If there's one thing I know about women (and to be honest, it's likely to be the only thing) it's that they all have hang-ups about their physical appearance. Not exactly a mind-blowing breakthrough I know, but just lately there's been a glut of programmes and magazine articles dedicated to the fact that all womenfolk dislike at least one part of their body. I wasn't watching them, by the way; a woman I know told me about them...
Anyway, here's the thing - the women they get to present and exemplify these issues are some of the most desirable women in Britain. Which sort of takes the shine off the point.
There was an article in a magazine which basically got loads of celebrity women to do a photoshoot without any make up on, to prove that they're just as imperfect and fallible as you or I, despite living in a mansion in Islington.
The women they chose were all well-known, but see if you can see a theme here. They chose Davina Macall, Myleene Klass and Fearne Cotton. All of them (to a greater or lesser extent) are universally fancied in this country, so it sort of spoils the illusion. I have no doubts that they have hang-ups as well, but when you're a great-looking bird it sort of smacks of hypocrisy to your ordinary Joanne Normalface or Lizzy Bigbum.
Then there was a documentary highlighting the frankly ridiculous level of touching up done to magazine photography to the extent that 8 and 9 year old lasses were being given the impression that only perfection was acceptable. It was genuinely tragic that junior school children were bemoaning the fact that their teeth were crooked or they simply weren't pretty.
The thing is, though, they got Alesha Dixon to present it. Now don't get me wrong, she wwas an excellent host and her determination to get a magazine to shoot her without any touch ups showed just how widespread the phenomenon is, but let's face it - she's one of the most beautiful women in Britain. After she'd had her hair and make up done she looked stunning in the pictures, and although critics pointed out the number of touch ups they would have done to make the picture cover-ready, to the untrained eye she still looked like a serious piece of ass.
In conclusion, it's about time people started taking a stand against the stupid ideals portrayed in the media that make all but the most rhino-skinned females feel ugly, but try using ordinary, less-than-perfect celebs to get the point across.
I'm sure Tricia Goddard is affordable...
Sunday 13 July 2008
Thursday 10 July 2008
Is this as childish as I think it is?
We've got this bloke at work who, not to put too fine a point on it, takes the piss. He's out of the door on the dot of 5 no matter what he's working on and he's always got something to say about everything discussed in the office.
I can just about live with this, but he's got a habit which proper rubs me up the wrong way. He goes to the toilet, every day, bang on 1 o'clock when his lunch hour is over. The company is effectively paying him to have a cack, and I think it's a disgrace.
It's been something of an in-joke between a couple of us in the department, labelling this clockwork occurrence as 'stool time', but in all seriousness, it just goes to show that he doesn't give a monkey's about the company and is out to get all he can from it.
So we decided to get our own back.
At quarter to one the other day, my colleague (under my duress it has to be stated, for fairness' sake) nipped into the bogs and locked the doors from the outside, giving the illusion there was no room at the inn. The doors were locked, the trap (no pun intended) was set and we sat back to enjoy the magic.
He did not disappoint.
Seconds after he'd gone for his daily and unnaturally well-timed ablutions he was back, asking us if we knew what the problem was in the toilets. Apparently both cubicles were occupied, which is quite a rare event according to him. Luckily for me I'm hidden behind from this guy so my childish giggling went unnoticed, but then my colleague (in full view) corpsed and for a second I thought the game was up. Fortunately it wasn't, and I lived to tell the tale.
The thing is, it proved beyond any doubt that he is taking the piss. If he was that desperate he would've gone to the bog upstairs. Serves him right, says I, and I hear on the grapevine that further 'attacks' are scheduled to fully ram the point home.
I'm 30 years old, by the way.
I can just about live with this, but he's got a habit which proper rubs me up the wrong way. He goes to the toilet, every day, bang on 1 o'clock when his lunch hour is over. The company is effectively paying him to have a cack, and I think it's a disgrace.
It's been something of an in-joke between a couple of us in the department, labelling this clockwork occurrence as 'stool time', but in all seriousness, it just goes to show that he doesn't give a monkey's about the company and is out to get all he can from it.
So we decided to get our own back.
At quarter to one the other day, my colleague (under my duress it has to be stated, for fairness' sake) nipped into the bogs and locked the doors from the outside, giving the illusion there was no room at the inn. The doors were locked, the trap (no pun intended) was set and we sat back to enjoy the magic.
He did not disappoint.
Seconds after he'd gone for his daily and unnaturally well-timed ablutions he was back, asking us if we knew what the problem was in the toilets. Apparently both cubicles were occupied, which is quite a rare event according to him. Luckily for me I'm hidden behind from this guy so my childish giggling went unnoticed, but then my colleague (in full view) corpsed and for a second I thought the game was up. Fortunately it wasn't, and I lived to tell the tale.
The thing is, it proved beyond any doubt that he is taking the piss. If he was that desperate he would've gone to the bog upstairs. Serves him right, says I, and I hear on the grapevine that further 'attacks' are scheduled to fully ram the point home.
I'm 30 years old, by the way.
Thursday 3 July 2008
Not my best day
Today marks the 1 week anniversary of one of the cackest days of recent times. To say it was my 9/11 would border on sensationalism, but sometimes you have to bite the bullet and say "Yes, today was as bad for me as for the 5 thousand or so victims of the Bush administration's attempts to put a pipeline into Afghanistan. Or summat."
It started off with something that's never happened to me before, but the increasing economic downturn leaves me open to further attacks. Some (and I choose my words carefully at this point) complete and utter fuckbag nicked all of the petrol out of the company car I was borrowing for the day. Cheers, you thieving shitehawk - you could have left me enough to get to the station. Twat.
The recovery gent who attended (for ninety quid, mind) told me it was happening all the time, and that Halifax is the epicentre of this particular phenomenon. Not high on the list of life's big surprises, I thought.
Anyway, £5 of fuel later and I'm on my way to Manchester, on a thankfully uneventful trip. Having said that, some uber-gimp in a Porsche Cayenne nearly rear-ended me and celebrated skidding round the queuing traffic by giving me a right mouthful. I still fail to see the correlation between his myopia and it being my fault. Luckily his wife began to kick off with him so he literally had to pull to the side of the road while she gave him a bollocking. Serves him right.
A few minutes later and I'm parked up and on my way, walking through the streets. I know what you're thinking - "But nobody's sneezed on you yet". Patience is a virtue, my friend, as no sooner had I stepped out of the car park than some prick sneezed at me. Picture the scene: we're walking past each other in opposite directions with him engrossed in a phone call when he stops dead and holds his hands out. Assuming he was about to embrace me as a long-lost relative, I took a side step, only for him to open it up nasal-style. Had I continued my original path I would have been coated Venkman-style, but my cat-like nimbility avoided a case of emphysema. Calling him a 'dirty bastard' didn't seem to make much difference, but he was on his mobile and iPod at the same time, so it's only right to cut him some slack.
After an uneventful couple of hours doing some actual work I headed home and was nearly taken off the road by some students in a Punto not paying attention to basic road signs. By now I was used to it, and laughed at their pitiful attempts to frighten me. Maybe they had a gun. Maybe they were high. Maybe they were saying 'braap'. We will never know.
So there it is; a complete donkey's arse of a day. Given that the best suggestion the loaner of the car could offer was 'get a taxi to the nearest petrol station and hire a can' (cheers for that, pillock) I can count myself lucky I didn't get killed or raped or worse. It makes you think, though; one minute, you're cruising through life in your own little world and the next, somebody punches you in the face for sneezing near them. Scary stuff.
It started off with something that's never happened to me before, but the increasing economic downturn leaves me open to further attacks. Some (and I choose my words carefully at this point) complete and utter fuckbag nicked all of the petrol out of the company car I was borrowing for the day. Cheers, you thieving shitehawk - you could have left me enough to get to the station. Twat.
The recovery gent who attended (for ninety quid, mind) told me it was happening all the time, and that Halifax is the epicentre of this particular phenomenon. Not high on the list of life's big surprises, I thought.
Anyway, £5 of fuel later and I'm on my way to Manchester, on a thankfully uneventful trip. Having said that, some uber-gimp in a Porsche Cayenne nearly rear-ended me and celebrated skidding round the queuing traffic by giving me a right mouthful. I still fail to see the correlation between his myopia and it being my fault. Luckily his wife began to kick off with him so he literally had to pull to the side of the road while she gave him a bollocking. Serves him right.
A few minutes later and I'm parked up and on my way, walking through the streets. I know what you're thinking - "But nobody's sneezed on you yet". Patience is a virtue, my friend, as no sooner had I stepped out of the car park than some prick sneezed at me. Picture the scene: we're walking past each other in opposite directions with him engrossed in a phone call when he stops dead and holds his hands out. Assuming he was about to embrace me as a long-lost relative, I took a side step, only for him to open it up nasal-style. Had I continued my original path I would have been coated Venkman-style, but my cat-like nimbility avoided a case of emphysema. Calling him a 'dirty bastard' didn't seem to make much difference, but he was on his mobile and iPod at the same time, so it's only right to cut him some slack.
After an uneventful couple of hours doing some actual work I headed home and was nearly taken off the road by some students in a Punto not paying attention to basic road signs. By now I was used to it, and laughed at their pitiful attempts to frighten me. Maybe they had a gun. Maybe they were high. Maybe they were saying 'braap'. We will never know.
So there it is; a complete donkey's arse of a day. Given that the best suggestion the loaner of the car could offer was 'get a taxi to the nearest petrol station and hire a can' (cheers for that, pillock) I can count myself lucky I didn't get killed or raped or worse. It makes you think, though; one minute, you're cruising through life in your own little world and the next, somebody punches you in the face for sneezing near them. Scary stuff.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)