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.
31 October 2010
22 August 2010
Of course, you realise this means war?
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.
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.
20 August 2010
The Death of Cinema
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.
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.
15 August 2010
My ongoing battle with Odeon Cinemas
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'.
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'.
4 July 2010
A Brief Return
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:
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.
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.
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.
17 April 2010
The Idiot's Guide To Libel
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 1st 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
On 14th March 2010, The Palace Theatre,
Suddenly, libel law was becoming a hot topic, and with very good reason. Libel laws in the
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
It transpired that 23 copies of the book had been purchased in the
Cases like this are part of an extraordinary upsurge. The
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
With the ever-present threat of libel action hanging over the head of anyone who makes their content available in the
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
Other major
A sudden change
After Simon Singh’s success in the 1st 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 15th 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 1st 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 15th 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
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
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
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.
31 March 2010
The Future Is Indescribably Dull
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 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...?
27 March 2010
I'm in the 'explosive hatred' business
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)