Until recently, I thought fancy dress was the worst idea of all time. Of course I mean within a particular societal domain; I'm sure things like DVD piracy and the rise of the Nazi empire will rank higher on some people's irk list, but this really gets on my tits. However, a chance conversation with a colleague highlighted something even more pointless and pathetic than dressing as Cruela de Ville for the entertainment of others.
Secret Santa.
Dear God, is there a worse idea in civilisation today? Just the idea of fully-grown, supposed right-minded adults wasting eight quid on a novelty mug coaster fills me with a dread I can barely put into words.
Of course, the yay-saying brigade will immediately roll out the standard "Don't be so miserable, it's a bit of fun" argument, to which I always reply "How starved of fun are you to deem exchanging worthless, risque gifts anonymously as anything but immature idiocy?". That usually foxes them.
I think my biggest issue with it is the potential for flirtation. I'm not daft, nor naive; I know how the world works. I bet a decent percentage of office-based staff are looking for a bit of extra-marital slap and tickle, and see the old Secret Santa as an opportunity to test the water, sex-wise. Picture the scene; man fancies woman, man buys chocolate body paint for woman anonymously, woman opens gift and thinks it's ace, man approaches woman, man ruts women (consensually of course). To that end it's a good idea, but for anybody who isn't after a bit of extra-curricular sauce, what excuse could you possibly have?
My disdain for all things festive doesn't need further airing here, but I can get into most of the facets of yuletide existence. The after-work drinking, for example, is a hoot. And the presents don't hurt either. (Apart from one time, when I got an electric Lego helicopter which I built in the bath, but that's not for now...)
In conclusion, if you must buy a present for one of your ill-liked colleagues, have the balls to give it to them in person. Maybe even go so far as to put your hand in your pocket and fork out more than a fiver, rather than giving them an oversized pencil with "Visit Edinburgh" scrawled up the side. The alternative is to spend your money on something useful, like heating or petrol or somesuch, but that's not in keeping with Christmas is it?
Jesus wept. And on his birthday, too...
Friday 21 November 2008
Monday 17 November 2008
Traffic Wardens: I like 'em
I'm not what you'd call an avid mingler with people in authority. I don't have any issues with them, nor do I fear their wrath, but I do tend to end up on their wrong side so as a rule I stay out of their way. Of course, when other people are involved in this calculation, the whole plan goes to shit. But sometimes, in this crazy melting pot of civilisation we call Earth, there is a person in a place of authority who is on our side, and their existence should be held up as a beacon of all that is good in this world. As follows...
As with most stories of surprising authoritarian generosity, we begin in the Post Office. A parcel for me was too big to fit through the letter box (despite the fact it was smaller than a gnat's mind) so I had to pick it up from the local depot. Not a problem, as I usually set off a bit earlier on my way to work and nip in. On the Friday I was told it hadn't yet been returned to them so to try tomorrow. "No probs" quipped I and I off I went.
The following day I duly returned. Due to the busyness in the town centre I had to park in a car park a couple of hundred yards away. It's a pay and display but I thought "Fuck that, I'll only be 5 minutes" and neither paid nor displayed. Back in the post office I was told that again, the parcel was not back. He had a good scout round for it and it was nowhere to be seen, so after 10 minutes he began to take my details down so he could call me when it rocked up. I noticed however that he had written my house number down wrong, so I picked him up on it. He then studied the correct number, turned his head a quarter turn and picked my parcel out of a box right next to him. Now, pardon my cynicism, but is their system so complicated that only the house number can guide them to a parcel's existence? Surely the street or even area would have rung a bell with him, but it was only when he was given the correct number that the penny dropped. Absolutely ridiculous, but I had my parcel and was on my way.
Of course, with Lady Luck already taking the piss with the Post Office episode, I shouldn't have been surprised to find a traffic warden eyeing my car with unnecessary suspicion when I returned. I naturally panicked and ran the remainder of the journey, beginning with a feeble "Am I too late?" like a schoolboy who'd been caught dawdling across the playground after break. But here's where a quite wonderful thing happened. He casually explained that he always gives unticketed cars 5 minutes to return, given the propensity for locals to nip into the PO the same as I did. Put simply, here was a traffic warden who knew the area, knew his client base and used his common sense to excellent effect. I was completely taken aback by the let-off, offered a semi-patronising "Good man" and got out of it before he changed his mind.
In the grand scheme of things, this interaction is unlikely to pull up any trees. Indeed, the BBC are refusing to return my calls about a documentary based upon the exchange, but it goes to show that despite all the hunger, rape and terrorism on this fair isle, there are still some decent folk out there. Folk who don't abuse the power bestowed upon them when they don their black cap with the luminous yellow piping. God bless them all.
As with most stories of surprising authoritarian generosity, we begin in the Post Office. A parcel for me was too big to fit through the letter box (despite the fact it was smaller than a gnat's mind) so I had to pick it up from the local depot. Not a problem, as I usually set off a bit earlier on my way to work and nip in. On the Friday I was told it hadn't yet been returned to them so to try tomorrow. "No probs" quipped I and I off I went.
The following day I duly returned. Due to the busyness in the town centre I had to park in a car park a couple of hundred yards away. It's a pay and display but I thought "Fuck that, I'll only be 5 minutes" and neither paid nor displayed. Back in the post office I was told that again, the parcel was not back. He had a good scout round for it and it was nowhere to be seen, so after 10 minutes he began to take my details down so he could call me when it rocked up. I noticed however that he had written my house number down wrong, so I picked him up on it. He then studied the correct number, turned his head a quarter turn and picked my parcel out of a box right next to him. Now, pardon my cynicism, but is their system so complicated that only the house number can guide them to a parcel's existence? Surely the street or even area would have rung a bell with him, but it was only when he was given the correct number that the penny dropped. Absolutely ridiculous, but I had my parcel and was on my way.
Of course, with Lady Luck already taking the piss with the Post Office episode, I shouldn't have been surprised to find a traffic warden eyeing my car with unnecessary suspicion when I returned. I naturally panicked and ran the remainder of the journey, beginning with a feeble "Am I too late?" like a schoolboy who'd been caught dawdling across the playground after break. But here's where a quite wonderful thing happened. He casually explained that he always gives unticketed cars 5 minutes to return, given the propensity for locals to nip into the PO the same as I did. Put simply, here was a traffic warden who knew the area, knew his client base and used his common sense to excellent effect. I was completely taken aback by the let-off, offered a semi-patronising "Good man" and got out of it before he changed his mind.
In the grand scheme of things, this interaction is unlikely to pull up any trees. Indeed, the BBC are refusing to return my calls about a documentary based upon the exchange, but it goes to show that despite all the hunger, rape and terrorism on this fair isle, there are still some decent folk out there. Folk who don't abuse the power bestowed upon them when they don their black cap with the luminous yellow piping. God bless them all.
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