In Which I Lambast a Frightful Practice

Several things before the main theme for today. I bought a tub of waffle and caramel ice cream that was on offer- apparently my thrift blinded me to the fact that I can't eat them. I'm still learning. The thrift in me suggests I should use the ice cream as betting credit with D, if he'll accept it- the nominal value is £1.75, and our stake is usually a pound. Also, I watched Revolutionary Road on iPlayer the other day. The leads, Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet (and in fact the rest of the cast) were acting the shit out of that film, but it was rather depressing. For one thing, American men of the 1950's apparently couldn't have sex for more than forty seconds before they orgasmed.

Right then. Halloween. Originally an Irish/Scottish tradition, I rather imagine it was an excuse to get pissed. However, due to the potato and deep fried mars bar famines, a lot of the Irish and Scottish emigrated for the United States and they brought the tradition of Halloween with them. Now tradition and America are words that don't sit very easily with one another. The main U.S tradition that we don't have here is probably Thanksgiving. They have one in Canada too, but we'll ignore that because I don't want to drag bacon or maple syrup into this, eh? Now Thanksgiving is a celebration whereupon the populace give thanks (to whom is unclear) that they have a surplus of food. They then proceed to gather all of the family to eat the surplus of food. I couldn't help but be reminded of this:

Anyway, this is essentially a dry run for Christmas, where they do exactly the same thing, but with presents. D'you know that Father Christmas used to dress in green? Well, that didn't really suit Coca Cola, who wanted to bung adverts of him everywhere wearing red, for that is the same colour as the Coca Cola labels. Anyway they couldn't get into contact with Father Christmas to talk about his image rights for some reason, so they just went ahead with the advertising campaign. He hasn't sued them- yet. Anyway, we've had it brainwashed into us that he was a crimson-wearing Christmas. I seem to have gone off topic here. Right.

Back in the day, Halloween was a little bit about having a laugh about spirits coming to visit because the next day is All Saints Day. I don't understand the link myself. As L.P. Hartley once said, the past is a foreign country- they do things differently there. I don't have a problem with people dressing like twats and having fun- Halloween to me is essentially a rather limiting fancy dress party in that you can only dress as something supernatural. But at some point in the 80's British children picked up the idea that they could get sweets and money by being utter arses. I blame this on E.T: The Extra Terrestrial. Extra Terrestrial: The Extra Terrestrial was an incredibly popular film, seen by millions of impressionable British children who saw other kids dress up in ghost and ghoul related garb, and decided to do likewise.

You know the Easter bunny? That time when Christ died and then the biblical bunny came and hid egg shaped chocolate outside in Judea because he was a sadist and liked the idea of children finding that their lovely Easter chocolate has melted into the sand? And why was the chocolate egg shaped? As far as I know, Jesus wasn't a lizard. My point is that Americans seem to warp traditions. Halloween used to be about dressing up as something supernatural, but it seems that now you can dress as whatever you want, because fuck, we never really believed in that ghost shit anyway so let's abandon what shred of integrity this stolen celebration might have had. I wouldn't be surprised to be trick or treated by a couple of kids dressed as Captain Planet and George Formby. So these kids dress like something they're not and go around door to door demanding sweets and cash from adults with the old favourite "trick or treat." This is despite the kids dressing like this being no advantage to the grown ups- I mean, what's in it for them (unless they're a nonce)? The equivalent of this would be me going to a butcher's dressed as a croupier and demanding free meat, and threatening to do them some unspecified harm if they failed to give me any. This is teaching kids that they can acquire goods through two things which aren't causally linked (dressing up should not equal profit) essentially that through some butterfly effect, chaos theory will make these chiddlers better off. Teaching kids to live their lives according to chaos theory is not the best route.

X= Dressing like a twat, Y=Profit?

Perhaps even worse, trick or treating is teaching kids that blackmail is alright. Essentially, trick or treat means "Give us the goods, or we will fuck your shit up." At the very best, trick or treaters consist of expendable children sent out to forage by their families that are below the breadline- despite the not inconsiderable danger of this being Christmas for paedophiles. At the very worst, this is basically extortion. On any day of the year, this would be criminal, but for the reasons of tradition, it's perfectly fine on one day of the year. Because of religious freedom? I may well go out on the second of June and celebrate the feast day of Erasmus of Formiae. This would manifest itself as launching rockets at people, burning things and blowing shit up, because Erasmus is the patron saint of pyrotechnics. If the police told me to tone it down a bit, I'd explain to them that I'm exercising my freedom of expression/religion and for them to grow up as it's only once a year. So yes, trick or treating is literally daylight robbery. Or it would be, if it didn't happen at night.

Today's Tune

In Which I Recall the CSA

I like being from a country that led the way in banning the slave trade without finding the need to have a war about it. In fact, here's a little thing you might not know (and shamelessly ripped off of Wikipedia). Great Britain established a Royal Naval squadron to patrol off the west coast of Africa purely to intercept slave ships and emancipate slaves. At one point, the West Africa squadron used a sixth of the Royal Navy fleet and Marines. Considering the British Empire had the largest navy in the world then, that's a hell of a commitment to getting rid of slavery, and for no financial gain (a massive financial loss, actually). The humanitarian gains were huge, however- between 1808 and 1860 the West Africa Squadron captured 1,600 slave ships and freed 150,000 Africans.

I'm going somewhere with this. Anyway, the Confederacy was a doomed movement of 11 states that decided to break away from the United States and form their own country. A certain trend amongst these states is that the white folks in charge liked (still might like, but there's some legislation that's put a stop to this) making people with a darker skin tone form the base of their economy. They weren't so keen on doing things like giving them rights or paying them, however. This lot didn't exactly have the moral high ground. Regardless, three of the states which rebelled and are now somewhat sulkily in the Union still have flags that are based on Confederacy flags. This is not exactly friendly looking to anyone who has African origins. The European equivalent of this would be how a Jew felt if  Bavaria or Rheinland-Pfalz had swastikas on their state flags.

Imagine my displeasure, then, as I have seen in my locality a Confederate battle flag being constantly flown from a flagpole. Now I know that they do this a lot in America in the southern states, but you'd expect that of some of them on account of not having so much going on in the cerebral department, but over here? That's depressing. I don't know if they simply don't know what it means and think they're being rock and roll (flown from outside a bungalow, so probably not) or they're a white supremacist. Either way, I feel like setting fire to the damn thing. No, strike that. I feel like paying someone to do it. No, strike that. I feel like kidnapping someone from their native land, forcing them into a life of servitude and having them do it for free.

Today's Tune

In Which I Show You Excuses I Made Up Yesterday

Yesterday was the day of The Village Cricket Quiz. Yesterday was the day when I was awoken at half past ungodly hour by N, imploring me to recognise the fact that I am more interesting (or less dull) than those around her. Yesterday was the day in which I could not get to sleep after N's communique due to the environment trying to do its best impression of a hurricane. Yesterday was the day when I walked from the station to C+C's in a typhoon. It was ridiculous, I was walking against the wind and I had to tack from left to right like a sailing ship- one mile became three. Yesterday was the day that I developed mild pneumonia from this Marcel Marceau inspired sponsored swim. Yesterday was the day that when I got to C+C's, I was met with a cloud of narcotics more heady and toxic than if an opium field had spontaneously combusted in his house. Yesterday was the day that I just said no, but unlike the cast of Grange Hill, I did inadvertently inhale a storm cloud's worth of PCP (despite the pneumonia). Yesterday was the day when H designated herself the Writer of the Answers at The Village Cricket Quiz. Yesterday was the day that H didn't actually get any answers right that no one else knew. Yesterday was the day that H actually ended up with negative equity as she overruled three of my answers which turned out to be correct. Yesterday was the day that the quiz masters took out the James Bond Themes round (which I would have aced) because of "technical difficulties".  Yesterday is the day where I spent the last round of the quiz making up excuses for this blog as to why we hadn't won. Yesterday is the day when I did NOT take The Village Cricket Quiz too seriously. Yesterday is the day when we won The Village Cricket Quiz.

Today's Tune

In Which I Celebrate a Beautiful (albeit brief) Sentence

I wasn't going to write a blog entry today, but then Silvio Berlusconi got sentenced to four years in jail. Granted, it got reduced to one because in Italy if the court cases are a little slow (and Berlusconi is renowned for drowning Italian prosecutors in syrup), then the cases are nullified, or the sentences are slashed. This is known as the statute of limitations. Berlusconi's been tried for so many crimes that have simply disappeared because of the legal red tape he tied the prosecutors up in. I find it utterly bizarre that a (ex) world leader could close his eyes, put his fingers in his ears and say lalalalalalalalala and his problems melt away. If I'm ever in the dock, I may try that myself. And here's a thing. He actively changed the law to exaggerate this effect because the bastard knew he'd finally get done sooner or later. So now he's in jail for a quarter of the time that he should be. Well, for this particular crime. Berlusconi won't live long enough to have served the sentences for all the crimes that he's guilty for. What I'm trying to say is that I'm very happy that this man will finally go to jail, and that I'm going to recycle something that was in another blog that in any case I wrote last year because it's just so damn relevant. Ciao, bella!

Burlesque only? No, huge amounts of corruption too.

These articles are meant to comprise of events that are unfolding, or have unfolded recently, but I could write about the 74th richest man in the world (according to Forbes) at any time, because he’s always in the news. This man holds amongst his possessions the football club A.C Milan. He is a politician, and all the palaver that went on in Britain with MPs claiming expenses for duck houses and love seats simply pales in comparison with what this man is alleged to have done. Ladies and gentleman, I present to you the Prime Minister of Italy and Archduke of Demons, Silvio Berlusconi.
 
It’s difficult to know where to start with the man- the word limit on this article means it’s utterly impossible to cover every “indiscretion” he has been involved in, or has been alleged to be party to. We’ll start with the press. He owns it. That is to say, he owns 3 of 7 channels nationally broadcast on terrestrial television, and let’s say that the Leader of the Italian Opposition doesn’t get much chance to appear in party political broadcasts on them. Coupled with the power he has as Prime Minister, being able to “strongly suggest” the choice of the management bodies of the other channels, he effectively has control of 90% of all national television. He also owns the largest publishers in Italy, which gives him the option to print sycophantic magazines and the like, and his brother Paulo owns a newspaper. This is not right. Imagine the uproar if Rupert Murdoch became an M.P and used his affluence and influence to weasel his way to becoming the Prime Minister. Berlusconi of course disagrees, explaining that if he is looking out for everyone's interests as well as his own that there can't be a conflict of interests.
    
Berlusconi has an uncanny ability to be called to court, but he has hit upon a rather handy way to make his legal problems go away. He has passed much self-serving legislation, most key of which is shortening the amount of time that crimes can be prosecuted for. He employs a cabal of lawyers to make damn well sure that by the time the dust has settled and everyone has stopped squabbling that by the time any of his cases come to trial, the infringement was so long ago he is immune to prosecution- by his own admission he has paid around 200,000,000 euros. However, he said that he had spent this money over the years on consultants and judges, before correcting himself to say consultants and lawyers. An easy mistake-a to make-a, I'm sure.
 
We'll gloss over his mafia involvement and his hiding behind political immunity and move straight onto what I like to call “Things Berlusconi has said which make Prince Philip seem like a diplomat.” On the father of fascism, Mussolini, he said "Mussolini never killed anyone. Mussolini used to send people on vacation in internal exile.” This is the equivalent of Angela Merkel saying that the invasion of Poland was actually a goodwill visit. He offered to act as a broker in ushering in better relations with the U.S and the new Russian President, commenting “I don't see problems for Medvedev to establish good relations with Obama because he is young, handsome and even tanned.” Perhaps best known is his bucking up of the population of the Abruzo region that he toured after a devastating earthquake that killed over 300 and made around 65,000 homeless. He asked those communities who had lost their homes to think of it as a camping trip, and asked a local councillor if he could fondle her. I wonder if even he would think that's crass in retrospect.
 
So what is it that people are actually starting to believe could topple the man with the impossibly low political centre of gravity? It's too depressing and detailed to fully chronicle here, but essentially it involves lying to the police, abusing his position of power by having sex with an underage prostitute. No doubt Signor Berlusconi will say that this is just another example of the left trying  to besmirch his good name as they so often have before. One last quote from the great man himself:
 
"I am without doubt the person who's been the most persecuted in the entire history of the world and the history of man."
 
To Silvio’s many characteristics we must also add dyslexia. He obviously was trying to say prosecuted.

Today's Tune

In Which I Wait to Be Told What I Already Know

On November the something or other, I go for a follow up appointment with the gut doctor. He will tell me that I am indeed allergic to wheat, barley and rye and that those things are in an awful lot of food, and laugh in my increasingly emaciated face. He'll then refer me to a dietitian, and God knows how long it'll take to see him. I was told I'd have my results within 14 days, but it's been 37 and no sign so far. But when I finally do see the dietitian (by the time Romney's invaded Canada at this rate) then they'll say stay away from the gluten, because if you munch it down then you'll get bowel cancer and osteoporosis. Then they'll send me back to my GP who will write out a prescription for me. There is no cure (they're working on one) for Coeliac's disease, so what could this prescription be for? It'd be for gluten free bread, pasta, flour and bourbons. That's bourbons as in the biscuits, sadly, not as in the whisky. I do like the idea of going to the chemists and picking up 250cc's of Tagliatelle and 50cc's of sticky buns. Actually, maybe not, as I just read this article. If the NHS are going to get utterly ripped off by companies with things that I could buy for a fraction of the cost, then I might not in all good conscience be able to go along with that. I shall use that as the justification I need to obtain a disabled railcard (for the epilepsy).

I was happy to note a bit of personal growth for me yesterday. I went past a bakery and caught the strongest smell of freshly baked cakeys, and I smiled and walked on. There was a time when if thoughts would kill, anyone holding a pastry within thirty miles of me would have been a twitching corpse, riddled with mind bullets. This, then, is progress. Now if I can just stop hanging around the supermarket cake aisle screaming at the ceiling "Why, God, why", then I'll have it cracked.

Today's Tune

In Which I Show My Ugly Side

On Friday I shall be seeing C+C, who have moved locally from London because rent+travel to London jobs= less than London rent. Having travelled by train recently I can safely say that renting a house in London must be astronomically expensive. The only way to get a reasonably cheap rail fare is to book a seat on a train at a particular time of day for your as yet unborn grandchild and hope that on that day they might require to travel on the 14:37 to Skegness. However, I have recently discovered that I am entitled to a railcard that will give me 1/3 off rail fares. I intend to use the money I will save on buying a small army and launching a coup in Equitorial Guinea.

C is a disgrace of a friend. I spent years trying to tell him to listen to Jimi Hendrix and The Doors and Led Zeppelin, and then he went on some sort of interrailing tour of Europe and came back saying that some American had been playing some really good rock from the 60's and 70's, and that I should start listening to Hendrix, The Doors and Led Zeppelin. C, then, can be very slow on the uptake. I've been trying to convince him for his entire life that he's not as good at video games as me. Perhaps he needs a homoerotic encounter with an American to convince him otherwise.

C is C's long term girlfriend, half American and half Mexican. She seems to have taken like a duck to water with that most British of qualities, taking the piss and being taken the piss out of. I hope she is anyway, else every other thing I say to her is causing her to die a little more inside.

On Saturday, I am at THE VILLAGE CRICKET QUIZ.  For reasons that escape me, I have a familiarity with this cricket team, despite not having played it properly. My mate R used to be the captain of the team, but the England Cricket Board said that he had to stand down on account of them being too good for everyone else. Anyway, people say that I am the ringer for the quiz team we'll be entering, but I reckon they could easily win without me. All the other people probably get more answers right on their own than I do, it's just that the ones I do get are the unbelievably obscure ones that people remember. Example: What d'you call the round pieces of card/paper that you are left with when you use a hole punch? Chads. There's two things I hate about quizzes. One is cheats, which are surely more prevalent in this day and age with the advent of interweb phones. When I am promoted from being Queen of England to being King of the World, I will redesignate where the military money will be spent. After all, I'll be King of the World and I wouldn't start a war with myself. One of the worthy causes would be funding the installation of an internet blocker for every quiz in the world. I'll say this- I realise the other thing I don't like about pub quizzes will probably make me sound like a wanker, which is fine as I may actually be a wanker in this regard. I really don't like people who think they are helping when they answer the questions that everyone else is answering anyway. It's not the fact that they don't know the other answers, some people might regard good recall for trivia as a sign of nerdiness (the arrogant twats). It's the fact that they think they are helping, when all they're doing is diluting the prize fund and winning money off of everyone else's back. Imagine someone tagging along with a builder, watching him do all the work and taking half of his wage. Now imagine that that someone who was watching the builder do all the work has some sort of totally unmitigated sense of pride in their achievement. And now you know how much of a wanker I am. Still not as much of a wanker as those quiz freeloaders, mind.

Today's Tune

In Which I Resort to Snippets About Myself

Here's a list of things you might not know about me.

1) As a rule, I like the Dutch.

2) I cry quite easily at films.

3) I cannot chop onions as my eyes react more to them than anyone I've seen. I've heard that you can wear swimming goggles to get around this, but I don't have any because I can't swim. In any case, if I did have them I wouldn't wear them because I wouldn't want to look like some kind of gimp.

4) The reason I hate the television show "Friends" is not so much because of the scenes of self obsessed totally untrustworthy and unrealistic people always sticking together in an inbred group through thick and thick which are so sickly sweet as to give you type 2 diabetes. It was more the fact that I have rarely seen a gulf so wide between how bad a programme is and how popular it has become. Someone familiar with how much the programme annoyed me informed me that Arena magazine had compiled a top 30 list of most pointless stuff ever. The character of Phoebe Buffay came first.

5) I considered trying to cut my hair the other day, because my hairstyle was too long for the fancy dress costume I was in (Goose from Top Gun, since you asked). Chickened out and went to a barber instead.

6) I don't really benefit from horror films as they don't scare me, and I'm not sure if I'd go out of my way to scare myself anyway.

7) I hate theme parks. This is probably because I'm afraid of heights and really don't like rollercoasters. Or big crowds. Or wasps.

8) I think I have laughed harder at (with) friends than anything on television.

9) I think that not enough people cook.

10) I think that not enough people who think they can cook can cook.

11) I despise Halloween, and I suspect I'll devote a blog to it at some point.

12) The worst film I have ever watched at the cinema was Dunston Checks In.

13) The first date I ever went on was to the cinema to see Dunston Checks In.

14) I'm not very good at hiding that I have no idea what to write about.

Today's Tune

In Which I Kill the Notion of Miracles

Lazarus. He was a guy in the Bible who, like a lot of other guys in the Bible, died. Jesus, for reasons best known unto himself (although I suspect He was just showing off) resurrected this Lazarus. Now I know it wouldn't have been right for Jesus going around resurrecting everyone who died in the Bible. For one thing, Judea's pension system would have fallen up its own arsehole. So Jesus could only raise one person from the dead, and it was Lazarus. Why? Well, it may be because back in biblical times there was a medical condition called Lazarus syndrome where someone who had apparently died would suddenly come back to life. So Jesus was a physician with a sense of humour? Hey, it's the Bible. Anything can happen.

This Lazarus syndrome still exists today, although Jesus doesn't (or if he is, he's keeping a rather low profile). So what exactly is the cause of these people suddenly coming back to life? Zombieism? Can't be that as the "not deads" have no (as yet) reported brain cravings. Miracles? Can't be that either, as we'll see in a minute. Crap medical staff who want to clock off early and go out and pickle their livers? Probably. I think we're agreed that incompetent doctors exist the world over, and that their incompetency could quite credibly stretch to not being able to tell if someone has a case of the deads. What's that you're screaming at me? No?

"No, you're being too cynical! No, there is no person in medicine on earth who can make this mistake! No, you're too quick to dismiss the hand of God!" Well alright, you mentalist 24th century Federation starship Captain, how about this? Abdel-Sattar Badawi's a guy in Eygpt who was declared dead, and he was consequently bunged into a hospital morgue. I think you can guess what happened next. Sure enough, he woke up from being "dead" and pushed the lid off the coffin he was in (which somewhat fortuitously wasn't nailed shut). Then he shouted for help, what with being a bit disorientated from being not alive a few seconds ago. Three staff came running in, and he explained to them how he actually wasn't metabolically challenged and didn't really belong in a morgue, and could he please have some cocoa and a hot water bottle?

So the three medical staff tried to take it on board, and only two of them managed to do so and survive. I think under the circumstances having a heart attack and dying is quite understandable. It's a bit of an odd miracle for God to raise someone from the dead to have them kill someone else? "But maybe the person who ended up dead was a nasty nasty man who God had decided to wipe out in an elaborate way because, y'know, He likes playing silly buggers with people?" There was a Brazilian woman who was at her own funeral, open casket. She woke up and somewhat lost her shit, sprinted out of the church and into the road whereupon she was run over and killed. Now if you can explain to me why God would kill someone, resurrect them and then kill them again, I might start to believe it's a miracle. "... Erm..... Errrrrmmmm......."

Today's Tune

In Which I Salute American Creativity

Let's see, I believe the United States and I had some unfinished business... In the blog before last, I was pointing out some of the ways Americans differ from the British. Right. So Americans are fat. On the surface of it, this isn't a huge difference, we're a nation that's quite on the porky side.  Also, you might think saying Americans are fat might be a bit of an unfair generalisation. After all, it's only 37% of them who are classed as overweight. But if you take into account that on top of the overweight people, there are a seperate proportion of 26% who are actually obese. That's 63% who are overweight or obese- almost two thirds. So what would the solution to this gargantuan problem be? You might say more exercise, but it can be quite hard to walk to the shops in America. Not because of any ghastly heat or blizzard conditions, but because there aren't very many pavements in the States. "Right, then", thinks Congress. "The nation is getting a wee bit on the hefferlump side. We'd better concentrate on getting the kids thinner as their parents are too far gone. So. We need young Americans to be eating more healthy food, more fruits, more vegetables." Admirable sentiments. So the U.S government went and legislated that more vegetables were to be compulsorily served at school cafeterias. Well... Not quite. What they did, and I have to give them credit because I might not have had the creativity to think of this, is reclassify pizza as a vegetable. Again, I might be unfairly misleading you there. What they did is reclassify the teaspoons of tomato purée that are thinly spread across a slice of school pizza as one and a half servings of vegetable. Now, there are several things wrong with this. The first one is that tomato is a fruit, not a vegetable. The second one is that a blob tomato purée does not a fruit or vegetable make. Tomato puree is not tomatoes- if you want to get the benefit of fruit, eat fruit, not reconstituted fruit. And there's hardly any tomato purée on top in the first place.

"With roughly two to three tablespoons of sauce on each serving of pizza, that’s about 2 teaspoons of actual tomato paste in each serving."

The final thing that I can think is wrong with this approach is that you can't just add fruit or veg to something and expect it to become healthy. One does not get thin from eating Black Forest Gâteau despite it coming with cherries, one may as well eat raw carrots using lard as a dip. Then again, I suppose Congress could make the rest of the pizza healthy by reclassifying cheese and complex carbohydrates as vitamins C and D. If one slice of pizza equates to one and a half portions of vegetables (fruit!), then you can almost get your recommended five a day by eating three slices of pizza! Hurray! The problem is, there will be Americans that think that- most likely fat ones.

Bubba, why ain't I losing weight?

And whilst we're talking about American schools, what's all this pledge of allegiance stuff? Here's a thing about Americans. They're quite different in that they love their flags. Sure, we might wave the Union Flag about at the Olympics or the Last Night of the Proms like a rabid dog would wave someone's limb about, but to Americans, their flag is getting on for sacred.There's a law in the States that says you can't leave a flag out overnight unlit because the Spetsnaz'll come over from the Soviet Union, create a mouth with the flag and then fuck it. I think they call doing that Old Glory hole or something. Anyway, love their flag. Which is why all the pupils in the schools gather together and recite this:

"I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

Oh dear. Well, nice sentiments I suppose, apart from the God bit. I could be accused of hypocrisy here, what with God Save the Queen being our national anthem, but there'd be very few of us who'd actually believe that if the Queen were being held hostage by the Spetsnaz (they get about, those lads), that shit would get real and God would rescue her. So yes, the pledge of allegiance. Every day the kids have to recite that whilst saluting the flag by holding their right hand over their heart. I assume that's a salute, it might just be all of those "vegetables" they've been eating reacting with their cardiovascular system. Anyway, here's a translation of the oath that German civil servants had to swear to Hitler:

"I swear: I will be faithful and obedient to the leader of the German empire and people, Adolf Hitler, to observe the law, and to conscientiously fulfil my official duties, so help me God!"   

Seem a little familiar? No? Well, let me help you along a little. Here's a photo of American schoolchildren giving the flag the salute they used before the hand over heart one became fashionable:

My cholesterol level is this high.

Now I'm not saying that the Stars and Stripes is Adolf Hitler, but...



 *cough*



Today's Tune

In Which I Am a Hippo Critter

The EEG and MRI results came back clear. This means I have no nasties that are going to wipe me out, but doesn't mean I don't have epilepsy as that can quite happily exist without being detectable because, hey, being a ninja neurological disorder is where it's at.

The Nokia 2610.

The me of last week would hate the me of this week, because I decided to do something sensible. I decided to get a more modern phone, a phone that was comfortable with the internet and had approximately 2700 times more memory. Sadly, as I well knew would happen, my current phone runs out of juice approximately 2700 times more rapidly than my old phone. The Nokia 2610 was a phone that, if you just used it for phone calls and texting (and guess what, that's pretty much all you could use it for), lasted upwards of a fortnight. Our relationship has been a long one as phones go, but she was temperamental, sometimes switching off when I was around, or refusing to relay messages and phone calls. I suppose it was because I beat the shit out of her. Still, I now have a phone in which I can chuck irate birds at green blobs, and take scenester tinted pictures of nonsequential things. I could also cheat at pub quizzes, like some people who are actively (although perhaps unwittingly) arguing the strongest case yet for bringing back hanging. Anyway. It's amazing the progress that's been made in six years regarding mobile telephony, but as I have said, this progress comes at a price. 

Firstly, battery power. You want your phone to be able to tell you where the nearest gluten free bakery to Pitstone is? You want to be able to take photographs that make you look far fatter than you are (60p well spent on that app, but you could have bought a Mars bar and started working on it yourself)?  Then be prepared for the battery life to ebb visibly in front of your eyes. Seriously, these smartphone companies are in cahoots with the electrical companies to try and drain the National Grid of as much as possible.

Secondly, the human angle. People whip out their smartphones at any opportunity, and not in an "I've got the latest Smithgrinder 5000 X, with added whipple effect" way. Have a dispute? Check it on the mobile interwebz. Need to find out where you are? Map app. There will come a time when most of us will be completely reliant on these things, and if the GPS satellites go wonky because of solar flares (which is quite possible) or, heaven forbid, our phones have some inbuilt fault like these Toyotas that seem to perpetually be recalled, then our brains won't be able to cope. Judging by that long and fractured sentence, the melt-my-brain process has already begun.

I decided to try and reverse that process by visiting the Tate Britain gallery in London where my favourite painting resides (ooh, get him, he's got a favourite painting). For those that don't know, the Tate galleries were set up by the same Tate from Tate and Lyle who make the syrup. I was going to make a joke about what Lyle decided to be philanthropic towards, but I could find nothing important called Lyle. If you're called Lyle, you don't matter and your parents don't love you. Sorry. Anyway, my favourite painting wasn't on display owing to a massive refurbishment of the place and some due to there being an exhibition of some bloke called Turner's paintings. I looked at the modern art (crap) and I looked at one or two of Constable's. And then I went through about 80 Turner paintings. He's an infuriating artist because he has the skills, but sometimes paints something incredibly dull or in a rubbish way. Yes, I KNOW art's subjective, but some of it is bunk. Really. Anyway, right at the end when I had been given more than a couple of suspicious looks (holding several carrier bags whilst wearing a velvet jacket with a giant orange metal framed rucksack on the back of it is a faux pas, apparently), I happened upon this fucking HUGE painting which must have taken him a few hours to finish, a view of Rome from Vatican City from a Papal balcony, perhaps. Standing up right close to it meant you could see the amazing background detail, and there was a lot of that in there. It seemed to be a painting of a few paintings left slipshod by the balcony- I should have read the description next to it. Doesn't matter. The paintings inside the painting were utterly amazing. I know I've already said amazing, so pick any synonym you like. I'm sticking with amazement. The picture below really doesn't do it justice, but you could go and see it. Entry's free, although they strongly suggest a £4 donation. I gave £2.50. I mean, not having my favourite painting and replacing it with this much-vaunted twat? Who do they think they are? Showponies.

Turner's "Rome, from the Vatican."

Finally, I started to head off for home towards Westminster tube station, which naturally took me past the Houses of Parliament, when who should I bump into but Charles Clarke, former Home Secretary. He didn't recognise me though, for some reason. I realise that relaying you this isn't the most inspired ending to a blog, but it's quite apt as he wasn't the most inspired Home Secretary.


Today's Tune

In Which I Note that the Americans Aren't Very Grateful

Oscar Wilde said it best when he was describing the difference between the British and our transatlantic cousins: "The Americans are identical to the British in all respects except, of course, they're all mad fat bastards." I might be paraphrasing slightly there, I don't remember the exact quote. But they ARE a bit different from us, aren't they? So let's look at the differences. The Americans have shorter memories than us, which is why they keep on forgetting that there are many pubs over here older than their country. I hope this is an apocryphal tale, but I heard that an American couple went to see some 15th century castle in England, and they were very impressed with everything. They had only one question- how did we manage to get everything to look so old?

How did you get him to look so senile?

Americans also show their amnesia when it comes to foreign policy. What you may not know about the War of Independence is that it was the French who won it for the Americans. We spent about £80,000,000 on the war, which today comes in at around £10,757,101,449. The French put in 70% of that for the Americans and sent troops to fight for them, and the Americans' financial contribution? They had a whip round and put a few dollars together. Nevertheless, the French prevailed and did the United States the most concrete of solids. So how did the fledgling United States reward the French who had won their war for them? Why, she made Britain her main trading partner and told the French to go fuck themselves, leaving France bankrupt. Very bad short term memories, or total bastards. You decide.

And what about their long term memories? The Americans' betrayal of France created a broken state. Bonaparte took advantage of this and hilarity ensued, by which I mean 5 million Europeans were killed, a third of them French. France got past this, though, and tried so hard to make friends with Americans, so they had a church raffle and a bake sale or two to pay for the Statue of Liberty. Credit where credit's due, they did a nice job. However, many years down the line, France made the crucial mistake of refusing America's kind invitation to make war on a country simply for the fact that there was no reason to. And how did the Americans show their displeasure? By rebranding French Fries as Freedom Fries. 

Never mind that to the rest of the world this would look like a petty action. Never mind that associating the word freedom with a thinly sliced deep fried potato cheapens it somewhat. The Americans had to show their displeasure to the French by taking the French out of French Fries. Also, they decided to chuck champagne and other French wines down the drain. This is another difference between us and the Americans. They are exceptionally wasteful. Now I don't know about you, but even if I was pissed off at the French, I would happily drink my cellars dry of their alcohol. I mean, the stuff's already bought, the French vineyard owners who of course single-handedly prevented the U.N from permitting this war won't get any richer if you drink the plonk you've already bought from them. Actually, the Americans have form for this. In Boston, they had a load of tea on a ship that they refused to buy because they'd have to pay an ickle bit of tax on it. They took a measured response and bowled on board and chucked the stuff in the sea. What a bunch of idiots. You could have drunk that! Even if you don't like the stuff you could flog it on the black market. If there's demand but no supply then you could clean up, especially if your operating costs are zero because you nicked it. I mean, for God's sake, that would be like a rioter going into Currys and smashing a telly instead of nabbing it. However, I in no way endorse stealing. Unless it's in 18th century Massachusetts.

Here endeth the lesson. Another one on the same topic tomorrow, I fancy. 

Today's Tune

In Which I Blog Poorly

Hullo campers, not much to write about today. Just a few snippets... I'm still awaiting 3 test results- they're an accumulated 63 days late, which is nice. By the time the bastards tell me I'm terminal I'll be long dead. I am having to distract myself from this wait for news by continuing this betting malarkey with D.  Remember the Deadliest Warrior thing, with a pound bet on each fight? So far, there have been seven fights, of which I have won six. This is an excellent thing.

Next Friday through to Wednesday I shall be socialising with the bright young things of London. I would therefore be incapable of achieving the heights that I have convinced myself that this blog has been constantly reaching, and as such have decided a sojourn, until Odin's day, is in order. To try and counterbalance that (no promises, mind) I shall try and get some pictures taken of me dressed and made up like a New Romantic. C assures me that she will bring the make up and the "hair-gel-that-you-have-ten-minutes-to-get-the-styling-right-or-else-you'll-have-a-style-you-don't-like-that's-harder-to-remove-than-an-American-from-an-all-you-can-eat-buffet." Actually, tomorrow I should do a proper blog, and so I shall try and measure up the good and bad points of Americans off the top of my head. Mm.

So to start the Friday to Wednesday excursion, I will be watching England take on the best team yet to grace the new Wembley Stadium, the mighty San Marino. This nation is so good at football that they rank only 207 places from the top country, joint with the Turks and Caicos Islands, which I haven't heard of, and Bhutan, which I have. This will be their 112th international match, and in those 111 others they have managed three draws, and a win against Liechtenstein. They currently have 0 points on FIFA's world ranking system, and their population is around 31,000. If I were a country (and syllabically speaking I'm half-way there), I would have a population of one and still be as good at football as San Marino are. If England don't win by at least six I shall have to cut off Roy Hogdson's head with a pair of secateurs and make it look like suicide... But if they do, then I won't. No pressure, Roy.

Today's Tune

In Which I Rant about What Americans Mispronounce as Twots

One of the most dispiriting things that I can think of is adverts with storylines. I don't mean one solitary advert with a beginning, middle and end, I recognise that most narrative adverts need some sort of structure to sell the goods/services. Although not all of them...

There was once a series of adverts for Nescafé Gold Blend where this posh sod (who later went on to play Giles in Buffy the Vampire Slayer) lends some bint some coffee and then they keep on meeting and eventually shack up and only talk about coffee. The problem is, there are idiots in the world who get taken in by this sort of thing, as this little piece will show.

As Jayne Middlemiss inanely wittered, "it was like these adverts that were like mini-soap operas." Except these adverts were cynically put together to sell coffee to spanners like Jayne Middlemiss. I think what I find particularly offensive is that it's so clear what the advert is trying to do and yet utterly invisible to so many others. I suppose it reminds me of how many idiots there are. But you have questions for me. 

(1) Surely the public can't be taken in by that sort of thing nowadays?

(2) Surely it's a dated practise.

(3) And just how exactly can you remember adverts from the 80's about coffee? You must have had a weird childhood.

These are all good questions (although one and two are sort of the same question), and all deserving of answers. So.

(1) Yes they can.

(2) Yes it is, but one that still goes on as idiocy is timeless.

(3) A lot of coffee adverts filtered through to me in the 80's- I watched a lot of telly because I was an insomniac. Probably due to all the Gold Blend I was drinking.

Yes, reader. This sort of advert does still pervade these days. The classic example is that BT series called "Twat-we-don't-care-about's-relationship-with-older-Twat-woman-we-don't-care-about-and-her-Twat-family." You could not get away from these cocking ads. I actually looked this up- they went on for seven years and there were forty of them. Forty separate adverts for BT to fashion adverts that have to shoehorn in BT's products into family life. Here's what you need to know. Twat is a sociopath. A man who can only interact with people through the medium of BT's products and services. The tragedy is that Twat doesn't realise he is a walking talking advert. Twat is a twat who bought an expensive house based on the fact it had a BT broadband and phone package. Twat is a twat who probably became the stepfather of those Twat kids because their mother's vagina was shaped like a BT landline phone. Here's an example of the two Twats coming across their Twat son watching the television with some friends, and spilling a soft drink. 

 You just know he's about to have the shit beaten out of him because his guardians saw him not advertising BT for a few seconds. "Fetch me the birch, and I will show my son that my prediction for any time spent not advertising BT is PAIN." Towards the end of the campaign, the advertisers were getting so desperate for ideas that they were breaking the fourth wall and imploring the reader to chose Twat woman's wedding dress. They even tried to get the audience to do the advertisers' work for them by having the audience vote for what happens next. BT say 1,600,000 voted. That's very nearly the population of Northern Ireland, which might not be a co-incidence. Did Sinn Féin and the Democratic Unionist Party patch up their differences and unite the nation into choosing how Twat and Twat woman's story would progress, because otherwise BT would endlessly be beseeching all of us how what they should do next? The alternative is a lot more unpleasant. A group of idiot bum dribble for a brain fishwives (I suspect most of the 1,600,000 would be women) thinking ZOMG A SOAP OPRA THAT I CAN RITE THATS SEW KOOL LOLOLOL x x x x x.  The crazy thing is, these people don't understand that BT is asking people what is the best way to get them to use BT. 

But BT have put a stop to this now. They got married and he made her pregnant and everyone was happy ever after. There wasn't much more they could do, unless they wanted to show Twat using the phone to stalk someone or the daughter getting AIDS off of the internet connection. These would make better adverts in the sense of entertainment, but BT would probably sell less. What they've done instead is put a group of student Twats together. Twat one is a girl, and as such she is the voice of reason and can never be the fall guy- she's essentially Vivian out of The Fresh Prince, but without the sass. Twat two is some dweeb who is trying to use all of BT's services to impress girls so he can stick his dick in them, and failing. Twat three, and I have only just worked this out, is the Twat Son from the previous series of Twatty adverts. Double Twat. Twat within a twat. Twatception.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t5NjcZRbPrk&feature=player_detailpage#t=45s

Today's Tune

In Which I Dick About

I had one of those simpering blood donor letters through today. "Oh thankyou so much for being a repeat donator, you're simply the tops. Your blood is SO tasty, om nom nom. We love you so much and would tuck you in at night if the terms of the restraining order weren't so restrictive." Or it said something in that area, I may have skim-read it because I was busy looking for NHS types hiding under the bed. They gave me a date to donate, and unusually, I think I shall have to decline- it just so happens to fall on the day immediately after the two day cocktail bender. I fear that if some B positive car crash victim or leukemia sufferer were to be infused with my blood so soon after that, their liver would give out.

I've just found out that Inigo Montoya out of the Princess Bride and Saul Berenson out of Homeland are played by the same bloke. If that doesn't amaze you, you either already knew it or are dead (due to having no metabolism or due to not having lived). If you haven't watched either of these things, please do because you will enjoy them and associate good things with me.

I feel a short entry is in order as I am still trying to get to grips with applications. So. Whilst waiting for a bus replacement service yesterday at some seemingly chosen at random station (yesterday it was Billericay), I had time to think about what I might write today. I thought "What are blogs for?" Well, they're mostly a device to prop up one's ego, and terribly self serving things. They're also inescapably about the person who writes the blog. What I thought I'd do for today is write about myself but try and find some nuggets that won't appear self serving (but of course make me look human and therefore are exactly that). So. One of my chief delights when in a nightclub is to turn the power to the hand dryer off, and go in there half an hour later to see that it's still off and watch guys slowly moving their hands closer to it and then wave them about frantically, and finally shrug their shoulders nonchalantly and say to no-one in particular "Hand dryer's broken". I have seen how long it can  take hundreds of people to work this complex problem of the power switch right next to the hand dryer being off, and the highest score I have achieved is ALL NIGHT. Having achieved that, I then decide who looks like the most unpleasant person trying to dry their hands, and then flip the on switch. The dilemma is whether to do it when they're trying to dry their hands or when they've given up and gone "This fucker's not working." The best way to resolve this is to flip a coin.

Another thing I like to do is confuse foreigners, specifically Germans. No it's NOT racist, the joke wouldn't work on British people, and I only target ze Germans because it's the only foreign language I even slightly speak. So. If there are a few Germans chatting amongst themselves over here and I'm nearby, I will wait for whoever's talking to finish and then go up to them, fix them with a steely gaze and say "Bist du sicher", which means "Are you sure?" I then turn dramatically and leave, before they say things in German that I wouldn't be able to answer, like "What are you on about? Why do you feel so strongly that Baden-Württemberg is more scenic than Schleswig-Holstein? Come back!" It's not an aggressive thing to do, I just like confusing people I suppose. They might have a nice story when they get back to Ulm about how this mysterious stranger/über arschloch appeared and disappeared for no discernable reason. A friend of mine said to me that "You're a lovely man with an unpleasant man's sense of humour." You might think that, I couldn't possibly comment. I'm too busy bullying Germans and switching off other people's electrical appliances.

Today's Tune

In Which I Am a Basket Case

Tomorrow I am joining M and C (and H) to celebrate Irish M's 30th birthday. I probably won't be able to do any blogs then, and maybe not on Sunday.

Art, for art's sake. With a capital F.

A long while ago for reasons that have been lost in time I was part of a quartet who were the Laundry Basket Society. The other three were M, Irish M and C, but when in L.B.S mode they went by the names of Bunny, Roman and I can't remember Irish M's, I shall have to ask him. Dammit, I can't even remember my society name, which is a shocking effort. M, Irish M, C and I were also part of a supersexysecret club and that might be broached on another day. Anyway, the finest hour of the L.B.S was around eight years ago. We decided to go to central London and go to as many landmarks as possible whilst drinking as much port as possible and take pictures of each other wearing laundry baskets on our heads. My personal favourite was when we went to Bucks House and managed by chance to catch the changing of the guard. I got the lads to line up sharpish and bung their baskets on with the palace in the background. Now the Coldstream Guards are meant to look straight ahead as they're marching- for some reason, not all of them did.

Squint and see a basketted C and I atop the bridge.

I swear that the next bit is true. Normally it's not good form for an (auto)biographical author to preface anything by saying it's not a lie, because it calls into question the veracity of every other thing they've ever written. "How do I know it's true if they haven't told me it is?" Well, I do so here because it sounds like I made it up, even to me. So there we were in a place called The Generator, some sort of not quite youth hostel thing in central-ish London. My memories of this place are a fairly grim nightclub, missing breakfast because we got up too late and half naked Australian (Kiwi?) girls sauntering about. So there we were in our four bunked bedroom, light on, donning our baskets and planning our movements for the next day. C might even have been eating Risk infantrymen, as he has a curious habit of doing so. Whole armies have been wiped out inside his belly. I would like to stress for the record that we don't have any pictures of the following events because the only zoom camera we had was in M's phone, and as it was 2004 there was still a ration on pixels across the country. So. Irish M was looking out of the window across to the adjacent flats, Alfred Hitchcock styley, and he slowly and calmly said "I think they're going at it across the way from us." The other guys were a bit doubtful, but this isn't the sort of thing that Irish M would make up. I went over to the window, and sure enough, a few floors down in the building opposite us, there was a couple playing slip and slide on a sofa. We had a particularly clear view of this because it was night and their lights were switched on. I informed the other two that there actually was a pair having a nice fuck, and then suddenly everyone was jostling for space at the window- perhaps this was exacerbated by the fact we were all wearing our laundry baskets. Somewhere at this point Irish M tried to use his camera phone, and was rewarded with classic unclear grainy footage which may or may not have been proof of the Loch Ness monster. I can readily empathise with those people who believe they have seen aliens but their camera has failed them so when they tell people about it andtry and corroborate their story they look mad. I don't remember which one of us spotted it (only that it wasn't me), but the sentence was uttered "Is... Is that a third guy with a camera? They're making a fucking porn film down there!" "I wondered why he was bothering with that much foreplay!" "And all those positions she's been in too, on the bottom AND on top!" Something caught the performer's eyes after that, and all of them, cameraman included looked up towards us. Somewhere, in the making-of section of a U.K porn DVD is a picture of four guys looking out of a window at the camera. Four lads silhouetted against a lightbulb. Four lads jumping up and down with excitement. Wearing laundry baskets.

There was a point to this story, but it has escaped the author's mind.

Today's Tune

In Which I'm Busy Doing a Job Application...

...and so there's nothing more than a token entry for today. Right, these things are meant to be informative or funny, so... Erm...

You know that thing where you find out that a band's/singer's iconic song isn't the original? Here's a bunch of originals to make you go "Really? Well I never."


(1) "Natalie Imbruglia- Torn" This is quite a lot meatier than the final, which is unusual. Most "definitive" versions of songs have juiced up the original somewhat.

 (2) "Tiffany- I Think We're Alone Now." This song is a bit more rapey when it's a group of men instead of one girl serenading you.

 

(3) "The Doors- Alabama Song" This isn't even the original. The original was written for a Bertold Brecht play, and when I found that out my mind imploded.

Token blog entry complete.

Today's Tune

In Which I Discover Another of My Limitations

I was getting "my bits" from the shoppington the other day to facilitate the making of jerked pork belly with potato and pea mash up. Every so often, I will realise another thing that I cannot eat due to having some sort of idiot immune system that thinks that some foods are poison. There are the obvious ones, like I won't be having any pastries or breads or cereals anytime soon. I know this. I mean, I'm still sorry enough for myself to bang on about it, but I know this, I am slowly coming to terms with it. But sometimes I will just think "Oh, _____ is full of gluten, so I can't have that again." It's the more quiet foods, not the ones you subsist off, but the little treats. One day out of nowhere, my brain said to me "D'you know what? You can't ever have a samosa again, so fuck you!". I was reeling from this body blow when my sadistic (masochistic?) mind followed up with "Or onion bhajis, you fucking r-tard!" Coupled with the fact I can't have naan or pitta, my side order options at Indian restaurants are rapidly evaporating. Another time I realised that I can't have flapjacks, you know, what with them essentially being syrup and oats. Now I genuinely can't remember the last time I had flapjacks, but it's always nice to have the option. They're probably amongst the first dishes I concocted. Really easy to do, you know, what with them essentially being syrup and oats.

I don't remember my flapjacks turning out like this, though.

ANYWAY. In the supermarket the other day, for some reason they had eggs, flour, sugar and lemon next to each other... Brain processes this. Something wrong. Ingredients not bad in and of themselves, apart from flour... Yet feel uneasy. Why are they all there together like that, it's not pancake Tueoh FUCK I CAN'T EAT PANCAKES EVER AGAIN! ARGGHHHH!!!... Now pancakes shouldn't be such a big loss- I only eat them on the one legally stipulated day the state sets aside for them. Although it's known by most as Pancake Tuesday, a select few refer to it as Shrove Tuesday, because, y'know, shroves and pancakes. Regardless of what we call it, we're ALL good Christians in Britain. Why else would we all scoff our faces full of pancakes on the day before six weeks of grumbly bellies? This period is called Lent, as in I Lent all my food to that Dawn French and I'm beginning to think I'm not going to get it back. What with us being good Christians, we are obliged to go on a hunger strike for forty days until the day before Christ got murdered by the Romans.  Now you know that there's a certain feeling that some Catholics (whose church is centred in Italy) aren't so keen on the Jews? Mel Gibson should have an honourable mention, and as for his Dad... Well he makes Mel look like the Pope. The point is, the Jews get a lot of bad press. But who was the governing force? It was the Romans, whose centre of administration was in Italy. Essentially, despite the Romans actually nailing the son of God to a two by four and them spearing him in the side to make sure they're dead, despite this they seem to have convinced that the Jews are to blame. There's a shed load of anti-semitism around the world. What do we think when we see an Italian? Nice food, and I hope you don't try and have sex with my daughter. Not fair. Anyway, here is the traditional shirt that all of us good British Christians wear on Easter Friday to celebrate the crucifixion of God's son.  You have to understand, we'd only be doing that to make sure he saves our sins double quick this time. Help your fellow man.

Right. I believe I was procuring ingredients for jerked pork and 'ting. Go to pay and am asked by the checkout monkey if I would like any help packing. There's only five items there, I can put them in the bag I've brought along with me (save the planet, yeah?), so I tell him that I'm all right thanks. Then I ask him "Have you got a mystery shopper coming in or something?" "Mmm?" "It's just that I noticed you asked me if I wanted help with my packing." (Please note, this was more curious in nature than passive aggressive) "Yes, well we're all supposed to ask you..." "I know that, but you actually asked me, most don't bother." "Well, it's better for me just to follow company policy." He paused, seemed to have a think before deciding to confide in me "Actually, we're supposed to offer you help with your packing even if you've only one item." Now this made a part of me feel rather sorry for these poor employees who have to toe the line. It also gave a much bigger part of me an idea- namely going there, buying a stick of gum and then kicking off when they don't offer to pack it for me. I wonder what it's like to not be a bastard?

Today's Tune