Thursday, 4 June 2009
Monday, 18 May 2009
Bad Language: Prompt
I consider myself a genial kind of guy. Apart from a reasonably high-profile falling out with a friend of a friend recently, my record for getting on with people is practically blemish-free. In addition, I tend to find that I get on with people from all walks of life very quickly, and often find myself talking about all manner of personal and unusual subjects with people I’ve only known a few minutes.
However, it also appears that I have the kind of face and/or personality which says to people “This guy clearly loves to hear lots of incredibly aggressive swear words shortly after meeting someone, so let’s say some. Immediately”
You’ll be surprised to learn that bad language doesn’t exactly upset me. I’m not the most frequent exponent of its use in my group of friends, but I’m all for a bit of ‘industrial’ language to get my point across rather than that flowery nonsense most people go for. Indeed, if I could guarantee that such prose wouldn’t upset readers, I would in all likelihood sprinkle massively inappropriate words throughout my blogs, simply because I can. However, given that I can’t guarantee non-friends won’t read this, I have to keep it clean and ultimately avoid any potential legal wranglings.
The reason I mention this skill of drawing bad language out of people came about after a recent trip to Dublin. To and from the airport I unsurprisingly used local taxi drivers. Both were chirpy salt-of-the-earth types who had opinions on everything from traffic police to the state of the economy. I was happy to join in with my opinions and thoughts on many subjects, but out of respect and a lack of knowledge of the drivers’ tolerances to swearing, kept it clean.
The same cannot be said of the drivers.
Bear in mind I was in the company of both drivers for less that 20 minutes combined, yet I heard 30-plus f-words, multiple ‘bastards’ and even a couple of the ‘bad’ swear word. You know, the one that starts with ‘c’ and isn’t ‘cock’ or ‘compass’. Yeah, that one.
Now, like I said, such language doesn’t bother me (in fact, given the Irish accent, the word ‘cont’ actually made me laugh, which may or may not be racist), but surely these guys must come into contact with people from all parts of the social spectrum on a daily basis, so liberal use of the c-bomb shouldn’t be encouraged? Assuming these guys are aware of the fact they’re being paid for their driving service, they have to be very careful not to offend people and jeopardise their pay day. I can therefore only assume that within a few seconds of meeting me, people think “This guy clearly likes a bit of blue language. It would be rude to disappoint”. Either that or such language is as clean as the proverbial baby’s bottom in Ireland, so it isn’t deemed offensive to lob it into every other sentence.
I’m still not sure if I’m proud or not. I probably am though.
However, it also appears that I have the kind of face and/or personality which says to people “This guy clearly loves to hear lots of incredibly aggressive swear words shortly after meeting someone, so let’s say some. Immediately”
You’ll be surprised to learn that bad language doesn’t exactly upset me. I’m not the most frequent exponent of its use in my group of friends, but I’m all for a bit of ‘industrial’ language to get my point across rather than that flowery nonsense most people go for. Indeed, if I could guarantee that such prose wouldn’t upset readers, I would in all likelihood sprinkle massively inappropriate words throughout my blogs, simply because I can. However, given that I can’t guarantee non-friends won’t read this, I have to keep it clean and ultimately avoid any potential legal wranglings.
The reason I mention this skill of drawing bad language out of people came about after a recent trip to Dublin. To and from the airport I unsurprisingly used local taxi drivers. Both were chirpy salt-of-the-earth types who had opinions on everything from traffic police to the state of the economy. I was happy to join in with my opinions and thoughts on many subjects, but out of respect and a lack of knowledge of the drivers’ tolerances to swearing, kept it clean.
The same cannot be said of the drivers.
Bear in mind I was in the company of both drivers for less that 20 minutes combined, yet I heard 30-plus f-words, multiple ‘bastards’ and even a couple of the ‘bad’ swear word. You know, the one that starts with ‘c’ and isn’t ‘cock’ or ‘compass’. Yeah, that one.
Now, like I said, such language doesn’t bother me (in fact, given the Irish accent, the word ‘cont’ actually made me laugh, which may or may not be racist), but surely these guys must come into contact with people from all parts of the social spectrum on a daily basis, so liberal use of the c-bomb shouldn’t be encouraged? Assuming these guys are aware of the fact they’re being paid for their driving service, they have to be very careful not to offend people and jeopardise their pay day. I can therefore only assume that within a few seconds of meeting me, people think “This guy clearly likes a bit of blue language. It would be rude to disappoint”. Either that or such language is as clean as the proverbial baby’s bottom in Ireland, so it isn’t deemed offensive to lob it into every other sentence.
I’m still not sure if I’m proud or not. I probably am though.
Thursday, 14 May 2009
£150 for a glass dildo?!
Let’s have a quick show of hands; who actually, genuinely cares about the expenses ‘scandal’ currently engulfing anyone who’s ever set foot inside Westminster?
If you do, then kudos to you for having the time and inclination to get worked up about something that literally has no effect on us. We don’t have to pay any extra for their claims, so it doesn’t matter one iota what they get up to.
Don’t get me wrong, I think they’re taking the piss. £100 to get some blokes to change a few light bulbs or having the audacity to claim for the repair of a pipe under your tennis court is OTT in anyone’s book. The expenses system was implemented because it was deemed bad form to be giving MP’s pay rises, so they give them a basic wage and let them claim for other, legitimate expenses that occur in their normal political business. I didn’t realise tennis featured so highly on their political agenda.
When I accrue expenditure as part of my job, I claim it back as any normal person would. However, I only claim for the food/fuel/prostitutes I’ve used carrying out the work. You won’t see car washes or a round of tequilas at Hooters mentioned on the form, because it had nothing to do with it. To me that’s the point; if it emerged that an MP had claimed shitloads, but they countered with a pile of receipts that explained every penny spent was for their job, you’d hold your hands up and say ‘fair enough, guv’. Quite why you’d say that, I’m not sure, but you get my point.
The thing is, anybody put in the same position would do exactly the same thing. I would; I don’t because I know I can’t get away with it. It’s not actually against the rules for them to claim for all the guff they do end up claiming for, so there’s not really a scandal after all. They’re just a shower of greedy bastards manipulating a pathetically-governed scheme.
As you would imagine, the leaders have been falling over themselves to apologise and promise change (and my favourite – order an independent review) but the simple fact is anything they do is a direct result of being caught. If somebody had come out a few months ago and said that they thought it was a bid naughty to claim for a housemaid and they were going to sort it out now, fair play to them. In the event, The Telegraph has pulled everyone’s pants down and the public have been treated to the display of general-election-later-this-year panic from anyone with ‘MP’ in their name. Like I said earlier, it has cost us nothing more than we would already have paid, so I’m quite enjoying the playground level one-upmanship being served up by Brown and Cameron as they each pretend they thought of sorting this out first. If they just said “you know what – fair’s fair. We’ve been taking the piss for yonks now, but it’s about time we knocked it on the head” at least we’d think there was an element of humility within them. But they didn’t, and we don’t.
Right, the company’s paying – who wants an Castlemaine XXXX?
If you do, then kudos to you for having the time and inclination to get worked up about something that literally has no effect on us. We don’t have to pay any extra for their claims, so it doesn’t matter one iota what they get up to.
Don’t get me wrong, I think they’re taking the piss. £100 to get some blokes to change a few light bulbs or having the audacity to claim for the repair of a pipe under your tennis court is OTT in anyone’s book. The expenses system was implemented because it was deemed bad form to be giving MP’s pay rises, so they give them a basic wage and let them claim for other, legitimate expenses that occur in their normal political business. I didn’t realise tennis featured so highly on their political agenda.
When I accrue expenditure as part of my job, I claim it back as any normal person would. However, I only claim for the food/fuel/prostitutes I’ve used carrying out the work. You won’t see car washes or a round of tequilas at Hooters mentioned on the form, because it had nothing to do with it. To me that’s the point; if it emerged that an MP had claimed shitloads, but they countered with a pile of receipts that explained every penny spent was for their job, you’d hold your hands up and say ‘fair enough, guv’. Quite why you’d say that, I’m not sure, but you get my point.
The thing is, anybody put in the same position would do exactly the same thing. I would; I don’t because I know I can’t get away with it. It’s not actually against the rules for them to claim for all the guff they do end up claiming for, so there’s not really a scandal after all. They’re just a shower of greedy bastards manipulating a pathetically-governed scheme.
As you would imagine, the leaders have been falling over themselves to apologise and promise change (and my favourite – order an independent review) but the simple fact is anything they do is a direct result of being caught. If somebody had come out a few months ago and said that they thought it was a bid naughty to claim for a housemaid and they were going to sort it out now, fair play to them. In the event, The Telegraph has pulled everyone’s pants down and the public have been treated to the display of general-election-later-this-year panic from anyone with ‘MP’ in their name. Like I said earlier, it has cost us nothing more than we would already have paid, so I’m quite enjoying the playground level one-upmanship being served up by Brown and Cameron as they each pretend they thought of sorting this out first. If they just said “you know what – fair’s fair. We’ve been taking the piss for yonks now, but it’s about time we knocked it on the head” at least we’d think there was an element of humility within them. But they didn’t, and we don’t.
Right, the company’s paying – who wants an Castlemaine XXXX?
A tale of 4 tits
Many moons ago, when I still held onto the thought that people actually read this, I wrote about the pending divorce of him from The Ordinary Boys and her off Big Brother. You know, the blonde one who reckoned she was like Paris Hilton. Got her cans out in a swimming pool. Yeah, that’s her.
Anyway, that blog was notable for 2 reasons; I was poking well-thought out fun at another celebrity-driven defamation of the sanctity of marriage, but more importantly because I used the c-word uncensored for the first time online. I felt that strongly about it at the time, as I surmised that it was nothing more than a cheap publicity stunt to keep them in the public eye, and they would be back together quicker than you could say “centre-spread”.
Alas, I were wrong.
I recall my younger, swearier self here because this week, the nation’s favourite celebrity chavs, Andre and Price, have decided time’s time and are to divorce after 4-and-a-half years or wedded bliss.
Perhaps blunted by the sheer volume of stories of this ilk you read these days, I find myself more amused than angry. I think a lot of that has to do with the simple fact that they’re both massively cretinous and unlikely to be taken seriously apart from by those orange lasses who wear pink tracksuits and furry boots. The right-thinking of this nation ceased to give a shite – shiny or otherwise – about these two ages ago.
Now, I don’t begrudge them a minute of their fame or a penny of their fortune. It is widely noted that Price is a businesswoman of some repute; cashing in on the ‘Jordan’ persona to feather her nest. The way she’s brought up her lad is an inspiration to parents in the same situation as well. And let’s face it, not many red-blooded males would have passed up the chance for half an hour in her pre-silicone company, surely? Either way, she’s a bit of a dick, but she’s harmless and if people want to read about her, why shouldn’t she make as much brass out of it as she can? I know I would. Compare and contrast to Captain CarCrash herself, Jodie Marsh. Same sort of idea to Jordan, but now looks like Pete Burns and has the bedroom morals of a French whore. Well played there.
Andre on the other hand is a different kettle of shrimp. Reasonably popular in his pomp, he used “I’m a celebrity” the same way the other Timmy Malletts of this world do; to get their mug on telly when people think they’re dead. The only difference here was that he bagged himself a glamour model at the same time, and if memory serves me correctly, he re-released “Mysterious Girl” into the bargain. A good era for Great Britain, I’m sure you’ll agree.
I never doubted for a minute that it wouldn’t go tits-skywards from the word go. Given the way they lived their lives through the pages of ‘glossy’ magazines, it’s clear their agenda is far from being man and wife. The genuine tragedy is the poor kids stuck in this. They’ve had 2 together I believe who don’t need this, and poor Harvey’s got enough on his plate without being the victim of a broken home.
As you would expect, they’ve managed to overshadow this entire sorry charade with a beautiful piece of comedy. Having spent their entire married life in the public eye, with more programmes about them that there is about property, one of the first lines of their divorce statement read thus:
“We would appreciate it if the press left us alone during this difficult time”
For once, words fail me.
Anyway, that blog was notable for 2 reasons; I was poking well-thought out fun at another celebrity-driven defamation of the sanctity of marriage, but more importantly because I used the c-word uncensored for the first time online. I felt that strongly about it at the time, as I surmised that it was nothing more than a cheap publicity stunt to keep them in the public eye, and they would be back together quicker than you could say “centre-spread”.
Alas, I were wrong.
I recall my younger, swearier self here because this week, the nation’s favourite celebrity chavs, Andre and Price, have decided time’s time and are to divorce after 4-and-a-half years or wedded bliss.
Perhaps blunted by the sheer volume of stories of this ilk you read these days, I find myself more amused than angry. I think a lot of that has to do with the simple fact that they’re both massively cretinous and unlikely to be taken seriously apart from by those orange lasses who wear pink tracksuits and furry boots. The right-thinking of this nation ceased to give a shite – shiny or otherwise – about these two ages ago.
Now, I don’t begrudge them a minute of their fame or a penny of their fortune. It is widely noted that Price is a businesswoman of some repute; cashing in on the ‘Jordan’ persona to feather her nest. The way she’s brought up her lad is an inspiration to parents in the same situation as well. And let’s face it, not many red-blooded males would have passed up the chance for half an hour in her pre-silicone company, surely? Either way, she’s a bit of a dick, but she’s harmless and if people want to read about her, why shouldn’t she make as much brass out of it as she can? I know I would. Compare and contrast to Captain CarCrash herself, Jodie Marsh. Same sort of idea to Jordan, but now looks like Pete Burns and has the bedroom morals of a French whore. Well played there.
Andre on the other hand is a different kettle of shrimp. Reasonably popular in his pomp, he used “I’m a celebrity” the same way the other Timmy Malletts of this world do; to get their mug on telly when people think they’re dead. The only difference here was that he bagged himself a glamour model at the same time, and if memory serves me correctly, he re-released “Mysterious Girl” into the bargain. A good era for Great Britain, I’m sure you’ll agree.
I never doubted for a minute that it wouldn’t go tits-skywards from the word go. Given the way they lived their lives through the pages of ‘glossy’ magazines, it’s clear their agenda is far from being man and wife. The genuine tragedy is the poor kids stuck in this. They’ve had 2 together I believe who don’t need this, and poor Harvey’s got enough on his plate without being the victim of a broken home.
As you would expect, they’ve managed to overshadow this entire sorry charade with a beautiful piece of comedy. Having spent their entire married life in the public eye, with more programmes about them that there is about property, one of the first lines of their divorce statement read thus:
“We would appreciate it if the press left us alone during this difficult time”
For once, words fail me.
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
Forgive me Jebus for I have sinned...
God bless Karen Matthews. Where would we be without her?
For a kick-off, she makes every parent in the country look like some kind of SuperMum or Dad, given her vomit-inducing attempt to blag money from well-wishers by conspiring to kidnap, sedate and tether her own daughter for an extended length of time in a relative's house. If there's a worse act that doesn't involve killing or interefering with a child, I don't want to know about it.
Lest we forget the service she provided to her special boyfriend Craig "I dunno, officer - the PC was like that when I bought it" Meehan. Let's face it, he's not exactly dealing from the top of the deck looks- or brains-wise, so the fact that Matthews was prepared to have carnal knowledge of him, let alone tolerate his dinner-plate glasses gawping at her all day is a cause for credit in anyone's book.
She's trumped the lot this week though, with an article in the press giving the nation a chance to catch up with its favourite dole scum, where she puts herself across as a humble, apologetic reformed character, trying to repair the emotional damage she's done to her daughter, whilst convincing the public that she's a changed woman. Read her testimony; it details how she came to terms with her own actions and vowed not to rest until she's proven that she's turned over a new leaf, and gets her children back where they rightfully belong - with their loving mother.
She also talks of finding religion, and how The Good Book has taught her more about herself than she ever thought possible. She reveals how since finding God, she's cleansed her soul, cleaned up her act and realised the sheer debt she owes to her family and to herself. "With the Lord's guidance", she said, "I WILL become a better person"
Not really - this is what she actually said:
"It wasn't me guv - it were a fit up"
and
"The things I miss most in jail are sex and shopping"
What a prick.
For a kick-off, she makes every parent in the country look like some kind of SuperMum or Dad, given her vomit-inducing attempt to blag money from well-wishers by conspiring to kidnap, sedate and tether her own daughter for an extended length of time in a relative's house. If there's a worse act that doesn't involve killing or interefering with a child, I don't want to know about it.
Lest we forget the service she provided to her special boyfriend Craig "I dunno, officer - the PC was like that when I bought it" Meehan. Let's face it, he's not exactly dealing from the top of the deck looks- or brains-wise, so the fact that Matthews was prepared to have carnal knowledge of him, let alone tolerate his dinner-plate glasses gawping at her all day is a cause for credit in anyone's book.
She's trumped the lot this week though, with an article in the press giving the nation a chance to catch up with its favourite dole scum, where she puts herself across as a humble, apologetic reformed character, trying to repair the emotional damage she's done to her daughter, whilst convincing the public that she's a changed woman. Read her testimony; it details how she came to terms with her own actions and vowed not to rest until she's proven that she's turned over a new leaf, and gets her children back where they rightfully belong - with their loving mother.
She also talks of finding religion, and how The Good Book has taught her more about herself than she ever thought possible. She reveals how since finding God, she's cleansed her soul, cleaned up her act and realised the sheer debt she owes to her family and to herself. "With the Lord's guidance", she said, "I WILL become a better person"
Not really - this is what she actually said:
"It wasn't me guv - it were a fit up"
and
"The things I miss most in jail are sex and shopping"
What a prick.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
Disclaimer: We make sh*t up
I can appreciate that advertising is a difficult job. In today's cost-conscious society, people will invariably gravitate towards the cheaper end of the market for their stuff. To that end, companies have to think smart and come up with slogans and statistics which prove their product is the best choice for the consumer.
Of course the flip-side is that companies must also put a certain spin on their research and data, to ensure their product is shown in the best possible light. I'm sure many millions are spent each year proving the quality of their product, so if the results they get aren't exactly what they hoped for, they'll need to massage the data slightly to get what they want out of it.
There's an advert on at the mo for ink cartridges, specifically a particular company (can't remember which one) and how their products are much more efficient and use less ink that their competitors. They fanfare this fact with a "You could save up to £75 a year on ink" slogan on the advert, suffixed with the obligatory asterisk. Usually, such asterisks lead you to some tiny text elsewhere on the screen detailing how many people were asked, how many printers were used, etc, to give you a better indication of the scope of the research.
However...the disclaimer on this advert basically said "Based on 1500 pages of text and photos. Results may vary"
Er, "Results may vary"? Isn't that just another way of saying "You could end up with any old results. We haven't got a Scooby Doo what'll happen"?
How this had got through whatever watchdog or governing body manages these matters is beyond me. It's like an advert saying "If you drink this product, you'll live 'til you're a million*" then putting elsewhere "* Your lifespan may vary". They've literally made up the results, yet qualified it by saying "Well, it might not pan out exactly the same for you, in which case, tough shit"
If this is tolerable in our great British media, I see no reason why the general public can't use it on CV's or personal ads:
"Male, 35yo, ripped like a prize fighter, hung like a baby elephant, seeks pneumatic, improbably-breasted librarian for rutting *"
* Actual rippedness and cock length may vary.
Of course the flip-side is that companies must also put a certain spin on their research and data, to ensure their product is shown in the best possible light. I'm sure many millions are spent each year proving the quality of their product, so if the results they get aren't exactly what they hoped for, they'll need to massage the data slightly to get what they want out of it.
There's an advert on at the mo for ink cartridges, specifically a particular company (can't remember which one) and how their products are much more efficient and use less ink that their competitors. They fanfare this fact with a "You could save up to £75 a year on ink" slogan on the advert, suffixed with the obligatory asterisk. Usually, such asterisks lead you to some tiny text elsewhere on the screen detailing how many people were asked, how many printers were used, etc, to give you a better indication of the scope of the research.
However...the disclaimer on this advert basically said "Based on 1500 pages of text and photos. Results may vary"
Er, "Results may vary"? Isn't that just another way of saying "You could end up with any old results. We haven't got a Scooby Doo what'll happen"?
How this had got through whatever watchdog or governing body manages these matters is beyond me. It's like an advert saying "If you drink this product, you'll live 'til you're a million*" then putting elsewhere "* Your lifespan may vary". They've literally made up the results, yet qualified it by saying "Well, it might not pan out exactly the same for you, in which case, tough shit"
If this is tolerable in our great British media, I see no reason why the general public can't use it on CV's or personal ads:
"Male, 35yo, ripped like a prize fighter, hung like a baby elephant, seeks pneumatic, improbably-breasted librarian for rutting *"
* Actual rippedness and cock length may vary.
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
I don't ask cos I don't care
"In a roll, lose control, but we're alright" sang hat-wearing walking sideburn Gaz from UK supergroup "Supergrass" on their debut hit "Alright". It was welcome news to those of us who were concerned about his well being at the time, as anybody who remembers those halcyon days will recall the nation being beside itself with worry about Gaz's plight.
The point I'm spectacularly labouring is the propensity for the British public to enquire about someones well being as an opening gambit, when we clearly couldn't give a shiny shite whether the questionee is in fine fettle or about to shuffle off this mortal coil.
I don't ask people because I don't care. Call it harsh if you will, but in general, the health of the people I come into contact with on a daily basis has little to no effect on my life or work. If somebody I had time for had just returned to work after a bout of the old swine flu, I might enquire "How are you?", if only to determine how big a gap I should maintain between us until the virus dies down.
It's one of those unusual traits of our society that we're all guilty to some extent of using "How are you?" or "Are you alright?" as a conversational pleasantry, but if I was trying to describe an objectionable person to you and said "They're the type of person who if you ask them 'Are you alright?', they say 'No'", you would nod knowingly and thank your lucky stars that you hadn't had to tolerate the cretin in question.
I guess it harks back to the old 'stiff upper lip' days, when our forefathers buried their ills deep down and enjoyed a pint of mild instead, whilst their very being came apart at the seams. Everyone was in the same boat so it did no good moaning about it. "Only pussies say 'no'. Another pint please, landlord".
I might be doing everyone a disservice; maybe it's me who couldn't care less and the rest of the nation does. However, I'm willing to bet a sizable sum that if someone replied "Well no, actually", the asker's internal monologue will shift from pleasant interest to murderous impatience quicker than you can say "Well go to a doctor then, arsehat".
Anyway, enough about me - how are you getting on?
The point I'm spectacularly labouring is the propensity for the British public to enquire about someones well being as an opening gambit, when we clearly couldn't give a shiny shite whether the questionee is in fine fettle or about to shuffle off this mortal coil.
I don't ask people because I don't care. Call it harsh if you will, but in general, the health of the people I come into contact with on a daily basis has little to no effect on my life or work. If somebody I had time for had just returned to work after a bout of the old swine flu, I might enquire "How are you?", if only to determine how big a gap I should maintain between us until the virus dies down.
It's one of those unusual traits of our society that we're all guilty to some extent of using "How are you?" or "Are you alright?" as a conversational pleasantry, but if I was trying to describe an objectionable person to you and said "They're the type of person who if you ask them 'Are you alright?', they say 'No'", you would nod knowingly and thank your lucky stars that you hadn't had to tolerate the cretin in question.
I guess it harks back to the old 'stiff upper lip' days, when our forefathers buried their ills deep down and enjoyed a pint of mild instead, whilst their very being came apart at the seams. Everyone was in the same boat so it did no good moaning about it. "Only pussies say 'no'. Another pint please, landlord".
I might be doing everyone a disservice; maybe it's me who couldn't care less and the rest of the nation does. However, I'm willing to bet a sizable sum that if someone replied "Well no, actually", the asker's internal monologue will shift from pleasant interest to murderous impatience quicker than you can say "Well go to a doctor then, arsehat".
Anyway, enough about me - how are you getting on?
Friday, 24 April 2009
How come tramps aren't fat?
Occasionally, and it is only occasionally, I learn a fact. Even rarer than that, the fact in question is so well-known and agreed upon by the general populus that when it transpires that I didn't know said fact, the only acceptable response is to thrust the tongue into the lower lip and deliver what is widely regarded as a "belm".
Such an event occured (the lack of knowledge, not the belm) just yesterday, when I found out that alcohol is in fact highly calorific.
Talk about a kick in the teeth. I, like most Britons, rely heavily upon alcohol to a) get a party started, b) make me seem funnier, more charming and harder than everyone else in the room and c) as an emergency mouthwash. Imagine my displeasure then, when I discovered that Sweet Lady Booze is actually slowly turning my into a lardarse at the same time as delivering epiphanies on the true plot of the original Star Wars trilogy.
To say I was disappointed was something of an understatement, as in recent weeks I've started using a gym and eating healthier (not healthy, merely healthier). Now it turns out that when I wind down of a Thursday evening (or Friday or Saturday) with a nice glass of Tesco's own Italian Merlot, I'm actually piling all the weight back on that 7 minutes of mid-paced ambling took out at earlier that day.
After nearly 4 minutes of soul searching, I concluded that the only solution is to work out more. It was either that or drink less, so I'm sure you can appreciate the inevitable logic of my decision. I did approach it in a mature fashion and look for low-fat alternatives in the alcoholic spectrum, but that was a pipe dream from the kick off.
So, if anyone out there is reading this and has come up with a viable alternative to burning off the calories I've gained through controlled exercise, let me know, because the alternative is literally too scary to consider.
Such an event occured (the lack of knowledge, not the belm) just yesterday, when I found out that alcohol is in fact highly calorific.
Talk about a kick in the teeth. I, like most Britons, rely heavily upon alcohol to a) get a party started, b) make me seem funnier, more charming and harder than everyone else in the room and c) as an emergency mouthwash. Imagine my displeasure then, when I discovered that Sweet Lady Booze is actually slowly turning my into a lardarse at the same time as delivering epiphanies on the true plot of the original Star Wars trilogy.
To say I was disappointed was something of an understatement, as in recent weeks I've started using a gym and eating healthier (not healthy, merely healthier). Now it turns out that when I wind down of a Thursday evening (or Friday or Saturday) with a nice glass of Tesco's own Italian Merlot, I'm actually piling all the weight back on that 7 minutes of mid-paced ambling took out at earlier that day.
After nearly 4 minutes of soul searching, I concluded that the only solution is to work out more. It was either that or drink less, so I'm sure you can appreciate the inevitable logic of my decision. I did approach it in a mature fashion and look for low-fat alternatives in the alcoholic spectrum, but that was a pipe dream from the kick off.
So, if anyone out there is reading this and has come up with a viable alternative to burning off the calories I've gained through controlled exercise, let me know, because the alternative is literally too scary to consider.
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Why are the chavs so sad?
Every weekday I go into our canteen at work around the 9:30 mark. As a result, social misfit overlord Jeremy Kyle is plying his wares on his eponymous car crash of a TV show. If you haven’t seen it, I can save you the effort, as every episode goes like this:
- Kyle is smug
- Member of the social underclass (Liam, Destiny, etc) is wheeled out, sporting a haircut fashionable only with people in a certain salary bracket
- Kyle shouts at them for refusing to acknowledge their baby/drinking themselves into an early grave/not adhering the Carney Code
- Wife/bird/chap/lover is wheeled out with a face like a slapped Labrador
- Hilarious argument ensues, relying heavily on the word ‘slut’
- Nothing is resolved.
- Kyle looks smug
It’s easy to poke to fun at this pointless piece of voyeurism based on its ‘cost-friendly’ production values and reliance upon the moronic sadness of the great unemployed, but it does raise one pertinent question:
Why are the chavs so sad?
If the media is to be believed (and I can’t think of a single reason why it wouldn’t be) today’s dole scum enjoys a healthy giro, low-cost alcohol and regular unprotected sex in playparks. All this with a built-in reluctance to work and a well-developed sense of not giving a shit about anyone or anything else in society. I wish I could be that lazy, inept and stupid, yet still enjoy such hedonistic benefits. Talk about nirvana.
The thing is though, Kyle’s hard-hitting journalistic skill proves that they’re all upset. They all seem to be cross with each other and feel that aggressively declaring “I know you slept with that slag, Terry!” whilst not wearing a bra is the only way to resolve such deep-seated issues. Maybe cider has gone up in the latest budget, or all the local talent has gone off to do a BTEC and cannot be reached for carnal relief of an evening. I can’t think of any other reason they would be so sad and be forced to air their grievances on national television.
Maybe I’m doing them a disservice; maybe these people want to work and are treating Kyle’s show as a shop window. Let’s face it, it gives them a chance to show problem solving, communication and bare-knuckle boxing skills in one place. In many respects it’s like a video CV for Macdonalds or Halfords. If that’s the case the kudos to them; anything that helps them afford something other than Ben Sherman clothes and a razor to remove their laughable moustaches can only be a good thing.
- Kyle is smug
- Member of the social underclass (Liam, Destiny, etc) is wheeled out, sporting a haircut fashionable only with people in a certain salary bracket
- Kyle shouts at them for refusing to acknowledge their baby/drinking themselves into an early grave/not adhering the Carney Code
- Wife/bird/chap/lover is wheeled out with a face like a slapped Labrador
- Hilarious argument ensues, relying heavily on the word ‘slut’
- Nothing is resolved.
- Kyle looks smug
It’s easy to poke to fun at this pointless piece of voyeurism based on its ‘cost-friendly’ production values and reliance upon the moronic sadness of the great unemployed, but it does raise one pertinent question:
Why are the chavs so sad?
If the media is to be believed (and I can’t think of a single reason why it wouldn’t be) today’s dole scum enjoys a healthy giro, low-cost alcohol and regular unprotected sex in playparks. All this with a built-in reluctance to work and a well-developed sense of not giving a shit about anyone or anything else in society. I wish I could be that lazy, inept and stupid, yet still enjoy such hedonistic benefits. Talk about nirvana.
The thing is though, Kyle’s hard-hitting journalistic skill proves that they’re all upset. They all seem to be cross with each other and feel that aggressively declaring “I know you slept with that slag, Terry!” whilst not wearing a bra is the only way to resolve such deep-seated issues. Maybe cider has gone up in the latest budget, or all the local talent has gone off to do a BTEC and cannot be reached for carnal relief of an evening. I can’t think of any other reason they would be so sad and be forced to air their grievances on national television.
Maybe I’m doing them a disservice; maybe these people want to work and are treating Kyle’s show as a shop window. Let’s face it, it gives them a chance to show problem solving, communication and bare-knuckle boxing skills in one place. In many respects it’s like a video CV for Macdonalds or Halfords. If that’s the case the kudos to them; anything that helps them afford something other than Ben Sherman clothes and a razor to remove their laughable moustaches can only be a good thing.
Friday, 3 April 2009
We are gathered here today...to out-tack Stringfellow
It's coming up to a year since I became engaged. I say 'became'; it was completely my decision. I didn't wake up one day to find I'd contracted a fiancee. Let's just say that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, so I tied her down before she reads any of these blogs and realises I'm a social retard.
With this wedding caper in mind, we recently visited a wedding fair (or possibly 'fayre', although it wasn't massively medieval) to get some ideas and generally frighten the living daylights out of me.
Let me make it clear, I'm not scared of the commitment or any other aspect of marriage. I just expected to leave all the details to her and get a text the day before saying "Church. 11am. Don't be too pissed". Sadly that is not to be.
What I really want to comment on though is the sheer level of tackiness that seems to make up a modern wedding. Back in the 70's, you picked a church, put pillars on your cake and had the reception at a local pub. Now, it's all subtle lighting, grand venues and soft-focus photography. And it looks shite.
I want my wedding to be a simple affair; friends and family, vows, bridesmaids who make you think you've made a mistake choosing the Mrs, speeches, telegrams, low-level racist uncles and a bit of dancing. However, if you gave any of these fly-by-night chancers the reins, you'd be up to your eyes in personalised balloons and leather-bound photo annuals before you could say "But that looks wank".
Every aspect of the wedding was covered, but the whole event felt shrouded in a tacky, over-sentimental film, where flying in by helicopter, sporting a rooster-style haircut and having 'mood' shots of the happy couple in black and white were par for the course. Sorry, folks, but that's not me (and happily not the Mrs, either). We're not going to be in OK magazine, nor are we the type of people who sport a tattoo bearing our children's names or a butterfly. We're simple, traditional people, so let's keep the wedding the same, eh?
I'm all for a bit of indulgence (one of my many ideas involves top hats and canes bearing the respective holders' football club crest) but I refuse to pose next to a Ferrari or look pensively into the middle distance as it tips it down and our relatives grow increasingly bored and begin to refer to us as 'pretentious twats'.
I think the only way I can guarantee that we don't fall into the trap these shysters are setting for us is to employ a simple test as we venture on this nuptial quest. Whenever we are faced with a difficult decision, be it suits, flowers or whether to black up the best man, we should quietly ask ourselves this:
"What would Peter and Jordan do?"
With this wedding caper in mind, we recently visited a wedding fair (or possibly 'fayre', although it wasn't massively medieval) to get some ideas and generally frighten the living daylights out of me.
Let me make it clear, I'm not scared of the commitment or any other aspect of marriage. I just expected to leave all the details to her and get a text the day before saying "Church. 11am. Don't be too pissed". Sadly that is not to be.
What I really want to comment on though is the sheer level of tackiness that seems to make up a modern wedding. Back in the 70's, you picked a church, put pillars on your cake and had the reception at a local pub. Now, it's all subtle lighting, grand venues and soft-focus photography. And it looks shite.
I want my wedding to be a simple affair; friends and family, vows, bridesmaids who make you think you've made a mistake choosing the Mrs, speeches, telegrams, low-level racist uncles and a bit of dancing. However, if you gave any of these fly-by-night chancers the reins, you'd be up to your eyes in personalised balloons and leather-bound photo annuals before you could say "But that looks wank".
Every aspect of the wedding was covered, but the whole event felt shrouded in a tacky, over-sentimental film, where flying in by helicopter, sporting a rooster-style haircut and having 'mood' shots of the happy couple in black and white were par for the course. Sorry, folks, but that's not me (and happily not the Mrs, either). We're not going to be in OK magazine, nor are we the type of people who sport a tattoo bearing our children's names or a butterfly. We're simple, traditional people, so let's keep the wedding the same, eh?
I'm all for a bit of indulgence (one of my many ideas involves top hats and canes bearing the respective holders' football club crest) but I refuse to pose next to a Ferrari or look pensively into the middle distance as it tips it down and our relatives grow increasingly bored and begin to refer to us as 'pretentious twats'.
I think the only way I can guarantee that we don't fall into the trap these shysters are setting for us is to employ a simple test as we venture on this nuptial quest. Whenever we are faced with a difficult decision, be it suits, flowers or whether to black up the best man, we should quietly ask ourselves this:
"What would Peter and Jordan do?"
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