine with squint-eyed desire.

They've let him come home a couple of times on day release which has been a huge morale boosting exercise for him. He's reclined on the sofa, by a roaring coal fire, watching his favourite TV programmes on Sky+ and eating hearty cooked breakfasts. I can't begin to describe how important that's been for him, and I honestly think it will have an enormous impact on how he deals with this disease.

I've spent the last week and a half sleeping on the sofa at his house, whilst working from one of my employers offices based at Kingston, only a mile from the hospital (my employers have been fantastic and I'm so glad that we have various offices dotted around the country that allow remote working). The net result of this is that I now have the posture of an 80-year old man and an almost inexhaustible supply of cat hair on every item of clothing I own.

Early Googling of Leukemia revealed to me that recovery rates are 40%. Further Googling, once additional details were known, raised the probability to between 50-70%. However, the doctors completed further tests and, based on his general health, they've given him an 88% chance of complete recovery. When he told me that, I went outside and, for the first time, broke down in tears. I refuse to cry for the bad things that might happen, but I will shed a tear out of happiness when good news comes our way. One of my favourite movie quotes is from The Spanish Prisoner, a David Mamet film, in which the fantastic Ricky Jay says, "Worry is like interest paid in advance on a debt that never comes due." Truer words were rarely spoken.

My personal coping mechanism has been to compartmentalise the whole issue. My father may die, but that has been put away in a corner of my brain because, currently, it's a possibility that I refuse to acknowledge. Instead, in my mind, the outcome is very simple. He will continue to receive treatment, and the cancer will be beaten into submission. He will then be released from hospital for a period of rest and relaxation. Shortly afterwards, he will return to work and everything will become normal once more. That is the only possible outcome because, quite simply, the alternative is unthinkable.

I'm uncertain whether my coping mechanism exhibits extraordinary reserves of personal strength that I never knew existed, or whether it's simply a case of obstinately refusing to accept reality, arms folded like a recalcitrant child, eyes squeezed shut, endlessly shouting "la la la la la, not listening, la la la la." I suspect the latter, but will claim the former.

And that's how it currently stands. This blog post is, of course, a much truncated version of events and I've decided not to bore you all with too many details. Hopefully, however, it explains why I've not posted anything for the last few weeks and, most likely, won't post anything for a few more months to come.

For now, everything is a blur of activity with little time for thought or relaxation. But one thought stays in my mind's eye, carrying me forward through this: By the summer, I shall walk into a beer garden, sun warming my face, holding two pints of bitter. I'll look over and there at a table my father will be sitting playing with his latest electronic purchase. He'll look up and grin, and then we'll sit down and drink our beer together; a father and son enjoying each other's company in the bright sunshine. I'm very much looking forward to that.

Trick or Treat

2010-10-31T17:57:00.005Z

It's Halloween and already the doorbell has rung three times in the last half hour as avaricious, pig-eyed children demand I fill their bright orange buckets with sweets.

They stand there clad in cheap polyester costumes and shiny plastic hats, hands outstretched in supplication, expecting me to scatter free confectionery upon their tiny pink palms like God distributing manna from Heaven.

You might think that even a hard-hearted curmudgeon like me wouldn't begrudge handing out goodies to rosy-cheeked kids, but you'd be very wrong. I think it's appalling for two very distinct reasons.

First, this is not America.

Americans have seized upon Halloween in a big way and it's now a major holiday for them. Indeed, they are expected to spend $5.8 billion on it this year alone. Yes, that's right, $5.8 BILLION. That's probably more than they spend on feeding homeless people.

It seems to be a particularly American concept, taking a fairly inconsequential occasion and turning it up to 11. Shrove Tuesday, for instance, is a rather forgettable affair here in the UK. A small percentage of the population buys some ready-prepared batter mix and a Jif lemon of pasteurised juice, then spends half an hour in the kitchen rustling up a vast quantity of poor quality pancakes before retiring to the living room, rubbing their groaning bellies, and vowing never to do it again.

In some parts of America, on the other hand, Shrove Tuesday somehow metamorphosed into Mardi Gras. Pancakes are relatively low on the list of Mardi Gras celebrations which tend instead to focus on dancing ladies with big feathery hats, pitchers of beer, and women being photographed with their breasts out. To be fair, I'd happily choose that over a plastic lemon any day.

But we're not American, damn it. We're British. We don't celebrate lavishly, we smile and nod, hands behind our backs, shoes shined and hair parted, careful not to 'go overboard'. Pleasure is a sign of weakness. Stop it at once.

The other reason that I don't like this Trick or Treat nonsense is because I think it's a shocking imposition.

For 364 days of the year, I'm treated like a paedophile. That seems a strong statement, but I can and will justify it.

If I noticed a child lost in a shop, wet of eye and lips a' tremble, and knelt down to ask the child where his parents are, I'd most likely be wrestled to the ground and beaten with handbags until I soiled myself.

Should I desire to sit in a public park and read the newspaper, I have to make sure I'm not overlooking the children's playground lest a telephone call be put in to the local police.

Heaven forfend that a youngster should actually fall over in the street and I stoop to help them up. I'd be kicked to death by a group of angry adults, flecks of spittle flying from their snarling mouths.

In a world where a man is unable to so much as smile at a child without being reported to the authorities, I find it astonishing that once a year parents actually bring their offspring to my door and expect me to dish out treats for them.

My thoughts on this matter are quite succinct: Fuck you. Either I, as a single man, am a threat to your children or I'm not. I refuse to be labelled a potential paedophile one day, then a charity the next.

If you have kids, I hope they enjoy Halloween. I hope they have lots of fun, maybe a party, some costumes and cake. But don't bring them to my front door and demand that I feed them in an act of forced altruism.

Yes, I have sweets. Yes, they're for me. If your kid wants one, I shall fork it over once they've danced like a monkey for my amusement. Otherwise, try next door - the bloke there looks a bit dodgy so I'm sure he's invested in a stock of flumps for just such an occasion.

Of course, you realise this means war?

2010-08-22T13:31:00.004+01:00

I've just had to go downstairs and change the battery in my elderly neighbours smoke alarm after she plaintively rang my doorbell asking for help.

For most people, this wouldn't be a problem. A sweet little old lady asks for your help - how could you possibly refuse or, indeed, feel any animosity or anger towards her?

Well, in this particular case, it's because she's an arsehole.

"Wait a second there, Dan" I hear you caution, "that's a bit strong isn't it?" The answer is, no. No it isn't. In fact, I was going to use a rather more colourful word to describe her, but decided it might be considered misogynistic.

In order to convince you of my position, I'll have to give you some background...

Dolly (not her real name) lives downstairs. She's an elderly widowed woman who does little else except potter around relatively harmlessly and occasionally speed off on her mobility scooter to buy cabbage which she then boils for approximately 4 hours, filling my flat with an absolutely delightful bouquet that lingers, on average, for about 2 days.

Occasionally, in a moment of absent-mindedness, Dolly will lock herself out and then immediately knock on my door expecting me to help her. I have no problem with this.

Yes, it can be an inconvenience sometimes, but that's the price one pays for being a decent human being. Indeed, some of you may recall the occasion on which I had to clamber over a four-foot fence into her garden and sustained painful injuries in the process, all to get her back into her little cabbage-flat. Again, I have no problem with this.

Many times, Dolly has knocked on my door and, when I've trudged downstairs in my jim jams, explained that the light on her fridge has gone off and she thinks it's a problem with the electrics. I have then dutifully clambered into the cupboard under her stairs, poking my way about in cobwebs, and tinkered with the fuse box until it's worked properly again. Once more, I have no problem with this.

What about the time a spate of strong wind caused her garden fence to bow and hang at an alarming angle, threatening at any moment to crush her under several pounds of wood and overgrown plants? Who ended up with a mouthful of nails and a hammer attempting to shore it up whilst ferociously spiny rose branches whipped mercilessly at his face and hands in almost apocalyptic gales? That's right, muggins. As stated before, I have no problem with this.

Earlier in the year when we had several weeks of reasonably heavy snow, her telephone stopped working. I spent the best part of two hours on my mobile - at heavy cost to myself - contacting the phone company and arranging for someone to come out.

This was a mammoth task that involve me having to remind the idiot on the other end of the phone (please note, they're not ALL idiots, just this particular one) that this phone line was connected to her alarm system so that should she fall and not be able to get up, she can press the button and a signal will be sent. Accordingly, should she be unable to get that signal through, she could conceivably lay there and die in her own house, alone and afraid because THEY were unable to get someone to come round and sort the bastard telephone line out. Not only would this be a failure of their duty of care but it could, by a reasonably good lawyer, be successfully classified as corporate manslaughter if it was demonstrably proven that they'd failed to take appropriate action.

Eventually, they saw my side of things and leaped into action. This involved telling me an engineer would be there by 7 o'clock that evening, and then later claiming he'd "made it as far as the local junction box but couldn't get to the house due to the weather conditions". A completely understandable claim if the junction box was several miles away, surrounded by six-foot drifts of snow and the house was only reachable by navigating a lethal maze of razor-sharp icicles and black ice so dangerously sheer that you could comb your hair whilst gazing into it. A slightly less understandable claim if, as is actually the case, the junction box is 20 feet away from her flat.

But I digress. The problem was resolved, normality reinstated and Dolly was safe once more, even though it cost me an arm and a leg in telephone calls. In case you've forgotten my philosophical mantra when confronted with such incidents - I have no problem with this.

Lest you think I'm being overly critical of this poor, frail elderly woman, I should point out that her daughter lives only ten minutes away and she is on very good terms with the people over the road, so she has no shortage of help - it's just easier for her to knock on my door. And you know what - why the hell not? I'm her neighbour for God's sake. It's all about give and take. Although, to be honest, she does most of the taking.

To give further background, let me briefly tell you about my other neighbour.

She is a homely woman, living with her husband, who has an irritating habit of shrilly and pointlessly attempting to call her cat into the house about twenty-five times a sod-bastarding day, particularly in the summer when I'm sitting on my balcony trying to relax and bask in my glorious solitude. It's now reached the stage where as soon as I hear the word "Monty!" delivered in that insanity-inducing tone of voice, I start to chew the inside of my cheek whilst grinding my teeth and muttering under my breath, a feat of oral dexterity and multi-tasking that Jenna Jameson would be rightly proud of.

In fact, I've been so angered by my cat-beckoning neighbour that I was prompted to write a fictional short story about the matter which is available here and, I think, sums up my feelings on the matter very aptly indeed.

To cut a long story short, Cat-Neighbour is a pain in the hole. There's no need for her to make the noise she does, but that's life. I've never said anything to her about it because, frankly, who needs the hassle?

Sure, if a stranger in the street doesn't bother acknowledging me when I hold a door open for them, I'll happily bellow "You're welcome!" at them, sarcastically, safe in the knowledge that I'm unlikely to ever meet them again. But if you do that sort of thing with your neighbours, it can quickly escalate into the sort of decades-long war of attrition that would cause even Don Corleone to say, "Bloody hell, Dan, just let it go, eh?"

Neighbours, it would seem, are put there to try us. But, throughout all of these tribulations, I've never said a bad word to them, not once. Why? Firstly, because of the aforementioned bad feeling it would cause, and secondly because they're just living their lives as they want to, the same way I am.

Instead, I nod politely, do what is required, turn the other cheek to the strangled yelling of Cat-Neighbour, pull on some clothes when Dolly has managed to do something ridiculous like drop her teeth into a food processor, and go about my business.

And that is probably the apposite phrase - "My business". My business is mine, their business is theirs. Thus, we mutually enjoy our respective homes and don't get on each others tits - or at least if we do, we don't mention it.

Until, that is, a few months ago when my elderly neighbour fired the first salvo in what could potentially signal the breakdown in our previously peaceful existence.

I had my friend Ben over for a few days. Ben and I have known each other for over ten years and occasionally he'll come over for the weekend and we'll spend our time playing on the xbox, watching DVDs and eating a variety of takeaway foods with low nutritional content. This happens, on average, about three times a year.

On the Saturday evening, we invited another friend over, Sarah, whom we hadn't seen in a very long time, and proceeded to make merry. Vodka, beer and wine was consumed, along with some rather good home-made burgers. We had a good time and when Ben fell asleep on the sofa at 1 am, myself and Sarah continued chatting until 3, when she left and got a taxi home.

In all, it was a successful evening of chit-chat, alcohol consumption and music. A rare treat indeed.

Now, ever cognisant of my neighbour downstairs, I made sure that the music was at an acceptable volume so that it could be heard, but not intrude on the conversation. Once the clock reached 11, I turned the music down. At midnight, I turned it down further still. At one, the music volume went so low it was barely audible.

I was displaying appropriate consideration for my neighbour, Dolly.

The following day, Ben and myself were up until a little after midnight playing Modern Warfare 2 on the xbox, working ourselves into an impotent fury trying to finish a particular level, aggravated to a degree that only middle-aged men trying to successfully guide virtual jet-ski's down an icy ravine will understand. Suddenly, I heard my letter box snap shut downstairs, so padded down to see what was there.

It was a note.

Opening it, I curiously read the contents:

Dan, can you ask your mate to cut that noise out. It's non-stop. I was up until three in the morning. You don't expect it to be dead, but he doesn't know when to stop.

I blinked. Once. Twice. I re-read the note. I re-read it again.

I was furious, and I'm going to explain why.

My neighbour's bedroom is directly underneath my living room. It makes no sense that she would have the bedroom at the front and the living room at the back, but that's her choice.

Because of the position of her bedroom, I never watch TV in my living room after 10 pm, concerned that the noise may disturb her. In fact, most of the time I consign myself to the bedroom and watch TV there out of consideration.

In my living room I have a five-speaker surround sound system. It has never been plugged in. Why? Because I think it would be very unfair on her to have deep bass sounds rumbling through her bedroom ceiling. The speakers sit gathering dust because I'm too considerate to use them.

I live alone, rarely have visitors, and make it a priority not to make too much noise and disturb those who live below and to one side of me.

For that reason, as I'm sure you can imagine, I was absolutely fuming about the note.

What also annoyed me is that because she made the assumption it was Ben making all the noise, she'd obviously gone through the following thought process: Normally, Dan is alone and he is quiet. His friend is here and it is noisy. Therefore, the noise is from Dan's friend.

The important part of that thought process is "Normally, Dan is alone and he is quiet." Yes, I am quiet. I go out of my way to keep noise to a minimum and not intrude on my neighbours quiet enjoyment of their homes. I have someone round for the first time in four months and all of a sudden I'm getting spidery, handwritten notes pushed through my door. It simply won't do, you unspeakably aggravating old crone.

I gave much thought to what the correct response should be in this situation and had decided upon the following.

1. I will never answer my front door to her again. Locked out? Fuck you, get a locksmith, you awful human being. Your fuse box is playing up again? Oh deary fucketty dear, get an electrician, you old boot. Garden fence need mending? My heart bleeds for you, get a...fence mending man.

2. Next time Ben comes round, I will put a note through her door a few days beforehand giving her ample opportunity to either a) spend the weekend at her son's house, b) invest in some ear plugs, or c) move house.

3. Umm, that's it. It's a rather sparse but effective plan.

We all want to experience quiet enjoyment of our homes, but guess what? Life isn't perfect. Occasionally we must put up with a bit of noise and try to get on with our lives as best we can. Sometimes it's the people four doors down having a party in the garden until 1am. You don't phone the police, you don't go round and bang on the door in your string vest, you sit back and think about it for a minute, realise that in the five years you've lived here they've never had a party before, and then you try to go back to sleep, mindful of the fact that next time it might be you having the party.

You see, being a neighbour is about compromise. You can either be the considerate kindly one who looks at the bigger picture and says nothing, or you can be the spiteful fuckwit who scrawls little notes and puts them through other people's letterboxes at midnight. It's your choice, but take it from me, if you choose the latter, it's going to cost you a fortune in electricians and locksmiths.

******

Of course, within a week or two of formulating my battle plan, I received my first knock on the door because Dolly's fuse box was playing up again and, begrudgingly, I clambered into the cupboard under the stairs. Yes, I have my principles, but at the end of the day, no matter how gruff and grumpy I may be, she's still an old lady that needs my help.

I really wish I had no scruples whatsoever.

The Death of Cinema

2010-08-20T09:05:00.000+01:00

I have a lifelong love affair with the cinema.

I remember vividly how, on my 10th birthday, my brother took me to see Return of the Jedi at the cinema with tickets that I'd won by doing a 'Spot The Difference' competition in the local newspaper.

We arrived a few minutes late and the first thing I saw on the screen was the gloriously grotesque face of Bib Fortuna, Jabba The Hutt's tentacled manservant (try getting that euphemistic image out of your head).

I sat inside that modern day cathedral, ornate plasterwork ceiling curving majestically far above me, plush red seats both soft and coarse at the same time, total darkness around me, with a huge, glowing screen reflected in my wide, young eyes.

At once, I was hooked. Whenever possible, I would go to the cinema, ravenously devouring whatever was being shown.

I remember sitting moist-eyed and amazed at the denouement of Carlito's Way; missing half of Tim Burton's Batman because I was too busy fiddling with my date's impressive breasts; getting up and walking out of Made In America because it was possibly one of the worst films ever made; stifling numerous sobs during Babe (that'll do pig, that'll do); and inching forwards on my seat, mouth agape, as I watched a herd of diplodocus mill around the edge of a lake in Jurassic Park, absolutely enthralled and amazed at this new age of digital effects.

In short, cinema is the great love of my life.

Or at least it used to be.

Now, I can count the number of cinema visits this year on one hand. Don't get me wrong, my DVD collection increases on a weekly basis to such an extent that I now have a worryingly large pile of films that I haven't even watched yet, balefully glaring at me every time I walk into the living room, accusation hanging heavy in the air. I still love film and believe it to be an incredible art form, bursting with passion, insight, and pulse-quickening excitement. But I have, at 37, had to make the difficult decision never to go to the cinema again.

Yes, you read that correctly - I am never going to the cinema again.

At the beginning of August, I went to see Christopher Nolan's Inception. I'd read the glowing reviews and my expectations had built accordingly. I then read some bad reviews just to redress the balance and lower my expectations, which I consider to be a sensible course of action.

Arriving at my local cinema, I bought my ticket and my cinema buddy bought hers.

Astoundingly, they actually had staff sitting at the ticket counter which is a minor miracle as, due to shortages, the last couple of times I'd been there I'd had to buy my tickets at the ice cream counter, walking straight past the closed, derelict ticket booth to stand behind an indecisive couple very carefully, very slowly picking which flavours of over-priced creamy confection they wanted to scoop into their gaping, slack maws as they gazed impassively at the screen.

The lift had an 'amusing' sign on it "This R2 unit has a bad motivator!", which was their way of explaining to patrons that the life was out of order. I believe it's been this way for 3 months. Disabled customers are very clearly not being catered for here and I do wonder if they're failing in their duty under the Disability Discrimination Act. I can certainly attest to the fact that they are discriminating against overweight, wheezy smokers who can't be bothered to trog up the stairs.

Because the lift was unavailable, we had to ascend up six flights of steps to get to our screen. My cinema buddy, oblivious to my painful struggle, engaged me in conversation as we climbed - a difficult task as I clambered higher and higher, drawing mouthfuls of air into my withered lungs. Somehow, I managed admirably, although with noticeably shorter sentences than normal.

The old days of a cinema usher with a torch directing you to your seat are long gone. Instead, a bored teenager tore our tickets and pointed us in the general direction of a pitch-black room full of stumbling hazards.

Finding out seats, we settled down for the main feature, after enduring a raft of advertisements for films we had no interest in seeing and which had clearly not been tailored to the viewers of this movie. The 'Piracy is killing the movie industry' segment has replaced the wet-eyed Matthew Horne (a man who, when I look at him, impossibly appears to have the phrase 'punch me' written across his forehead. I know it's not there, but I swear to God I can see it. I don't know how) with a similarly aggravating woman whose name I do not recall nor desire to know.

In the same way that I despise the unskippable piracy ads that I have to watch on a DVD that I'VE ACTUALLY COCKING-WELL PAID FOR, these cinema ads invoke a powerful Pavlovian reaction in me that involves clenching my jaw so tightly that I fear my teeth may explode in my mouth with a noise like a sheet of bubble wrap being trodden on by a clumsy elephant.

I reattached the arm of the chair after I'd wrenched it from my seat in fury and, soon, we got to the film itself.

For the next two hours, my viewing enjoyment was ruined by the chattering, squealing and fidgeting of a dozen barely pubescent teenagers in the second row. They were, so it seems, completely incapable of sitting in silence and displaying a modicum of respect to the others in the room. I can only imagine this is what it would be like to sit in a car at Windsor Safari Park with a troop of baboons skittering across the windscreen, screeching and pressing their scarlet genitalia against the glass.

Major plot points were missed as one of them made an asinine comment at an inappropriate volume causing me to glare in their direction and take my eyes and attention off the screen for a few vital seconds.

In this way, the movie was completely bollocksed for me, my cinema buddy and countless others.

I wistfully remember when a member of staff used to enter the auditorium and sit at the back, on the look out for any noise or troublemakers. If they encountered any nonsense, they would walk to the offenders and either tell them to shut up, or order them out. Of course, that doesn't happen any more. We customers are left to fend for ourselves and risk getting into abusive situations.

I have a particular memory of one film when a couple started smoking in the back row. I stood up, walked over to them and politely informed them that they couldn't smoke here. One of them was male with a neck thicker than his head and, impossibly, his chest too. He fixed me with a steely glare and simply said, "Sit. Down." I regarded him for a moment and, filled with anger at his complete disregard for the other patrons, went and sat down, fearful that he might use my face as an ashtray. And toilet. And doormat for his heavy, muddy boots.

Mindful of hidden weapons and aware that these gibbering apes in the second row already seemed to have adopted the philosophical stance of 'Fuck everyone that isn't me', I was unwilling to say anything to them.

So I sat there and, pathetically, put up with it, as did everyone else.

At one point, some youngsters sitting a couple of seats away from us made a loud comment to which I blurted out "Jesus Christ, is EVERYONE in this cinema fucking talking?!". The look of terror on their faces was quite wonderful and my pleasure was only slightly abated by the fact that they were probably about 9 years old. Sod 'em, everyone has to learn some time.

I left the cinema having enjoyed what little I'd seen of the film, but possessed of a deep sadness because, in that moment, I knew that I would never go to the cinema again. Not just because of those chattering imbeciles, but because the cinema experience has changed irrevocably. That cathedral of dreams, that monument to art, is gone forever, replaced by a dingy room of yabbering simpletons, a broken lift, staff who aren't paid enough to care, playing films that have the artistic merit of a coil of dog shit nailed to a wall. (I don't know if you can nail dog shit to a wall. We'll assume, for the purposes of this rant, that it's entirely feasible).

The film industry, including the cinema chains, bemoans the fact that it is being destroyed by piracy despite the fact that their profits increase year on year.

For me, the film industry is not being ruined by piracy, it is being ruined by the cinema chains. They simply don't care any more. Gone are the days when a visit to the cinema was a deep pleasure; something to look forward to and treat with reverence and respect; an opportunity to lose yourself completely in a thought-provoking masterpiece or an enjoyable piece of action hokum.

Now it consists of disappointment, anger, and wasted money. For that, we have the cinemas to blame. When they put profit above love of the art-form or customer enjoyment, they do us all a grave disservice.

I fondly think back to the ten-year old me, bright-eyed, filled with excited expectation, agog at the spectacle unfolding before him, and I wish those days could be recaptured. But they're gone, never to return.

On the plus side, the 37-year old me gets to watch porn, so on balance I can't really complain too much.

My ongoing battle with Odeon Cinemas

2010-08-15T09:18:00.004+01:00

We've been here before, I'm afraid.

Odeon Cinemas has let me down on numerous occasions with regard to the choice of films available and now, sadly, they've let me down again with their rather inconsistent approach to customer service.

I decided, back in June, that I'd like to see a couple of films. Unfortunately, the Odeon in Southend has a track record of showing very little other than money-hoovering blockbusters, animated fluffery, and anything in 3D because, you know, everyone loves 3D (and we desperately need to make our money back on all the new equipment we had to buy, which has become an even bigger problem now that the appetite for 3D movies appears to be waning already according to a variety of sources).

I went to the Odeon website and, noticing that the films I wanted to see were not playing here in Saaarfend, I decided to use the feedback facility and ask them a question.

4th June 2010

I would like to know if the Odeon Southend are planning on showing either Four Lions or The Ghost at any point. Thanks in advance.

Now, Four Lions is a comedy from Chris Morris, one of the UK's most controversial and talented writers/directors. I do not think it outside the realms of sanity that the UK's largest cinema chain might support home-grown talent.

Additionally, The Ghost was directed by imp-faced sodomite Roman Polanksi who, whatever you may think of his historical sexual preferences (and subsequent flight from justice) can sometimes direct a rather good movie. Setting aside my personal feelings about him (and my astonishment that certain people in the entertainment industry are effectively saying "Yes, he raped a child, but it was a long time ago. Let it go." , I was rather interested to see the film.

Later that day, I received a reply.

4th June 2010

Thank you for your enquiry into films at your local ODEON Unfortunately it is impossible to say whether or not this film will be showing at your local cinema in the future. If the film is not scheduled into the cinemas weekly listings, then it is currently not available at the cinema. ODEON would love to be able to show all the latest releases and for as long as possible unfortunately, due to print availability, the amount of screens the cinema has, public demand and competing releases, this is not always possible. We apologise for any inconvenience this may cause.

I re-read the message with no small amount of disbelief and quickly penned a response.

4th June 2010

Thank you for your generic template response.

It's a shame that Odeon Cinemas Limited does not consider their customers important enough to either send a bespoke response, or at the very least amend the generic template so that it mirrors the question.

I asked about two films and the reply said "this film". I'm perplexed as to how it's "impossible to say whether or not this film will be showing at your local cinema in the future."

Impossible? Really? Or just 'difficult'?

Perhaps Odeon has a weekly draw where it puts a number of film titles into a hat and then randomly assigns them once they're picked out. Under those circumstances, I can imagine that it would indeed be impossible to ascertain whether a certain film would be shown at a certain venue. However, I'm reasonably sure that isn't the case and there must be something vaguely approaching a system or strategy at work which decides, in advance, what films will be shown where.

I think it's a lazy response which fails to answer my question. Once again, it would seem that because I have the unfortunate bad luck of living in Southend, I'm forever destined to be offered nothing more than the latest big-budget, 3D, special-effects-laden nonsense, 8 times a day on two different screens while lesser known films are, if they're lucky, given a single screening tucked away on a Tuesday night.

As for actually being able to find out in advance what those screenings might be this is, sadly, "impossible".

Very poor customer service I'm afraid. I would, however, be interested in your comments.

I sat back and awaited their response with interest.

A couple of days later, it arrived. However, it contained a rather fascinating disclaimer at the bottom which reads thus:

"The email (and its attachment(s) if any) is intended for the named addressee(s) only. It contains information which may be confidential and/or privileged and/or exempt from disclosure under applicable law. Unless you are the named addressee (or authorised to receive it for the addressee) you may not read, copy or use it, or disclose it to anyone else."

Now, I'm not an expert in matters legal, so I really don't know whether I'm allowed to disclose the contents of the email here. It says that the email is intended for me only. But it then goes on to say that you may not read, copy, use or disclose it to anyone if you're not me. As I am me, does that mean that I can read, copy use and disclose it? Oh, the tangled web of confidentiality. How confusing it is to a simple soul such as myself.

Worryingly, by reproducing the disclaimer have I already committed a heinous act of breach of confidentiality for which I will be banged up in blogger's chokey? Who knows. Further, who cares.

So, I've made the decision not to present their email.

However, I can show you my response which should, hopefully, allow you to fill in the missing pieces.

6th June 2010

Thank you for your email. It's pleasing to receive an actual response as opposed to a generic template.

I'd also like to thank you for your thorough explanation of how to locate a film on the Odeon website. Unfortunately, I was already in possession of this knowledge and it really does nothing to address either of my previous emails.

Additionally, although I appreciate that both films did not go to national release, I note that in the case of Four Lions it is currently showing at Huddersfield, Leeds, Kingston, Manchester, Sheffield, Worcester and Edinburgh, amongst other towns. That seems like a reasonably 'national' spread.

Is there any particular reason it can't be shown at Southend, even as a Director's Chair special? The previous email from Odeon Cinemas Limited stated that it was "impossible" to tell if a particular film would be shown at a particular cinema. Is that actually the case? I find it very difficult to believe that Odeon Cinemas Limited is completely unable to clarify which cinema a film will be shown at.

All I really want is to be told whether or not either of these films will be shown at the Odeon Southend. I think it's a very simple question and I hope that, after sending three emails, I may finally get an answer. I look forward to your response.

I waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally...

28th June 2010

I note that I haven't yet received a response to my email of 6th June. Are you in a position to answer my question please?

Miraculously, 2 days later I received a reply, again with the legal disclaimer/threat. I'm unable to reproduce it here, but it may possibly have said something about having no plans to show the films but that the Director's Chair season starts in September and they'll add the films to the list of possible showings. It might have said that, but I couldn't possibly confirm or deny either way.

Brilliant! So, come September I can, potentially, pay £7.50 to watch Four Lions at the cinema with £3 for a drink and £4 for some sweeties, totalling £14.50 or, alternatively, pay £10.99 to Play.com on 30th August to buy the damn thing on DVD. As for The Ghost, I can buy that for £9.99 on 20th September. I wonder which of these things I will do?

Just for the hell of it, here's the list of what the Odeon Southend is currently showing, along with my thoughts on each:

Cats and Dogs 2 - 3D (Fuck off)
Step Up 3 - 3D (Fuck off)
The Last Airbender - 3D (Double Fuck off)
Toy Story 3 - 3D (Brilliant! No, wait...Fuck off)
Inception (Hooray! Already seen it though and I shall write a blog post on THAT troubling experience shortly)
Karate Kid (Christ on a bicycle...)
Knight and Day (Oh dear God, why?)
Marmaduke (I refuse to even comment on this)
Salt (Angelina. Mmmmmm. OK, I'll pencil this one in)
Shrek Forever After (I don't think so, do you?)
The A-Team (Shudders)
The Expendables (Might be quite good fun actually. I'll let them have this one.)
The Sorcerers Apprentice (Apart from giving me the opportunity to snigger at Nic Cage's hair, I'll give this one a miss.)
Toy Story 3 - 2D (See: Toy Story 3 - 3D)

So there we have it. As a movie buff, my local Odeon has virtually nothing to offer me in the way of entertainment. Score 1 for turgid cattle-fodder, score 0 for the discerning customer.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, Odeon Cinemas needs to change its tagline. In my opinion, it is not 'Fanatical About Film' it is 'Fanatical About Making A Large Profit From Mainstream Frippery, Artistic Integrity And An Ethical Duty To Support Independent Films Be Damned'.

A Brief Return

2010-07-04T13:04:00.003+01:00

I've been on a lengthy sabbatical.

Invariably, that short statement will conjure up images of long thoughtful walks on windswept cliff-tops; deep contemplation whilst sitting on a stony beach, powerful waves smashing against the shore and flinging spume into the biting air; or silently regarding the comings and goings of passersby, inhaling the steam from instant coffee in a cup so thin you can see your hands through it, as you huddle in some quiet out-of-season seaside cafe, condensation fogging the windows, chipped Formica table cold to the touch.

The reality, however, is somewhat different.

I've actually spent the last few months sitting on my balcony reading, playing Red Dead Redemption on the xbox and whiling away the hours pointlessly clicking my mouse and arrow keys on a varied selection of free webgames in a tragic attempt to gain some sense of achievement or self-worth.

I should explain why this is. You see, for the last ten years I've suffered from depression.

My depression is, fortunately, quite manageable although it does manifest itself in different ways. Every now and then, I will feel a bout of depression descending and I'll immediately do something about it - this usually involves taking the day off work and just laying in bed trying to sleep my way through it. I've found this to be a successful strategy.

Some people assume that when I'm going through a depressed period, I must feel sad or desperately unhappy, but it doesn't quite work like that with me. It's probably best described as 'the absence of emotion'. I'll feel something gradually power down in my mind and all feeling will drain from me, sometimes within minutes, sometimes hours. I'm left an empty husk, completely incapable of emotion.

Henry Rollins once described his depression thus (and I'm paraphrasing here) - "When I'm like this, I don't remember feeling any other way."

I absolutely understand what he's talking about. It's an odd sensation, the absence of emotion and the absence of remembering what emotion is like. Sometimes, you look back on the times you were really happy and it feels like you're observing someone else experiencing something you can never understand. "What is this 'happy' that you speak of? Can you eat it? " you might ask if you weren't laying in bed staring at the ceiling and wishing it was tomorrow so you could get back to normal.

On other occasions, my depression manifests itself in a different and longer lasting way. I'll experience lengthy periods of either 'high' or 'low'. When I'm on a high, I'll be more likely to interact with people socially, happily going to the pub or visiting a friend. I'll be more creative, making notes on a screenplay that I'll never quite get around to writing, or churning out blog posts.

When I'm low, however, I'll withdraw. I won't want to go out or mingle with people. I won't feel compelled to write, being utterly convinced that I simply don't have anything of worth to say.

And that, dear reader, is why I haven't written a blog post in three months - I've simply had nothing to say.

Well, that's not quite true actually. Things that have happened recently include:

Becoming involved in a war of silence with my downstairs neighbour after she wrote a snotty note and pushed it through my door at midnight because I had the extraordinary audacity to invite two friends over;
Embarking on a lengthy exchange of emails with Odeon Cinemas Ltd on why they don't appear to want my custom, and whether they're ever likely to show a film that 1) isn't animated, or 2) doesn't have "3D" in the title;
Buying something in a junk shop that led me on a journey involving a dead circus strongman, a monkey on a bicycle and a man called Khramov from an organisation in Russia;
Spending numerous hours in my kitchen emptying buckets of soapy water from beneath the washing machine outflow because I have a blockage in the pipe that cannot be removed by either industrial strength chemicals, the sort of frenzied plunging that would be more associated with birthing an elephant calf, or twenty quids worth of flexible steel drain rod that uncoils itself without warning and thrashes around on the floor like a python trying to digest a hedgehog.

So things have happened, yes, but I just haven't felt that they were worth talking about.

I'm hoping that within the next week or two things will return to normal and I'll resume blogging. But I'm not going to make any rash promises.

The Idiot's Guide To Libel

2010-04-17T15:04:00.003+01:00

This week, the world of logic, rationality, science and evidence enjoyed a small yet important victory.

Simon Singh is a British author whose impressive body of work covers a range of subjects including advanced mathematics, cryptography, big bang theory and alternative medicine. His books include Fermat’s Last Theorem, concerning the world’s most notorious mathematical formula (which Singh himself later made a documentary about in 1996, winning a BAFTA in the process), The Code Book about the history of cryptography, codes and ciphers (accompanied by a five-part Channel 4 series called The Science of Secrecy presented by Singh himself) and the excellent Trick or Treatment, a fascinating exploration of the world of alternative medicine, co-authored with Dr Edzard Ernst, the first professor of Complementary Medicine in the UK. The book is dedicated, tongue placed most firmly in cheek, to HRH The Prince of Wales, a man whose love affair with alternative medicine has been well publicised.

Simon Singh is, in short, a rather clever and successful man.

However, in 2008, his world was turned upside down when he published an article in The Guardian about Chiropractic.

For those unfamiliar with it, Chiropractic is a branch of alternative medicine which suggests that the root cause of most diseases is imbalances in the spine. These imbalances have been given the name ‘subluxations’, a rather meaningless phrase used to describe something that, frankly, doesn’t exist.

The founder of Chiropractic, Daniel David Palmer, posited that “99% of all diseases are caused by displaced vertebrae”, and immediately set about supposedly curing deafness, heart problems and goodness knows what else. In the credulous 1860’s, this was seen by some as a major medical breakthrough.

Since then, modern medicine has advanced enough that some chiropractors now distance themselves from Palmer’s ‘cure-all’ theory and content themselves instead with merely trying to resolve troublesome back pain. Indeed, there is some evidence to suggest that Chiropractic therapy is effective in this narrow field.

Other chiropractors, however, have made some rather extraordinary claims about their treatment, stating that it’s effective for a sizeable list of ailments. There is, of course, not a shred of reliable evidence to support this assertion, no matter how many poorly conceived trials the chiropractors pull out of their back pockets.

To commemorate Chiropractic Awareness Week in 2008, Singh published his aforementioned article, which contained the now infamous statement: “The British Chiropractic Association claims that their members can help treat children with colic, sleeping and feeding problems, frequent ear infections, asthma and prolonged crying, even though there is not a jot of evidence. This organisation is the respectable face of the chiropractic profession and yet it happily promotes bogus treatments.”

The BCA immediately threw all of its toys out of the pram and demanded a retraction and apology from Singh who, obviously, declined to provide either. In the spirit of honest and open debate, The Guardian offered the BCA the right of reply so they could present their own side of the argument. Tellingly, the BCA declined. What they did next, beggars belief.

In July 2008, the BCA sued Singh for libel.

Their case hinged on the phrase “happily promoted bogus treatments” as they believed the wording implied that they knew certain Chiropractic treatments didn’t work, but still knowingly supported and encouraged them. As such, they felt they were being accused of acting dishonestly.

The intention of Singh’s words was to say, effectively, that the BCA were blithely promoting treatments that simply didn’t work. Sadly, his choice of the words ‘happily’ and ‘bogus’ had backfired as he now found himself embroiled in a completely unnecessary, and arguably unethical, legal quagmire that has subsequently consumed 2 years of his time and something in the region of £200,000 of his money.

There were a number of milestones throughout the ensuing libel case including a High Court ruling by Justice Eady that Singh’s article “is in my judgement the plainest allegation of dishonesty and indeed it accuses them (the BCA) of thoroughly disreputable conduct.” Eady therefore upheld the BCA’s pleaded meanings and classified Singh’s comments as “factual assertions rather than the mere expression of opinion”.

This meant that Singh was now, bizarrely, backed into a corner whereby he had to defend a meaning implied by his article that he hadn’t intended in the first place.

In June 2009, Singh’s legal team made a paper application asking for permission to appeal Justice Eady’s ruling on the article’s meaning. This was rejected by Eady in July 2009, so an oral hearing on leave to appeal was heard in August 2009.

In October 2009, that leave to appeal was granted. Over a year into the case, and after an extraordinary amount of money had already been spent, the arguments over the intention of Singh’s words continued and the case proper hadn’t even started yet.

After much contemplation and discussion, a decision was announced on 1^st April 2010 by the Lord Chief Justice.

In his judgement, the Lord Chief Justice said “We consider that the judge (Eady) erred in his approach to the need for justification by treating the statement that there was not a jot of evidence to support the BCA’s claims as an assertion of fact. It was in our judgement a statement of opinion, and one backed by reasons.”

The appeal was allowed, and Singh could now claim that the paragraph in question was ‘fair comment’.

This changed everything. Singh no longer needed to defend a meaning that he hadn’t intended. This was a small, yet important victory, but the journey was seemingly far from over.

Libel law opponents

During this period, interest in UK libel laws grew at an incredible rate and, soon, an impressive band of supporters had grown around the case. The independent charitable trust Sense About Science, set up to promote respect for good science and evidence for the public, joined English PEN () and Index on Censorship in a coalition to campaign for Libel Reform. The resulting project ‘The Libel Reform Campaign’ organised a petition urging libel reform within the UK and, within a few months, had over 50,000 signatures, including some from high-profile individuals including Ian Hislop, Stephen Fry, Ben Goldacre, Jonathan Ross, Shazia Mirza and Marcus Brigstocke.

On 14^th March 2010, The Palace Theatre, London was home to The Big Libel Gig, a fundraising benefit for the Coalition of Libel Reform. I was fortunate enough to get a ticket and enjoyed a fantastic evening of conversation, comedy and song which featured such people as Robin Ince, Dara O’Briain, Tim Minchin, Dr Evan Harris, Dr Brian Cox and Simon Singh himself. The building was full to the rafters with ordinary members of the public who supported Singh’s case and, more importantly, wanted the introduction of major reforms in Britain’s libel laws.

Suddenly, libel law was becoming a hot topic, and with very good reason. Libel laws in the UK are reviled and feared throughout the world. You see, neither the defendant nor the claimant need to be resident in the UK to be prosecuted here. Indeed, they don’t need to have even stepped foot on our soil. All that is required is for their supposedly libellous comments to have been available in this country.

One example involved the American author Rachel Ehrenfeld who published a book entitled Funding Evil: how terrorism is funded and how to stop it. Ehrenfeld’s book was published in New York, but not the UK. Within the book, she made reference to a Saudi billionaire, Khalid bin Mahfouz and his financial activities. Bin Mahfouz decided to sue Ehrenfeld through the UK courts. But how was this possible when the book was not available to read online and had never been published here?

It transpired that 23 copies of the book had been purchased in the UK via Amazon.com. This meant that, technically, the book had been made available in our country and, accordingly, the case could be heard here. Ehrenfeld refused to travel to the UK for the case and, in her absence, a judgement was made in the amount of $225,000, which she has refused to pay.

Cases like this are part of an extraordinary upsurge. The United Kingdom has become the world leader in what has been termed ‘Libel Tourism’.

The MP Denis MacShane states, “The practice of libel tourism as it is known – the willingness of British courts to allow wealthy foreigners who do not live here to attack publications that have no connection with Britain – is now an international scandal. It shames Britain and makes a mockery of the idea that Britain is a protector of core democratic freedoms.”

With the ever-present threat of libel action hanging over the head of anyone who makes their content available in the UK, some organisations have already started to take matters into their own hands to mitigate the risk.

Click on this link for The National Enquirer, an American tabloid with a weekly circulation of almost 800,000. Go on, click it now.

http://www.nationalenquirer.com/

You should see the words ‘Page unavailable/under construction’. Are they having trouble with their website? Have they forgotten to pay their hosting bills? On the contrary – the problem is that you are trying to visit their website from a British IP address and The National Enquirer, fearful of prosecution under our draconian libel laws, has made their online content unavailable in the UK.

Other major US newspapers, including The Boston Globe and The New York Times are actively considering halting the publication of their media in the UK due to the threat of libel. How long before larger and larger chunks of the world-wide-web start winking out of existence for readers in Britain?

A sudden change

After Simon Singh’s success in the 1^st April ruling on the meaning of his words, his legal team were busy formulating the next stage of his defence whilst Singh himself presumably wondered how much longer this would take and what it would cost him.

Suddenly, everything changed once again.

On 15^th April 2010, the British Chiropractic Association discontinued its libel action against Simon Singh.

In a press release, the BCA stated that the ruling by the Lord Chief Justice “provides Dr Singh with a defence such that the BCA has taken a view that it should withdraw to avoid further legal costs being incurred by either side.”

Some might suggest that the BCA, faced with the prospect of having to fight Singh on a level, evidence-based playing field, simply couldn’t compete and decided to bow out ‘gracefully’ before losing any more money. One could, in theory, postulate that this in itself actually supports the skewed meaning the BCA applied to Singh’s words – they will knowingly promote treatments that they know to be bogus, acting in a dishonest fashion until they are asked to provide evidence that they know simply doesn’t exist. Some might say that, I couldn’t possibly comment.

In fairness, the BCA has previously tried to substantiate its claims by providing evidence of the efficacy of chiropractic for various diseases. In a June 2009 press release, it stated “In the spirit of a wider scientific debate, and having taken appropriate professional advice, the BCA has decided that free speech would best be facilitated by releasing details of research that exists to support the claims which Dr. Singh stated were bogus. This proves that far from there being “not a jot of evidence” to support the BCA’s position, there is actually a significant amount.”

The ‘evidence’ provided was a laughable collection of 29 citations which as Martin Robbins clarifies in his Guardian article of 1^st March 2010, “was ripped apart by bloggers within 24 hours of publication, before being subjected to a further shredding in the British Medical Journal. It emerged that 10 of the papers cited had nothing to do with chiropractic treatment, and several weren't even studies. The remainder consisted of a small collection of poor-quality trials.”

Robbins goes on to say that, “More seriously, the BCA misled the public with a misrepresentation of one paper, a Cochrane review looking at the effectiveness of various treatments for bed-wetting, claiming that the authors had simply concluded that, "there was weak evidence to support the use of [chiropractic]."

In fact the quote in full reads as follows:

"There was weak evidence to support the use of hypnosis, psychotherapy, acupuncture and chiropractic but it was provided in each case by single small trials, some of dubious methodological rigour."

Now even the General Chiropractic Council has disowned the claims of the BCA – the same claims that lie at the centre of its libel action against Simon Singh.”

Vindication

The BCA’s 15^th April press release said, “Simon Singh has said publicly that he had never intended to suggest that the BCA had been dishonest. The BCA accepts this statement, which goes some way to vindicating its position.” Of course, Singh made this comment way back at the beginning of the libel case, but the BCA, perhaps entirely coincidentally, did not find this acceptable when there was still a strong chance they may use the UK’s seemingly biased libel laws in their favour.

Contrary to the BCA’s words, it is Singh, not them, who has been vindicated. Science, fair comment, logic and reason have won the day, despite, not because of, the UK’s notorious libel laws. One of the most worrying aspects of this whole debacle has been the fact that there is no guarantee Singh will ever recoup his full costs. An allegation of libel is made, two years of legal to-ing and fro-ing take place, the libel case is withdrawn, yet Singh is still potentially out of pocket.

Despite the cost to Singh, the case has had some benefits, most notably that the subject of libel reform is in the public spotlight. All three of the UK’s major political parties have pledged to radically overhaul the existing laws. The Liberal Democrats gave their support at a very early stage, with Labour and the Conservatives jumping aboard later in the game, presumably when it became clear how strong public feeling was. Singh may not get his money back in full, but his trials and tribulations may yet prove to have a significant effect on our country, its laws and our Internet freedoms.

The big question is this: was the BCA right to sue Singh?

The answer, according to many, is ‘No’. In the world of science and medicine, disputes are resolved by discussion, examination of evidence, testing, peer review and other methods. Legal action has no place in the realm of scientific debate. I can do no better than quote Judge Easterbrook, now Chief Judge of the US Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals, himself quoted in the judgement of the Lord Chief Justice:

“[Plaintiffs] cannot, by simply filing suit and crying ‘character assassination!’ silence those who hold divergent views, no matter how adverse those views may be to plaintiffs’ interests. Scientific controversies must be settled by the methods of science rather than by the methods of litigation. … More papers, more discussion, better data, and more satisfactory models – not larger awards of damages – mark the path towards superior understanding of the world around us.”

In their haste to silence Simon Singh rather than engage him in meaningful, evidence-based discussion, the BCA has thrown the reputation of itself and all chiropractors into disrepute. The damages the BCA has been ‘awarded’ are not those it had in mind two years ago, but are, arguably, extremely well deserved.

The Future Is Indescribably Dull

2010-03-31T18:48:00.002+01:00

Today, at work, I experienced a depressing moment of realisation. This, of course, is nothing new. Barely a day goes by that I don't suddenly stop what I'm doing, look around and think Ah, you appear to have wasted your life, Dan. Well done. Have a biscuit you utter moron.

I'm the worlds worst procrastinator you see. Why do today what can wait until tomorrow or, at a push, next month? This, presumably, is why I laughingly refer to myself on occasion as 'a scriptwriter' when the truth of the matter is that I haven't really written anything worthwhile in months.

"Research" is my saviour. It allows me to buy books, watch documentaries, scour the Internet and make copious notes, all the while singularly failing to actually put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard in anything vaguely resembling a screenplay.

But I digress.

Reading through a report at my desk this afternoon, I saw the words "On 12th February 2010..." and something suddenly clicked in my head. A few rusty gears began to turn, a handful of synapses fizzed into life and, brain crackling, I realised that we are officially in The Future.

Cast your mind back, for a moment, to the 1980s. Imagine you're sitting there comfortably in your waffle-knit jumper or stylish lounging cardigan. If you're a gentleman, you might be wearing a pair of those flecked-material trousers, possibly with tassled slip-on shoes. Perhaps you're sipping from a bottle of Corona, quite literally getting busy with the fizzy, or eating one of those day-glo E.T. biscuits that were available in 1982. You may, rather unfortunately, have eaten the bright orange and green ones and now only have the horrid brown one left that resembled a depressing east-European version of a custard cream.

Right, now with your 1980s head on, put your imagination in reverse and think for a moment what life will be like in the year 2010. Imagine the incredible technological leaps forward that we will have made!

2010 will be a wondrous place of strange looking cars running on electricity instead of petrol and actually talking to you like KITT in Knight Rider; extraordinary glass and metal skyscrapers in a bewildering array of shapes and sizes, stretching so high that you are dizzy just looking at them; and a truly dazzling cavalcade of electronic gadgets allowing you to do everything from carrying a whole library of books in your pocket, to watching a movie in the palm of your hand.

Doesn't 2010 sound like a fantastic place?! HG Wells himself couldn't have imagined such wonders!

But fast forward thirty years and 2010 isn't quite the utopia we'd hoped for.

All of those things I mentioned above have, of course, come to pass. These are, it must be said, extraordinary times. Except for one thing.

Everything else is still shit.

Yes, I'm typing this on my laptop whilst periodically checking a micro-blogging site on my second LCD monitor and listening to music that I purchased from the Internet which had downloaded within three minutes via a high-speed wi-fi connection, but that doesn't change the fact that when I look outside, the weather is still bloody awful. Or that, in the morning when I walk to work, I have to play "dog-shit hopscotch" in a bid to get into the office without smearing the soles of my shoes with Alsatian faeces.

You see, as everything has improved around us, the only thing that has stayed the same, even arguably become worse, is us - people are still, on the whole, horrid, nasty, vindictive, selfish, spoilt little shits.

It angers me to see them enjoying the fruits of technological improvement, while they themselves do nothing to further the human race, nor contribute to its evolution. I am even more angered by those particularly idiotic members of society, usually alternative-medicine supporters, who loudly decry science as being a fundamentally flawed discipline whilst simultaneously sharing their ill-conceived snake-oil beliefs via the high-speed PCs and laptops that stupid old science has allowed us to make a normal part of our everyday lives.

Accordingly, I have decided that future technology should only be available to those who are evolved enough to deserve it.

When I become Supreme Chancellor (one of my first duties as Prime Minister will be to upgrade myself to this newly created position, a bit like Chancellor Sutler in V For Vendetta, or Emperor Palpatine in Star Wars) I will demand that anyone attempting to buy future technology will be required to complete a questionnaire assessing their suitability. It'll be a bit like when you become a foster parent, or adopt a child, but more taxing.

Having put some thought into it, I've come up with a few initial questions that I feel would facilitate identification of suitable future technology owners.

1) Do you own a dog that you allow to defecate with gay abandon on public pavements without picking it up?

2) Have you ever, in general conversation, used the phrase "I'm not racist, but..."?

3) Are you incapable of sitting in a cinema for two hours without either a) chatting to your mates, or b) checking your mobile phone every three minutes?

4) Do you own a baby buggy and feel it is your absolute right to walk side-by-side with your buggy-owning friend, effectively hogging the entire pavement so that anybody walking in the opposite direction has to step into heavy traffic to get past you?

5) Do you see it as a personal victory when you get served first at the bar, even though you can see that the man next to you was there several minutes before you?

6) While we're on the subject, do you actually work in a bar and completely fail to take notice of which patron is next, electing instead to just choose your next customer at random irrespective of how long they've been waiting?

7) Do you read The Daily Mail?

8) Are you Noel Edmonds, Justin Lee Collins, Jeremy Kyle or Alan Titchmarsh? If so, please discontinue this questionnaire and immediately kill yourself.

9) If you saw Margaret Thatcher in the street would you a) shake her warmly by the claw whilst profusely congratulating her, tears in your eyes, on being the best Prime Minister we've ever had, or b) angrily vomit into your hand and then, possibly, throw it at her?

10) Do you have any spatial awareness whatsoever? More specifically, are you a 'meanderthal' who will blithely wander around with no thought whatsoever for anyone else who might be trying to get somewhere in a hurry?

11) Do you consider a 'funny' tie to be an excellent physical manifestation of your wacky sense of humour, designed solely to publicise your status as the office 'crazy guy'? (Score double points if you frequently use the phrase "I'm mad, me".

12) When visiting a foreign country, do you do any of the following: a) allow yourself to become sun burnt to a deep crimson on the first day, especially on your stomach which you have allowed to obscenely roll over the top of your ill-fitting Bermuda shorts b) eschew 'weird foreign food' and instead eat chips for every meal whilst loutishly shouting "Nah, I don't want any of that muck. Give us a steak, Pedro, well done", c) spend most of your time laying around on the beach drinking lager but then, on the rare occasion that you do visit some local points of interest, stride about loudly bellowing that it's all a bit shit and not as good as being back in England?

13) Do you think that even though there is not a shred of reliable evidence supporting its efficacy, that Homeopathy should be available on the NHS?

14) Have you ever eagerly flipped to the horoscopes section of a newspaper or magazine and nodded your head in appreciation at how amazingly accurate it seems to be?

15) Do you think that Roy 'Chubby' Brown is both funnier and cleverer than, for instance, Oscar Wilde or Mark Twain?

This is just a small selection of the sort of questions I'd like to see presented to people when they lope into a PC World or Currys with a fistful of cash, wanting a new laptop or wide screen TV.

If they're unable to achieve a satisfactory score, they will be sent away from the shop empty handed, and their details will be uploaded to a central database, effectively barring them from owning anything shiny, nice and useful for the next 12 months.

For the rest of the year, they will not be allowed to use any technology whatsoever.

They will be moved to 'ghettos' in which their homes will be illuminated by candlelight and they will be expected to wash their clothes in the shared back garden on a large flat rock.

They will not be permitted to use microwave ovens or deep fat fryers, so all meals must be prepared using fresh ingredients, which will be provided for them.

During this period of technology-abstinence, they will have free reign of their local public library, allowing them to read newspapers and books in a bid to open their eyes to the fact that the world does not revolve around them and their pathetic little credulous, unquestioning, xenophobic, fear-fuelled families.

In this way, Supreme Chancellor Rablenkov will make the UK a better place to live. Those people who have demonstrated a cultural, sociological or philosophical outlook that closely matches my own will be allowed to enjoy the benefits that such a society brings. Everyone else will be effectively imprisoned until they change their behaviour.

From where I'm sitting, the future is starting to look very bright indeed.

Who says power corrupts...?

I'm in the 'explosive hatred' business

2010-03-27T05:16:00.004Z

Some things fill me with joy (no examples spring to mind) while others enrage me almost beyond human endurance (this would best be described as 'everything else').

This morning, for instance. As I glance at the clock on my monitor, I see the time is 05:18. Yes, it's a Saturday and I'm wide awake at just after 5 am. Considering that on weekdays I normally have immense difficulty dragging my stinking carcass out of bed any time before 7 am without much foot-stamping and folding of arms, this is a source of huge irritation to me.

Part of the reason I'm awake so early is that I was having a rather vivid dream in which I had to travel to Iceland for work purposes and had, somehow, forgotten all about it. I was in a panic of epic proportions and seemed to be dithering and shouting a lot.

I woke up immediately, confused and anxious about something that simply isn't happening. A perfect way to start the weekend.

The first thing I noticed upon waking was that a little green light was flashing on my mobile phone, indicating that I had either a text message or email. Flicking the phone on, I saw that it was an email telling me that I have a new follower on Twitter, a chap by the name of Tim Cumming. Wonderful, I thought, more Twitter spam most likely. I was wrong, yet strangely right.

You see, when I clicked on his profile I saw that Tim was one of those people who likes to motivate others via the medium of pointless, trivial sayings and trite cliches. But, with mounting amusement and anger, I saw that Tim has raised his game somewhat by including some of the most inane, nonsensical drivel that I've ever had the misfortune to cast my eyes over.

Thus, this blog post is dedicated to Tim and his unstoppable tsunami of bullshit. I shall present some of Tim's nuggets of wisdom and describe my own thoughts. Enjoy.

"Insert a smile into every conversation."

In theory, a nice idea. But let's see how it operates in what I like to call 'the real world'.

"Well, Mrs. Taylor, it appears that at the speed your husband was travelling, the fence post would have penetrated both the windscreen and his sternum at something approaching 60 miles per hour. It appears that in a moment of extraordinary good fortune, the nanny goat on his lap that he appeared to be sodomising when his vehicle left the road, actually slightly deflected the impact and caused the post to miss all of his major internal organs. Unfortunately, that does cause me to conclude that he literally bled to death in an agony that the human mind can barely begin to comprehend. If he hadn't perished over a period of six hours from exsanguination, the sheer horror of his experience would have rendered him quite, quite insane and most likely have led to his permanent confinement in an institution for the rest of his life. Fortunately, that didn't happen because he's now dead. Whilst buggering a goat." *Beams broadly*

See? A smile really helped in that conversation didn't it? What better way to sweeten the bitter pill of a recently departed loved one engaging in 'the love that dare not speak its name' than with a big old smile? This man is a genius.

"Push is better than punish."

I think Tim has tapped into something hugely important here that could absolutely transform prison services across the globe. We're all aware that levels of overcrowding are at an all time high and I think he's hit on an idea that could see our correctional facilities emptied almost overnight.

"Mr. Fitch, in my thirty-six years as a high court judge, I have rarely come across such heinous acts of barbarism and wanton blood lust. The very sight of you chills me to the bones. You displayed no compassion for your victims, instead choosing to snuff out their lives in the most perverse and sadistic ways imaginable. Rape, torture, murder, necrophilia, the list is endless. You have broken every taboo, flown in the face of common decency, and committed crimes that are scarcely within the realms of human understanding. You have been found guilty by a jury of your peers and it is up to me to pass sentence. Gerald Fitch, I sentence you to take some time out. Buy a half-caff latte, read a Sunday newspaper, go for a long walk. Just try and clear your head, spend a bit of time thinking about what you've done wrong, and try not to do it again. I think that you could really benefit from a long, slow swim in lake Gerald. Now, if I see you in this court again, I really will be quite miffed, so think on."

I think it's an absolute winner.

"The reality is much more fun than your fantasy."

I'm sorry, but I really must take exception with this one. To clarify my adversarial position, I present the following evidence.

Here's my fantasy of what happened last night:
I arrive home after a couple of days working away and, upon entering my flat, am somewhat surprised to detect the unmistakable aroma of cooking lamb. Trudging up the stairs, I wander into the kitchen and see two slow-cooked lamb shanks nestling on piles of fluffy mashed potatoes, with a bottle of good red wine open nearby. My mouth involuntarily curls into a smile and I look around, confused. "Hello?" I call out. From within the bedroom, I hear a rustling. Dropping my bag, I walk into the bedroom and there, reclining naked on the bed is Angelina Jolie, finger playfully drawing around the outline of her full, eminently kissable lips. "Hey Dan, thought I'd surprise you with something nice to eat."

I grin and slide onto the bed next to her. She wraps me up in her arms and presses me to her ample bosom. We start to kiss, eager hands exploring each other. Cue romantic music and a slow fade to black.

The reality:
Got home. Realised the milk in the fridge was off. Consumed a meagre repast of instant soup and stale bread. Had a wank. Went to bed.

Now, which one is 'more fun'? You tell me. Come on Tim, which one is fucking better? Eh? EH? The reality is most decidedly NOT better than the fantasy and to suggest otherwise is stupidity of the highest order.

"Don't tell me it can't be done. The world is full of impossible things we do regularly. Like airplanes!"

I think it's important to dedicate a little time to breaking this one down.

First, let's perform a search for 'airplane' in Google pics. Immediately, we see there are over 13 million pictures of planes. If we search for 'aeroplane', the correct English spelling, we get another 2 million results. I think, on the basis of this simple experiment, we can reasonably assume that planes exist. However, I think what Tim was getting at was that planes actually flying in the air is 'impossible'. We need to dig a little deeper.

Let's visit an on-line Dictionary and find an appropriate definition of the word 'impossible'.

Impossible: not possible; unable to be, exist, happen, etc.

OK, good. We're making some headway. Now, let's just check out some basic facts regarding aviation. According to Arthur Arnelt at ABC Aviation, "There are four forces involved in flying: drag, thrust, lift, and weight. The lift force pushes the plane upward. Thrust is the force that makes a plane move forwards. Drag is the force that slows down the plane. The force of drag counters the thrust."

OK, so all this sciencey physics stuff sounds plausible in theory, but I remain unconvinced without hard evidence. Let's visit the website of the National Air Traffic Controllers Association to see if there's any truth to this flying nonsense.

Well lawks-a-lordy and criminy, it appears that in the United States alone there are something in the region of 87,000 flights per day. This is an interesting statistic, but I'm still not sure. After all, it could be part of some extraordinary conspiracy. I want something I can see with my own eyes.

OK, OK, the evidence is overwhelming. Planes, it would appear, can actually fly. It's not magic, pixie dust, the power of positive thought or anything else. It's merely physics.

Let's now take a moment to consider whether a plane flying is "not possible. Unable to be, exist or happen."

Ummmm.....no. On the basis of the available evidence, it would seem extremely likely that the phrase "The world is full of impossible things we do regularly. Like airplanes!" is not entirely accurate in the strictest sense of the word. Indeed, one might even be tempted to suspect that Tim is talking utter bollocks. But then, that does seem to be his stock in trade.

"Just because they say you can't, means jack!"

This is one of my favourites, if for no other reason than IT MAKES NO SENSE WHATSOEVER. I think Tim might have been a bit angry when he wrote this one, hence the lack of anything approaching meaning or sense. I envisage him at home emerging from his study, naked from the waist down, unshaven and wild-eyed, clutching a sheaf of hastily scribbled pages, shaking his sleeping wife awake and screaming at her, "Eggs! Eggs from cows! Cow eggs! It's a revolution!"

His wife then patiently explains that the biology of cows simply won't allow them to lay eggs - it's a physical impossibility. Tim babbles on for several minutes about calcium supplements, subliminal images of hens piped directly into the barn, and fervent whispers of "Eggs. Eggs. Eggs." into the ears of sleeping cows whilst wearing a chicken suit, whereupon his wife slaps him, crumples up the sheaf of papers and shouts, "God, Tim, you're tearing this family apart, can't you see that? What happened to the man I married? Please, stop. For the love of God, stop." before breaking down in tears, hands over her face, shoulders wracked with sobs.

Tim, shocked and with tears springing to his eyes, marches into the other room where he logs onto the computer and types "Just because they say you can't, means Jack!" before smoothing out his papers, picking up a pencil and rocking back and forth while repeating "Cow eggs" several thousand times.

Occasionally, Tim will tweet a comment that hints at something dark and brooding in his private life. This absolute gem from a few days ago is one such example:

"So she said she doesn't love you any more. Imagine what she'll look like in 60 years. It makes breaking up easier."

Clearly, things are starting to fall apart Chez Tim after the cow eggs incident. I feel it's only a matter of time before the inevitable "She won't let you see your kids? Imagine her with a knife in her face, buried up to the handle. Then laugh." tweet appears. Or, perhaps, "Your wife won't speak to you on the phone and has filed a restraining order? Fantasise about staking her to the ground and repeatedly running her over with a ride-on lawnmower. Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha! Oh God, please come back Marion, I miss you."

I worry for his mental health, I really do.

I could pick apart more of Tim's pearls of wisdom, but some of them are just too inane for anything other than derisive laughter. I present to you here, the cream of the crop:

"Your brain is a high tech instrument running on low tech love."

"A pile of smiles goes a mile."

"Don't just stand there, wave at a stranger and smile!"

"I'm in the explosive hope business."

"Make room for zoom and banish doom."

And, finally, another favourite of mine purely because, in the ultimate act of irony, it makes me very, very angry indeed:

"If you're going to fly into a rage, fly into an encourage."

Tim is a man for whom happiness exists in small snippets of bullshit. If you're the sort of person who's actually inspired by these proverbs, then I wish you the best of luck, but would like you to know before you go on your moronic way that you're an idiot who deserves nothing but scorn. I hope the laughter of the world rings in your ears until the hungry maw of death bids you enter.

On a final note, Tim currently has over 72,000 followers.

Sunday Roast

2010-03-17T09:45:00.004Z

Sometimes you find yourself in a position where you suddenly stop, take a step backwards, look around with a bemused expression and think, I'm not entirely sure I know how I got here, I know it's not good, and I'm uncertain what I should do next. This happens to me a lot.

The other day, for no apparent reason whatsoever, I remembered one such situation that occurred to me and immediately knew I should preserve it for posterity. This is that story.

About four years ago, I was something of an itinerant wanderer, moving from flat to flat, house to house, never really settling down anywhere in particular. At this time, I'd just moved in to my good friend Ben's house, based in Tintern Avenue, Westcliff. I was renting the front bedroom and quite enjoying the cosmopolitan feel of the area. By 'cosmopolitan' I mean that the chavs and ne'er-do-well's were from an impressive array of countries and continents, thus introducing a real 'United Colours of Benetton' type vibe, except with terrifying violence and snarling dogs.

5 minutes walk away was, and indeed still is, a pub called 'The Trading Room', which is one of those public houses that sprang to life from the empty shell of a closed-down bank. The decor was pleasing to the eye, the clientele were a varied selection of office workers, builders and 'miscellaneous', and the prices were a little on the high side, tending to drive away the lager-swilling riff-raff whose idea of culture is bare-knuckle boxing with their mother.

One Saturday night, kicking around the house on my own, I pooled my limited resources and decided to treat myself to a few pints. After all, this is what normal people do isn't it?

Unfortunately, my night was to be far from normal.

Standing at the bar, I sipped my bitter and looked around at the good-natured, straight-toothed people sipping wine, exchanging pleasantries and generally having a rather jolly, oik-free evening. At one point, I even treated myself to a beatific smile which, frankly, didn't sit particularly comfortably on my face but I thought I'd give it a go.

A chap in his early fifties was standing close by and engaged me in conversation. We drank a couple of beers together, chatting about this and that for a while and it was all very pleasant.

I became aware that he wasn't alone as he had a girlfriend who was lounging around in the corner downing large vodkas like they were going out of fashion and silently perusing the other patrons of the pub. She seemed nice enough, but didn't say very much.

For the purposes of this reminiscence, I shall call the man Bernard and the woman Tiffany. I have no idea of their real names as that particular detail has long since been lost to my memory.

Eventually, the bell rang for last orders and we managed to sneak another drink. As the other patrons started to file out, my new friend Bernard turned to me and said, "We're going to get something to eat and then have a couple of drinks at home. Come and join us!"

Now, normally, I might have stood back and thought, Right, I've only just met this guy, I don't really know who he is, so it's probably best not to head back to his house where I might be raped or murdered. Unfortunately , I'd had several drinks and was now in 'the zone'.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term, being in 'the zone' means that the alcohol you've already guzzled is racing around your system at a rate of knots and giving you a happy, 'all is right with the world' buzz. It feels good, it makes you believe yourself to be cleverer and wittier than you actually are, and it demands constant topping-up. The filter in your head which says "OK chief, time to call it a night" is set to the 'off' position and all you crave is additional alcohol, consequences be damned.

The off licence was closed and there was no booze indoors, so this was my only opportunity for a cheeky snifter. Casting caution to the wind, I nodded at Bernard and said, "Yeah, that'd be good. Cheers."

We filed out of the pub, me, Bernard and Tiffany, and visited a Chinese takeaway down the road. Having no money left, I chose the 'standing outside smoking' option while they organised their food. A few minutes later, we were heading off to his flat which was a ten minute walk away.

When we arrived, just after midnight, we entered the flat and I could see that it was a pleasant enough place, a bit rough around the edges, but habitable and not at all grimy. Good, I thought, these seem like decent people.

My host directed me towards the living room which housed the usual fixtures and fittings with the addition of a small dining room table and a few chairs. Pointing me towards a chair he said, "Right, drink?"

"Fantastic, yes. What have you got?"

"Tea or coffee?"

I paused. Tea or coffee hadn't been on the bill of fayre floating enticingly around in my head. I'd envisaged whisky or vodka. Perhaps a good quality brandy or a fine vintage port. A glass of champagne, perhaps, or a gin and tonic. Casting my eyes quickly around the living room, I could see no bottles of delicious booze so resigned myself to the fact that Bernard had dragged me here pretty much on false pretences and all I was going to get was a decidedly uninspiring non-alcoholic beverage.

"Coffee please, thanks," I grumbled.

"How do you take it?" Bernard asked.

"Black, two sugars."

This, it transpired, was a mistake, but I was not to discover this until a little later.

Bernard scurried off to the kitchen where Tiffany had disappeared some moments earlier and I heard the recognisable sounds of water being poured, a kettle being flicked on and spoons pinging against mugs. In addition, they were munching their special fried rice in the kitchen while I sat there silently in the living room.

After a couple of minutes, Bernard brought my coffee out and placed it, steaming mightily, onto the table in front of me. I looked up at him and could see that numerous grains of rice had collected at the corners of his mouth as he chewed his takeaway.

He smiled at me conspiratorially and said, "Want to see something good?"

I nodded dumbly and tried to smile, the first stirrings of "I have a bad feeling about this" jerking into life at the back of my brain.

Bernard wandered over to a cupboard, opened it and fumbled about for a few seconds. Then, closing the cupboard, he turned to me and I could see he was holding what appeared to be a metal bar in his hands.

"Extendable baton," he grinned, flicking his wrist and causing the metal bar to extend to its full length. He smiled, swishing it about, and said, "A few thumps in the head with that and you wouldn't be getting up again."

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't slightly frightened. I was, in a matter of seconds, stone-cold sober. Soon, I thought, I might be stone-cold dead.

He continued to stand there, brandishing the baton, swiping it through the air and slamming it into the palm of his hand. Bizarrely, my eyes were still focused on the rice at the edge of his lips. I think my rationale was: I can't possibly be beaten to death with an extendable baton by a man who has part of a Chinese meal on his face. That wouldn't be proper so it can't happen.

It turned out that my logic was absolutely correct as Bernard proceeded to hand the baton to me, instructing me to "have a go".

I weighed it in my hands and, politely, nodded my head appreciably at its impressive weight. He urged me to swing it about so I feebly swished it back and forth, nodding my head and complementing him on his choice of weapon.

He smirked and took the baton from me, saying "Here, I'll show you something else", before going to his cupboard once again.

Pausing only briefly to show me his cricket bat that "I normally keep downstairs by the door", he proceeded to produce a handgun and wave it in my general direction. Yes, you read that right - he was holding a handgun.

Cradling it lovingly, he then told me about what type it was, the ammunition it took and its destructive power. Sadly, these details are forever lost in the mists of time as I was, by now, utterly terrified. Fortunately, as he explained, he kept the bullets in the attic so at least the thing wasn't loaded. Or so I assumed as the alternative didn't really bear thinking about.

After a few moments, he returned the handgun to his cupboard of deadly weaponry and returned to the kitchen to polish off the rest of his rice.

Left alone, I looked around nervously wondering how best I could make my escape. This man, a complete stranger, had invited me into his home and waved a selection of illegal weapons at me. Indeed, he'd actually pointed a gun at my face. This was not, to the best of my knowledge, normal behaviour. I had no choice but to leave. This was way outside my comfort zone.

Unfortunately, what was also outside my comfort zone was the fact that to escape immediately would mean I'd be leaving a full cup of coffee on the table which was nothing short of rude. Yes, yet again, my pathetically English sense of decorum had kicked in and I couldn't possibly leave without drinking the coffee first. The thought of sneaking out leaving a fresh beverage un-sipped mortified me, if for no other reason than Bernard might pursue me down the road with a sawn-off shotgun, outraged at my casual refusal of his courteous gesture.

This, unfortunately, was where my decision not to have milk in my coffee had backfired. The cup of liquid in front of me was hotter than the surface of the sun and completely undrinkable without inflicting serious oral burns on myself. I sat in the living room, frantically blowing on it in a bid to reduce its temperature.

After another few moments, Bernard returned, chewing more food, and said "I'll just put the TV on", which I thought was very nice of him as it would give me something to look at while I weighed up whether I was going to make a bolt for the door or just leap out of the window and hope for the best.

The TV flickered into life and he started sorting through some video tapes in a pile on the floor. He picked one up and inserted it, grabbing the remote control and pressing the play button.

Immediately, the screen filled with images of hardcore pornography.

Bernard turned, winked lasciviously at me, and returned to the kitchen.

Now, on occasion I've had friends round on a social basis. We listen to music or sometimes watch the TV. Occasionally, I'll put a DVD on of the latest Hollywood blockbuster so we can guffaw at the plot holes and feel superior. We've even sat and played games on the xbox 360. What I've never done, however, is decide that what would really set the mood for the evening would be to put on a video of two men vigorously violating a woman in a nurse's outfit. Maybe I'm old-fashioned and out of touch with modern behaviour and for that I can only apologise.

I was starting to feel uneasy, which was manifesting itself as anger, a classic defence mechanism. In this confusing scenario of guns, porn and extendable batons, I needed a scapegoat, something on which I could blame this whole ordeal; an item, person or concept that I could jab my finger at and bellow, "J'accuse! This is all your fault! What the hell were you thinking?"

In the depths of my bewilderment, the only possible thing I could get angry at was the cup of coffee. This steaming mug of devil's brew was the only thing preventing me from making my polite, socially-acceptable escape. You instant bastard, I thought, directing my fury towards the coffee. You irritating receptacle of boiling, pitch-black doom. When I get home - IF I get home - I'm going to find a jar of Mellow Birds and smash it to pieces with a rolling pin.

Suddenly, Tiffany entered the room, walked towards the sofa and laid down on it, eyes glued to the pornography on the TV. We sat there in silence, save for the sound of slapping thighs and animalistic grunts coming from the porn video.

Then Bernard walked in, crossed the room, knelt down by his reclining girlfriend, leaned over her, and started to kiss her passionately whilst jamming his hand between her legs in an alarmingly non-erotic fashion, all the while looking directly at me.

Finally, the pieces dropped into place. I had been invited back here to engage in a threesome with a man in his fifties and a tired, drunk blonde woman. They'd decided to indulge in some sort of sordid, sex festival and I was the guest of honour.

It was an horrific tableau. Me, mug in hand, lips pursed at the rim, puffing air over the simmering liquid, Bernard, tongue bulging grotesquely out of his mouth and into Tiffany's, his hand kneading at the crotch of her jeans, eyes locked on mine.

I started to gulp the coffee as fast as I could. My mouth burned, my throat constricted, but I was going to drink that damn coffee and get the hell out of there. I whimpered, took a gulp, gasped, drew cool air into my burning mouth, then took another gulp. It was not dissimilar to some sort of endurance test that you'd see on a Japanese game show performed by a businessman in an ill-fitting leotard while cackling buffoons in fancy dress point at him and shout.

I can only imagine that this is what it must feel like to drink lava, I thought as I continued to swallow scalding mouthfuls of Nescafe. In retrospect, I do wonder if it was Gold Blend as that would have put an interesting slant on the 'will they, won't they' adverts starring Anthony Head and Sharon Maughan. Yes, they will, but only in front of a startled onlooker after pointing a gun at him.

Ironically, just as I'd swallowed the last mouthful of coffee and banged the mug on the table triumphantly, Tiffany, who had possibly been press-ganged into the whole sorry business by the perverted Bernard, decided that she didn't want to do this and pushed him away, before tottering to her feet, picking up her shoes and walking out. He dashed after her, trying to talk her back into the room but, within a few seconds, I heard the sound of the front door slamming shut and his dejected footsteps slowly climbing the stairs.

He shuffled into the room, switched off the porn and turned to me. We regarded each other silently, him with unmistakable disappointment, me with pleading terror.

Eventually, Bernard spoke. "I don't think she's feeling very well. I'm going to bed. Thanks for coming over."

And with that, I leaped from the dining room table, grabbed my coat and darted towards the door. Astonishingly, I thanked Bernard not only for his hospitality, but for the coffee too.

I stepped outside into the cold night air, sucking it gratefully into my raw, stinging mouth and walked home, furtively casting my eyes over my shoulder every few steps just in case Bernard was following me with a scimitar tucked into his belt.

Reaching Ben's house, I let myself in and walked straight upstairs to my room, flinging my clothes off and climbing wearily under the sheets, already wondering if I'd actually experienced what had just happened. I fell into a troubled sleep.

It has often been said to me, "It could only happen to you, Dan." I must regrettably agree.

Death Pays A Visit part 2

2010-02-06T08:36:00.006Z

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

Music Review of 2009

2010-02-01T08:43:00.005Z

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.

Note: I have removed all links to music where there is a potential copyright claim. Blame the Digital Economy Act. Those that remain are either available for free online from the artists in question, or in the case of Baddies, one of them is a friend of mine and I'm sure won't mind me giving them some free advertising.

*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!

2010. New year, same disappointment.

2010-01-14T17:45:00.007Z

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...

The Curse of Christmas

2009-12-17T18:38:00.003Z

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.

Thank you, world

2009-12-04T11:26:00.003Z

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.

Exposing The Wizard

2009-11-28T01:57:00.003Z

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.

Time Makes Fools Of Us All

2009-11-26T20:22:00.001Z

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.

Blog Tagging - Winner Announced

2009-11-20T07:13:00.004Z

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.

Blog Tagging Update

2009-11-18T20:03:00.004Z

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?

Blog Tagging Failure

2009-11-18T08:04:00.004Z

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.

In Memory of Edward Woodward

2009-11-16T19:47:00.005Z

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

Note: Tracks removed to avoid potential copyright claims. Blame the Digital Economy Act.

The Misanthropist's Curse

2009-11-14T21:00:00.005Z

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.

The Stupidity of Me

2009-11-08T06:31:00.002Z

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...

When Dogs Attack!

2009-10-21T17:19:00.005+01:00

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!

Do The Job

2009-10-14T19:34:00.003+01:00

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.

An anonymous comment

2009-10-12T16:21:00.003+01:00

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:

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.

I can't be trusted to do anything...

2009-10-10T18:54:00.005+01:00

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...

Join Me

2009-10-09T07:03:00.000+01:00

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.

Reasons to become a hermit, #1

2009-10-07T00:15:00.003+01:00

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.

And, relax...

2009-10-04T20:57:00.002+01:00

Finally, the Mortal Remains script rewrite is finished.

6 months of work (well, 5 months of thinking about it, 1 month of feverishly typing like a lunatic) has gone into this so I hope that Mike, the screenwriter, likes it.

I've decided not to do a second draft for a few reasons:
1) because I've only just finished the first draft I don't want to jump back into it straight away,
2) if Mike doesn't like what I've done to his script then a re-draft would be wasted effort, and
3) I'm sick and tired of these sodding characters.

Tomorrow I shall print out and bind three copies of the script - one for me, one for Mike and one for Simon, our co-writer friend whose comments are always welcome on projects like these. Hopefully, we'll all meet up at some point in a week or two for a chat about it and I'll find out if I've done Mike's original idea justice. Frankly, there's an awful lot of new material in there for a simple rewrite, and Mike may feel that the script has strayed too far from his vision. We shall see.

Of course, this begs the question, "What next?". The answer is, "I don't know."

I have a few ideas floating around for full-length screenplays, but don't know if I'm ready to attack them yet.

One, called 'Provenance', is a story about an art forger, based very loosely on the life of the incomparable Eric Hebborn, another is based, again very loosely, on the tale of The Wandering Jew.

Alternatively, I was talking to Mike about creating a 10-minute short script which he might consider directing. I've had a lot of ideas for that lately, so perhaps that should be the next project.

Ah well, at least this one's finished now and I can sit back and relax, albeit temporarily.

Apologies for lack of 'funnies' today, I'm too knackered.

A complete waste of time

2009-10-04T12:17:00.008+01:00

Watch this.

Looks pretty damn good, doesn't it?

In this age of Transformers 2, The Fast and the Furious 4, and Indiana Jones and the Fucking Kingdom of the Fucking Crystal Skull, it has become a rare and unusual pleasure to see a trailer which actually arouses your interest to the point that, for a brief foolish second, you seriously consider spending a tenner to sit in a dark, sweat-perfumed room with a clutch of braying chimps, watching as they fumble alternately with sugary treats and spray-tanned breasts while texting on their mobile phones despite clear instructions to TURN THE BASTARD THINGS OFF BEFORE THE FILM STARTS.

Thus it was that, breathless and filled with some perverse, oddly discomforting emotion that I can only imagine must have been what normal people call "joyful anticipation", my fingers nimbly brought me to the website of Odeon Cinemas, the largest chain of movie theatres in the UK. Feverishly, I looked at the listings.

GI Joe
GI Joe 3D
Ice Age 3
Ice Age 3 3D
G Force
G Force 3D

To my disappointment, it was becoming painfully apparent that my local Odeon were not showing Moon. "Joyful anticipation" ebbing, I decided to see which cinemas Odeon WERE showing the movie at.

Choosing 'Moon' on their irritatingly awkward website, I discovered that out of 108 potential cinemas in the Odeon franchise, only 8 of them were showing the film I wanted to see, and 6 of those were in London.

Now, I have nothing whatsoever against London, quite the opposite in fact. I find it to be a fantastic city full of wondrous exotica like 24-hour convenience stores, kebabs in wraps instead of pitta bread, and people who don't look like they've loped out of the green room at a taping of the Jeremy Kyle show and are about to start a fight with their own reflection because it 'looked at them funny'. London, in short, is great.

But, I quickly totted up the cost and soon realised that it was prohibitively expensive. £20 for the train, £10 for the cinema ticket, £10 for the inevitable alcoholic beverages, £5 for a taxi back from the station. "This film's gonna cost me a bloody nifty, you rubbish!" I exclaimed at the Odeon website, suddenly coming across all 'estuary' in my impotent rage.

Feeling my dander rising, I decided that there was little I could do except e-mail the Odeon and ask for, nay DEMAND, an explanation of why they weren't going to show this film. Sort of. Here's what I sent:

Could you please advise me if there are any plans to show 'Moon' at the Southend Odeon?

I'm extremely interested in seeing this film but, sadly, your company is only showing it at 8 cinemas out of 108 nationwide, none of which are close enough for me to easily, or cheaply, get to.

Thank you in advance.

To their credit, they responded pretty quickly, saying:

Please accept our apologies that we have not been able to screen the type of films you would prefer. Unfortunately, the range of films is not always within our control - it depends on the number of prints made available for use in the UK. Typically, blockbusters are released with over 600 prints however specialised films (such as "Moon") are only released with 50 prints for the whole of the UK. This makes it very difficult to obtain prints for some of our cinemas as the film distributors prefer to allocate these prints to special art-house cinemas as they will get higher attendance levels than at typical multiplexes.

However, we have our "Directors Chair" screenings allow us to show specialised films a few weeks after their general release. The details of the Directors Chair season is available by clicking on the Directors Chair logo in the “Now Showing” section, or going to

http://www.odeon.co.uk/fanatic/directors-chair/

and selecting your local ODEON from the list.

Now, the Odeon group is the largest cinema chain in Europe but, apparently, they're unable to request additional prints of movies? Surely to Christ if anyone can request an additional, say, 50 prints it would be the Odeon?

I was left unconvinced by this message from them so found the contact details of the UK film distributor, which is Sony Pictures Entertainment Worldwide Acquisitions Group. That's rather a long name, so I'm going to abbreviate it to TWATS.

I sent TWATS an e-mail on 17th August which contained the following:

I am very disappointed that I was unable to watch this movie on the big screen, but would like to understand a little more about how distribution of such 'specialised' movies works. Accordingly, I would be hugely grateful if you could clarify a few issues for me:

1) Were only 50 prints of the movie released to the UK?
2) Why weren't further prints made available?
3) How many prints did Odeon Cinemas actually request?
4) Given that Odeon Cinemas are the largest cinema chain in the UK, if they had requested more prints would they have been provided?
5) Do you operate a policy of designating more prints for art-house cinemas?

As mentioned above, I would be extremely grateful for a response to these queries.

Many thanks to you in advance for your time, and I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest opportunity.

It would be pertinent to clarify that, at this point, I was expecting to receive a reply answering my questions and thus enabling me to either 1) realise that Sony are twats, 2) realise that Odeon are twats, or 3) realise that I'm a twat with no real comprehension of how film distribution operates. The smart money was on option 3, but I was hopeful for either of the other two.

I waited, expectantly, for TWATS to contact me.

And then I waited some more.

Finally, after a prolonged period of waiting, I waited slightly longer then got bored and decided to e-mail them again, this time on 7th September:

I sent the query below on 17th August. To date, I have received no reply.

I'm sure that this is merely an oversight and not representative of Sony's customer service as a whole. Accordingly, I look forward to receiving a reply.

I then waited again, feeling that The Great Film Distribution Scandal I was about to uncover was slipping away from me. Thoughts of a Pullitzer Prize in investigative journalism gave way to more simple desires - like just wanting to watch a film that wasn't in 3D or designed for a roomful of people with a combined IQ of 6.

Finally, on 1st October, a staggering two months after my original e-mail to Sony, I received...precisely fuck all. Clearly, TWATS couldn't be arsed to respond to me.

I sent them one final e-mail later that day:

As you will see from the e-mails below, I wrote to you back in August with an enquiry regarding UK film distribution for the movie 'Moon'.

Despite a follow-up e-mail, I have not received the courtesy of a reply to any of my communications.

As a Sony customer who owns a number of your products, I'm extremely disappointed at Sony's apparently cavalier attitude to customer service.

It is with regret that I will now be taking my custom elsewhere in future, and will also be recommending that my friends do the same.

Clearly, Sony isn't interested in engaging with its customers. I consider that to be very sad.

I clicked 'send' with a smugly condescending shake of the head and went about my day.

Odeon at least had the common courtesy to send me a response even if I did consider the contents to be a bit iffy. But as for Sony, not a word. Apparently, when you're a company that big, you don't need to worry about the desires of an ordinary customer. The shite-hawks.

My journey was at an end. I wouldn't be able to see 'Moon' on the big screen because of several reasons:

1) Odeon only seem to show films that are going to make them a huge profit. Of course, I understand that's why one operates a business - to make money - but if that's their business model, maybe they should revisit their tagline "Fantatical about film" and change it to something more appropriate like "Give us your money and fuck off."

2) On the basis of my personal experience, Sony are complete TWATS. I can only assume that they are also TWATS when it comes to the business of film distribution so, accordingly, the reason I couldn't see 'Moon' was because, and I can't stress this enough, Sony are TWATS.

3) I'm unfortunate enough to live in Essex. It is highly unlikely that any film designed to titilate the cerebrum will ever be shown here. Just give us something we can gaze at while we toss popcorn into our gaping mouth-holes, vaguely wondering if there might be time for a quick fight after the film finishes.

So, to sum up:

Disappointment #1 - I can't see Moon.

Disappointment #2 - My desire to uncover a film distribution conspiracy is buggered up by Sony refusing to communicate with me.

Disappointment #3 - my local Odeon are now showing 'Moon' on Tuesday evening as part of their Director's Chair screenings, meaning that although I now get to see the movie on the big screen, all of the e-mails have been a complete waste of time, and this blog post is now completely redundant.

Sod it, I'm going to publish it anyway.

Oh, and did I mention that Sony are TWATS?

*Needless to say, my opinions of Sony and Odeon are precisely that - opinions. I'm sure they're lovely in real life and wouldn't dream of suing a blogger who only has about 3 readers anyway, and the fact that I've had to put this clarification into my blog post is in no way meant to suggest that they're the sort of companies that would partake in such actions, especially not attempting to curtail our much valued freedoms of speech although it would be rather nice to see them go to court and try to prove they are not twats*

*By the way, I've just noticed that this blog post is very sweary. Bad language is never an acceptable substitute for humour. I think we've all learned a valuable lesson today. Think on.*

Do this. Do it now.

2009-10-02T12:30:00.000+01:00

In the interests of scientific experimentation, I've been playing around with a few choice beverages recently. One is a classic that, sadly, has been appropriated by the Bacardi chaps in an effort to boost sales of their particular product, while the other is a rather forgotten cocktail that many won't have heard of. I'll deal with the forgotten cocktail in another post.

The first is that beverage much beloved of Ernest Hemingway and, for those of you who prefer their references to be less literary, Brian the dog from Family Guy.

Yes, folks, it's the Mojito. Don't stop reading just yet - bear with me.

Cuban in origin, it's roots have been lost in the mists of time. Some say it is similar to a drink called La Draque, created in honour of Sir Francis Drake, others that it was an invention by the African slaves working in the sugar cane fields. Wherever it came from, it's a most splendid drink indeed.

I first tried a Mojito in a Cuban Bar and Restaurant at Kings Cross, London. I was an immediate convert and, fortunately, was in the company of a couple of young ladies who were being bought copious drinks by amorous gentlemen, heady with rum and rumba. As they weren't Mojito lovers, they kept placing the glistening tumblers of minty, limey elixir on the table in front of me. It was a marvellous evening and my love affair with the Mojito had begun.

For several years, I've pursued the Mojito around the country. Whenever I go away for business and an establishment has the Mojito on its menu, I've ordered one. However, this has been a rather disappointing quest thus far. At one restaurant in Nottingham, I was informed that they couldn't make me a Mojito because the ice machine was broken and they didn't have any "mint syrup". That was a lucky escape, both for me and them. It's entirely possible that, if they'd had it available, I would have grabbed the bottle of mint syrup and inserted into them with a flourish of the wrist and a might roar of "Cuba Libre!" whilst leaping, shirtless, from table to table, hooting like an enraged ape.

At, of all places, a Frankie and Benny's in Cambridge, I ordered a Mojito which, when it arrived, didn't taste quite right. I subsequently learned that the barman, presumably some sort of 'care in the community' work placement, had neglected to add the lime. And the sugar. Only five ingredients, yet this inconceivably gormless cock-monkey forgot to add two of them. Unbelievable. It was only sheer willpower that prevented me from kicking him so hard that he was propelled into the heart of the sun.

I could name other disastrous Mojito encounters but, instead, I will simply say that I've been seeking that initial wondrous experience for a long time and simply hadn't found it.

Until a few weeks ago, after a significant amount of research.

After work one Friday, I went to the supermarket and bought myself the raw ingredients so that I could return home and create my own Mojito. Here, for your pleasure, is the recipe I used.

First, you need to make a simple syrup in advance. This is staggeringly easy to do. Just take two cupfuls (a teacup will do) of white sugar and dump them in a saucepan. Then take two cupfuls of water and dump those in the pan too. Put the heat on and gently bring the water to a simmer, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Take it off the heat and let it cool down. There's your simple syrup. Put it in the fridge or something.

Now for the recipe:

Ingredients
40ml rum (if you can, get hold of some Havana Club rum. If not, Bacardi will do. I'm not a purist)
30ml freshly squeezed lime juice (if you can't be bothered to squeeze your own limes, simply buy a bottle of processed lime juice - I believe JIF manufacture it - shake several drops into your eyes and then fuck off. Just squeeze some limes, you pleb.)
15ml simple syrup
8 mint leaves
Ice
Soda water

Get a long-ish glass and put the lime juice, syrup and mint leaves into it. Gently 'muddle' the leaves with the lime and syrup. Now, to 'muddle' means that you're gently bashing the mint leaves so that they release their delicious oils into the liquid. Don't tear the leaves, don't smash them into oblivion, just gently bruise them. You can buy a 'muddler' which is a little wooden implement, or you can use a pestle. Alternatively, use the end of a rolling pin. Basically, use your imagination and stop relying on other people to solve all your problems for you.

Once you've completed your muddling, take a handful of crushed ice and pop it into the glass. If you only have ice cubes, a clean tea-towel and a rolling pin are your friends here. Alternatively, smash the ice with the bottom of a saucepan.

Chuck in your rum, then top the whole thing up with soda water.

Give it a little mix and then drink the bugger.

A well-made mojito, my friends, is a thing of joy. Fresh, tasty and incredibly moreish.

Ignore the fact that it has now become horribly 'fashionable'. Most of the mojito's you'll see in pubs and clubs are shockingly bad, thrown-together affairs that disrespectfully fling faeces into the face of the genuine article.

And remember, please drink responsibly. If you drink more than 20 Mojito's in a single sitting, you may be visited by Satan.

Death pays a visit

2009-09-24T03:28:00.004+01:00

I just saw my own death.

Not in a metaphorical sense, but quite literally.

I was having a dream, the full details of which I will not bore you with. It involved a taxi journey, and it was night-time.

The taxi stopped and myself and my fellow passenger got out. He asked the driver to wait for a moment. We said our goodbyes (handshake, man-hug) and then the taxi driver decided he was bored of waiting and started to drive away - with my bag still in the car.

Shouting, I ran to the back of the cab, pulled the door open and got in. I proceeded to give the taxi-driver a mouthful of abuse whereupon he picked up my bag from the passenger seat and threw it at me - I caught it in my lap.

I uttered a coarse parting shot at which point the taxi-driver opened his glove-box, grabbed something and threw it at me. I caught it - an automatic reaction.

When I looked down at what he'd thrown me, it took me a moment to realise what it was - a gun.

Instantly, with awful clarity, I knew why he'd done it. It was so he could claim self-defence.

Immediately, I looked up to see he had another gun in his hand, pointed directly at me. He pulled the trigger, I heard the bang and felt the bullet hit my chest like a punch to the ribs.

I sat there, shocked, still holding the decoy gun he'd tossed at me, my ears ringing with the sound of the shot in the confined space.

At that point, I woke up.

It was the most extraordinarily vivid dream I can ever remember having. I felt that bullet slam into me. I heard the high-pitched whine in my head, an after effect of the loud noise in the confines of the taxi.

It's now 3:42 a.m. and I'm wide awake, still reeling mentally from it.

I'd like to sign off with some witty comment about the dangers of eating a cheese sandwich before bed (which I did) but am still too shaken.

Apologies for the disjointed nature of this post.

A most productive day indeed

2009-09-20T18:22:00.003+01:00

Today has been fantastic.

As detailed here way back in April, I'm currently working on a script-rewrite.

Mortal Remains (as it is still currently called, but I fully expect I will cheekily change the title very soon) has been on my radar for quite some time. Of course, by 'on my radar' what I really mean is I've thought about it, made a few notes, but spectacularly failed to do very much in the way of writing.

Unfortunately, with writing, the mood needs to take me. Sometimes it can seem like such a major journey, such an insurmountable object, that I'm hesitant to begin it.

Thus, over the course of the last 6 months I've managed to write about ten pages and bugger all else. I have, rather obviously, not communicated this failure to Mike - the author of the screenplay - and instead given him vague reassurances that work is progressing at a steady rate. Indeed, that's not really a lie if you consider, as I do, that consistently doing nothing is an accurate definition of 'a steady rate'.

In reality, I haven't actually been doing nothing, I've been mulling it all over. The whole thing has been slowly churning in my mind, forming, disintegrating, reforming, and generally melding together in a clever, writery, thinky way. At least that's what I'm convincing myself has happened.

Today, finally, something clicked in my mind and said to me "OK, you can start now".

Thus, I find myself having written 40 pages over the course of the day. Some of it, without doubt, is utter tripe and I shall callously delete it whilst shaking my head and chortling at my own ineptitude. But a lot of it is very good indeed.

While I'm undoubtedly pleased that it's all coming together at long last, the main reason I'm brimming with childish glee is because I've had a bloody fantastic time today. I rather lost my writing mojo for a while, so it was great to be artistically tumescent once more.

Oh, and I know that Mike semi-regularly checks this blog for news of progress on his script, so I thought it'd be a nice idea to give him something to read for a change.

More bloggery coming soon, once I've thought about it and made a lot of notes...

An introduction to Theremin music

2009-08-19T00:12:00.011+01:00

Today, kiddlywinks, we shall learn a little bit about the theremin.

You may recognise the word, it may be completely new to you. One thing is certain - you will have heard one being played and it will have sounded quite unlike anything you'd ever experienced before.

Back in the early part of the 20th Century, the Russian government sponsored research into proximity sensors - essentially, electronic devices designed to detect the presence of objects or people without actual physical contact. One of the people working on these proximity sensors was a young chap by the name of Lev Sergeievich Termen, aka, Léon Theremin.

A happy by-product of Theremin's experimentation was a musical instrument based on the heterodyne principal, which is the generation of frequencies by mixing two oscillating waveforms and...oh for God's sake, look, I don't know what any of this means, OK? Ten minutes ago I'd never even heard of the heterodyne principle. I just looked it up on Wikipedia.
Let's cut to the chase: Theremin was very brainy and, using sciency cleverness, he invented a musical instrument which goes 'Woooooo' and, rather egotistically some might say, called it The Theremin.

Right, happy now? Good. Let us continue.

The Theremin became very popular in America in the 1930's, most notably at the hands of Clara Rockmore, who toured the country playing an impressive array of classical pieces.

Due to its otherworldly sound, the Theremin was also used in film soundtracks, particularly Bernard Herrmann's soundtrack to The Day The Earth Stood Still (the original, not that Keanu Reeves abomination) and The Thing From Another World. More recently it was used to great effect in Tim Burton's excellent biopic Ed Wood. This is where you've probably heard the theremin, in a film or TV programme, intended to infer a creepy, sci-fi type feel.

Fortunately, the theremin has been reclaimed since then and is no longer just associated with B-movies. Indeed, there are a large number of contemporary thereminists and composers who are helping to keep interest in this incredible instrument alive.

Theremin Fact! Robert Moog, granddaddy of the synthesiser was directly influenced by the theremin. It appears we have a lot to thank Leon Theremin for.

But enough of my inane rantings. Instead, I present for your listening pleasure a small selection of musical treats incorporating the music of the theremin. Enjoy.

*Please note, these tracks are made available for evaluation/review purposes only. Please do not attempt to download them. Buy the albums instead and support the artists. If you are the copyright owner of any of these tracks and want them to be removed, I will happily do so.*

NOTE: Due to complications caused by the Digital Economy Act, I have removed all music that I do not have permission to share here. Instead, where available, I have linked to a YouTube video of the track.

Bernard Herrmann - The Day The Earth Stood Still - Prelude
A classic 1951 B-movie. If you haven't seen it, do so immediately or at your earliest convenience. Whilst I'm not averse, in principle, to the concept of remakes, this is one of those cases where the 2008 "reimagining" was quite astoundingly bad and should be avoided at all costs. The original is ranked #241 in IMDB's top #250 films.
The composer, Bernard Herrmann, who also scored such films as Cape Fear, North By Northwest, Psycho and Taxi Driver, used two theremins for this movie, one pitched high and one pitched lower. It's an early example of a film soundtrack featuring a largely electronic score.

REMOVED

Howard Shore - Ed Wood - Main Title
This is, quite simply, a fantastic movie. Tim Burton has taken Edward D Wood Jnr, one of the least successful film directors of all time, and woven a biopic around him which is so beautiful and rich that, for a while, you are compelled to seek out Ed Wood's films and give them a look yourself. If you do so, like I did, you will soon become rather disillusioned as you gradually realise that there's a very specific reason he is widely considered the worst director in history...
But Howard Shore's music is wonderful here. So emotive of the era. Listen and enjoy.

Clara Rockmore - Song of Grusia
Rachmaninov's Song of Grusia performed by Clara Rockmore. This, ladies and gents, is theremin playing at its finest.
Rockmore was widely regarded as the greatest thereminist in the world, and was instrumental in its evolution, working closely with Theremin to make a number of improvements to its operation and range. The world of theremin music owes her a great debt.

Barbara Buchholz - Rindenblinde
Barbara Buchholz is a master student of Lydia Kavina, the grandniece of Leon Theremin. She has been a huge influence in the resurgence of the theremin (although, for many, it has never really gone away) and has found many new applications in a variety of contemporary music.

REMOVED

Portishead - Mysterons
Ah, Portishead. Hugely popular at one point, they still hold a place in my heart. Indeed, if you haven't heard Beth Gibbons album 'Out of season' I wholeheartedly recommend you seek it out. Dark, brooding, intensely sad stuff. Or, as a friend of mine described it "music to cut your wrists to". Harumph.
Anyway, Mysterons is one of Portishead's most well known songs and has been used many times in TV and film. Its inclusion here may be seen as controversial because they didn't actually use a theremin when recording this, plumping for a synthesiser instead. Despite that, I feel it should be included simply because it's such a darn good song.

The Faraday Trippers - Andante Misterioso
A couple of weeks ago, when this blog post was in its formative stages, I was on the hunt for theremin music that was somewhat esoteric and challenging. A quick message via Twitter, using the #theremin hashtag, and I'd received a few extremely helpful replies. One came from a chap at Theremin World which gave me lots of interesting leads to follow up and, indeed, made me give careful consideration to actually buying a theremin myself.
Another tweet came from @PatTwit, who's one half of the excellent Faraday Trippers.
These guys are a theremin duo harking from Los Angeles and their album 'The Airburst Suite" is, well, amazing. Indeed, I can do no better than directly quote a review which says,
"In their hands, the theremin is neither a twinky novelty nor a fossilized icon of 20th century modernism, but a portal to a hypnotic and disorienting alternate universe. Their debut album opens with a roar, the blasting churn of the 23-minute “Adagio Furioso,” then creeps into the luminous and haunting fog of the “Andante Misterioso,” before igniting the trans-dimensional slowburn of the “Largo Molto Agitato.” With a sound every bit as experimental and psychedelic as their name implies, the Faraday Trippers ride their chosen instrument through new expanses of netherworldly, otherworldly free improv and drone."
Doesn't that make you want to go out and buy it? I did and can't stop listening to the damn thing. Best £6 I ever spent. If you take nothing else from this meandering post, at the very least go and invest in a copy of their album. You will be all the richer for it.
They very kindly gave me permission to include an excerpt from the album on this blog, so that's precisely what I'm going to do. It's excellent. In fact, *cough, cough* you could call it ThereWIN.

That's all for now, but please be aware that I've barely scratched the surface of theremin music in this post. Seek some out. Immediately.

If anyone has any other theremin-related musical goodness that they'd like to share, leave a comment.

EDIT: After I posted this, I realised that I'd missed an important part of the theremin experience - actually seeing one being played.

For that reason, here's a video of Lydia Kavina playing Debussy's 'Claire De Lune'. Hope you enjoy it watching it as much as I did.

A Selection of Soundtracks

2009-08-03T14:32:00.010+01:00

I've been listening to some film soundtracks lately and thought it'd be a nice idea to share a few of them with you. There's no real rhyme nor reason to these selections, they're just pieces of music that I quite like from a variety of films, some odd, some rare, most incredible. If, after listening to them, you're intrigued enough to check out some of these movies, great.

Please note: These tracks are made available for evaluation/review purposes only. Please do not attempt to download these tracks - buy the albums instead and support the artists. Right, that's the legal bit done - let's listen to some strange music.

Death Line (US title: Raw Meat)

This is a 1972 horror movie starring Donald Pleasance as the crusty policeman Inspector Calhoun. A number of people start going missing from the London Underground and it transpires that they're being snatched by an inbred cannibal who is the direct descendant of a group of rail workers who were trapped at an uncompleted station years before when the tunnel collapsed. If you haven't seen it, it's worth a look if only for the cannibal who, after years in the darkness with only the sound of tube announcements to break the silence, tries to communicate by using the phrase, "Mind the doooooors..." Awful, schlocky effects, but entertaining nonetheless. Also, if you do track it down, look out for a brief cameo from the maestro of horror, Christopher Lee. I'm led to believe that the only reason for his appearance was so they could mention his name in the publicity, thus drawing in eager fans. The bastards.

Track: Death Line - Main Title

El Topo (The Mole)

This film is mental, yet strangely beautiful and compelling. It hails from the twisted mind of Alejandro Jodorowsky who also brought us the equally bizarre Santa Sangre. Dripping with occult and religious symbolism, El Topo features some of the strangest visuals you're likely to see committed to celluloid - one that leaps directly to mind is "the gunfighter" - an armless man who carries around a legless man in a leather sling on his back. Real amputees were used in this and, in one memorable scene, they try to climb a ladder, with mixed results. Whether this is representative of some deep existential point Jodorowsky was trying to make, or he simply thought it would be funny to watch, we may never know. El Topo is full of this sort of thing and it certainly isn't an easy film to watch. However, as cult classics go, chuck out your Rocky Horror Picture Show DVD, toss The Blues Brothers into the bin, and seek out a real cult movie.

Track: El Topo - Main Title

The Black Hole

I have a confession to make - I've never watched Disney's The Black Hole. I decided to remedy this recently by, ahem, availing myself of a copy of the movie. I think I managed to get through about ten minutes of it before switching it off, mainly because IT IS AS DULL AS DITCHWATER. Seriously, it's quite astoundingly dull. Perhaps, as a child, I would have been captivated by it but, as an adult with a rapidly decreasing attention span, it failed to grab me. But the music, ah now that's another matter entirely. John Barry creates a stirring, orchestral score for the film that is a delight to listen to. Give this a go and see what you think.
John Barry fact: Foul-mouthed comedian and magic genius Jerry Sadowitz is a big fan of John Barry's work. See? I bring you pearls.

Track: The Black Hole - Main Title

The Wicker Man

What can I tell you about The Wicker Man that you don't know already? Strangely, I'd never seen this film until about ten years ago when a friend urged me to watch it. I sat down, saw a little sea-plane flying around, heard some strange sort of folk music and a bloke singing about corn, and was instantly unimpressed. However, within moments, the sea-plane had landed at Summerisle and the magic began. I don't think I've ever changed my opinion of a film quite so quickly. It's a wonderful movie that easily stands repeated viewings and, although this is an overused phrase, hasn't aged at all - there's something wonderfully otherworldly about the island that means you wouldn't be surprised if it still existed in that form in the present day. Simply wonderful.

Track: The Wicker Man - The Landlord's Daughter

Dawn Of The Dead (1978)

Forget about running zombies. They are an abomination. Romero's shambling, blank-eyed motherfuckers are much scarier. You see, it doesn't matter how fast you are, how many guns you've got, or how well-barricaded in you think you are, eventually your food will spoil, your bullets will run out, and the masses of perambulating corpses outside will pull your hidey-hole to pieces. Zombies have the advantage simply because of their sheer numbers, their stubborn unwillingness to die, and their hunger for warm flesh. Zombies represent death, and no matter how fast you run, you can't escape destiny.
Dario Argento and his band 'Goblin' famously created a lot of the tracks for this movie, along with a great deal of library music. I'm chucking a couple of tracks in here, although it was a real struggle to narrow it down to just two.

Track: Dawn Of The Dead - L'alba Dei Morti Viventi (Dawn Of The Living Dead)

Track: Dawn Of The Dead - Sympathy For The Dead

Q - The Winged Serpent

A fantastic little movie from the early 80's which actually has more of a 70's feel to it. The late David Carradine stars as a policeman investigating a series of grisly murders - heads bitten off, body parts raining down onto the New York sidewalk, the usual. Of course, it turns out that the beastie responsible is none other than the Aztec God Quetzlcoatl, half lizard, half bird. Obvious really.
This movie is a strange mix - it features some impressive special effects in regard to the blood and gore, including a very well-created live sacrifice in which a man's heart is cut out, but the actual monster itself is, well, rather on the rubbery side. A nice little film to watch with a couple of beers and the pizza of your choice.

Track: Q - Main Title

My Name Is Nobody

Here's a nice cheery number to lighten the mood.
Many people incorrectly believe that Sergio Leone directed this film. He didn't. The screenplay was based on an idea by Leone, but written by Fulvio Morsella and directed by Tonino Valerii. I have to make a confession here - I haven't actually watched it yet. I know, I know, I'm a bad person but, currently, this is retailing at about £15 and I don't want to watch it badly enough to pay that price. The only thing I do know about this movie is, it has another wonderful soundtrack from the incomparable Ennio Morricone. Here, for your listening pleasure, is the main title which you may recognise as it was used in the excellent BBC comedy Nighty Night. Enjoy.

Track: My Name Is Nobody - Main Title

An Experiment in Bacon

2009-07-29T23:24:00.004+01:00

Back in February, I made a brief comment about Spotify in which I said:

Not sure what to make of Spotify yet. I tend to like music applications that present me with random stuff that I wouldn't have otherwise known about. From what I can tell, it doesn't do that. But then I haven't read the instructions for it yet, so maybe I'm talking arse.

I still haven't figured out if Spotify can pluck random music from the ether and pipe it directly into ones delightfully-formed ear-caverns, but I have discovered a rather interesting and neat work-around.

In the second podcast from the excellent Piley (if you haven't checked out his site yet, do so now) he briefly floats the concept of a bacon-themed podcast. Intrigued by the idea, I immediately Googled bacon-related lyrics and found a significant number of songs.

Then, however, it struck me that Spotify might be a better resource for searching out bacon music. A few clicks and keystrokes later, I had a huge list of bacon songs on the screen in front of me.

Rather than just paste the whole lot into a single playlist, I painstakingly listened to each song and, if it grabbed my attention within the first 20 seconds, it made the list.

The result, dear readers, is my Bacon Playlist - hopefully, an interesting diversion containing an eclectic selection of music. Consider it a delicious, bacony amuse bouche.

Install Spotify if you don't already have it (it's free) then open the playlist up. Please note, however, that for some strange reason it doesn't work in Firefox.

For those with an interest in the minutia, here's the track listing:

Bacon Fat - Taj Mahal
Babyskin & Bacon - The Bandit
Blackened Bacon - Neal Schon
Bringing Home The Bacon - Procul Harum
Sweet Bacon - Julien Covey
The Bacon Bunch - Bill Frisell
Bob's Bacon Barn - The Japonize Elephants
Making Bacon - The Pork Dukes
Bacon - Mary Liz McNamara
Bob's Bacon Barn Train #2 - The Japonize Elephants
Bacon Martini - Whiskey Daredevils
Danish Bacon Baby - Instant Sunshine
Bringing Home The Bacon - Porter Wagoner
Bacon & Eggs - Beatnik Turtle
Fake Bacon & Electronic Music Hot Line - Negativland
We Don't Want The Bacon, What We Want Is A Piece Of The Rhine - Ben Lessey

So, the lesson we have learnt today is as follows:

To randomise Spotify in an interesting and entertaining fashion, enter whatever search term jumps into your head and just pick your way through the list. Huge fun, and it doesn't cost a penny. You may thank me later for my delightfully altruistic gesture.

Testing 1, 2, 3

2009-07-26T08:10:00.005+01:00

This is a test. Please ignore it. Normal service (i.e. no posts for weeks, then several all at once) will be resumed shortly.

EDIT: I was testing the excellent sharing website 'Divshare'. Amazingly, it worked, so there may be music and videos and joys of that nature in future blog posts.

Oh, and the first person to correctly identify the film from which that music hails wins a special prize.

The Downward Spiral

2009-07-14T22:57:00.004+01:00

I rarely watch terrestrial television.

Generally speaking, it's a terrible mish-mash of pointless, putrid, lowest-common-denominator programming which does nothing but give malteser-munching sofa-cattle something to look at while they silently creep, slack-jawed, towards an inevitable heart attack / bowel cancer related death.

There are, of course, exceptions. I'm a sucker for Dr. Who, and anything with Charlie Brooker in it is well worth a look. For some reason, I identify with his caustic brand of hatred and disdain. In fact, I'd venture that they're probably my favourite two emotions after extreme rage, scathing bitterness and schadenfreude.

Brooker's new show 'You Have Been Watching' was on this evening at ten, so I wandered into the living room, blew the dust off the remote control and put the TV on. Unfortunately, I was several minutes early and had to endure the closing moments of Big Brother.

Some sort of Wolverine lookalike was laying next to an instantly forgettable, generic brunette, engaging in a vigorous bout of 'personality-jousting', each vying to be the most memorable and/or important. Moments later, I discovered that four people are up for eviction, one of whom is inexplicably and ridiculously called 'Dogface'.

Apart from instantly flickering into my usual state of intense irritation, I was suddenly and astoundingly jolted into a rare moment of sadness as I realised just how much Channel 4 has become a shadow of its former self.

Way back in 1982 when the station went live, it was a breakthrough in British television. It had an impressive record providing programming on the performing arts, and made a significant contribution to film. Indeed, I seem to remember such highlights as Alejander Jodorowsky's 'El Topo', various works by The Brothers Quay (usually co-funded by Channel 4) and a host of other amazing programmes and movies. It was providing content that wasn't available elsewhere, and wasn't afraid to take risks.

Now, the jewels in Channel 4's crown are Big Brother, Embarrassing Teenage Bodies, and Hollyoaks. What the hell happened? Where are the challenging programmes? Where is the worthwhile content?

Sadly, it's all gone. Channel 4 has, in common with the other channels, become nothing but a combination of banal serials, carbon-copy reality TV, and cookie-cutter game shows.

Jan Svankmajer has been replaced by Brian Belo. Aki Kaurismaki is gone, Noel Edmonds has stepped up to the plate. Peter Greenaway has left the building, Chris Moyles has installed a beer cooler in his dressing room. The music of Michael Nyman and Philip Glass has been forgotten; instead we have Lily Allen being piped into the ironically-decorated lifts.

Yes, Channel 4 probably have more viewers as a result of their dumbing down, but I genuinely believe we're very much poorer for it.

The Stupidity of Others, Part 1

2009-07-09T22:14:00.001+01:00

This is the first in a long running series* wherein I will rant about people and how stupid or ignorant they are. Please note, they may not actually be particularly stupid or ignorant at all, but it makes me feel more intelligent by comparison, and I get to experience the vicarious thrill of anonymously belittling them.

*By 'long running' I mean that I'll do it a couple of times then lose interest and not bother anymore.

**************************

Browsers

Today, at work, chatting to colleagues.

Me: So, what browser do you use at home?
Colleague: Just Google.
Me: Ah, Google Chrome, yes?
Colleague: No, just Google.
Me: You mean the Google home page?
Colleague: Yep.
Me: (after a pause) You don't know what a browser is, do you?
Colleague: No. No, I don't.

On this particular occasion, I don't think I need to elaborate further.

****************************

That Film

Colleague: I saw the fourth Indiana Jones film in HMV today. It was only a fiver. I think I might buy it.
Me: This conversation is over.

Quite how I stopped myself launching them out of the window at speed, I'll never know.

That film (I refuse to acknowledge it's name) is a hateful, pustulent, ill-conceived, badly-scripted, poorly-directed pile of shit. It angers me almost to the point of cardiac arrest just thinking about it. If you own a copy, go away immediately before I trace your IP address and pay you a brief but memorable visit.

****************************

How To Ruin A Joke

Have you ever found yourself in a situation where someone tells a joke in mixed company, hilarity ensues, and then one of the group suggests you repeat the joke you told them the other day?
Of course you have. Everyone has. It's a perfectly normal thing to happen.
You then proceed to tell the joke, everyone laughs loudly and is absolutely amazed at what a truly amusing and pleasant person you are, and what a wonderful time they're having in your excellent company.

Unfortunately, there is a particular breed of person who, for some strange, unknown reason, can only remember a joke by its punchline. In and of itself, not a terrible thing, I suppose. However, they take this minor character flaw and compound it by deciding to ask you to tell the joke by giving away the punchline.

Colleague: Dan, tell the Patrick Swayze joke.
Me: (pause) No.
Colleague: Go on, it's really funny.
Me: Not anymore it isn't.
Colleague: Eh?
Me: You have, in the depths of your stupidity, just announced the punchline. Everyone here is now aware of how the joke ends. They can see where it's heading before I even open my mouth. When I speak, all I will be doing is, effectively, explaining the journey to a destination that they've already reached. They will smile politely. There may be a nod of understanding or, more likely, a groan. What there won't be, however, is laughter. Now, perhaps I'm being unnecessarily anal about this, but my opinion is that the entire point of telling a joke is to elicit laughter. If no laughter comes, then I have failed spectacularly to achieve my goal. Do you understand now, why I'm not going to tell the joke?
Colleague: OK, tell the one about the nine-year old weiner.
Me: Boh.

(alright, most of the tail-end of that conversation never actually happened, but I think my point still stands)

I Am Quite Extraordinarily Angry

2009-06-28T14:56:00.003+01:00

Because I made the error of using the word 'homeopathy' on Twitter, I've received yet another follow from a random quack.

This particular person lists their website as a place for 'naturopathy'. In case you're unaware of what that is, I can sum it up relatively easily: take some fruits, vegetables, wheat grass and vitamin supplements, apply a complete misunderstanding of how the body assimilates and uses the goodness in these items, then open a website or clinic and charge people top dollar for what is, essentially, a lot of nonsense. With me? Good. Go and read Ben Goldacre's 'Bad Science' book - he has a lot more information on this stuff. And, in fairness, he's rather more charming, likeable and knowledgeable than I ever will be.

Clicking around on the tweets this quack has written, I came across this charming page.

I was in two minds as to whether or not I should reproduce what's written there, but decided to because of something that I thought it was important for people to see.

My mother is a case of stage IV throat (oropharynx) cancer and has completed 9 rounds of chemotherapy and 40 rounds of radiotherpy? She is unable to eat anything due to the side effects of radio therapy and of course the cancer present in the oropharynx part. Is there someone who has undergone similar cancer treatment through alternative medication? Any answers will be highly appreciated?? My e-mail ID is *********************. Please help.

This person is, obviously, going through absolute hell at the moment and I genuinely feel sorry for them. But, I'm afraid to say, alternative medicine is not the way to beat cancer.

What really angered me, however, was one of the comments left underneath.

Apricot seeds and b17 saved my fathers life. Dx in January with stage 4 stomach cancer to the liver,my dad was not given much hope. Five months later after 1 bag of apricot seeds and 2 bottles of b17 my dad is cancer free. The doctors are stunned, they dont know what to say. The stomach and liver are totally clean.

Wow. That's absolutely amazing. By the simple consumption of apricot seeds and vitamins, someone actually cured their cancer. No other medical intervention took place, merely this simple and cost-effective programme. I take it all back - alternative medicine works and...oh...wait, there's another part...

He did have 5 treatments of chemo each 3 weeks apart but I dont credit the chemo at all.

Can anyone else see the problem here?

I have no further comment to make other than to simply say I am absolutely fucking livid.

Atheism - The New Religion?

2009-06-28T07:05:00.003+01:00

I'm going to describe someone to you. This particular person is a chimera, an amalgam, described for illustrative purposes only.

1) This person strongly believes in a certain philosophical and spiritual position.
They have amassed evidence, in accordance with their accepted criteria, to support this position.
2) Opinions that agree with their position are quickly assimilated and used as further evidence, whilst opinions that do the opposite are disregarded, usually in a demeaning and derogatory way.
3) Although they have one main book which describes their position and is often quoted to support their view, there are other texts that they will read, assimilate and occasionally quote from.
4) They participate heavily in on-line fora, message-boards and discussion groups to hone the details of their chosen position, sharing their 'success stories' and gaining satisfaction from reading the experiences of others.
5) They will meet regularly with others who have the same position, although they may well have very little in common with them besides that.

Ladies and Gentlemen, (and some of you will be way ahead of me here, if for no other reason than the obvious title) I present to you, an Atheist.

Obviously, this does not describe every atheist, merely a new, increasingly visible variety of atheist who is becoming incredibly prolific. To provide appropriate context, let me explain that I am an atheist and actually fall into 3 of the behavioural categories shown above, so am not exempt from the observations I'm about to make.

Over the last couple of years, we've witnessed what would appear to be an incredible growth in the Atheism industry. Those in the religion business would call it a 'revival' and it seems like a reasonable term to use.

Atheist websites sprout at an exponential rate, many books have been published and, in the churning ocean of the Internet, there is usually a new atheist campaign being launched somewhere in the world.

These are not necessarily bad things. It's obvious that religion causes many problems in the world. Some would argue it's not the religion itself but man's interpretation of it for his own nefarious and questionable ends that causes the problem. I would respectfully disagree with that opinion. Religion is man-made, usually designed as a control system, and bases itself on the classic "We're right, they're wrong, and we shall defend our God with violence if necessary" method. Witness the murder of abortionists, or the proliferation of suicide bombers if you disbelieve me. When you study religious texts, you will usually find that the more violent and despicable passages are very clear in their instructions. Those who water them down to create a more palatable product are deluding themselves in more ways than one.

So, the explosion of atheism is opening peoples eyes to the inconsistencies and potential dangers of religion. This is good.

Lone atheists who found themselves unable to adequately vocalise their position can now find supporting arguments that help them to understand and clarify why they believe what they believe. This is also good.

Laws and statutes which seek to blur the lines between church and state are being challenged. This is undeniably positive.

But the growing on-line communities and weekly meetings that some atheists participate in are providing something else entirely. What was initially a meeting of minds is becoming a movement; a belief system in its own right with leaders, rules, 'sacred texts' and symbols.

(Yes, I cherry-picked a number of links there, some of them admittedly rather shaky, to make my point. Mea culpa.)

G.K. Chesterton stated, "When people stop believing in God, they don't believe in nothing — they believe in anything". I think there's some truth in those words (particularly when you examine the number of people who believe in alternative medicine, astrology, psychics and other demonstrable nonsense) in that, without religion, some people feel there is a gap in their life that needs to be filled.

Many years ago, as a teenager, I attended church for a brief period (some teenagers drink, some do drugs, I rebelled by going to church. Yes, yes, I know...) I never truly believed in god, but was happy to wallow in the illusion because of the wonderful sense of camaraderie and, dare I say it, superiority. "Look at us, we've seen through all the lies and deceit! We know the truth! We are cleverer than you!"

There is something deeply attractive about being a light-bearer, of being part of something important and vital. The thrill of knowing 'the truth', no matter what you perceive it to be, is a heady brew indeed.

Some Christians have already accused atheism of being a religion and I would suggest they are in a very good position to offer that observation. They recognise the signs and, in all honesty, I have to say that I'm starting to agree with their theory, although it makes me feel very uncomfortable indeed.

I just hope that, in their semi-religious fervour, militant atheists (I loathe that phrase but it feels strangely appropriate in this context) come to a realisation that they are in real danger of turning what should be an empowering, positive world-view into nothing more than just another system of belief.