Had a bit of an automotive incident this evening. Not to put to fine a point on it, and borrowing from popular rallying parlance, I spunked my car off the road into a telegraph pole.
Now, before you start, I wasn't speeding. I was under the speed limit for the road, although under oath I would probably say I was driving a little too fast for the conditions (although the car felt fine until this moment). I passed a couple of pedestrians on a country road, and at that split second my fuel light came on. In the second I glanced at it and back, I was on top of a sharp left corner. I put the anchors on, tried to go left then right, had none of it and punted the pole at about 10mph. Oops.
There is no obvious damage to me or the car (although I appear to be suffering some old man-esque aching in the lumbar region). The biggest harm has undoubtedly occurred to my ego, as I have had to concede that my driving skills aren't up to the Lauda standards I previously believed.
Being serious for a minute, I'm genuinely glad the Mrs and cats weren't with me at the time, as I should be the sole victim of my indiscretions, but it does concern me how easily I came off the road. Aside from ever-so-slightly bumping into someone who set off then stopped at a roundabout, I've had a flawless record in 11 years driving, but it just goes to show that if all of the necessary conditions come together, all hell can break loose.
So there you have it; an embarrassing moment which could have been much, much worse. If I've learnt anything, and if I could pass on any advice to others, it would be this:
Make sure you ALWAYS wear decent kecks when you're driving. You never know if you're gonna be cut out of a wreck, and if you are, you want to be wearing decent bills.
Wednesday, 26 December 2007
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
Fashion? Gashion more like
Why can't I buy a normal short-sleeved shirt any more? At one time, your choices were straightforward: long sleeves or short sleeves. I have a penchant for the shorter variety (no jokes) so I opted for the latter.
These days, though, the only short sleeves you can get are these mock rolled-up affairs that make you look like an extra from Hollyoaks. Call me a traditionalist, but if I want rolled up sleeves, I'll roll my fucking sleeves up.
I went looking for a new shirt the other day (see, it does happen) but I couldn't find any normal clothing. In fact, most togs these days seem to be designed for anaemic, drainpipe-legged millionaires, possibly with a liking for inappropriate hats. You can stick that lot up your arse, pal.
In conclusion, could someone, anyone whose job it is to design clobber please spare a thought for the common man; he who doesn't want to look like a Razorlight groupie, but someone who wants to look smart and make the most of his class A backside. Amen.
These days, though, the only short sleeves you can get are these mock rolled-up affairs that make you look like an extra from Hollyoaks. Call me a traditionalist, but if I want rolled up sleeves, I'll roll my fucking sleeves up.
I went looking for a new shirt the other day (see, it does happen) but I couldn't find any normal clothing. In fact, most togs these days seem to be designed for anaemic, drainpipe-legged millionaires, possibly with a liking for inappropriate hats. You can stick that lot up your arse, pal.
In conclusion, could someone, anyone whose job it is to design clobber please spare a thought for the common man; he who doesn't want to look like a Razorlight groupie, but someone who wants to look smart and make the most of his class A backside. Amen.
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Can you imagine what they would actually be like?
I'm loving the story of this thick Manc bint who invented 7 kids in quick succession in order to claim benefits, and actually walked away with £40k before the Feds caught up with her. Apparently she invented quads, and at one point rang twice in six days to say she'd dropped another, and not one check was done on her at the time.
The Inland Revenue said that they give out the brass on a trust basis, often because the applicant is desperate for the money. Maybe so, but surely their systems would have picked up the most pregnant woman in history as she slept on a bed of fresh twenties. Ridiculous.
She's gone down for 10 months in what is being seen as a landmark case and an opportunity for the authorities to put the frighteners on other potential cheats. Fair play, says I, especially when her defence suggested her sister-in-law had come up with the scheme in exchange for a cut of the profits. Nobody in the world is that big a victim, where they're forced to make up kids and live of the affluent returns. Sorry love, you were caught bang to rights.
What's the betting she phones from her cell in a few days cos she's up the duff again?
The Inland Revenue said that they give out the brass on a trust basis, often because the applicant is desperate for the money. Maybe so, but surely their systems would have picked up the most pregnant woman in history as she slept on a bed of fresh twenties. Ridiculous.
She's gone down for 10 months in what is being seen as a landmark case and an opportunity for the authorities to put the frighteners on other potential cheats. Fair play, says I, especially when her defence suggested her sister-in-law had come up with the scheme in exchange for a cut of the profits. Nobody in the world is that big a victim, where they're forced to make up kids and live of the affluent returns. Sorry love, you were caught bang to rights.
What's the betting she phones from her cell in a few days cos she's up the duff again?
Thursday, 6 December 2007
If anything, I want to ram you more
How annoying are those little signs people hang in their car windows? We've got 'Baby on board', 'Little person on board' and even 'Grandchild on board'. I'm yet to fully understand what difference that makes. You don't see a lot of new-borns being rammed off the road anyway, so if anything these signs can only antagonise other (normal) drivers.
However, by far the worst of these signs are from supposed adults, especially ones like 'Little Princess on board'. Not to put to fine a point on it, they well and truly *£@## the living £@**# out of me. Seriously.
What sort of pretentious gimp sports one of these numbers in their car? What message are they trying to get across? I can only presume they're spoilt little brats who think they're somehow special and maybe even above us common folk. If that's the case, then why are they driving these rubbish little hairdressermobiles? Surely royalty like this will be bezzing about in a Roller or Chrysler Neon.
It's one thing to think you're brilliant, but it's quite another to display your delusions of grandeur in the back of your 'car'. Grow up.
However, by far the worst of these signs are from supposed adults, especially ones like 'Little Princess on board'. Not to put to fine a point on it, they well and truly *£@## the living £@**# out of me. Seriously.
What sort of pretentious gimp sports one of these numbers in their car? What message are they trying to get across? I can only presume they're spoilt little brats who think they're somehow special and maybe even above us common folk. If that's the case, then why are they driving these rubbish little hairdressermobiles? Surely royalty like this will be bezzing about in a Roller or Chrysler Neon.
It's one thing to think you're brilliant, but it's quite another to display your delusions of grandeur in the back of your 'car'. Grow up.
The (s)hit parade
The charts is a right old joke these days. Surprisingly I'm not talking about the amount of R 'n' B in it. Nor do I refer to Radio 1 giving the gig to Fearne and Reggie. I'm actually on about the fact that downloads count towards your chart placing.
Now on paper, this is a good idea. Electronic transfer of music is the state of the art these days, so it would be incredibly ignorant for those sales to be left out. However, rather than only counting downloads of recently-released songs, the download of ANY track available at the designated outlets counts. Ridiculous.
When Peter Kay and Little Britain did the Proclaimers charity record, the original record actually made it back into the charts due to the amount of dullards downloading the wrong one. Theoretically, with the right amount of downloads, any track from any time ever could be number one. The charts have been a bit of a misnomer for some time now, but this sort of thing completely removes any element of respect left for this once crucial gauge of your musical success.
The latest is that with Christmas coming, a lot of people will hear tracks they like, download the mothers and the charts will be effectively a Christmas album. Personally I think that might be quite good, at least for novelty value. Then again, the downloads for Cheeky Christmas haven't been counted yet...
Now on paper, this is a good idea. Electronic transfer of music is the state of the art these days, so it would be incredibly ignorant for those sales to be left out. However, rather than only counting downloads of recently-released songs, the download of ANY track available at the designated outlets counts. Ridiculous.
When Peter Kay and Little Britain did the Proclaimers charity record, the original record actually made it back into the charts due to the amount of dullards downloading the wrong one. Theoretically, with the right amount of downloads, any track from any time ever could be number one. The charts have been a bit of a misnomer for some time now, but this sort of thing completely removes any element of respect left for this once crucial gauge of your musical success.
The latest is that with Christmas coming, a lot of people will hear tracks they like, download the mothers and the charts will be effectively a Christmas album. Personally I think that might be quite good, at least for novelty value. Then again, the downloads for Cheeky Christmas haven't been counted yet...
Harold Bishop must be spinning like a top
I absolutely love this story of the canoeist who disappeared, only to turn up 5 years later asking if he was a missing person. Meanwhile his wife has cashed the insurance and cleared off to Panama. 5 minutes later, photos of the pair on holiday rock up from last year and the whole charade falls apart like a Derby County defence. Hilarious.
I must admit I was initially suspicious when this bloke knew his name but nothing else about who he was or where he'd been. And the fact that he turned up 5 years later, rather than a more random time seemed a bit suspect as well. Call me a traditionalist, but if I was trying to defraud the insurance company with an elaborate disappearance, I'd be less inclined to pose in publicity shots for a timeshare company. Pillocks.
Possibly the most amusing part of this whole farce is the fact that their two sons were allegedly clueless about the caper, and are now in full-on tits-out mode about being left in the dark. The press are going to great pains to suggest that the sons might actually be in on it though. Let's face it, their family doesn't exactly have a stellar record in the whole honesty stakes, does it?
I'm sure in hindsight, they would do a lot of things differently. Not getting caught would be a start. Not being completely shite at pretending to have amnesia might work as well. Maybe next time they should disappear in Portugal - nobody ever gets found again over there. Zing.
I must admit I was initially suspicious when this bloke knew his name but nothing else about who he was or where he'd been. And the fact that he turned up 5 years later, rather than a more random time seemed a bit suspect as well. Call me a traditionalist, but if I was trying to defraud the insurance company with an elaborate disappearance, I'd be less inclined to pose in publicity shots for a timeshare company. Pillocks.
Possibly the most amusing part of this whole farce is the fact that their two sons were allegedly clueless about the caper, and are now in full-on tits-out mode about being left in the dark. The press are going to great pains to suggest that the sons might actually be in on it though. Let's face it, their family doesn't exactly have a stellar record in the whole honesty stakes, does it?
I'm sure in hindsight, they would do a lot of things differently. Not getting caught would be a start. Not being completely shite at pretending to have amnesia might work as well. Maybe next time they should disappear in Portugal - nobody ever gets found again over there. Zing.
Wednesday, 28 November 2007
Rant round-up
It's been a while since I posted any of my usual hilarity-filed hate blogs, or hate-filled hilarious blogs for that matter. The simple truth is that while there's been plenty of things annoying me or worthy of writing about, they're often a bit flimsy to justify a whole blog. Move forward a few days and I've got loads of the mothers, so I'll stick them in one handy bilefest.
The easiest job in the world
It has come to my attention lately that there are some lollipop ladies who ply their trade at traffic lights. How easy is that? You don't even need a lolly - you just press the button when they get there (hardly a skill) and let the kids cross. The only slight bit of expertise I can think of is being able to time it so the kids arrive at the crossing just as the lights change. That said, it's still the easiest job ever. Lazy gets.
Winehouse
She's proper blown it, or so you'd think. A couple of highly-publicised piles or arse masquerading as concerts have seen her stock sink significantly, to the extent that she's cancelled all other engagements until the new year. Thinking she'd get her comeuppance, I was staggered to see the amount of support she's been offered since she packed it in. How's that happened? Her husband's in jail - boo hoo, that's his fault, and she's hardly the only prison widow in the world is she? It seems she gets wasted on all manner of high-class narcotics, fails to handle it, packs in her job and gets support. If a footballer or a politician did that, or for that matter anybody in the music world who wasn't deemed 'cool', they would be hammered to pieces by the press. Don't even get me started on them..
Racist teddy
As if a middle-aged woman from Liverpool would know enough about Sudanese culture to know that naming a teddy 'Mohammed' would be deemed religiously libellous. Nobody is having a go at the kids for picking it, nor the parents of the kid who's name was used. It seems the Sudanese government (who are famed for their ethnic cleansing caper) are using this as a stick to beat the UK with. Of course we're concerned about her well-being, but surely they know the kind of military punch we pack, not to mention the allies we have. In a few days they'll give her back and expect praise for being so reasonable. Yeah, putting her in the slammer for naming a teddy Mo was well reasonable. And 40 lashes? Jeez Louise...
It's (not) Christmas
Is it me, or does everybody seem in a right rush to get to Christmas this year? This year more than any other I've noticed or heard of trees going up already. When I saw mince pies in late September I expected that to be the exception, but everyone seems to be setting up shop early this year. Conversely, aside from the usual Coca-Cola dross and a few Dixons ads, the media doesn't seem to have got going yet. Maybe the keenness of the masses is making them look slow. Of course the shops don't need a second invitation; I heard Christmas songs on Remembrance Sunday in Next. Says all you need to know about society don't it?
Obvious loophole?
I really can't be arsed getting into this whole 'secret payments' lark with the government. Who really cares whether someone gives brass to a mate and says "Use it how you like, but it would be ace if you gave it to the Labour Party". So what if they did? It hardly matters does it. If the bloke wanted to keep his anonymity, that's up to him. It's just giving the Tories another stick to belt Gordie B with. Anyway, my point is this; if donations of £5000 or more have to be declared, why didn't he just write loads of cheques for £4,999?
The easiest job in the world
It has come to my attention lately that there are some lollipop ladies who ply their trade at traffic lights. How easy is that? You don't even need a lolly - you just press the button when they get there (hardly a skill) and let the kids cross. The only slight bit of expertise I can think of is being able to time it so the kids arrive at the crossing just as the lights change. That said, it's still the easiest job ever. Lazy gets.
Winehouse
She's proper blown it, or so you'd think. A couple of highly-publicised piles or arse masquerading as concerts have seen her stock sink significantly, to the extent that she's cancelled all other engagements until the new year. Thinking she'd get her comeuppance, I was staggered to see the amount of support she's been offered since she packed it in. How's that happened? Her husband's in jail - boo hoo, that's his fault, and she's hardly the only prison widow in the world is she? It seems she gets wasted on all manner of high-class narcotics, fails to handle it, packs in her job and gets support. If a footballer or a politician did that, or for that matter anybody in the music world who wasn't deemed 'cool', they would be hammered to pieces by the press. Don't even get me started on them..
Racist teddy
As if a middle-aged woman from Liverpool would know enough about Sudanese culture to know that naming a teddy 'Mohammed' would be deemed religiously libellous. Nobody is having a go at the kids for picking it, nor the parents of the kid who's name was used. It seems the Sudanese government (who are famed for their ethnic cleansing caper) are using this as a stick to beat the UK with. Of course we're concerned about her well-being, but surely they know the kind of military punch we pack, not to mention the allies we have. In a few days they'll give her back and expect praise for being so reasonable. Yeah, putting her in the slammer for naming a teddy Mo was well reasonable. And 40 lashes? Jeez Louise...
It's (not) Christmas
Is it me, or does everybody seem in a right rush to get to Christmas this year? This year more than any other I've noticed or heard of trees going up already. When I saw mince pies in late September I expected that to be the exception, but everyone seems to be setting up shop early this year. Conversely, aside from the usual Coca-Cola dross and a few Dixons ads, the media doesn't seem to have got going yet. Maybe the keenness of the masses is making them look slow. Of course the shops don't need a second invitation; I heard Christmas songs on Remembrance Sunday in Next. Says all you need to know about society don't it?
Obvious loophole?
I really can't be arsed getting into this whole 'secret payments' lark with the government. Who really cares whether someone gives brass to a mate and says "Use it how you like, but it would be ace if you gave it to the Labour Party". So what if they did? It hardly matters does it. If the bloke wanted to keep his anonymity, that's up to him. It's just giving the Tories another stick to belt Gordie B with. Anyway, my point is this; if donations of £5000 or more have to be declared, why didn't he just write loads of cheques for £4,999?
Monday, 19 November 2007
Stuff what's cack
Right, paying tribute to sadly passed landlords is a worthy use of this blog, but we both know that's not why I'm doing this. I'm here to teach you oiks about what's rubbish in this world. Such as:
1) Highschool Musical. The worst idea for a programme in the history of mankind. I know two men in their late 20's who absolutely love this programme, which asks more questions than it answers. Pointless drivel.
2) Personalised spare wheel covers on 4x4's which depict the owners dog. Shite.
3) Every ringtone that's ever been made. Ever. It seems every new song that comes out has a ringtone to go with it, regardless of whether it actually sounds owt like the song. My dislike of R 'n' B doesn't need further airing here, but the fact that all you see advertised on these tin-pot music channels is more guns and ho's claptrap in ringtone form just exacerbates things.
4) The British press. Especially the right-wing barely-concealed racist hate spreading ones. If they had their way we'd all be indoors cowering under the illusion that immigrants are eating our babies. The fact that a decent proportion of the population swallow this cobblers fills me with genuine fear for the future.
5) All reality TV. When that Driving School was on about 10 years ago who'd have thought that the plethora of cack that has made it onto TV would happen? It's a little-known fact that 45% of all TV programmes now have the word 'Celebrity' somewhere in their title. Possibly. Either way it's saturation on a ridiculous scale. Think up some proper ideas for programmes you gimps.
All the best. Don't forget to send your Christmas cards.
1) Highschool Musical. The worst idea for a programme in the history of mankind. I know two men in their late 20's who absolutely love this programme, which asks more questions than it answers. Pointless drivel.
2) Personalised spare wheel covers on 4x4's which depict the owners dog. Shite.
3) Every ringtone that's ever been made. Ever. It seems every new song that comes out has a ringtone to go with it, regardless of whether it actually sounds owt like the song. My dislike of R 'n' B doesn't need further airing here, but the fact that all you see advertised on these tin-pot music channels is more guns and ho's claptrap in ringtone form just exacerbates things.
4) The British press. Especially the right-wing barely-concealed racist hate spreading ones. If they had their way we'd all be indoors cowering under the illusion that immigrants are eating our babies. The fact that a decent proportion of the population swallow this cobblers fills me with genuine fear for the future.
5) All reality TV. When that Driving School was on about 10 years ago who'd have thought that the plethora of cack that has made it onto TV would happen? It's a little-known fact that 45% of all TV programmes now have the word 'Celebrity' somewhere in their title. Possibly. Either way it's saturation on a ridiculous scale. Think up some proper ideas for programmes you gimps.
All the best. Don't forget to send your Christmas cards.
Wednesday, 14 November 2007
Tribute to a legend
Today I’m going to break tradition and write a blog that every single reader (all 2 of you) will agree with from top to bottom. It won’t be controversial or aggressive or funny for the sake of it. It makes me feel dirty just writing like this.
No, today I’m paying tribute to a legend. I found out earlier this week that Mark “Larry Landlord” Heron from our local pub was killed in a motorbike crash earlier this year. Having not frequented the pub for some time the news came as a bolt from the blue. This is my small tribute to the man with the 70’s laugh.
I’m not going to pretend I was a friend or that I knew him inside out, but in the (numerous) late nights we spent at his bar we became very friendly with him and found him to be a warm, funny man. He had a laugh you could plane a doorframe with, and he never had a smile off his face. Many is the time that he would say “I’ve got a joke” and you’d have to get the calendar out to work out when you were likely to be able to return to work, such was the length and intricacy of even the simplest joke. The punchline “And two were brown” will forever be with me, but I’m buggered if I can remember any of the joke.
He and his wife Judy kept the pub as family-orientated as possible, which was quite an achievement given the amount of specialists who frequented it. We were always made to feel welcome, and despite being outsiders were never treated as such by them.
Perhaps his finest moment came when a friend of mine (you know who you are) had recently been in Scotland, and as a result had a pocketful of Jock notes. He bought a round and handed over a twenty. Larry took one look at it before ripping it up and throwing it on the floor. My mate squealed like a girl at the sight, only to be greeted by Larry’s enormous laugh seconds later as he stuck it back together and put it in the till. To this day that’s the greatest practical joke I’ve ever seen played – simple but perfectly executed.
His wake was unsurprisingly heavily attended, and I’m a little sad that I didn’t go (I obviously had no idea). I bet it was a proper shindig worthy of him. His wife and daughter have subsequently sold the pubs and moved away, and I don’t blame them. For a man as well known in the village, there must have been reminders of him everywhere.
In conclusion I can say only this: He was a Leeds fan, yet I liked him. God rest you Larry.
No, today I’m paying tribute to a legend. I found out earlier this week that Mark “Larry Landlord” Heron from our local pub was killed in a motorbike crash earlier this year. Having not frequented the pub for some time the news came as a bolt from the blue. This is my small tribute to the man with the 70’s laugh.
I’m not going to pretend I was a friend or that I knew him inside out, but in the (numerous) late nights we spent at his bar we became very friendly with him and found him to be a warm, funny man. He had a laugh you could plane a doorframe with, and he never had a smile off his face. Many is the time that he would say “I’ve got a joke” and you’d have to get the calendar out to work out when you were likely to be able to return to work, such was the length and intricacy of even the simplest joke. The punchline “And two were brown” will forever be with me, but I’m buggered if I can remember any of the joke.
He and his wife Judy kept the pub as family-orientated as possible, which was quite an achievement given the amount of specialists who frequented it. We were always made to feel welcome, and despite being outsiders were never treated as such by them.
Perhaps his finest moment came when a friend of mine (you know who you are) had recently been in Scotland, and as a result had a pocketful of Jock notes. He bought a round and handed over a twenty. Larry took one look at it before ripping it up and throwing it on the floor. My mate squealed like a girl at the sight, only to be greeted by Larry’s enormous laugh seconds later as he stuck it back together and put it in the till. To this day that’s the greatest practical joke I’ve ever seen played – simple but perfectly executed.
His wake was unsurprisingly heavily attended, and I’m a little sad that I didn’t go (I obviously had no idea). I bet it was a proper shindig worthy of him. His wife and daughter have subsequently sold the pubs and moved away, and I don’t blame them. For a man as well known in the village, there must have been reminders of him everywhere.
In conclusion I can say only this: He was a Leeds fan, yet I liked him. God rest you Larry.
Wednesday, 31 October 2007
Rule of the what now?
It often surprises me when I discover that someone or a group of people don't know of a certain phrase, phenomenon and just general knowledge that I believed to be public domain which everybody was aware of. I don't consider myself a close student of current affairs but I seem to always be up on the latest goings on and developments in languages and technologies (chavs, MySpace, etc) that are occurring. Others just don't seem to be as up to date.
Today, for example, I nipped through to see the receptionist about something. When I got there she was on a break so reception was being covered with a young lass of a similar age to me. We had a quick chat and as she was leaving she told me of a piece of handwritten work which was being typed up, but she was confused by it. I offered to help and she showed me a document which detailed ladder usage in the workplace (yawnsome I know, but everything stops for Health and Safety). The sentence she was struggling with went something like this:
"The general rule of thumb is to never stand on the top step of ladders or a stepladder"
Having read it, the following conversation ensued:
Me: What's the prob?
Her: Does that say 'thumb'?
Me: Yeah
Her: Why?
Me:?
Her: Why does it say 'thumb'? That doesn't make any sense.
Me: It says 'rule of thumb'. Have you never heard of it?
Her: Nope
Me: Eh?
This continued for a couple more hours as I couldn't believe she hadn't heard of the phrase 'rule of thumb'. Shortly after the receptionist returned, a middle-aged lady, and she confirmed that she'd never heard of it either. I was absolutely amazed that I had to explain what I considered to be a standard piece of spoken English to people I considered to be on the ball.
It got worse though. I returned to my office and recounted my experience to my colleagues and bugger me if they hadn't heard of it either. I couldn't believe it, to the extent that I thought only I and the writer had ever come across it. Luckily the boss had heard of it so my pending breakdown was avoided. I now plan to poll the remainder of the building to get an idea of just how out of touch they are. Oddballs.
Ironically, as a reszult of this experience, there is a rule of thumb to follow in future: Don't assume everybody has heard of it just because you have.
Today, for example, I nipped through to see the receptionist about something. When I got there she was on a break so reception was being covered with a young lass of a similar age to me. We had a quick chat and as she was leaving she told me of a piece of handwritten work which was being typed up, but she was confused by it. I offered to help and she showed me a document which detailed ladder usage in the workplace (yawnsome I know, but everything stops for Health and Safety). The sentence she was struggling with went something like this:
"The general rule of thumb is to never stand on the top step of ladders or a stepladder"
Having read it, the following conversation ensued:
Me: What's the prob?
Her: Does that say 'thumb'?
Me: Yeah
Her: Why?
Me:?
Her: Why does it say 'thumb'? That doesn't make any sense.
Me: It says 'rule of thumb'. Have you never heard of it?
Her: Nope
Me: Eh?
This continued for a couple more hours as I couldn't believe she hadn't heard of the phrase 'rule of thumb'. Shortly after the receptionist returned, a middle-aged lady, and she confirmed that she'd never heard of it either. I was absolutely amazed that I had to explain what I considered to be a standard piece of spoken English to people I considered to be on the ball.
It got worse though. I returned to my office and recounted my experience to my colleagues and bugger me if they hadn't heard of it either. I couldn't believe it, to the extent that I thought only I and the writer had ever come across it. Luckily the boss had heard of it so my pending breakdown was avoided. I now plan to poll the remainder of the building to get an idea of just how out of touch they are. Oddballs.
Ironically, as a reszult of this experience, there is a rule of thumb to follow in future: Don't assume everybody has heard of it just because you have.
Thursday, 18 October 2007
If I had, do you think I'd tell you?
As many of you will be aware, the UK has a number of regional dialects which vary the tone and pronunciation of words. Most of these dialects also come with their own unique phrases, handed from generation to generation with nobody any the wiser as to what the hell they mean.
For example, I'm sure you're aware of Cockney rhyming slang, where two words are coupled to rhyme with their true meaning. We're all familiar with dog and bone (stone), apples and pears (pears) and Adam and Eve (also pears).
I live in West Yorkshire, and as such am exposed to a number of clever twists of language and creative wordplay. For instance, when wishing to describe the act of surprising someone when you catch them not pulling their weight in a work setting, I'm told the correct terminology is "Catch a weasel sleeping, piss in its lug". A lovely sentiment of which Shakespeare himself would be proud.
However, far and away the most unusual and, yes, controversial of these local sayings is commonplace when wishing to enquire at the earliness of someones arrival, especially when arriving early to work. On more occasions than I can remember, I've arrived at work a mere half hour early, and been confronted by the following poetic question:
"What's up? Shit the bed?"
My traditional answer is "Indeed I have, good woman. Despite being the right side of thirty (unlike you) I somehow managed to lose control of my entire digestive system and defecate in my bed. However, rather than run the risk of cleaning it up, I put on my clothes and hot-footed it to work, safe in the knowledge I was extremely early, albeit a little grubby downstairs"
Why the fuck would being early to work mean I'd shit the bed? Aside from the obvious thought of "If I had, why the bloody hell would I tell you?", you have to wonder about how that link has developed over time so this phrase is now apt for this situation. Presumably in days of yore, a person got the mud hut early, was quizzed about his premature arrival and under pressure uttered the phrase "Er, I've shit the bed". That's my theory anyway.
For example, I'm sure you're aware of Cockney rhyming slang, where two words are coupled to rhyme with their true meaning. We're all familiar with dog and bone (stone), apples and pears (pears) and Adam and Eve (also pears).
I live in West Yorkshire, and as such am exposed to a number of clever twists of language and creative wordplay. For instance, when wishing to describe the act of surprising someone when you catch them not pulling their weight in a work setting, I'm told the correct terminology is "Catch a weasel sleeping, piss in its lug". A lovely sentiment of which Shakespeare himself would be proud.
However, far and away the most unusual and, yes, controversial of these local sayings is commonplace when wishing to enquire at the earliness of someones arrival, especially when arriving early to work. On more occasions than I can remember, I've arrived at work a mere half hour early, and been confronted by the following poetic question:
"What's up? Shit the bed?"
My traditional answer is "Indeed I have, good woman. Despite being the right side of thirty (unlike you) I somehow managed to lose control of my entire digestive system and defecate in my bed. However, rather than run the risk of cleaning it up, I put on my clothes and hot-footed it to work, safe in the knowledge I was extremely early, albeit a little grubby downstairs"
Why the fuck would being early to work mean I'd shit the bed? Aside from the obvious thought of "If I had, why the bloody hell would I tell you?", you have to wonder about how that link has developed over time so this phrase is now apt for this situation. Presumably in days of yore, a person got the mud hut early, was quizzed about his premature arrival and under pressure uttered the phrase "Er, I've shit the bed". That's my theory anyway.
Friday, 12 October 2007
When your life's on its arse
Just a quick one cos I need a shower. I nipped into Tescos on the way home to pick up some bits, and ended up in the pet food aisle to get some grub for the mogs. At the same time a middle-aged couple were doing the same.
I was minding my own business as usual but couldn't help overhear them as we both looked at the same selection. I found my usual brand, put it in my basket and was making off when they began loading shitloads of cat food into their trolley. Having put 3 or 4 cases in, the woman then picked up another and put it in with the line 'One more for luck'
My question therefore is this.
Just how shite is your life when you rely upon a case of cat food to bring you good luck? Poor buggers...
I was minding my own business as usual but couldn't help overhear them as we both looked at the same selection. I found my usual brand, put it in my basket and was making off when they began loading shitloads of cat food into their trolley. Having put 3 or 4 cases in, the woman then picked up another and put it in with the line 'One more for luck'
My question therefore is this.
Just how shite is your life when you rely upon a case of cat food to bring you good luck? Poor buggers...
Thursday, 11 October 2007
You know you make me want to exclaim
What is it with people using exclamation marks at the end of every sentence? As with most people these days, email is a major communication tool, and as such you are exposed to a myriad different writing styles. Some people see grammar and spelling as more of a suggestion; others have a casual attitude to keeping sentences under 1,000 words. Being a bit of a grammatical pedant I'm always quick to pounce on any mistakes made in emails (pathetic, I know) but the use of exclamation marks at the end of sentences or to imply some kind of unwarranted emotion within the sentence gets completely and utterly on my tits.
http://www.dictionary.com/ defines an exclamation mark as "The sign used in writing after an exclamation" or "sometimes used in writing two or more times in succession to indicate intensity of emotion, loudness, etc.: Long live the Queen!!". Nowhere in this description is it mentioned that it can be used to end a standard sentence. Luckily, language experts have noticed this trend and have recently come up with a new punctuation mark to deal with the lack of sentence ending ability. They've called it a full stop. Maybe it'll catch on.
Now, I don't expect everybody to understand every nuance of grammar. I consider myself a student of the art of correct writing but I know a tiny amount of what is out there. However, I can't understand why anyone would have the impression that an exclamation mark is a suitable sentence ender. You can imagine some of the potential pitfalls in the workplace if you're not sure of its proper use:
- Smith, Albert. Died peacefully after a long battle against cancer! Rest in peace, Granddad!
- Police describe the murderer as white, six feet tall with a shaved head! The public are warned not to approach him as he is extremely dangerous!
- Breaking news - thousands of people have been killed after an airliner slammed into the World Trade Centre!
See? It doesn't exactly convey a professional tone does it? Of course, there are exceptions:
- Leeds United docked fifteen points for financial irregularities!
In conclusion, try and be a bit more creative with your language. If you must insist on being a Grade-A thickie and using exclamation marks at the end of every sentence, at least make each line funny to justify it. Have a nice day!
http://www.dictionary.com/ defines an exclamation mark as "The sign used in writing after an exclamation" or "sometimes used in writing two or more times in succession to indicate intensity of emotion, loudness, etc.: Long live the Queen!!". Nowhere in this description is it mentioned that it can be used to end a standard sentence. Luckily, language experts have noticed this trend and have recently come up with a new punctuation mark to deal with the lack of sentence ending ability. They've called it a full stop. Maybe it'll catch on.
Now, I don't expect everybody to understand every nuance of grammar. I consider myself a student of the art of correct writing but I know a tiny amount of what is out there. However, I can't understand why anyone would have the impression that an exclamation mark is a suitable sentence ender. You can imagine some of the potential pitfalls in the workplace if you're not sure of its proper use:
- Smith, Albert. Died peacefully after a long battle against cancer! Rest in peace, Granddad!
- Police describe the murderer as white, six feet tall with a shaved head! The public are warned not to approach him as he is extremely dangerous!
- Breaking news - thousands of people have been killed after an airliner slammed into the World Trade Centre!
See? It doesn't exactly convey a professional tone does it? Of course, there are exceptions:
- Leeds United docked fifteen points for financial irregularities!
In conclusion, try and be a bit more creative with your language. If you must insist on being a Grade-A thickie and using exclamation marks at the end of every sentence, at least make each line funny to justify it. Have a nice day!
Monday, 8 October 2007
My biggest fear
Everyone's got fears. Some are justified; terrorism, flying, Dale Winton. Others are less so; thunderstorms, rats, ITV, etc. However, out of all the many fears we suffer from, there is always one which ranks above all others in terms of the terror it generates in its sufferer.
Often, these fears can also be quite embarrassing. Maybe you're a juggler who's scared of clowns, an airline pilot scared of not being pissed, that sort of thing. I'm ashamed to admit that I do have a fear which is both crippling and ridiculous.
I'm scared of accidentally calling my boss 'Dad'.
Can you imagine the shame? The stupidity? The potential end of career? I don't know why but whenever I visit the MD of my company I always have the compelling thought that I mustn't call him 'Dad'. I've got absolutely no idea why I would, but I guess it's just that school-level embarrassment when you accidentally call the teacher 'Mum' or 'Dad'. At that age you can't live it down, so what chance have you got as an adult, when the environment in which you exist is that much more immature? I literally have to consciously think 'Now, whatever you do...' every time I see him, which is ridiculous, quite frankly. God alone knows what a shrink would make of it, but I'm not about to fork out thirty notes an hour to find out. I'll just live with it.
What's your biggest fear, dear reader?
Often, these fears can also be quite embarrassing. Maybe you're a juggler who's scared of clowns, an airline pilot scared of not being pissed, that sort of thing. I'm ashamed to admit that I do have a fear which is both crippling and ridiculous.
I'm scared of accidentally calling my boss 'Dad'.
Can you imagine the shame? The stupidity? The potential end of career? I don't know why but whenever I visit the MD of my company I always have the compelling thought that I mustn't call him 'Dad'. I've got absolutely no idea why I would, but I guess it's just that school-level embarrassment when you accidentally call the teacher 'Mum' or 'Dad'. At that age you can't live it down, so what chance have you got as an adult, when the environment in which you exist is that much more immature? I literally have to consciously think 'Now, whatever you do...' every time I see him, which is ridiculous, quite frankly. God alone knows what a shrink would make of it, but I'm not about to fork out thirty notes an hour to find out. I'll just live with it.
What's your biggest fear, dear reader?
Saturday, 6 October 2007
Oo-er - A serious one
I make no secret of the fact that I have an unusual train of thought. Simple events often lead me on a cognitive merry-go-round which ends up in unorthodox, often dark places. The simple act of a colleague leaving work early to go to prayers led me to the possibility of raising the dead and its implications on Human Resources policy. As you would expect.
As I said, a Muslim colleague goes to prayers a couple of times a day. Work are completely happy with this situation, when he nips out for twenty minutes to the local mosque and gets his prayer on. However, as I said, I often go off on one thoughts-wise, and this is what I came up with:
- Guy goes to prayer
- Work lets him because of his religious beliefs
- What if a recently dead person is brought back to life by means of a revolutionary new medical procedure and he announces there is no afterlife?
- Throws all religion into doubt
- Companies use this new finding to ban all religious leniency during work hours
- The shit hits the fan
Odd, yes? Basically, my thoughts turns towards the ability to bring someone back from the dead weeks after they died and they're like "Bloody hell - I thought I'd go to < arbitrary posthumous destination > but I didn't. Turns out religion is just a load of old hooey". Makes you think, doesn't it? What if science could dispel the existence of religion - the place would be in uproar.
I mentioned this to the Mrs (my regular pre-blog sounding board/moral filter) and she said that the religious types would just argue that God/Allah/Whoever meant for this person to be brought back to life, thus negating the scientific argument, and it's an intriguing thought. Basically, no matter what science can or can't prove in the future, God-squadders could just say "Yeah - God did that. Mysterious ways, etc".
I'm not sure I'm going to be able to settle this argument in one blog, but I hope I've made you think about religion and science and all that caper. Beats another anti-Katona rant I suppose...
As I said, a Muslim colleague goes to prayers a couple of times a day. Work are completely happy with this situation, when he nips out for twenty minutes to the local mosque and gets his prayer on. However, as I said, I often go off on one thoughts-wise, and this is what I came up with:
- Guy goes to prayer
- Work lets him because of his religious beliefs
- What if a recently dead person is brought back to life by means of a revolutionary new medical procedure and he announces there is no afterlife?
- Throws all religion into doubt
- Companies use this new finding to ban all religious leniency during work hours
- The shit hits the fan
Odd, yes? Basically, my thoughts turns towards the ability to bring someone back from the dead weeks after they died and they're like "Bloody hell - I thought I'd go to < arbitrary posthumous destination > but I didn't. Turns out religion is just a load of old hooey". Makes you think, doesn't it? What if science could dispel the existence of religion - the place would be in uproar.
I mentioned this to the Mrs (my regular pre-blog sounding board/moral filter) and she said that the religious types would just argue that God/Allah/Whoever meant for this person to be brought back to life, thus negating the scientific argument, and it's an intriguing thought. Basically, no matter what science can or can't prove in the future, God-squadders could just say "Yeah - God did that. Mysterious ways, etc".
I'm not sure I'm going to be able to settle this argument in one blog, but I hope I've made you think about religion and science and all that caper. Beats another anti-Katona rant I suppose...
Sunday, 30 September 2007
There's an easy solution to your problem, mate
When you're out, in a busy pub, or anywhere where it's quiet enough to hear other people's conversations as they pass, you're gonna hear the odd gem that deserves a wider airing.
Such an incident occurred last night.
I was waiting for a mate to return with drinks as a group of 3-4 lads wandered past, heavily in conversation. I wasn't eavesdropping but as they passed it was impossible not to hear them. In the few steps before they went past I picked up they were talking about chocolate bars from the past, and one of the protagonists issued this little comment:
"Yeah, my favourite used to be Marathon. I loved them"
Now, he didn't actually say "It's a shame they no longer exist" but his tone and general delivery heavily suggested that he rues the fact that he can longer get hold of a Marathon bar.
Is it just me who wanted to shout "Well buy a bloody Snickers then"? Chances are that seconds later he went on to discuss Snickers but that's the danger of talking as you pass people - the chance that they'll pick up on a small section of your debate, take it massively out of context and splash it all over the Internet for their own comedic ends. That's why I always stall when I'm passing strangers so they don't hear me say something libel and I end up in the big house. Possibly with Jim MacDonald. Stranger things have happened.
Such an incident occurred last night.
I was waiting for a mate to return with drinks as a group of 3-4 lads wandered past, heavily in conversation. I wasn't eavesdropping but as they passed it was impossible not to hear them. In the few steps before they went past I picked up they were talking about chocolate bars from the past, and one of the protagonists issued this little comment:
"Yeah, my favourite used to be Marathon. I loved them"
Now, he didn't actually say "It's a shame they no longer exist" but his tone and general delivery heavily suggested that he rues the fact that he can longer get hold of a Marathon bar.
Is it just me who wanted to shout "Well buy a bloody Snickers then"? Chances are that seconds later he went on to discuss Snickers but that's the danger of talking as you pass people - the chance that they'll pick up on a small section of your debate, take it massively out of context and splash it all over the Internet for their own comedic ends. That's why I always stall when I'm passing strangers so they don't hear me say something libel and I end up in the big house. Possibly with Jim MacDonald. Stranger things have happened.
Thursday, 27 September 2007
If that's her, then I'm a monkey's uncle
Come on, 'fess up. How many of you actually thought that the girl who looked nowt like Madeleine McCann would actually turn out to be her? You might as well have sent a picture of Kris Akabusi to the cops and said "Is this her?"
Aside from the obvious question "why the pissing hell were you taking snaps of the locals?" you just know once the Spanish bird got them developed she was like "Hold on el momento, that looks slightly less than 5% like old McCanno - I reckon we could flog this to the press for a shitload of liras". They saw the fleeting chance of stardom and took it, the sick bastardos. Who knows, they might have even thought it was her and took the picture, but I'll bet you a sizable some that they were humming the Spanish equivalent of "I'm in the money" when they took it.
Is this how desperate this search has become? Another blond child (albeit a year or so older than Maddy) is spotted in Morocco so it's all over the papers for 24 hours? Jesus Harold Christ if that isn't a straw-clutching fest. I do genuinely feel sorry for the little mite but these sort of cry wolf efforts are going to turn the public cynical double quick. Hands up who thinks the press only published it to flog papers?
Anyway, I for one hope she is found, and maybe she'll be able to tell us what happened (best news conference ever, I'm sure you'll agree) but in all truth this will turn out to be another Ben Needham case, and we might as well pack up and concentrate on something we've got more chance of achieving, like winning in Iraq or summat. Sad but true.
Aside from the obvious question "why the pissing hell were you taking snaps of the locals?" you just know once the Spanish bird got them developed she was like "Hold on el momento, that looks slightly less than 5% like old McCanno - I reckon we could flog this to the press for a shitload of liras". They saw the fleeting chance of stardom and took it, the sick bastardos. Who knows, they might have even thought it was her and took the picture, but I'll bet you a sizable some that they were humming the Spanish equivalent of "I'm in the money" when they took it.
Is this how desperate this search has become? Another blond child (albeit a year or so older than Maddy) is spotted in Morocco so it's all over the papers for 24 hours? Jesus Harold Christ if that isn't a straw-clutching fest. I do genuinely feel sorry for the little mite but these sort of cry wolf efforts are going to turn the public cynical double quick. Hands up who thinks the press only published it to flog papers?
Anyway, I for one hope she is found, and maybe she'll be able to tell us what happened (best news conference ever, I'm sure you'll agree) but in all truth this will turn out to be another Ben Needham case, and we might as well pack up and concentrate on something we've got more chance of achieving, like winning in Iraq or summat. Sad but true.
Sunday, 23 September 2007
A lifetime's silence, please
I was sad to hear of the death of Marcel Marseau today, the French mime artist who managed to make a career out of the most pointless branch of art this side of juggling. Fair play to the lad, he became world famous for it (beating off competition from the thousands of other mime artists around the world that we know and love) and somehow managed to keep paying the bills using the same old act for the hundred odd years he was doing it. Hat doffage there.
Of course, me being me, I can't get the thought of his funeral out of my head. Aside from it being a quiet affair (arf), I'm can imagine it's going to be held in a massive glass box which you must feel your way around to locate your seat. Apparently there is a ladder leading to the door, although it's quite breezy outside so you may have to lean into the wind to make any headway. Anybody who brings a briefcase which gets stuck in midair is to leave it by the door, and there will be a slap-up banquet of bananas at the wake. Sounds like a hoot.
Of course, me being me, I can't get the thought of his funeral out of my head. Aside from it being a quiet affair (arf), I'm can imagine it's going to be held in a massive glass box which you must feel your way around to locate your seat. Apparently there is a ladder leading to the door, although it's quite breezy outside so you may have to lean into the wind to make any headway. Anybody who brings a briefcase which gets stuck in midair is to leave it by the door, and there will be a slap-up banquet of bananas at the wake. Sounds like a hoot.
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
Where there's blame, there's a &%#£~*
I made the very grave error of listening to a phone-in radio show on the way to work today - huge mistake. I make it my business to stay away from this sort of caper usually, but I was trying to get updates on the cricket (fat lot of good that was) so I had to persevere with this idiotfest.
Now, I expect this programme to be littered with the unemployed and slightly racist retired of this great nation at this time, so I wasn't surprised that there was a recovering alcoholic and a heavily opinionated man on the show. What did strike me though was the unbelievable level of blame that they place on other people for their or their familes' shortcomings.
The alky was on a feature about supermarkets flogging ale on the cheap which is leading to an increase in alcohol consumption (I'll digress slightly to say that it didn't say increased alcoholism; just an increased intake. Not exactly the end of the world). Anyway, this chap said that he drank more because it was cheaper to get hold of. Now, if that's not blaming others for your problems then I don't know what it. He was asked if the prices were greater, would that have stopped him drinking as much, and he had the brass neck to say it would. What sort of pisshead is he? The sort that drinks to a budget. Spend any time talking or reading about this 'disease' and you'll quickly learn that a little drawback such as not having enough money is far from a prevention. They'll just nick it, or nick money off loved ones to get it. So straight away he's talking cobblers.
I just couldn't believe he was laying the blame for his weakness at the door of the supermarket, who flog millions of pounds worth of ale to the likes of us normal folk who don't drink as a hobby. It's pathetic, spineless and self-deluded and in my opinion the host didn't take him in hand on this one and point out the flaw in his argument.
Anyway, that finished, I calmed down and we went onto the next feature. Apparently, there had been some cops on the show earlier talking about how difficult their job was what with all of the paperwork and such which prevented real crime fighting. Enter nemesis number 2.
This old guy came on and told a monumentally boring story about how his daughter had gone to his house when he wasn't in, and ended up being trapped on the balcony by a spider (must've been a big 'un). He justified this lameness with the 'fact' that she was an arachnaphobe of the highest order, so she immediately phoned her dad, brother and friend to get them over to kill it. The obviously didn't think she was that scared of them because they all said no, but her friend suggested she call the Feds as 'they deal with this kind of thing'. You can see where we're going with this...
So she rings them and tells them what's occurring, but it should be noted that he didn't say she'd mentioned the spider to them (he said "she's articulate so she must have done") and an hour later, 8 cops in a black Maria turned up asking about the incident she'd reported.
This time the host got it right, and asked how this was the cops' fault when an incident (note - no spider mentioned) was reported, and he went on to say that because she's such a big old arachnaphobe, they should be expected to attend such distressing ordeals. So, not only did he seriously think that the cops should race to the scene of a spider, but he then went on to bemoan the attendance of so many. In all likelihood they were returning from another call and popped in, but he happily sidestepped that to make this ridiculous point. He was blaming the coppers for sending too many people, cleverly avoiding the fact his daughter is a grade-A cretin for calling them.
Unfortunately I missed the rest of the interview because I turned the radio off and said a swear word, but I'd heard enough. It's about bloody time these sort of people were rounded up and were taught how to take responsibility for their own actions/drinking/cretinous children, instead of blaming all and sundry for their terrible lot in life. They're a disgrace and no error.
Now, I expect this programme to be littered with the unemployed and slightly racist retired of this great nation at this time, so I wasn't surprised that there was a recovering alcoholic and a heavily opinionated man on the show. What did strike me though was the unbelievable level of blame that they place on other people for their or their familes' shortcomings.
The alky was on a feature about supermarkets flogging ale on the cheap which is leading to an increase in alcohol consumption (I'll digress slightly to say that it didn't say increased alcoholism; just an increased intake. Not exactly the end of the world). Anyway, this chap said that he drank more because it was cheaper to get hold of. Now, if that's not blaming others for your problems then I don't know what it. He was asked if the prices were greater, would that have stopped him drinking as much, and he had the brass neck to say it would. What sort of pisshead is he? The sort that drinks to a budget. Spend any time talking or reading about this 'disease' and you'll quickly learn that a little drawback such as not having enough money is far from a prevention. They'll just nick it, or nick money off loved ones to get it. So straight away he's talking cobblers.
I just couldn't believe he was laying the blame for his weakness at the door of the supermarket, who flog millions of pounds worth of ale to the likes of us normal folk who don't drink as a hobby. It's pathetic, spineless and self-deluded and in my opinion the host didn't take him in hand on this one and point out the flaw in his argument.
Anyway, that finished, I calmed down and we went onto the next feature. Apparently, there had been some cops on the show earlier talking about how difficult their job was what with all of the paperwork and such which prevented real crime fighting. Enter nemesis number 2.
This old guy came on and told a monumentally boring story about how his daughter had gone to his house when he wasn't in, and ended up being trapped on the balcony by a spider (must've been a big 'un). He justified this lameness with the 'fact' that she was an arachnaphobe of the highest order, so she immediately phoned her dad, brother and friend to get them over to kill it. The obviously didn't think she was that scared of them because they all said no, but her friend suggested she call the Feds as 'they deal with this kind of thing'. You can see where we're going with this...
So she rings them and tells them what's occurring, but it should be noted that he didn't say she'd mentioned the spider to them (he said "she's articulate so she must have done") and an hour later, 8 cops in a black Maria turned up asking about the incident she'd reported.
This time the host got it right, and asked how this was the cops' fault when an incident (note - no spider mentioned) was reported, and he went on to say that because she's such a big old arachnaphobe, they should be expected to attend such distressing ordeals. So, not only did he seriously think that the cops should race to the scene of a spider, but he then went on to bemoan the attendance of so many. In all likelihood they were returning from another call and popped in, but he happily sidestepped that to make this ridiculous point. He was blaming the coppers for sending too many people, cleverly avoiding the fact his daughter is a grade-A cretin for calling them.
Unfortunately I missed the rest of the interview because I turned the radio off and said a swear word, but I'd heard enough. It's about bloody time these sort of people were rounded up and were taught how to take responsibility for their own actions/drinking/cretinous children, instead of blaming all and sundry for their terrible lot in life. They're a disgrace and no error.
Monday, 17 September 2007
It would be easier if you weren't on telly, mate
What the hell is OJ Simpson up to now? Not content with getting away with the most obvious murder since Hear'Say picked up microphones, he's now been arrested on suspicion of armed robbery.
Where the hell do you start with that one?
First and foremost, I can't believe a man who is that recognisable would do something so stupid. He's one of the most known faces in the world, let alone the US after his court case, so where's the logic in sticking a gun up someone's nose to nick their sports memorabilia? They're not exactly gonna say "Now where I have I seen him before?". The cops would be onto old OJ before he was in the foyer, the silly sod.
Then there's the act itself. Is he that much on the bones of his arse that he needs to start robbing now? I know his unbelievably distasteful book (where he describes in detail how he would have killed his wife and lover if he had done it) was pulled at the 11th hour, but surely he's still got a few quid knocking around? I'm not sure how popular he still is in the States, but I'm sure he could make a few bob on the after-dinner circuit, talking about his glittering football career if nothing else. The whole thing smacks of desperation and documents another downturn in the car crash that is OJ's life these days. Pillock.
Where the hell do you start with that one?
First and foremost, I can't believe a man who is that recognisable would do something so stupid. He's one of the most known faces in the world, let alone the US after his court case, so where's the logic in sticking a gun up someone's nose to nick their sports memorabilia? They're not exactly gonna say "Now where I have I seen him before?". The cops would be onto old OJ before he was in the foyer, the silly sod.
Then there's the act itself. Is he that much on the bones of his arse that he needs to start robbing now? I know his unbelievably distasteful book (where he describes in detail how he would have killed his wife and lover if he had done it) was pulled at the 11th hour, but surely he's still got a few quid knocking around? I'm not sure how popular he still is in the States, but I'm sure he could make a few bob on the after-dinner circuit, talking about his glittering football career if nothing else. The whole thing smacks of desperation and documents another downturn in the car crash that is OJ's life these days. Pillock.
Friday, 14 September 2007
Namey McNameName
Everyone thinks they're funny. Many are not. I, however, am a spectacular buck in that particular trend, cos I'm goddamn hilarious. But, as Uncle Ben says to Spider-Man shortly before he gets killed by that unconvincing baddie - "With great power comes great responsibility"
In my role as Jokes Hilaureat (self-titled), it is my responsibility to pass on the tips and tricks of the comedy trade to my common man, to make them that little bit funnier. As my common man is not around today (see - always thinking of comedic angles to exploit) I thought I'd pass the value onto you. Today, we're talking about constructing the comedy name.
There are many funny names in society - Neville Neville, Desmond Tutu, Cher, but to construct your own comedy name, you need only two things - some syllables and a 'Mc'.
Allow me to demonstrate - say one of your friends has a penchant for sitting on the toilet for an extended length of time. With minimal wordplay, and the ubiquitous 'Mc', you can create 'Boggy McSitSit', 'Louie McCackAges', 'Toilet McHurryUp' in seconds. They literally roll of the tongue, and like clip show hosted by Steve Penk, if it's done well, it's exceptional.
In the words of Scouse school glue-botherer Neil Buchanan, "Try it yourself". It's Simple McPissEasy...
In my role as Jokes Hilaureat (self-titled), it is my responsibility to pass on the tips and tricks of the comedy trade to my common man, to make them that little bit funnier. As my common man is not around today (see - always thinking of comedic angles to exploit) I thought I'd pass the value onto you. Today, we're talking about constructing the comedy name.
There are many funny names in society - Neville Neville, Desmond Tutu, Cher, but to construct your own comedy name, you need only two things - some syllables and a 'Mc'.
Allow me to demonstrate - say one of your friends has a penchant for sitting on the toilet for an extended length of time. With minimal wordplay, and the ubiquitous 'Mc', you can create 'Boggy McSitSit', 'Louie McCackAges', 'Toilet McHurryUp' in seconds. They literally roll of the tongue, and like clip show hosted by Steve Penk, if it's done well, it's exceptional.
In the words of Scouse school glue-botherer Neil Buchanan, "Try it yourself". It's Simple McPissEasy...
Sunday, 9 September 2007
Look - she's picking her nose
Doubtless by now you will have heard about the latest in Madeleine McCann's disappearance, when 48 hours after being officially declared as suspects, the parents jumped on a plane and came back to England. It's a spectacular piece of bad PR for the search efforts as despite claims that they want to get their other children home, it just looks like they've cut and run. Granted they will be made to go back soon for further investigation, but I don't think anyone's buying their insistence that they were already planning to come back when they've been there for months and only come back when the cops get frisky.
I'm not for a minute going to comment on the potential guilt or otherwise of the McCanns (although she has the dead eyes of a convict, and the way they deflect accusations from the press don't exactly convince you that they are offended about being accused), but I do want to pass several comments on the unbelievable level of coverage their return generated. Obviously it's a big step in the case due to the points I made above, but do we really need to see live footage of the plane landing at East Midlands, then 20 minutes of the other passengers being led off before they're finally allowed to get off? Sky even had the 'SkyCopter' on the scene, just in case a ground-level camera by the door of the plane wasn't sufficient. It was pure sensationalism and as I write, 6 hours after they arrived there are still 'Breaking News' tickers on the main news channels telling us they're back. Honestly, who gives that much of a shit?
At the end of the day, the case is far from over. If they'd been charged and then did one on a plane, fair enough, but this was simply a family returning from Portugal. Their village was crawling with press hours before they even got on the plane, and ridiculously, during coverage of further fatalities in Afghanistan, there was a live feed from the front door of their home to keep us up to speed. Fine, if this hadn't been 10am this morning.
It just goes to show that these 24-hour news channels have got bugger all to talk about, and see anything slightly above the ordinary as a chance to prove their existence. Everything that has gone on today could be quickly tied up in 3-4 sentences at the top of the bulletin, but instead they've got correspondents all over the shop (including at the airport they flew FROM , hours after they left). I simply cannot believe anyone would still be sitting in front of their telly waiting for further developments. All that's left to announce is what they had for their tea. I expect that to make the late bulletin though...
I'm not for a minute going to comment on the potential guilt or otherwise of the McCanns (although she has the dead eyes of a convict, and the way they deflect accusations from the press don't exactly convince you that they are offended about being accused), but I do want to pass several comments on the unbelievable level of coverage their return generated. Obviously it's a big step in the case due to the points I made above, but do we really need to see live footage of the plane landing at East Midlands, then 20 minutes of the other passengers being led off before they're finally allowed to get off? Sky even had the 'SkyCopter' on the scene, just in case a ground-level camera by the door of the plane wasn't sufficient. It was pure sensationalism and as I write, 6 hours after they arrived there are still 'Breaking News' tickers on the main news channels telling us they're back. Honestly, who gives that much of a shit?
At the end of the day, the case is far from over. If they'd been charged and then did one on a plane, fair enough, but this was simply a family returning from Portugal. Their village was crawling with press hours before they even got on the plane, and ridiculously, during coverage of further fatalities in Afghanistan, there was a live feed from the front door of their home to keep us up to speed. Fine, if this hadn't been 10am this morning.
It just goes to show that these 24-hour news channels have got bugger all to talk about, and see anything slightly above the ordinary as a chance to prove their existence. Everything that has gone on today could be quickly tied up in 3-4 sentences at the top of the bulletin, but instead they've got correspondents all over the shop (including at the airport they flew FROM , hours after they left). I simply cannot believe anyone would still be sitting in front of their telly waiting for further developments. All that's left to announce is what they had for their tea. I expect that to make the late bulletin though...
Friday, 7 September 2007
Hold on, I thought you were married?
I love going out. Letting the old hair down and spending a small fortune on premium European lager while discussing the topics of the day and/or gameshow ideas is what makes me tick. I'm still young in relative terms but the chances to get out with my mates will inevitably lessen as we move towards our 'mature' years, so any opportunities are to be grabbed with both hands.
Lately, a friendly clique at work has formed who are having regular nights out in Leeds. I say regular; next Friday will be our second, but we've settled on a nice group of like-minded people who want to go out, have a laugh and do A-grade impressions of their colleagues. The usual.
However, I was discussing the forthcoming event with another of the attendees and he mentioned that he was in Glasgow during the day, but he'd move heaven and earth to be back on time. I praised his determination to get back for the festivities, but my praise was cut short when he declared that he wanted to be there because one of the lasses who's going out with us is 'well fit'.
Now, you know my opinion on perving over people at work; there's no need for it. We all like to look at a bit of eye candy to pass the day, but if it's not distracting then it's surely compromising work relationships. Call me a fuddy-duddy if you will (if you're Beatrix Potter) but I prefer to treat all people the same and get on with my work. The Mrs can bear the brunt of my perversions. I digress...
By now you're probably thinking 'Hold on a sec, fella. There's nothing wrong with a gentlemen finding physical attraction in a young bint. Leave 'em be'. And I would, if he wasn't married. I cannot begin to contemplate the mindset required to leave your better half at home, and concentrate all of your going out energies on a member of the opposite sex who'll be on the night out. I'm happily settled down so this sort of caper doesn't interest me, but even when I was single, I wasn't busting a gut to be there because of a nice looking bit of blart. As I've already said, I enjoy arguing about Hollyoaks over a few pints, having a bit of a dance then some cheesy chips. Not once does the thought of the qualities of the females in attendance enter my head. It sounds like a moralistic lie but it really is true. If I wasn't happy in my relationship then I'l split up; I wouldn't cruise around town on a work do trying to cop off with Brenda from Accounts (name and department changed to protect the harrassed).
At the end of the day, if this lad is going to make a play for said bird, I won't stand in his way, but any respect for him will be out of the window. I doubt he'll give a shit, but somebody's got to take a stand against the morally questionable of this world. Cheers.
Lately, a friendly clique at work has formed who are having regular nights out in Leeds. I say regular; next Friday will be our second, but we've settled on a nice group of like-minded people who want to go out, have a laugh and do A-grade impressions of their colleagues. The usual.
However, I was discussing the forthcoming event with another of the attendees and he mentioned that he was in Glasgow during the day, but he'd move heaven and earth to be back on time. I praised his determination to get back for the festivities, but my praise was cut short when he declared that he wanted to be there because one of the lasses who's going out with us is 'well fit'.
Now, you know my opinion on perving over people at work; there's no need for it. We all like to look at a bit of eye candy to pass the day, but if it's not distracting then it's surely compromising work relationships. Call me a fuddy-duddy if you will (if you're Beatrix Potter) but I prefer to treat all people the same and get on with my work. The Mrs can bear the brunt of my perversions. I digress...
By now you're probably thinking 'Hold on a sec, fella. There's nothing wrong with a gentlemen finding physical attraction in a young bint. Leave 'em be'. And I would, if he wasn't married. I cannot begin to contemplate the mindset required to leave your better half at home, and concentrate all of your going out energies on a member of the opposite sex who'll be on the night out. I'm happily settled down so this sort of caper doesn't interest me, but even when I was single, I wasn't busting a gut to be there because of a nice looking bit of blart. As I've already said, I enjoy arguing about Hollyoaks over a few pints, having a bit of a dance then some cheesy chips. Not once does the thought of the qualities of the females in attendance enter my head. It sounds like a moralistic lie but it really is true. If I wasn't happy in my relationship then I'l split up; I wouldn't cruise around town on a work do trying to cop off with Brenda from Accounts (name and department changed to protect the harrassed).
At the end of the day, if this lad is going to make a play for said bird, I won't stand in his way, but any respect for him will be out of the window. I doubt he'll give a shit, but somebody's got to take a stand against the morally questionable of this world. Cheers.
Wednesday, 5 September 2007
Obvious filler blog - Dogs vs Cats
I used to quite like The Really Wild Show. Nutkins, with his backwards hair, Michela Strachan (fit then, still fit now) and that lisping dude with the bog brush hair brought awareness and an enthusiasm about the world and its nature, and inspired a generation of PlayStationers.
However, old Nutko proper pissed me off today, with his take on the plight of birds in the wild. Put simply, he summised that dogs don't kill birds, but cats were responsible for 30 million bird deaths a year (so that's what he's being doing with his spare time). The interviewer then asked what he would do about it. His answer? "I'd cull 50% of cats straight away". What a mature and well balanced outlook that is, Tez. Well done.
It goes without saying he's a dog lover, hence his barely-concealed hatred of all things feline, but in my opinion someone of his standing should be a bit more tolerant of the circle of life. Fair enough, loads of birds are killed by cats, but plenty of kids are killed by dogs and you don't hear him going about a cull then, do you?
I've never hidden my feelings about the whole dogs v cats debate. I'm a cat lover through and through, and I think dogs are cack. That said, I'm perfectly tolerant of them, and have no ill feeling towards them and their owners. For the record, the generally accepted stereotype is dogs are thick but loyal, while cats are intelligent but aloof and up their own arse. I don't need to tell anyone with an ounce of gumption that there are millions of exceptions to this rule. For example, my cats are thick, and I've seen plenty of disloyal dogs (ones that bite your firstborn's head off, for example). You can't go around saying you think an animal should be culled because you don't like them. Espeically when you're considered something of an expert in the field of nature and are invited onto a radio show to give your professional view.
In conclusion - Terry Nutkins used to be cool. Now he's a self-serving, opinionated old goat. Cheers.
However, old Nutko proper pissed me off today, with his take on the plight of birds in the wild. Put simply, he summised that dogs don't kill birds, but cats were responsible for 30 million bird deaths a year (so that's what he's being doing with his spare time). The interviewer then asked what he would do about it. His answer? "I'd cull 50% of cats straight away". What a mature and well balanced outlook that is, Tez. Well done.
It goes without saying he's a dog lover, hence his barely-concealed hatred of all things feline, but in my opinion someone of his standing should be a bit more tolerant of the circle of life. Fair enough, loads of birds are killed by cats, but plenty of kids are killed by dogs and you don't hear him going about a cull then, do you?
I've never hidden my feelings about the whole dogs v cats debate. I'm a cat lover through and through, and I think dogs are cack. That said, I'm perfectly tolerant of them, and have no ill feeling towards them and their owners. For the record, the generally accepted stereotype is dogs are thick but loyal, while cats are intelligent but aloof and up their own arse. I don't need to tell anyone with an ounce of gumption that there are millions of exceptions to this rule. For example, my cats are thick, and I've seen plenty of disloyal dogs (ones that bite your firstborn's head off, for example). You can't go around saying you think an animal should be culled because you don't like them. Espeically when you're considered something of an expert in the field of nature and are invited onto a radio show to give your professional view.
In conclusion - Terry Nutkins used to be cool. Now he's a self-serving, opinionated old goat. Cheers.
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
The worst anecdote of all time
Have you ever been in a situation where you've begun to tell your mates a story and realised halfway through that it's actually a bit crap so either embellished it to avoid looking stupid or aborted it instead? Moreover, have you ever begun to tell a story and realised that it contains evidence of your private, depraived self which may shatter any remaining respect your peers have for you?
I've definitely been in the former category before and have added explosions and sea monsters to make the story a better listen, but before I embark on the tale telling journey, I ensure it's for public hearing and not likely to make me look like some kind of social leper.
Unfortunately for a friend of mine, he wasn't quite as prudent on Saturday night.
A group of us went for a few jars and were swapping stories on various subjects when the inevitable slip towards toilet stories took hold. One friend told an amusing story of a time in Australia when, faced with a lack of toilet roll, he had to use sanitary towels instead. Upon completion, he stood up and found a shelf of 15 toilets rolls which were originally out of his view. A funny tale and amusement ensued.
Obviously deciding his story was of a similar ilk, my other friend embarked upon his story. It went something like this.
- Goes to a town-centre pub.
- Gets a knock at the back door and has to visit the little boy's room.
- Upon completion, begins the necessary clean-up operation.
- Unfortunately runs out of supplies, so
- Retrieves a used piece of toilet roll and completes the job.
You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. We all looked at each other and literally backed off him, such was the disgust at his antics. He seemed rather surprised at our reaction, and tried to justify his actions with the excuse that "it was a clean piece" (obviously begging the question as to why it was in the bowl in the first place). He seemed somewhat put out and inevitably suffered an evening full of abuse along the lines of his momentary lapse of morals as a result. Serves him right, says I.
The thing is, at what point did he run through this story and think "Yeah, it'll be fine. They'll lap it up"? I can't imagine him, trollies round his ankles, retrieving spent bog roll and thinking "I can't wait to tell 'em about this - they'll howl with laughter". His moral and anecdotal compass is clearly somewhat adrift from centre it seems, and from now on, I'll treat any sentences of his which begin "I remember once.." with the necessary caution.
I've definitely been in the former category before and have added explosions and sea monsters to make the story a better listen, but before I embark on the tale telling journey, I ensure it's for public hearing and not likely to make me look like some kind of social leper.
Unfortunately for a friend of mine, he wasn't quite as prudent on Saturday night.
A group of us went for a few jars and were swapping stories on various subjects when the inevitable slip towards toilet stories took hold. One friend told an amusing story of a time in Australia when, faced with a lack of toilet roll, he had to use sanitary towels instead. Upon completion, he stood up and found a shelf of 15 toilets rolls which were originally out of his view. A funny tale and amusement ensued.
Obviously deciding his story was of a similar ilk, my other friend embarked upon his story. It went something like this.
- Goes to a town-centre pub.
- Gets a knock at the back door and has to visit the little boy's room.
- Upon completion, begins the necessary clean-up operation.
- Unfortunately runs out of supplies, so
- Retrieves a used piece of toilet roll and completes the job.
You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. We all looked at each other and literally backed off him, such was the disgust at his antics. He seemed rather surprised at our reaction, and tried to justify his actions with the excuse that "it was a clean piece" (obviously begging the question as to why it was in the bowl in the first place). He seemed somewhat put out and inevitably suffered an evening full of abuse along the lines of his momentary lapse of morals as a result. Serves him right, says I.
The thing is, at what point did he run through this story and think "Yeah, it'll be fine. They'll lap it up"? I can't imagine him, trollies round his ankles, retrieving spent bog roll and thinking "I can't wait to tell 'em about this - they'll howl with laughter". His moral and anecdotal compass is clearly somewhat adrift from centre it seems, and from now on, I'll treat any sentences of his which begin "I remember once.." with the necessary caution.
Thursday, 23 August 2007
I'm not laughing, I'm shooting people
What the bloody hell is going on at the moment? Barely a day goes past that someone isn't getting shot in the street, and more often than not they're dying while they're at it. Has society really disintegrated that much in the last few years that no dispute can be settled without the popping of a cap into someone's ass?
When I was younger, shootings were reserved for bank jobs and clay pigeons. Sure, there were muggings and violence on the streets, but you hardly ever heard of someone getting blown away. Growing up there was usually a scrap or two to be seen when rival gangs of lads or schools crossed paths, but there was a gentlemanly lean to it. You didn't hit 'em when they were down, your mates didn't wade in to help and there were no recriminations afterwards. When I say 'rival gangs of lads' I'm talking about a group of youngsters on a particular estate, not some specially-named clique with firearms and an initiation ceremony to get in. Things were more innocent in those days, and you didn't need to wave a piece about to get respect or your point across.
They keep wittering on about the break-up of the family leading to disaffected youths running riot in the streets, and I'm sure there's an argument to be heard for kids without role models ending up in this sort of caper, but the simple fact that they end up getting into gang culture in the first place suggest the parents don't know what they're doing. Where's the discipline? Where's the instilling of family values and respect and honour? It's all gone out of the window now in today's "I don't care" society. Parents don't give a shit so who can blame kids for ending up the same?
The latest incident was that of an 11-year old lad who was gunned down by a teenager in broad daylight next to pub. Apparently the little 'un was playing footy with his mates and minding his own business when they were approached by a kid on a BMX who stopped, 'calmly' according to the cops drew his gun and shot at them, fatally injuring one. What the fuck kind of situation arises where this is the only outcome? I'm absolutely baffled at the mindset of someone who is doing this. I'm almost hoping that the culprit turns out to be some kind of deranged loon; at least then we can say "Well, he was off his rocker" rather than "He just liked shooting people".
I've said it before and I'll say it again: society is a scary place these days. If we don't start stopping this at its root, we're only years away from Detroit in Robocop. Be warned.
When I was younger, shootings were reserved for bank jobs and clay pigeons. Sure, there were muggings and violence on the streets, but you hardly ever heard of someone getting blown away. Growing up there was usually a scrap or two to be seen when rival gangs of lads or schools crossed paths, but there was a gentlemanly lean to it. You didn't hit 'em when they were down, your mates didn't wade in to help and there were no recriminations afterwards. When I say 'rival gangs of lads' I'm talking about a group of youngsters on a particular estate, not some specially-named clique with firearms and an initiation ceremony to get in. Things were more innocent in those days, and you didn't need to wave a piece about to get respect or your point across.
They keep wittering on about the break-up of the family leading to disaffected youths running riot in the streets, and I'm sure there's an argument to be heard for kids without role models ending up in this sort of caper, but the simple fact that they end up getting into gang culture in the first place suggest the parents don't know what they're doing. Where's the discipline? Where's the instilling of family values and respect and honour? It's all gone out of the window now in today's "I don't care" society. Parents don't give a shit so who can blame kids for ending up the same?
The latest incident was that of an 11-year old lad who was gunned down by a teenager in broad daylight next to pub. Apparently the little 'un was playing footy with his mates and minding his own business when they were approached by a kid on a BMX who stopped, 'calmly' according to the cops drew his gun and shot at them, fatally injuring one. What the fuck kind of situation arises where this is the only outcome? I'm absolutely baffled at the mindset of someone who is doing this. I'm almost hoping that the culprit turns out to be some kind of deranged loon; at least then we can say "Well, he was off his rocker" rather than "He just liked shooting people".
I've said it before and I'll say it again: society is a scary place these days. If we don't start stopping this at its root, we're only years away from Detroit in Robocop. Be warned.
Sunday, 19 August 2007
'Troubled': The new 'Easy Street'
Sadly for those of us who are considered well-adjusted, today's celebrity culture is all-consuming. Every magazine on the shelves has pictures of the latest celebrity goings-on; who's seeing who; who's split up; who's been robbed at gunpoint and had their antique watch collection stolen. If you are ill enough to consider this of interest, your average Londis is something of a utopia. Good for you.
You can literally sit in a house for 6 weeks, get evicted then become a celebrity - it's that easy. They recently changed the exam you need to pass to become a celeb. You no longer need any discernible talent or personality. Being pretty helps, but you essentially just need to know which avenues to turn down and you're a shoo-in for premieres, parties and more spit roasts than Aunt Bessie.
Having stumbled upon one of these monoworded 'celeb' magazines the other day, I found myself leafing through the car-crash filled pages agog. Can anyone actually care this much? Does it matter how much weight she's put on? So what if she did carry her minature dog in a handbag? I don't consider myself out of touch, but this caper left me feeling cold inside.
Naturally, it got worse.
I got to an 'article' about Amy Winehouse, which was essentially a few snaps of her running for a train (front-page stuff again), and the tagline was 'Troubled star weight worry'. Er, excuse me? 'Troubled'? - what the hell does 'troubled' mean? Back in my day, a troubled person was one who had suffered immeasurable pain or tragedy in their life. Maybe they had a cruel medical condition, or had lost several family members in a pedalo accident. Either way, they were generally put-upon people who were dealt a bad hand.
Not exactly a blueprint for Ms. Winehouse's antics is it? She's a famous singer, undoubtedly wadded, with a husband and a penchant for high-class narcotics. She openly drinks and smokes, takes drugs and has lost some weight. Hardly the very definition of a troubled soul now, is it? There'll be those who crow that being famous has taken its toll and she's doing it as a cry for help. Sadly for them, that's bollocks. Nobody is making her stay in the limelight. Nobody is forcing her to attend star-filled parties and snort coke and chug cases of Jack Daniels. All her choice I'm afraid, which makes it all the more galling when she doesn't turn up for gigs claiming she's a perfectionist. Twat more like. If she stayed off the sauce and charlie the night before a gig she might have a half a chance of turning up.
The latest is she's suffering from 'acute exhaustion'. We don't know how lucky we are having 9-5 jobs, getting up at the crack of dawn 5 and 6 days a week and worrying about paying our ever-increasing mortgages. We could be trapped in a world of drink, drugs and debauchery like old Wino. Count your lucky stars..
Special mention must also go to Lindsay Lohan, who's immature and reckless behaviour somehow makes her a victim. If she was some down-and-out with no job pegging it through the streets of California whilst pissed, I doubt she'd be afforded the same level of understanding from the arse-kissing media who stay on her good side to keep the stories coming in. Knobhead.
You can literally sit in a house for 6 weeks, get evicted then become a celebrity - it's that easy. They recently changed the exam you need to pass to become a celeb. You no longer need any discernible talent or personality. Being pretty helps, but you essentially just need to know which avenues to turn down and you're a shoo-in for premieres, parties and more spit roasts than Aunt Bessie.
Having stumbled upon one of these monoworded 'celeb' magazines the other day, I found myself leafing through the car-crash filled pages agog. Can anyone actually care this much? Does it matter how much weight she's put on? So what if she did carry her minature dog in a handbag? I don't consider myself out of touch, but this caper left me feeling cold inside.
Naturally, it got worse.
I got to an 'article' about Amy Winehouse, which was essentially a few snaps of her running for a train (front-page stuff again), and the tagline was 'Troubled star weight worry'. Er, excuse me? 'Troubled'? - what the hell does 'troubled' mean? Back in my day, a troubled person was one who had suffered immeasurable pain or tragedy in their life. Maybe they had a cruel medical condition, or had lost several family members in a pedalo accident. Either way, they were generally put-upon people who were dealt a bad hand.
Not exactly a blueprint for Ms. Winehouse's antics is it? She's a famous singer, undoubtedly wadded, with a husband and a penchant for high-class narcotics. She openly drinks and smokes, takes drugs and has lost some weight. Hardly the very definition of a troubled soul now, is it? There'll be those who crow that being famous has taken its toll and she's doing it as a cry for help. Sadly for them, that's bollocks. Nobody is making her stay in the limelight. Nobody is forcing her to attend star-filled parties and snort coke and chug cases of Jack Daniels. All her choice I'm afraid, which makes it all the more galling when she doesn't turn up for gigs claiming she's a perfectionist. Twat more like. If she stayed off the sauce and charlie the night before a gig she might have a half a chance of turning up.
The latest is she's suffering from 'acute exhaustion'. We don't know how lucky we are having 9-5 jobs, getting up at the crack of dawn 5 and 6 days a week and worrying about paying our ever-increasing mortgages. We could be trapped in a world of drink, drugs and debauchery like old Wino. Count your lucky stars..
Special mention must also go to Lindsay Lohan, who's immature and reckless behaviour somehow makes her a victim. If she was some down-and-out with no job pegging it through the streets of California whilst pissed, I doubt she'd be afforded the same level of understanding from the arse-kissing media who stay on her good side to keep the stories coming in. Knobhead.
Friday, 17 August 2007
It's me who's the victim, love
People are always picking on me.
I could have a PhD in Minding My Own Business, especially when I'm driving, but those around me seek to shatter my otherwise calm and controlled demeanour with swear words and imaginative hand gestures. I could live with it if I was some kind of loutish, tailgating maniac, but most of the time I'm just the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I was on my way to work t'other day when a pleasant, well-to-do young lady decided against the laws of physics and pulled out in front of me with barely 30 yards clearance. Gently depressing the brake pedal, I carefully ventured to the centre of the road to see if there was an opportunity to pass this delight of the female form and avoid rear-ending her. Such an opportunity was not there, alas, and I had to make do with a heavy, albeit awesomely controlled halt behind her.
We carried on our merry way, up hill and down dale, taking in the sights and sounds of the crisp early morn, the song of the lark caressing the breeze. All was well. A few minutes of utopian conditions passed then my erstwhile goddess-like driving partner opted to turn right. Again, a controlled braking manouvre ensued and she turned as expected. However, I couldn't help but notice a gentle, almost poetic hand gesture that she passed to me as we parted, that suggested I partook in the vigorous act of self-abuse on a regular occasion. Either that or her Elizabeth Duke was sliding off her wrist and needed sliding back.
Clearly on her way to Finishing School, I felt it relevant to offer her a sweet smile and a polite wave to acknowedge receipt of her opinion. Suffice to say, she went apeshit.
I'm still not entirely sure how this was my fault. She pulled out in front of me causing me to be nearly cut in half by my own seatbelt, yet she proceeded on her journey at a monumentally slow pace, only to opine that I was some kind of self-intefererer and wanted to let me know. Then again, I may have misread the whole situation. Maybe she felt guilty about her automotive faux pas, and was offering some kind of recompense for my trouble. Sadly, I will never know.
Another time, I was frequenting my local petrol station and happened upon a scene of chaos. Every pump was taken and I had no option but to queue. I then noticed a lady in front of me who had just finished filling up (her car, not crying) and her other half had gone in to pay. I therefore gently rolled up behind her, ever-so-delicately pipped my horn and motioned that she might move forward just a few yards so I could refuel while she waited for her knuckle-dragger to return. Happily she obliged and all was well.
Now, to be fair, there was then a moment of slight provocation. My friend Kev decided that an elaborate, sarcastic round of applause was necessary for the young vixen, seemingly because in his opinion it had taken her too long to move forward. I must confess that I didn't share that opinion, but nothing untoward resulted and on we went. I refuelled the car while Kev refuelled Kev in the shop. As I was putting the pump back in its holster the husband returned. A few words were exchanged between he and his lovely spouse before she opened her door, leaned out, looked me squarely in the eye, and with the vocal dexterity of a young Oscar Wilde proceeded to declare "Fucking knob". Doors were slammed, cars were accelerated and I was left bewildered as to why I was the target of this not-entirely-untrue sentiment.
I made my way to the checkout and was apprehended by the security guard, who declared that it was company policy for patrons to pay for their fuel before moving their car. I countered that as the station had recently been converted into a minature store, people were spending increased lengths of time out of their cars, leavng the evident queues. He suggested that it was no harm to wait, and that I should desist from using foul language towards him. To this day I cannot think of the word I am supposed to have said, but I conceded that this gentleman was indeed a fucking prick and withdrew from the debate.
I'm no angel, I'll admit. But can somebody tell me why I end up being the victim to these socially unarmed oxygen-wasters? Anybody?
I could have a PhD in Minding My Own Business, especially when I'm driving, but those around me seek to shatter my otherwise calm and controlled demeanour with swear words and imaginative hand gestures. I could live with it if I was some kind of loutish, tailgating maniac, but most of the time I'm just the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I was on my way to work t'other day when a pleasant, well-to-do young lady decided against the laws of physics and pulled out in front of me with barely 30 yards clearance. Gently depressing the brake pedal, I carefully ventured to the centre of the road to see if there was an opportunity to pass this delight of the female form and avoid rear-ending her. Such an opportunity was not there, alas, and I had to make do with a heavy, albeit awesomely controlled halt behind her.
We carried on our merry way, up hill and down dale, taking in the sights and sounds of the crisp early morn, the song of the lark caressing the breeze. All was well. A few minutes of utopian conditions passed then my erstwhile goddess-like driving partner opted to turn right. Again, a controlled braking manouvre ensued and she turned as expected. However, I couldn't help but notice a gentle, almost poetic hand gesture that she passed to me as we parted, that suggested I partook in the vigorous act of self-abuse on a regular occasion. Either that or her Elizabeth Duke was sliding off her wrist and needed sliding back.
Clearly on her way to Finishing School, I felt it relevant to offer her a sweet smile and a polite wave to acknowedge receipt of her opinion. Suffice to say, she went apeshit.
I'm still not entirely sure how this was my fault. She pulled out in front of me causing me to be nearly cut in half by my own seatbelt, yet she proceeded on her journey at a monumentally slow pace, only to opine that I was some kind of self-intefererer and wanted to let me know. Then again, I may have misread the whole situation. Maybe she felt guilty about her automotive faux pas, and was offering some kind of recompense for my trouble. Sadly, I will never know.
Another time, I was frequenting my local petrol station and happened upon a scene of chaos. Every pump was taken and I had no option but to queue. I then noticed a lady in front of me who had just finished filling up (her car, not crying) and her other half had gone in to pay. I therefore gently rolled up behind her, ever-so-delicately pipped my horn and motioned that she might move forward just a few yards so I could refuel while she waited for her knuckle-dragger to return. Happily she obliged and all was well.
Now, to be fair, there was then a moment of slight provocation. My friend Kev decided that an elaborate, sarcastic round of applause was necessary for the young vixen, seemingly because in his opinion it had taken her too long to move forward. I must confess that I didn't share that opinion, but nothing untoward resulted and on we went. I refuelled the car while Kev refuelled Kev in the shop. As I was putting the pump back in its holster the husband returned. A few words were exchanged between he and his lovely spouse before she opened her door, leaned out, looked me squarely in the eye, and with the vocal dexterity of a young Oscar Wilde proceeded to declare "Fucking knob". Doors were slammed, cars were accelerated and I was left bewildered as to why I was the target of this not-entirely-untrue sentiment.
I made my way to the checkout and was apprehended by the security guard, who declared that it was company policy for patrons to pay for their fuel before moving their car. I countered that as the station had recently been converted into a minature store, people were spending increased lengths of time out of their cars, leavng the evident queues. He suggested that it was no harm to wait, and that I should desist from using foul language towards him. To this day I cannot think of the word I am supposed to have said, but I conceded that this gentleman was indeed a fucking prick and withdrew from the debate.
I'm no angel, I'll admit. But can somebody tell me why I end up being the victim to these socially unarmed oxygen-wasters? Anybody?
Wednesday, 15 August 2007
Just doing your job? I really must protest
I cannot stand protesters. They really, really, REALLY get on my nerves. I'm talking specifically about those busy, workshy gets who don't have proper jobs and spend their days looking for something to get in a razz about. Those are the ones who really get on my tits. Before I continue, let me clearly state that I've got nothing against free speech, nor the right of every human being to try to make the world a better place, but there are those who just take it too far.
Naturally these long-standing feelings have been reignited by this 'Climate Camp' nonsense on the outskirts of Heathrow, where a bunch of militant skank-merchants are taking the opportunity to feel self-righteous and get on telly by 'raising our awareness of air travel's impact on the environment'. Bra-chuffing-vo.
I'm sorry, but who's buying this shit? So far, what have they actually raised our awareness to? It may have escaped their notice, but running this 'camp' like an independent state to the extent of only letting the press in for an hour every couple of days isn't exactly getting your point across is it? They're not bothered about saving the planet; they just want to cause trouble to a few multi-million pound airline companies.
The thing that gets me is who suffers because of this? The airlines? Not really, as they'd be booked up months in advance and only a few true crusties would boycott them. Mother Earth? Again, hardly. True, we're doing harm to the planet but global awareness of this is at an all-time high and governments don't need telling that air travel is where improvements have to be made. No, as usual, the ones to suffer are those people either trying to get on with their jobs or trying to enjoy a well-earned break from their jobs. But they can't, because these hygienically-challenged tossers are buggering about in a cesspool at the end of the runway.
Whenever there's a strike, it's the public who suffer, not the company. When the firemen started striking, who suffered? That's right - Britain's gullible civilians, who had to tolerate a bunch of put-upon soldiers driving antique fire engines with a water pistol on them to save us. And the postal strike? It's us who have to suffer delayed deliveries, while Royal Mail sit back and wait for their employees to realise that there's only one decent postal service in this country, so management can do what they like and we'll still have to use them. It's a joke, man.
Going back the Climate Cack, news that they've asked pending arrivers to bring civilian clothes and even air hostess uniforms so they can bypass airport security is a worrying development. Personally I hope anyone found on-site without sufficient ID is deemed a terrorist and immediately arrested and tried as such. That'll slow down the tree-huggers.
Perhaps my biggest gripe has to be the issue of the carbon footprint. Don't worry, I'm aware of it and fully understand the ramifications of our actions to the environment, but I do have one question for these tax-dodging jokers who've travelled from all over the UK to Heathrow in the name of trying to save the world:
How did you get there? Walk?
Naturally these long-standing feelings have been reignited by this 'Climate Camp' nonsense on the outskirts of Heathrow, where a bunch of militant skank-merchants are taking the opportunity to feel self-righteous and get on telly by 'raising our awareness of air travel's impact on the environment'. Bra-chuffing-vo.
I'm sorry, but who's buying this shit? So far, what have they actually raised our awareness to? It may have escaped their notice, but running this 'camp' like an independent state to the extent of only letting the press in for an hour every couple of days isn't exactly getting your point across is it? They're not bothered about saving the planet; they just want to cause trouble to a few multi-million pound airline companies.
The thing that gets me is who suffers because of this? The airlines? Not really, as they'd be booked up months in advance and only a few true crusties would boycott them. Mother Earth? Again, hardly. True, we're doing harm to the planet but global awareness of this is at an all-time high and governments don't need telling that air travel is where improvements have to be made. No, as usual, the ones to suffer are those people either trying to get on with their jobs or trying to enjoy a well-earned break from their jobs. But they can't, because these hygienically-challenged tossers are buggering about in a cesspool at the end of the runway.
Whenever there's a strike, it's the public who suffer, not the company. When the firemen started striking, who suffered? That's right - Britain's gullible civilians, who had to tolerate a bunch of put-upon soldiers driving antique fire engines with a water pistol on them to save us. And the postal strike? It's us who have to suffer delayed deliveries, while Royal Mail sit back and wait for their employees to realise that there's only one decent postal service in this country, so management can do what they like and we'll still have to use them. It's a joke, man.
Going back the Climate Cack, news that they've asked pending arrivers to bring civilian clothes and even air hostess uniforms so they can bypass airport security is a worrying development. Personally I hope anyone found on-site without sufficient ID is deemed a terrorist and immediately arrested and tried as such. That'll slow down the tree-huggers.
Perhaps my biggest gripe has to be the issue of the carbon footprint. Don't worry, I'm aware of it and fully understand the ramifications of our actions to the environment, but I do have one question for these tax-dodging jokers who've travelled from all over the UK to Heathrow in the name of trying to save the world:
How did you get there? Walk?
Monday, 13 August 2007
Look at the brains on that
Far be it from me to be unappreciative of the female form. Most visitors to my 'pad' will know that there are a great many so-called lads mags dotted around the place (mainly by the throne though, to be honest). Admittedly a lot of the Nuts- and Zoo-style magazines struggle for ideas week in, week out so roll out the same old tired photos of Jordan and Michelle Marsh from 2001 under the guise "Topless pics inside - hottest snaps ever".
Back on topic, my latest gripe is the fact that the physical features of new employees (predominantly female) are far more important to the male staff than any real ability to do the job, as in:
Perv #1 "Have you seen the new bird in sales?"
Perv #2 "No - is she any good?"
Perv #1 "Well, she's got fantastic ASSETS....AHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA"
Perv #2 "He means tits!"
Like it matters. I've got nothing against eye candy in the office for both the chaps and the birds, but who really cares what they look like? Surely the point is that they can do the job? Call me old-fashioned, but in days gone by I thought people were employed based on their skills, and I don't mean being able to tie a cherry stalk in a knot with their tongue. I'm not naive enough to ignore that a great deal of 'casting couch' activities have been used for many years by knackered old bosses to have one last hurrah with a pneumatic secretary, but you have to draw the line somewhere.
I'm sure there have been studies that indicate that the more attractive you are, the better chance you have of being employed, and it goes down to a base level. Put simply, if an interviewer has two identically-skilled candidates, he (or she) is odds-on to employ the one more attractive to them. It's simple human nature; they think if they give them the job, the newbie with give them one in return. It's a sad state of affairs but until you take the human element out of the equation, it's bound to be flawed.
Even so, if a particularly fit bird is employed by your company, surely you could look past the obvious and treat them like anyone else? I genuinely pride myself on being completely objective about the people I work with; it doesn't matter what they look like, as long as they're straight with me and are what I consider to be a 'good worker' (incredibly pretentious on my part I accept, but I have high standards and expect others to be the same).
Of course, there's always going to be people who use their looks to climb the greasy pole (no jokes). Not necessarily stupid people, but they realise that there's no point wasting time and effort doing the job when they can just shake their sweet can and move on up. Those sort of people are worse that the pervs, but on some level you can't help but admire them.
In the future I think all interviews should be conducted over the phone to take the attraction element out, or at the very least the interviewers should have no sexual preference for the interviewees, to level at the playing field to an extent. It'll never happen I know, but what's the point in writing all of this cack if you don't try to change the world for the better? Maybe if I had a killer rack I'd be able to get something done about it...
Back on topic, my latest gripe is the fact that the physical features of new employees (predominantly female) are far more important to the male staff than any real ability to do the job, as in:
Perv #1 "Have you seen the new bird in sales?"
Perv #2 "No - is she any good?"
Perv #1 "Well, she's got fantastic ASSETS....AHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA"
Perv #2 "He means tits!"
Like it matters. I've got nothing against eye candy in the office for both the chaps and the birds, but who really cares what they look like? Surely the point is that they can do the job? Call me old-fashioned, but in days gone by I thought people were employed based on their skills, and I don't mean being able to tie a cherry stalk in a knot with their tongue. I'm not naive enough to ignore that a great deal of 'casting couch' activities have been used for many years by knackered old bosses to have one last hurrah with a pneumatic secretary, but you have to draw the line somewhere.
I'm sure there have been studies that indicate that the more attractive you are, the better chance you have of being employed, and it goes down to a base level. Put simply, if an interviewer has two identically-skilled candidates, he (or she) is odds-on to employ the one more attractive to them. It's simple human nature; they think if they give them the job, the newbie with give them one in return. It's a sad state of affairs but until you take the human element out of the equation, it's bound to be flawed.
Even so, if a particularly fit bird is employed by your company, surely you could look past the obvious and treat them like anyone else? I genuinely pride myself on being completely objective about the people I work with; it doesn't matter what they look like, as long as they're straight with me and are what I consider to be a 'good worker' (incredibly pretentious on my part I accept, but I have high standards and expect others to be the same).
Of course, there's always going to be people who use their looks to climb the greasy pole (no jokes). Not necessarily stupid people, but they realise that there's no point wasting time and effort doing the job when they can just shake their sweet can and move on up. Those sort of people are worse that the pervs, but on some level you can't help but admire them.
In the future I think all interviews should be conducted over the phone to take the attraction element out, or at the very least the interviewers should have no sexual preference for the interviewees, to level at the playing field to an extent. It'll never happen I know, but what's the point in writing all of this cack if you don't try to change the world for the better? Maybe if I had a killer rack I'd be able to get something done about it...
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
Well, you will go exposing yourself on planes...
An unprecedented story today in the news, about a group of lads off on a foreign holiday who behaved badly on the flight, abusing staff and exposing themselves to the crew and others. When they got to Greece, the Feds were waiting to take them away. After being held up for an hour and a half, they were bizarrely released without charge.
In the meantime, the airline (First Choice) told them that they could sod off if they thought they were allowed to fly back with them at the end of their holiday.
All reasonable so far, yes? But what makes it so good was that First Choice then went on to sprag on the lads to all the other major airlines, meaning none of them would touch the group with a ten-foot barge pole. They're now effectively stranded and will probably have to fork out for a bus ticket to get back. That'll be fun.
I love the thought of all these multi-million-pound industries resorting to playground tactics when it comes to misbehaving clientelle. A bit of "Them lads from Surrey will get their cocks out on your plane...pass it on" is exactly what these cretins need to finally realise that they can't go around acting like complete arses and expect to be welcomed back anytime soon.
On the radio, the female spokesperson was every inch your Mum when you're in bother. She actually used the phrase "Well they should have thought about that" when pushed on the issue of grassing them up to others, and she audibly smiled when contemplating their return trip options. I'm loving that. It's about time more companies stop pandering to the low-life 'tards in the perpetual pursuit of the American dollar and said "Actually mate, I don't give a shite how much you spent on your tickets. If you're going to act like a child, we're gonna treat you like one. Do one". Bravo, says I.
What next - Microsoft Windows telling you to stand in the corner and think about what you've done when you download porn? Banks ringing each other up behind your back to say that you smell, and so does your credit rating? Whatever happens, all I know is I'm keeping it in my drawers next time I fly...
In the meantime, the airline (First Choice) told them that they could sod off if they thought they were allowed to fly back with them at the end of their holiday.
All reasonable so far, yes? But what makes it so good was that First Choice then went on to sprag on the lads to all the other major airlines, meaning none of them would touch the group with a ten-foot barge pole. They're now effectively stranded and will probably have to fork out for a bus ticket to get back. That'll be fun.
I love the thought of all these multi-million-pound industries resorting to playground tactics when it comes to misbehaving clientelle. A bit of "Them lads from Surrey will get their cocks out on your plane...pass it on" is exactly what these cretins need to finally realise that they can't go around acting like complete arses and expect to be welcomed back anytime soon.
On the radio, the female spokesperson was every inch your Mum when you're in bother. She actually used the phrase "Well they should have thought about that" when pushed on the issue of grassing them up to others, and she audibly smiled when contemplating their return trip options. I'm loving that. It's about time more companies stop pandering to the low-life 'tards in the perpetual pursuit of the American dollar and said "Actually mate, I don't give a shite how much you spent on your tickets. If you're going to act like a child, we're gonna treat you like one. Do one". Bravo, says I.
What next - Microsoft Windows telling you to stand in the corner and think about what you've done when you download porn? Banks ringing each other up behind your back to say that you smell, and so does your credit rating? Whatever happens, all I know is I'm keeping it in my drawers next time I fly...
Tuesday, 7 August 2007
Potter Politics
Anyone who knows me will also know I can't stand Harry Potter. I can't stand the whole fantasy fiction genre per say (Lord of the Rings, etc) but HP proper gets on my nerves. I think the worst aspect of it is these socially questionable people gathered under the umbrella of 'fans' who queue outside bookshops at midnight to get a copy the minute it's released.
Everybody knows the first release of the book is the only one that contains all of the pages, and a page is removed each day thereafter by the bookshop staff as part of a Government-led initative to make people buy books sooner. Or something. All I know is that a 35-year-old woman who dresses as a bespectacled teenage wizard in public is not someone I'd want reading my literature.
Anyway, the inspiration for this blog is the politics of not telling someone the ending of a book, despite your best efforts to warn them that you're about to spill the beans. The event occurred a couple of weeks ago when I went to a mate's house. I'd never met the girl before so to be fair she didn't know about my slightly negative attitute to all things Potter, but the conversation went along these lines:
Me: "Yeah, so the Mrs has got the new Harry Potter cobblers and she's told me the ending"
Others in room: Silence
Me: (After a decent warning pause) "I can't believe he dies then comes back to life. Garbage"
Girl: (name unknown) "LALALALALALALALALA" with fingers in her ears
Me :"?"
Girl: "Don't tell me the ending, I don't want to know. I'm going to buy it"
Me: "Well why didn't you say summat in the first place? I gave you plenty of warning"
Girl: "Well I didn't think you'd give the ending away"
Me: "I can tell we've never met before"
As usual, I stand by my convictions. I wasn't trying to annoy anyone because I knew the ending; my mates all hate it as well and I was trying to make a point about how JK Wotsit can write any old tat and the readers will lap it up. It's not my fault she didn't heed the warning. Had she said "Terribly sorry old chap, but would you mind not giving the game away?" I would have initially been surprised cos she was Scottish, but I would've kept my mouth shut until she was out of earshot.
Which brings me to my next HP-inspired gripe: It's a made-up story about a made-up concept.
Magic doesn't exist. I'm sorry for all you advocates of Paul Daniels (and to a lesser extent his alcoholic black-sheep son Darren) but it's all a con. There's no magical skill to guessing your card or walking through the Great Wall of China - it's done with cameras, mirrors and fast hands. That's where JK makes her brass; she can write literally anything and say it was magic. You can imagine the editor reading that one:
Editor: "But there's no actual platform - they just run through a wall to get to school?"
JK: "Yep. Magic"
Editor: "And the ability to fly on broomsticks? I'm not sure kids will..."
JK: "MAGIC"
Easy, innit? I am jealous; I can't deny it. I wish I was a quid behind her just for sitting at home all day making up stories about a bloke who can't act hanging around with Robbie Coltrane. Now if I could invent a time machine...
Everybody knows the first release of the book is the only one that contains all of the pages, and a page is removed each day thereafter by the bookshop staff as part of a Government-led initative to make people buy books sooner. Or something. All I know is that a 35-year-old woman who dresses as a bespectacled teenage wizard in public is not someone I'd want reading my literature.
Anyway, the inspiration for this blog is the politics of not telling someone the ending of a book, despite your best efforts to warn them that you're about to spill the beans. The event occurred a couple of weeks ago when I went to a mate's house. I'd never met the girl before so to be fair she didn't know about my slightly negative attitute to all things Potter, but the conversation went along these lines:
Me: "Yeah, so the Mrs has got the new Harry Potter cobblers and she's told me the ending"
Others in room: Silence
Me: (After a decent warning pause) "I can't believe he dies then comes back to life. Garbage"
Girl: (name unknown) "LALALALALALALALALA" with fingers in her ears
Me :"?"
Girl: "Don't tell me the ending, I don't want to know. I'm going to buy it"
Me: "Well why didn't you say summat in the first place? I gave you plenty of warning"
Girl: "Well I didn't think you'd give the ending away"
Me: "I can tell we've never met before"
As usual, I stand by my convictions. I wasn't trying to annoy anyone because I knew the ending; my mates all hate it as well and I was trying to make a point about how JK Wotsit can write any old tat and the readers will lap it up. It's not my fault she didn't heed the warning. Had she said "Terribly sorry old chap, but would you mind not giving the game away?" I would have initially been surprised cos she was Scottish, but I would've kept my mouth shut until she was out of earshot.
Which brings me to my next HP-inspired gripe: It's a made-up story about a made-up concept.
Magic doesn't exist. I'm sorry for all you advocates of Paul Daniels (and to a lesser extent his alcoholic black-sheep son Darren) but it's all a con. There's no magical skill to guessing your card or walking through the Great Wall of China - it's done with cameras, mirrors and fast hands. That's where JK makes her brass; she can write literally anything and say it was magic. You can imagine the editor reading that one:
Editor: "But there's no actual platform - they just run through a wall to get to school?"
JK: "Yep. Magic"
Editor: "And the ability to fly on broomsticks? I'm not sure kids will..."
JK: "MAGIC"
Easy, innit? I am jealous; I can't deny it. I wish I was a quid behind her just for sitting at home all day making up stories about a bloke who can't act hanging around with Robbie Coltrane. Now if I could invent a time machine...
Monday, 6 August 2007
Time Travel: Cack
"If only I could turn back time" warbled flourescent-haired pop minx Lene in Aqua's drear-fest of the same name. What, Lene? What if you could? What would you do? Apart from not do your hair that ridiculous colour in the first place.
I watched that "Deja Vu" the other day. You know, the crime thriller where Denzel Washington discovers a police agency who have managed to look back into the past a few days and can prevent a murder from happening. It was alright to be fair, although my scientific mind quickly shut up shop when talk of time travel started. Mainly cos its bollocks.
Today I'm not here to discuss the scientific rights and wrongs of TT - I simply can't be bothered. Instead I want to focus on the concept of it, and how it is ultimately impossible in my opinion.
Picture the scene: On your way to work, you crash into someone in your car. Nowt major, but it was your fault and there's a hefty bill coming your way. Fortunately, you also discover the secret of time travel while you're on the pot at lunch so you quickly jump in your crudely-fashioned time portal, zoom back to 5 seconds before the incident and put the brakes on. Perfick.
Except..it isn't. Having gone back in time you've now altered the past so your 'old' self's experience of the event changes (i.e. you don't crash). Therefore you don't need to get into your teleporter and fix the damage. You've created an alternative ending. Still sounds feasible, yes?
Where it falls over logic-wise for me is that as far as events are concerned now, you came close to an accident and stopped in time - any person looking on at that event would see only a near-miss, because that's what happened. But in reality you intercepted your own stupidity and didn't crash. Therefore you don't have a big bill coming and you don't need to go back to fix it. You therefore don't experience any of the act of going back in time to fix it therefore that technically never happened. But it did happen, so how can it be possible that those occurrences don't exist any more? Your real-time experience now is that you narrowly avoided a crash, so the need to return to fix it doesn't need to happen any more. So how can it have?
I guess it's difficult for me to explain in a few words, but the basis of my argument is that time is a never-ending stream of occurrences which you can only experience once. The theory of time travel in films is that you can go back in time to fix the past before it occurs, but in doing so you eradicate the very need to go back and the actual act of doing so, so how can time travel exist? By the same token, you could go back far enough to actually precede any desire to return to the past, therefore preceding the invention of all time travel devices as well. It's a huge paradox which I simply can't condone on any level. Sorry folks.
Anyway, that's enough cyber-twaddle for one evening, but it does get the new blog up and running nicely. I believe there is the ability to post comments and arguments so feel free. And if we could reduce the number of knob gags at the same time, it'll be a happy side effect.
I watched that "Deja Vu" the other day. You know, the crime thriller where Denzel Washington discovers a police agency who have managed to look back into the past a few days and can prevent a murder from happening. It was alright to be fair, although my scientific mind quickly shut up shop when talk of time travel started. Mainly cos its bollocks.
Today I'm not here to discuss the scientific rights and wrongs of TT - I simply can't be bothered. Instead I want to focus on the concept of it, and how it is ultimately impossible in my opinion.
Picture the scene: On your way to work, you crash into someone in your car. Nowt major, but it was your fault and there's a hefty bill coming your way. Fortunately, you also discover the secret of time travel while you're on the pot at lunch so you quickly jump in your crudely-fashioned time portal, zoom back to 5 seconds before the incident and put the brakes on. Perfick.
Except..it isn't. Having gone back in time you've now altered the past so your 'old' self's experience of the event changes (i.e. you don't crash). Therefore you don't need to get into your teleporter and fix the damage. You've created an alternative ending. Still sounds feasible, yes?
Where it falls over logic-wise for me is that as far as events are concerned now, you came close to an accident and stopped in time - any person looking on at that event would see only a near-miss, because that's what happened. But in reality you intercepted your own stupidity and didn't crash. Therefore you don't have a big bill coming and you don't need to go back to fix it. You therefore don't experience any of the act of going back in time to fix it therefore that technically never happened. But it did happen, so how can it be possible that those occurrences don't exist any more? Your real-time experience now is that you narrowly avoided a crash, so the need to return to fix it doesn't need to happen any more. So how can it have?
I guess it's difficult for me to explain in a few words, but the basis of my argument is that time is a never-ending stream of occurrences which you can only experience once. The theory of time travel in films is that you can go back in time to fix the past before it occurs, but in doing so you eradicate the very need to go back and the actual act of doing so, so how can time travel exist? By the same token, you could go back far enough to actually precede any desire to return to the past, therefore preceding the invention of all time travel devices as well. It's a huge paradox which I simply can't condone on any level. Sorry folks.
Anyway, that's enough cyber-twaddle for one evening, but it does get the new blog up and running nicely. I believe there is the ability to post comments and arguments so feel free. And if we could reduce the number of knob gags at the same time, it'll be a happy side effect.
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