I’m not what you’d call up to speed with the dark art of stalking. Not least because I’ve got too much to do to find the time, the simple fact is I find the act of surreptitiously following someone against their will a little bit…well…stalkery. On top of that is the fact that I’m constantly beating off the ladeez with a shitty stick, so it’s never been necessary to chase the tail covert-style.
The reason I mention this is because over the last couple of days I have completely inadvertently bumped into a female member of staff on a number of occasions. When I say ‘bumped into’ I don’t mean both turning a corner at the same time with me going “Whoops, I seem to have groped clumsily at your top half there – soz” complete with Carry On-style "Phwoar!". I mean seeing her in public parts of the building (canteen, corridors, on one occasion when she was manning reception as I left for the day) so I’m hardly in Sutcliffe territory.
The thing is, after the third or fourth such meeting she opined that I must be stalking her, as if the very fact that we’d met on multiple occasions in a short space of time meant that I was planning to burn her hair off and bury her on an allotment. Don’t get me wrong, the implication was completely friendly and meant as a joke, but there are 2 possible scenarios I can envisage coming from this when the wrong protagonists are involved:
- The ‘stalker’ actually is stalking the stalkee, albeit cack-handedly. Thinking the game is up, he burns her hair off and buries her on an allotment.
- The stalkee is actually a fully paid-up member of the Bunny Boilers club, and a smear campaign spreads throughout the company and surrounding areas quicker than you can say “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer”
Makes you think, doesn’t it? To the likes of me who revels in piss-taking and general bawdy humour (thank you, Davidson) this kind of mock accusation holds no water. But the more eccentric-minded on either side of the stalker/stalkee relationship could easily take things too far, and before you know it your neighbours are telling ITN that you were quiet but had a penchant for collecting dog dirt in jars in your cellar.
Friday, 20 February 2009
Tuesday, 17 February 2009
Breaking News: Turns out I DO care
This is a real turn up for the books, I don't mind telling you. I mean, in the grand scheme of the things I feel, experience and swear about on a day-to-day basis, this is a biggie.
I actually cared when I found out Jade Goody is dying.
Now, to most human beings, such a reaction is expected; commonplace even. But I'm not most human beings (some maintain I'm not human at all). When stories of this ilk break, more often than not they are met with wide-scale ambivalence from me. Usually because such occurrences don't affect me to any great degree, but mainly because I simply don't care. I don't mean that in a cold-hearted way, but if I cared about every person falling ill or dying, I doubt I'd have time to eat my breakfast.
The story itself broke the other day, when it was announced that her cervical cancer had spread to other parts, and it's now literally a case of "how long?". I heard it on the radio on the way to work and found myself surprisingly saddened to hear it. The sadness was soon overtaken by shock at the simple fact that I cared so much. My opinions of Ms. Goody don't deserve airing here, especially in the light of this news, but the fact this had an impact on me can only suggest that I'm either ill or - gulp - a nice person.
I don't think it's unreasonable to feel dissent or aggression towards the likes of Goody, Katona, Diana, etc - they tend to raise the ire of most folk with their empty-headed, yo-yo-weighting oh-isn't-everything-terrible-for-me-cos-I've got-millions-in-the-bank-but-I'm-depressed cobblers. To say they are detached from reality is something of an understatement, especially when every week their latest toy boy or flower purchase it emblazoned on the cover of tomes such as Heat, Bliss and Cack magazine. They occupy a different sphere to us socially, but that doesn't make them any less susceptible to the big stuff, as Goody's plight has proven. Those with leanings towards made-up fearmonger God might nod knowingly at the "Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away" mantra this episode epitomises.
So where can I go from here, now that I've displayed sadness towards another person's tragedy? For years I've been the king of the non-caring, the bastion of all that it is not to give a shiny shite. And now what? Now, I'm feeling empathy for someone who probably doesn't deserve anything like that from me, but there it is. Personally I'd like to think it's a sign of a growing maturity in yours truly; proof that I'm finally turning that corner and considering other people's feelings and what have you.
I do hope so, because the alternative is too frightening to even contemplate...
I actually cared when I found out Jade Goody is dying.
Now, to most human beings, such a reaction is expected; commonplace even. But I'm not most human beings (some maintain I'm not human at all). When stories of this ilk break, more often than not they are met with wide-scale ambivalence from me. Usually because such occurrences don't affect me to any great degree, but mainly because I simply don't care. I don't mean that in a cold-hearted way, but if I cared about every person falling ill or dying, I doubt I'd have time to eat my breakfast.
The story itself broke the other day, when it was announced that her cervical cancer had spread to other parts, and it's now literally a case of "how long?". I heard it on the radio on the way to work and found myself surprisingly saddened to hear it. The sadness was soon overtaken by shock at the simple fact that I cared so much. My opinions of Ms. Goody don't deserve airing here, especially in the light of this news, but the fact this had an impact on me can only suggest that I'm either ill or - gulp - a nice person.
I don't think it's unreasonable to feel dissent or aggression towards the likes of Goody, Katona, Diana, etc - they tend to raise the ire of most folk with their empty-headed, yo-yo-weighting oh-isn't-everything-terrible-for-me-cos-I've got-millions-in-the-bank-but-I'm-depressed cobblers. To say they are detached from reality is something of an understatement, especially when every week their latest toy boy or flower purchase it emblazoned on the cover of tomes such as Heat, Bliss and Cack magazine. They occupy a different sphere to us socially, but that doesn't make them any less susceptible to the big stuff, as Goody's plight has proven. Those with leanings towards made-up fearmonger God might nod knowingly at the "Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away" mantra this episode epitomises.
So where can I go from here, now that I've displayed sadness towards another person's tragedy? For years I've been the king of the non-caring, the bastion of all that it is not to give a shiny shite. And now what? Now, I'm feeling empathy for someone who probably doesn't deserve anything like that from me, but there it is. Personally I'd like to think it's a sign of a growing maturity in yours truly; proof that I'm finally turning that corner and considering other people's feelings and what have you.
I do hope so, because the alternative is too frightening to even contemplate...
Friday, 6 February 2009
Let 'em moan, let 'em moan, let 'em moan
Thank God the snow’s more or less gone now. No, not because I’ve been unable to get to work (although I was stuck at home on Monday), but because I am sick to the back teeth of people moaning about every single facet of the wintry conditions.
We’ve had people moaning that they couldn’t get to work, that the schools were shut, that the schools were still shut, that the schools weren’t shut, that they’re cars had been stuck for 3 days, that their road hadn’t been gritted. For the love of God, SHUT THE FUCK UP.
I don’t work for the council nor do I hold any particular view of their ability or otherwise to look after the county, but give ‘em a break, will you? It’s not their fault that the snow fell, nor that the gritters can do the square root of bugger all when the snow comes down so quick the road is covered again literally minutes after the last visit. Nor is it their fault that villages on the outskirts of the Moon haven’t yet been reconnected to the outside world; there’s only a finite amount of salt to go round, and motorways tend to be slightly more important than some back road to a grotty little hamlet.
At work, somebody complained that their car was still stuck in the snow 3 days after the first fall. It took a Herculean effort not to say “well get a bloody spade and dig the bastard out then”. They seem to have missed the fact that the temperatures have stayed sub-zero for nearly a week now, so the snow isn’t going to melt. Nor are there any celestial beings akin to the tooth fairy who will dig it out while you sleep. Get a spade and do it yourself. It took me 15 minutes to dig 2 out using a small dust shovel the other day, so stop bleating.
I can symapthise with people who complain that the schools have been shut for too long – when I was at school you needed an imminent nuclear war to close the doors at ours – but there is a genuine danger for kids in the playground. When I was young, had I slipped over in the playground I would’ve been told off for being a cretin and sent on my way, but these days you can take your teacher, school and the entire LEA to court over a scraped knee. Until kids (and more importantly, parents) start taking responsibility for their own actions, the very lightest dusting of snow is likely to see schools slamming their doors quicker that you can say “out of court settlement”
There was also the story of a woman who complained that her daughter’s school hadn’t closed, and that she was worried about falling over in the playground. My legal representatives had advised me against commenting on this story for fear of a record-breaking amount of compensation being payable.
At the end of the day, it’s going to happen. It’s the worst snow in the London area since 1963 in some places, so it’s not like it happens every year. Have the day off, chuck a few snowballs and shut your moaning trap, before I give you something to moan about.
We’ve had people moaning that they couldn’t get to work, that the schools were shut, that the schools were still shut, that the schools weren’t shut, that they’re cars had been stuck for 3 days, that their road hadn’t been gritted. For the love of God, SHUT THE FUCK UP.
I don’t work for the council nor do I hold any particular view of their ability or otherwise to look after the county, but give ‘em a break, will you? It’s not their fault that the snow fell, nor that the gritters can do the square root of bugger all when the snow comes down so quick the road is covered again literally minutes after the last visit. Nor is it their fault that villages on the outskirts of the Moon haven’t yet been reconnected to the outside world; there’s only a finite amount of salt to go round, and motorways tend to be slightly more important than some back road to a grotty little hamlet.
At work, somebody complained that their car was still stuck in the snow 3 days after the first fall. It took a Herculean effort not to say “well get a bloody spade and dig the bastard out then”. They seem to have missed the fact that the temperatures have stayed sub-zero for nearly a week now, so the snow isn’t going to melt. Nor are there any celestial beings akin to the tooth fairy who will dig it out while you sleep. Get a spade and do it yourself. It took me 15 minutes to dig 2 out using a small dust shovel the other day, so stop bleating.
I can symapthise with people who complain that the schools have been shut for too long – when I was at school you needed an imminent nuclear war to close the doors at ours – but there is a genuine danger for kids in the playground. When I was young, had I slipped over in the playground I would’ve been told off for being a cretin and sent on my way, but these days you can take your teacher, school and the entire LEA to court over a scraped knee. Until kids (and more importantly, parents) start taking responsibility for their own actions, the very lightest dusting of snow is likely to see schools slamming their doors quicker that you can say “out of court settlement”
There was also the story of a woman who complained that her daughter’s school hadn’t closed, and that she was worried about falling over in the playground. My legal representatives had advised me against commenting on this story for fear of a record-breaking amount of compensation being payable.
At the end of the day, it’s going to happen. It’s the worst snow in the London area since 1963 in some places, so it’s not like it happens every year. Have the day off, chuck a few snowballs and shut your moaning trap, before I give you something to moan about.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Wanted: Prejudices for national broadcast
In today’s 24-hour news culture, we’re ‘treated’ to the same 30 seconds of footage every 20 minutes. I can imagine that it is quite an expensive business to send a correspondent to the back of beyond to film a piece, so they’re keen to reuse the same piece of film repeatedly rather than leave them on location all day to repeat the same thing over and over.
However, it seems that they’re not so prudent when it comes to vetting the members of the public they use for such pieces.
At present, there are 2 big stories in this country; the current heavy snowfalls which have caused a minor amount of chaos around the UK, and the ongoing strike at some power stations because foreign workers have been drafted in to do jobs that British people could do.
Both are important stories on a national scale, and have been amply covered in the various news outlets over the past 24 hours. The problem is, such was the BBC’s panic to get some of those affected to offer their opinions for these reports, they clean forgot to listen to what was being said and think “Hold on a minute, if we put that out we’re going to look like right tools”
For the snow story, they hovered around London asking commuters of their opinions. As you can imagine, a few of them were less than chuffed at the scale of disruption, with most bemoaning the lack of viable transport in the capital.
Then this clown stepped up:
“It’s an absolute disgrace. It’s like living in a third world country”
Is it, squire? Is the suspension of bus services because of a natural weather phenomenon in any way the same as a country with next to zero literacy, food or transport infrastructure, not to mention often been ruled by unmoveable despots who kill you if you happen to disagree with them? Now, everyone’s entitled to their opinion, but surely the Beeb will look a tad foolish for allowing these sort of small-minded goons the oxygen of airtime on their station?
The we move onto the power strikes, were hordes of woolly hat-wearing brainiacs stand about with their hands in their pockets, occasionally ringing their mates when they’re in the background of a camera shot or to hold up a badly-written sign deploring thhe very existence of people from other countries. Again, a few talking heads were employed to give their well-thought-out theories, then we were treated to this beautiful piece of prose:
“The problem with the Portguese and the Iti’s is you can’t work with them”
Jesus Christ. Surely alarm bells would have been ringing when this barely-concealed racist diatribe was put forth? Bear in mind this wasn’t live, so the reporter had ample chance to think “Bloody hell, we don’t want this sort of hatred on the airwaves; let’s ask someone else’, but it was allowed to stand.
Again, everyone’s entitled to their opinion (however small-minded and ill-considered it is), but surely the media outlets (especially the BBC which is paid for by the public) have a duty to keep this kind of guff off the airwaves? I guess they have to offer a cross-section of opinions on all stories they cover, but surely they can spot the difference between someone’s point of view and their petty prejudices.
What is most thought-provoking is in the light of the Ross/Brand scandal, now more than every the Beeb is keeping an eye on its output, which leads me to believe this has been viewed and passed by someone in a position of management. If that’s the case, then I can only conclude that they either agree with these kind of sentiments or simply want to stir up trouble.
Either way, we’re paying for it. Cheek.
However, it seems that they’re not so prudent when it comes to vetting the members of the public they use for such pieces.
At present, there are 2 big stories in this country; the current heavy snowfalls which have caused a minor amount of chaos around the UK, and the ongoing strike at some power stations because foreign workers have been drafted in to do jobs that British people could do.
Both are important stories on a national scale, and have been amply covered in the various news outlets over the past 24 hours. The problem is, such was the BBC’s panic to get some of those affected to offer their opinions for these reports, they clean forgot to listen to what was being said and think “Hold on a minute, if we put that out we’re going to look like right tools”
For the snow story, they hovered around London asking commuters of their opinions. As you can imagine, a few of them were less than chuffed at the scale of disruption, with most bemoaning the lack of viable transport in the capital.
Then this clown stepped up:
“It’s an absolute disgrace. It’s like living in a third world country”
Is it, squire? Is the suspension of bus services because of a natural weather phenomenon in any way the same as a country with next to zero literacy, food or transport infrastructure, not to mention often been ruled by unmoveable despots who kill you if you happen to disagree with them? Now, everyone’s entitled to their opinion, but surely the Beeb will look a tad foolish for allowing these sort of small-minded goons the oxygen of airtime on their station?
The we move onto the power strikes, were hordes of woolly hat-wearing brainiacs stand about with their hands in their pockets, occasionally ringing their mates when they’re in the background of a camera shot or to hold up a badly-written sign deploring thhe very existence of people from other countries. Again, a few talking heads were employed to give their well-thought-out theories, then we were treated to this beautiful piece of prose:
“The problem with the Portguese and the Iti’s is you can’t work with them”
Jesus Christ. Surely alarm bells would have been ringing when this barely-concealed racist diatribe was put forth? Bear in mind this wasn’t live, so the reporter had ample chance to think “Bloody hell, we don’t want this sort of hatred on the airwaves; let’s ask someone else’, but it was allowed to stand.
Again, everyone’s entitled to their opinion (however small-minded and ill-considered it is), but surely the media outlets (especially the BBC which is paid for by the public) have a duty to keep this kind of guff off the airwaves? I guess they have to offer a cross-section of opinions on all stories they cover, but surely they can spot the difference between someone’s point of view and their petty prejudices.
What is most thought-provoking is in the light of the Ross/Brand scandal, now more than every the Beeb is keeping an eye on its output, which leads me to believe this has been viewed and passed by someone in a position of management. If that’s the case, then I can only conclude that they either agree with these kind of sentiments or simply want to stir up trouble.
Either way, we’re paying for it. Cheek.
Thursday, 29 January 2009
How Politics Works
I’m not somebody who you could class as actively interested in politics (in fact, the phrase ‘couldn’t give a shiny shite’ is oft-quoted regarding my political views). In fairness, I’ve only been a tax-paying fully-employed member of society during the latest Labour government, but having listened to the to-ing and fro-ing between them and the Tories over the years, it’s clear that no matter who’s in power, my life will barely change on a day-to-day level, if at all.
That said, I have picked up a lot of information about the complication machinations of politics and government, and with your permission, I’ll lay them out in my own inimitable style (i.e. with a liberal use of childish swear words and knob gags)
GOVERNMENT POLICIES
The mainstay of government seems to be policies, laws and the like. What with the credit crunch and society crumbling around our ears, barely a day goes by without Labour coming up with a new scheme or initiative. This is how it works:
Labour Minister: “Yeah, so in relation to the ongoing issue what we’re currently debating, our course of action would be to X, Y and Z, with a ban on A and a public enquiry on B”
Tory Shadow Minister: “Nah. It’s bollocks, that. We’d do it in exactly the opposite way, despite it appearing that their way is the only sensible way to proceed”
Lib Dem Person: “Can I have a biscuit?”
PRIME MINISTER'S QUESTIONS
This is a weekly opportunity for David Cameron to have a right old pop at Gordon Brown, while each side’s front bench cronies nod and laugh along despite the put-downs and word play being at best piss-poor. This is interspersed with a load of fat, drunk back-benchers in identical grey suits roaring and waving pieces of paper at predetermined intervals.
Cameron: “I put it to the Right Honourable Gentleman that not only has he failed in his policy to rid society of such-and-such, but he is also a skunk-breathed crap hound”
TORY ROAR OF APPROVAL WITH PAPER-WAVING
Brown: “I don’t think so”
DERISORY LAUGHTER FROM COLLEAGUES
Cameron: “All I’m asking is that my Right Honourable colleague admits he made a mistake”
Brown: “Er, doubtful”
Cameron: "Your mother"
Brown: "Don't make me come over there"
MORE ROARING
Speaker: “Knock it off, the pair of you”
Brown: “He started it”
Speaker: “I don’t care who started it, I’ll bang your bloody heads together in a minute. Do we have any questions from you non-important MP’s at the back”
Non-important MP: “Yes, I wonder if the Right Honourable Leader might consider the plight of Mrs. Ethel Pavestone, who lives more that a quarter mile from her nearest post box and can’t send her pools coupon in a timely manner”
Brown: “I’m afraid I don’t have the details of this particular case to hand, but I ensure my Right Honourable colleague that I’ll look into it in due course. I’ll just make a note of it on my imaginary typewriter”
Clegg: “Can I have a go at being in charge? Go on, I’ll be dead careful”
And you wonder why we’re in such trouble…
That said, I have picked up a lot of information about the complication machinations of politics and government, and with your permission, I’ll lay them out in my own inimitable style (i.e. with a liberal use of childish swear words and knob gags)
GOVERNMENT POLICIES
The mainstay of government seems to be policies, laws and the like. What with the credit crunch and society crumbling around our ears, barely a day goes by without Labour coming up with a new scheme or initiative. This is how it works:
Labour Minister: “Yeah, so in relation to the ongoing issue what we’re currently debating, our course of action would be to X, Y and Z, with a ban on A and a public enquiry on B”
Tory Shadow Minister: “Nah. It’s bollocks, that. We’d do it in exactly the opposite way, despite it appearing that their way is the only sensible way to proceed”
Lib Dem Person: “Can I have a biscuit?”
PRIME MINISTER'S QUESTIONS
This is a weekly opportunity for David Cameron to have a right old pop at Gordon Brown, while each side’s front bench cronies nod and laugh along despite the put-downs and word play being at best piss-poor. This is interspersed with a load of fat, drunk back-benchers in identical grey suits roaring and waving pieces of paper at predetermined intervals.
Cameron: “I put it to the Right Honourable Gentleman that not only has he failed in his policy to rid society of such-and-such, but he is also a skunk-breathed crap hound”
TORY ROAR OF APPROVAL WITH PAPER-WAVING
Brown: “I don’t think so”
DERISORY LAUGHTER FROM COLLEAGUES
Cameron: “All I’m asking is that my Right Honourable colleague admits he made a mistake”
Brown: “Er, doubtful”
Cameron: "Your mother"
Brown: "Don't make me come over there"
MORE ROARING
Speaker: “Knock it off, the pair of you”
Brown: “He started it”
Speaker: “I don’t care who started it, I’ll bang your bloody heads together in a minute. Do we have any questions from you non-important MP’s at the back”
Non-important MP: “Yes, I wonder if the Right Honourable Leader might consider the plight of Mrs. Ethel Pavestone, who lives more that a quarter mile from her nearest post box and can’t send her pools coupon in a timely manner”
Brown: “I’m afraid I don’t have the details of this particular case to hand, but I ensure my Right Honourable colleague that I’ll look into it in due course. I’ll just make a note of it on my imaginary typewriter”
Clegg: “Can I have a go at being in charge? Go on, I’ll be dead careful”
And you wonder why we’re in such trouble…
Thursday, 22 January 2009
I hope he just said "CHEW the fat"...
This story about the new over-the-counter slimming drug had me interested on the way home tonight. The product is called Orlistat, and is basically the latest in tub reduction technology.
On the radio, they had a health expert on. Usually these are dry, well-spoken chaps who reel out a series of statistics and easy-on-the-ear facts before saying "of course, there's no substitute for eating healthily and doing a bit of exercise, you fat bastards". Or words to that effect.
I expected that to happen (apart from the swearing) but instead was treated to the following sentence:
"Well, essentially the drug prevents your body from absorbing fat, so you poo out the fat"
A few seconds went past before my subconscious alerted me to what I'd just heard and I pricked my ears up. I was not disappointed.
Apparently, this is exactly what happens. The fat isn't ingested so it heads south to Pantstown, often coming out at unexpected times with explosive results. I was absolutely pissing myself laughing at stories such as shite with the consistency of oil spurting from one young lady after a bus journey became a bit...well...vibratey.
Another chap told of his horror at his orange stools, again oily, which were damn near impossible to shift from the bog. An absolute comedy joy.
The presenter made the valid point that orange permanent turd was a price worth paying for today's fashion- and weight-conscious youth, so no amount of preparing them for the inevitable 'disruptions' would make much difference. Put simply, no matter how painful and unpleasant, if it makes you thin, you're quids in (possible promotional quote there, market types).
As the interview ended, the two presenters discussed the issue, and one asked rhetorically what people would go through in their plight to become thin.
In this case, a few pairs of pants I would have thought...
On the radio, they had a health expert on. Usually these are dry, well-spoken chaps who reel out a series of statistics and easy-on-the-ear facts before saying "of course, there's no substitute for eating healthily and doing a bit of exercise, you fat bastards". Or words to that effect.
I expected that to happen (apart from the swearing) but instead was treated to the following sentence:
"Well, essentially the drug prevents your body from absorbing fat, so you poo out the fat"
A few seconds went past before my subconscious alerted me to what I'd just heard and I pricked my ears up. I was not disappointed.
Apparently, this is exactly what happens. The fat isn't ingested so it heads south to Pantstown, often coming out at unexpected times with explosive results. I was absolutely pissing myself laughing at stories such as shite with the consistency of oil spurting from one young lady after a bus journey became a bit...well...vibratey.
Another chap told of his horror at his orange stools, again oily, which were damn near impossible to shift from the bog. An absolute comedy joy.
The presenter made the valid point that orange permanent turd was a price worth paying for today's fashion- and weight-conscious youth, so no amount of preparing them for the inevitable 'disruptions' would make much difference. Put simply, no matter how painful and unpleasant, if it makes you thin, you're quids in (possible promotional quote there, market types).
As the interview ended, the two presenters discussed the issue, and one asked rhetorically what people would go through in their plight to become thin.
In this case, a few pairs of pants I would have thought...
Friday, 16 January 2009
I need a hero...with a quality name
“We don’t need another hero” squawked bow-legged quasi-man Tina Turner on the track of the same name. Unfortunately, Welsh hairspray fan and former roofer Bonnie Tyler barked “I’m holding out for a hero”, so now I don’t know what to think.
What I do know is, when you’re in bother, be it physical, financial or fire-related, you want someone with the balls and rescue skills to pile in and dig you out of the shit. Not necessarily some muscle-bound goon clad in lycra, sporting a name with an animal in it (Goatman, Weaslewoman, etc), but someone who nonetheless knows what to do in times of peril.
In my humble opinion, it’s great to be rescued, but it’s even better to be rescued by someone with a quality name.
Step forward Captain Chesley Sullenberger III
That’s a name, that. If you didn’t know, CCS III was the pilot who successfully landed his Airbus in the Hudson River when it suffered simultaneous birdstrike to 2 engines and gave up on the old flying lark. His quick thinking and decisive action undoubtedly saved the lives of over 150 people. Looking at the overhead map, the river takes up a tiny percentage of the Manhattan floor space, so landing a jet in there is akin to threading a needle with boxing gloves. Thank the lord we had old Sully at the controls.
Now, don’t get me wrong. There are almost certainly loads of pilots out there perfectly capable of carrying out a similar manoeuvre and saving 150-odd lives, but there’s something about the name Captain Chesley Sullenberger III that makes you think “Yeah, he’s the kind of man I want in charge of this plane. If the shit hits the fan (or birds hit the engine), he’ll know what to do”.
So sorry to all the Tony Jones’ and Len Smiths out there, but your names are rubbish. If you want people to take you seriously, get your moniker changed to something more daring and sexy before it’s too late. That said, if you’re a wiener who’d rather see 153 people plunge to their icy death, leave it as it is. It’s your call.
Yours,
Handsome B. Wonderful
What I do know is, when you’re in bother, be it physical, financial or fire-related, you want someone with the balls and rescue skills to pile in and dig you out of the shit. Not necessarily some muscle-bound goon clad in lycra, sporting a name with an animal in it (Goatman, Weaslewoman, etc), but someone who nonetheless knows what to do in times of peril.
In my humble opinion, it’s great to be rescued, but it’s even better to be rescued by someone with a quality name.
Step forward Captain Chesley Sullenberger III
That’s a name, that. If you didn’t know, CCS III was the pilot who successfully landed his Airbus in the Hudson River when it suffered simultaneous birdstrike to 2 engines and gave up on the old flying lark. His quick thinking and decisive action undoubtedly saved the lives of over 150 people. Looking at the overhead map, the river takes up a tiny percentage of the Manhattan floor space, so landing a jet in there is akin to threading a needle with boxing gloves. Thank the lord we had old Sully at the controls.
Now, don’t get me wrong. There are almost certainly loads of pilots out there perfectly capable of carrying out a similar manoeuvre and saving 150-odd lives, but there’s something about the name Captain Chesley Sullenberger III that makes you think “Yeah, he’s the kind of man I want in charge of this plane. If the shit hits the fan (or birds hit the engine), he’ll know what to do”.
So sorry to all the Tony Jones’ and Len Smiths out there, but your names are rubbish. If you want people to take you seriously, get your moniker changed to something more daring and sexy before it’s too late. That said, if you’re a wiener who’d rather see 153 people plunge to their icy death, leave it as it is. It’s your call.
Yours,
Handsome B. Wonderful
Sunday, 11 January 2009
The greatest lyric of all time
Being a fan of music from all genres (apart from R'n'B and anything on Channel U) I recently took it upon myself to find the greatest song lyrics in the history of music. I scoured all corners of the musical spectrum, analysing and digesting every lyric in every song on every album ever produced, carefully noting the subtle nuances and visual imagery conjoured up by a myriad different musical wordsmiths.
Having gathered these lyrics I then tabulated them and began the painstaking process of ranking them, with a intention of finding the greatest lyrics ever committed to paper. I have spent the last ten years meticulously working through a mountain of material to draw a credible conclusion.
Interestingly, the result flies in the face of traditional music awards such as the Mercury, inthat the greatest lyric is in fact the one held closest to the hearts of the vast majority of the Earth's population. I could be forgiven for being upset that all these years of research have ended up with the most obvious result imaginable, but one read-through of this genius transcript is enough to calm even my most aggressive thoughts.
I'm talking of course of Zig and Zag's seminal masterpiece "Dem girls", and for the first time these beautiful and heart-rending lyrics have been published for the world's eyes to absorb. Read on, but make sure you have a tissue ready...
This is the Zagamuffin calling planet Earth
Ziggy Man and Zagamuffin are in the house in full effect, that's right
Zig and Zag stylee
They all love me, they all love me, dem girls dem girls they all love me
They all love me, they all love me, dem girls dem girls they all love me
Me fluffy, me purple, me lover alien
Me go by the name of the Zagamuffin
Toasting, toasting, 1, 2, 3
I'm toasting y'all in a dancer stylee
Winding and reeling and pumping and jumping
Mash up the place in a slow motion
Give us the sound of a rumbling bass
Gonna waste the place, in your face!
Naughty naughty in a dancehall style
Wiggle your body girl, wiggle me while
Me all love rubbing, me am a rich man
Me dreadlock boss is the Ziggy Man
They call me Zagamuffin cos it is my name
With a rub-a-dub stylee it's bringing me fame
On a ragga tip, you know respect is due
Cos I'm a wicked alien lover and I'm after you
Boom boom, the drums go boom
They shake it, they rock it, the room goes boom
Mix it up and mix it hot
Wiggle them hips, girl, wiggle that bot
Bing bong, the bells done chime
You're my ding dong, gonna make you mine
I'm a heartbreaker, a bodyshaker
You put the sky in my skyscraper
They all love it when I do it to the left
They all love it when I do it to the right
They all love it when I do it to the left
They all love it when I do it to the right
They all love it when I do it to the left
They all love it when I do it to the right
They all love it when I do it to the left
Zig and Zag, booyaka all night!
They all love me, they all love me, dem girls dem girls they all love me (to fade)
Makes you weep, doesn't it...
Having gathered these lyrics I then tabulated them and began the painstaking process of ranking them, with a intention of finding the greatest lyrics ever committed to paper. I have spent the last ten years meticulously working through a mountain of material to draw a credible conclusion.
Interestingly, the result flies in the face of traditional music awards such as the Mercury, inthat the greatest lyric is in fact the one held closest to the hearts of the vast majority of the Earth's population. I could be forgiven for being upset that all these years of research have ended up with the most obvious result imaginable, but one read-through of this genius transcript is enough to calm even my most aggressive thoughts.
I'm talking of course of Zig and Zag's seminal masterpiece "Dem girls", and for the first time these beautiful and heart-rending lyrics have been published for the world's eyes to absorb. Read on, but make sure you have a tissue ready...
This is the Zagamuffin calling planet Earth
Ziggy Man and Zagamuffin are in the house in full effect, that's right
Zig and Zag stylee
They all love me, they all love me, dem girls dem girls they all love me
They all love me, they all love me, dem girls dem girls they all love me
Me fluffy, me purple, me lover alien
Me go by the name of the Zagamuffin
Toasting, toasting, 1, 2, 3
I'm toasting y'all in a dancer stylee
Winding and reeling and pumping and jumping
Mash up the place in a slow motion
Give us the sound of a rumbling bass
Gonna waste the place, in your face!
Naughty naughty in a dancehall style
Wiggle your body girl, wiggle me while
Me all love rubbing, me am a rich man
Me dreadlock boss is the Ziggy Man
They call me Zagamuffin cos it is my name
With a rub-a-dub stylee it's bringing me fame
On a ragga tip, you know respect is due
Cos I'm a wicked alien lover and I'm after you
Boom boom, the drums go boom
They shake it, they rock it, the room goes boom
Mix it up and mix it hot
Wiggle them hips, girl, wiggle that bot
Bing bong, the bells done chime
You're my ding dong, gonna make you mine
I'm a heartbreaker, a bodyshaker
You put the sky in my skyscraper
They all love it when I do it to the left
They all love it when I do it to the right
They all love it when I do it to the left
They all love it when I do it to the right
They all love it when I do it to the left
They all love it when I do it to the right
They all love it when I do it to the left
Zig and Zag, booyaka all night!
They all love me, they all love me, dem girls dem girls they all love me (to fade)
Makes you weep, doesn't it...
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
Schmedit Schmunch More Like
A Happy New Year and all that jazz (I try not to get too bogged down in pleasantries at this time of year).
I don't know if you've heard, but there's been some kind of crunch on credit recently. I've had a scout round the papers and news channels but there's no mention of it anywhere. Obviously, I'm joking (with hilarious results). Not an hour goes by when some company which has been rubbish for 15 years finally decides enough's enough and lurches to its inevitable doom like the Poseidon, from the well-known diaster film "Titanic". MFI, Woolworths and now some middle-class plate outlet have all carked it recently, with thousands of relatively unskilled workers being belched back into an already bloated employment market. It's genuinely sad and worrying for those people and I hope they manage to find some way of making ends meet in the meantime.
However (and I know I'll be incurring the wrath of at least half a million of my readership here), it's had absolutely no effect on me whatsoever.
In fact, scratch that. If anything, I've positively benefitted from the recent economic downturn.
Before you start viciously assaulting me with a rolled-up P45, let me explain. About 6 months ago I was doing my usual online banking and I noticed that due to excessive going out and ill-informed DVD and Wii game purchases, I was skint, despite there being another 10 days until pay day. I had a bit of a panic, went through my statement line for line and determined the only course of action would be to tighten the old belt and stop making daft purchases. By November I was more or less back on a even keel and have started spunking my brass away on TV series I'll never watch again. Phew.
By now the Mrs had sold her house and had moved in with me, meaning she was saving X amount per month on non-mortgage payments, plus no bills or council tax, etc. That money has come in very nicely feathering our nest with a new carpet and assorted electronics, but I'm still paying the lion's share of the bills. All is well, you might say. The thing is, in an attempt to motivate spending, VAT has been cut, and fuel prices have also begun to return to normal, meaning I'm actually saving money for the same amount of expenditure as last year. I find it absolutely bizarre that in these times of fiscal dog turd I'm richer than I've ever been before. Apart from the odd bit of spending from the Mrs here and there I'm still living off my own earnings, yet doing better each month that this time last year.
Now, I'm not trying to gloat or set myself up for some 90's-style begging letters here. My point is that everywhere you look we're hearing about how we'll all be feeling the pinch and how Christmas would be a financial nightmare and how spiralling energy costs would see us all out of pocket, but my example proves that's a load of old horseradish, surely? Not for a minute am I suggesting that there aren't potentially millions of people suffering out there, but if I can go from being on the bones of my arse to being relatively well-off in the space of a few months thanks to a bit of careful planning, clearly it isn't as bad as it seems.
I know there are a million variables and counter arguments to my logic, but it's about time somebody said "Hold on a minute, Peston. It's not all doom and gloom out there. In fact, some spawny beggars (including yours truly) are actually doing alright out of the old Crunch Le Credite, so wind your neck in and stop being so sensationalist". Or summat.
Despite the monetary nay-sayers telling us the end is nigh, there will eventually be an end to the downturn. After years of unprecedented growth it was bound to happen, and avoiding the politics of the situation it appears Brown and Darling are on the right track to sorting it out. I hope everybody who has lost their job or is feeling the pinch is looked after and eventually helped back to their feet, but stop trying
to tell us that everyone in Britain is under the thumb of financial struggle. It simply isn't true.
Don't suppose you've got 10p for bus fare have you, squire...
I don't know if you've heard, but there's been some kind of crunch on credit recently. I've had a scout round the papers and news channels but there's no mention of it anywhere. Obviously, I'm joking (with hilarious results). Not an hour goes by when some company which has been rubbish for 15 years finally decides enough's enough and lurches to its inevitable doom like the Poseidon, from the well-known diaster film "Titanic". MFI, Woolworths and now some middle-class plate outlet have all carked it recently, with thousands of relatively unskilled workers being belched back into an already bloated employment market. It's genuinely sad and worrying for those people and I hope they manage to find some way of making ends meet in the meantime.
However (and I know I'll be incurring the wrath of at least half a million of my readership here), it's had absolutely no effect on me whatsoever.
In fact, scratch that. If anything, I've positively benefitted from the recent economic downturn.
Before you start viciously assaulting me with a rolled-up P45, let me explain. About 6 months ago I was doing my usual online banking and I noticed that due to excessive going out and ill-informed DVD and Wii game purchases, I was skint, despite there being another 10 days until pay day. I had a bit of a panic, went through my statement line for line and determined the only course of action would be to tighten the old belt and stop making daft purchases. By November I was more or less back on a even keel and have started spunking my brass away on TV series I'll never watch again. Phew.
By now the Mrs had sold her house and had moved in with me, meaning she was saving X amount per month on non-mortgage payments, plus no bills or council tax, etc. That money has come in very nicely feathering our nest with a new carpet and assorted electronics, but I'm still paying the lion's share of the bills. All is well, you might say. The thing is, in an attempt to motivate spending, VAT has been cut, and fuel prices have also begun to return to normal, meaning I'm actually saving money for the same amount of expenditure as last year. I find it absolutely bizarre that in these times of fiscal dog turd I'm richer than I've ever been before. Apart from the odd bit of spending from the Mrs here and there I'm still living off my own earnings, yet doing better each month that this time last year.
Now, I'm not trying to gloat or set myself up for some 90's-style begging letters here. My point is that everywhere you look we're hearing about how we'll all be feeling the pinch and how Christmas would be a financial nightmare and how spiralling energy costs would see us all out of pocket, but my example proves that's a load of old horseradish, surely? Not for a minute am I suggesting that there aren't potentially millions of people suffering out there, but if I can go from being on the bones of my arse to being relatively well-off in the space of a few months thanks to a bit of careful planning, clearly it isn't as bad as it seems.
I know there are a million variables and counter arguments to my logic, but it's about time somebody said "Hold on a minute, Peston. It's not all doom and gloom out there. In fact, some spawny beggars (including yours truly) are actually doing alright out of the old Crunch Le Credite, so wind your neck in and stop being so sensationalist". Or summat.
Despite the monetary nay-sayers telling us the end is nigh, there will eventually be an end to the downturn. After years of unprecedented growth it was bound to happen, and avoiding the politics of the situation it appears Brown and Darling are on the right track to sorting it out. I hope everybody who has lost their job or is feeling the pinch is looked after and eventually helped back to their feet, but stop trying
to tell us that everyone in Britain is under the thumb of financial struggle. It simply isn't true.
Don't suppose you've got 10p for bus fare have you, squire...
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
Christmas Number Two
Bloody hell, for the second time in as many years I can say I've written a topical blog...
"It's Christmas!" yelled woolly-haired tartan-botherer Nobert "Noddy" Holder on his seminal Yuletide song with the backwards S. For a couple of weeks a year he's right as well, as all that is correct and right-thinking in life is replaced by tinsel and minature toy snowmen who grind their hips to the electronic tinkling of Jingle Bells.
Back in the good old days, Christmas number one was worth listening out for. It wasn't necessarily a christmassy song, but it was a genuine attempt to achieve top spot, and it meant something if you managed it. These days, it's all bloody X-Idol and Pop Factor and the like, meaning the number one is sewn up as early as August, when middle-aged women from Glasgow are murdering a Motown classic in front of a startled Louis Walsh. To say it was a cynical marketing ploy for each year's contest to end just before Christmas would be something of an understatement. Unfortunately, as long as there are vaccuous people with nothing better to do than watch dozens of personality-challenged cretins warble the latest hits in their own adolescent style, I'm afraid we're stuck with it.
Anyroad, that's not the nub of my rant, although the above phenomemna has given rise to my latest festive irk. This year's hotly-tipped number one is a cover of the Lenoard Cohen song "Hallelujah" by whichever pop drone won this blasted Factor competition. As you can imagine, it's like shit in a field at the moment; every regional and national station is playing it at 25-minute intervals to ensure we rush to our local record stockist and push it to the top of the Hit Parade.
There's a problem with it, though. It's shit.
My preferred version of the song is by Rufus Wainwright, which is achingly beautiful. Low-key singing and simple piano backing give it it's unique quality, and it's a welcome addition to any programme which is trying to force an emotional response from its viewers. Now, I'm not saying that is the only acceptable version of the tune, but I'm afraid this poppette's offering has slightly spolit it for me. It starts off alright, with the same low-key vocals and simple backing, but after a couple of verses she's like "Forget this, let's take it to town". All of a sudden there's banging drums, a screeching choir and Bonnie Tyler-style power ballading all over the shop. From the sublime to the ridiculous in seconds, as the entire ambiance and feeling of the record is blown out of the water in favour of fist-clenching and giving it large. Shambolique, as the French might say.
To make matters worse (if that was possible), she then decides to do that annoying thing that some supposed vocalists do, where they stick ten different notes on the end of some words, as if they're trying to put their own inimitable slant on the sound. All you're doing love is over-complicating a song which needs to be kept simple to get its message across. Your high-necked warbling is ruining it for everyone, so knock it off.
That Leona Lewis is the same. Fit, albeit slightly lion-faced, but her verion of Snow Patrol's 'Run' is awful. Yes, she is note-perfect and as good technically as a singer is able to be, but she injects no passion whatsoever into her performance, and she's changing notes left, right and centre. Listen to the original; Gary Lightbody sounds broken and vulnerable which makes the lyrics work and the song make sense. Lewis has ripped all of the pathos out of it in one fell swoop, leaving an empty, pointless and forgettable version. Lightbody may have made a packet in royalties, but I bet he winces when he hears one of his finest works being ripped to shreds by someone who's only been in the business five minutes.
In conclusion, there's nothing wrong with cover versions. Indeed, a lot of the Live Lounge stuff when an act recreates a well-known song with a different muscial slant is great, but you've got to pick your songs with care. Some songs are good because of how they are performed, not because of who's singing them. So think on, Cowell...
"It's Christmas!" yelled woolly-haired tartan-botherer Nobert "Noddy" Holder on his seminal Yuletide song with the backwards S. For a couple of weeks a year he's right as well, as all that is correct and right-thinking in life is replaced by tinsel and minature toy snowmen who grind their hips to the electronic tinkling of Jingle Bells.
Back in the good old days, Christmas number one was worth listening out for. It wasn't necessarily a christmassy song, but it was a genuine attempt to achieve top spot, and it meant something if you managed it. These days, it's all bloody X-Idol and Pop Factor and the like, meaning the number one is sewn up as early as August, when middle-aged women from Glasgow are murdering a Motown classic in front of a startled Louis Walsh. To say it was a cynical marketing ploy for each year's contest to end just before Christmas would be something of an understatement. Unfortunately, as long as there are vaccuous people with nothing better to do than watch dozens of personality-challenged cretins warble the latest hits in their own adolescent style, I'm afraid we're stuck with it.
Anyroad, that's not the nub of my rant, although the above phenomemna has given rise to my latest festive irk. This year's hotly-tipped number one is a cover of the Lenoard Cohen song "Hallelujah" by whichever pop drone won this blasted Factor competition. As you can imagine, it's like shit in a field at the moment; every regional and national station is playing it at 25-minute intervals to ensure we rush to our local record stockist and push it to the top of the Hit Parade.
There's a problem with it, though. It's shit.
My preferred version of the song is by Rufus Wainwright, which is achingly beautiful. Low-key singing and simple piano backing give it it's unique quality, and it's a welcome addition to any programme which is trying to force an emotional response from its viewers. Now, I'm not saying that is the only acceptable version of the tune, but I'm afraid this poppette's offering has slightly spolit it for me. It starts off alright, with the same low-key vocals and simple backing, but after a couple of verses she's like "Forget this, let's take it to town". All of a sudden there's banging drums, a screeching choir and Bonnie Tyler-style power ballading all over the shop. From the sublime to the ridiculous in seconds, as the entire ambiance and feeling of the record is blown out of the water in favour of fist-clenching and giving it large. Shambolique, as the French might say.
To make matters worse (if that was possible), she then decides to do that annoying thing that some supposed vocalists do, where they stick ten different notes on the end of some words, as if they're trying to put their own inimitable slant on the sound. All you're doing love is over-complicating a song which needs to be kept simple to get its message across. Your high-necked warbling is ruining it for everyone, so knock it off.
That Leona Lewis is the same. Fit, albeit slightly lion-faced, but her verion of Snow Patrol's 'Run' is awful. Yes, she is note-perfect and as good technically as a singer is able to be, but she injects no passion whatsoever into her performance, and she's changing notes left, right and centre. Listen to the original; Gary Lightbody sounds broken and vulnerable which makes the lyrics work and the song make sense. Lewis has ripped all of the pathos out of it in one fell swoop, leaving an empty, pointless and forgettable version. Lightbody may have made a packet in royalties, but I bet he winces when he hears one of his finest works being ripped to shreds by someone who's only been in the business five minutes.
In conclusion, there's nothing wrong with cover versions. Indeed, a lot of the Live Lounge stuff when an act recreates a well-known song with a different muscial slant is great, but you've got to pick your songs with care. Some songs are good because of how they are performed, not because of who's singing them. So think on, Cowell...
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