22 April 2010 (?)
It's very harsh of life to intervene with a writing challenge. I've been cast in a production of Don Juan in Soho, an hilarious updating of Moliere's classic by Patrick Marber. It's great to be involved, but unfortunately I have been slightly misled on the rehearsal schedule. I was promised 8 weeks with 4 rehearsals a week. Instead, I have 9 weeks of 5, and sometimes 6. I'm not quite sure where I'm going to find the time to learn the sodding words.
But far be it from me to shirk from a challenge. Well, actually it's very like me to shirk a challenge, but I'm really trying to turn over a new leaf. I don't know what kind of leaf it will be though. When I was younger (a phrase rapidly becoming a cliche) I thought it referred to leaves off trees. Was never quite sure why turning the new leaf was a good things, since when new leaves "turned" it meant they were now old leaves and likely to drop off any time. Having clocked its symbolic link to stationery rather than chlorophyll I feel less forlornly bewildered about the whole thing.
So, I'll keep trying. But fitting in 40 hours of office work, 6 hours of cricket and 17-20 hours of rehearsing is going to get a bit like doing community service in an orange boiler-suit.
How is it when life gets exciting you don't have time for one?
Tuesday 27 April 2010
Monday 26 April 2010
Funicular
21 April 2010
Funicular. I think it should mean “fun with a homunculus”, but apparently doesn’t. It comes from a derivation of rope, which means, I suppose, that it refers to a train on a string. A train on a string could be extremely environmentally friendly. David Cameron’s endless teams of selfless volunteers could pull train along the network of Britain’s railways, masses of them, scooting on Government issue heelies and emitting no more CO2 than that generated by their exhausted exhalations.
I’ve been on a couple of funicular railways and fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on your point of view – there is no string in evidence. I still have fond memories of the one in Australia’s Blue Mountains, which lowers you down a cliff side into a jungle of ferns and eucalypts like something out of Jurassic Park (but with Koalas rather than eye-spitting poisonous lizards). It was like Time Tunnel, if Time Tunnel had cost $4.50 and warned you to be back in two hours.
I could go on more about funicular rail. You wouldn’t like it though, so I’ll stop.
Funicular. I think it should mean “fun with a homunculus”, but apparently doesn’t. It comes from a derivation of rope, which means, I suppose, that it refers to a train on a string. A train on a string could be extremely environmentally friendly. David Cameron’s endless teams of selfless volunteers could pull train along the network of Britain’s railways, masses of them, scooting on Government issue heelies and emitting no more CO2 than that generated by their exhausted exhalations.
I’ve been on a couple of funicular railways and fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on your point of view – there is no string in evidence. I still have fond memories of the one in Australia’s Blue Mountains, which lowers you down a cliff side into a jungle of ferns and eucalypts like something out of Jurassic Park (but with Koalas rather than eye-spitting poisonous lizards). It was like Time Tunnel, if Time Tunnel had cost $4.50 and warned you to be back in two hours.
I could go on more about funicular rail. You wouldn’t like it though, so I’ll stop.
Variance
20 April 2010
I am clearly unable to watch politics objectively. This is the only explanation for why my assessment of the “leaders’ debates” recently are at such variance with the wider public.
I’m not arguing with Nick Clegg, who does indeed have an affable and easy manner that makes him come across as a real human being. I’m not suggesting that Gordon is so much better than people think he is (though he is better). What I really don’t understand at all is that at the end of the debate two polls showed that David Cameron had won.
Does not compute.
All he did was stare at the camera with his strange, “tiny face painted on an inflated condom” look and sound either nauseatingly arrogant or even more nauseatingly supplicant. He wants your vote so badly he’d suck your gerbil’s dick for it.
He looked neither Prime Ministerial or down to earth. He hovered somewhere in between, neither here nor there, and every time he uttered his mantra of change he just looked silly, since Clegg next to him was offering a far more engaging offer of the same thing. Mr Cameron believes deeply that competition sharpens people up. We’ll soon see if that’s true.
Here’s a fascinating fact for those that care: http://www.newstatesman.com/blogs/the-staggers/2010/04/cameron-likeability-tory. Cameron thinks he’s likeable. It’s possible that people just haven’t been paying attention. Perhaps his faux anger about everything works well in the house, perhaps it makes people think he’s won a point in the debate, but it seems they don’t actually like him for it.
Of course, they don’t need to. Likeability has to be the second stupidest reason to vote for someone. The most stupid, of course, being to vote for someone because they mutter “jobs tax” over and over again.
I am clearly unable to watch politics objectively. This is the only explanation for why my assessment of the “leaders’ debates” recently are at such variance with the wider public.
I’m not arguing with Nick Clegg, who does indeed have an affable and easy manner that makes him come across as a real human being. I’m not suggesting that Gordon is so much better than people think he is (though he is better). What I really don’t understand at all is that at the end of the debate two polls showed that David Cameron had won.
Does not compute.
All he did was stare at the camera with his strange, “tiny face painted on an inflated condom” look and sound either nauseatingly arrogant or even more nauseatingly supplicant. He wants your vote so badly he’d suck your gerbil’s dick for it.
He looked neither Prime Ministerial or down to earth. He hovered somewhere in between, neither here nor there, and every time he uttered his mantra of change he just looked silly, since Clegg next to him was offering a far more engaging offer of the same thing. Mr Cameron believes deeply that competition sharpens people up. We’ll soon see if that’s true.
Here’s a fascinating fact for those that care: http://www.newstatesman.com/blogs/the-staggers/2010/04/cameron-likeability-tory. Cameron thinks he’s likeable. It’s possible that people just haven’t been paying attention. Perhaps his faux anger about everything works well in the house, perhaps it makes people think he’s won a point in the debate, but it seems they don’t actually like him for it.
Of course, they don’t need to. Likeability has to be the second stupidest reason to vote for someone. The most stupid, of course, being to vote for someone because they mutter “jobs tax” over and over again.
Thursday 22 April 2010
Cage
19 April 2010
I used to breed Russian hamsters.
That sounds a bit more dramatic than it was, since for the most part the Russian hamsters bred themselves. I had one girl Russian hamster. For reasons best known to herself my girlfriend of the time wanted another one. We thought we had another girl. We didn't. Then we had multiple Russian hamsters, all of which were in danger of getting pregnant themselves by the time they were 9 weeks old. It was a bit like Essex.
I was never that comfortable with the whole thing. I thought they were adorable (the humbug stripe down the back is particularly winsome), and the line in the "How To" book about scooping up any bewildered babies in a teaspoon to return them to their mother is unbearably cute, but in the end we were sticking a load of things in a cage and expecting them to be entertaining.
We tried all the usual things to keep them interested. The wheel didn't work, because Russian hamsters are so small that they'd fall through the slats. However, our original hamster, Beckett*, put it to good use. She would stand on the outside of the wheel and spin it with her forepaws. Now, this may well have been much needed cardiovascular upper body exercise, but I think Beckett did it because she knew that it was very, very annoying.
And while it might be nice to imagine the little rodent's mind enjoying our discomfort as she spun away at 2 in the morning, it's even better to recall what she actually did. One night, when the metallic squeaking of the wheel's revolutions became a little too much, I did what I'd done a couple of times before. I stumbled through the dark to the cage, flipped open the Rotastak, and lifted out the wheel, placing it on the floor as I resealed the cage.
The first two times i had done this Beckett had scampered around her cage in protest for a while, gnawing at the tiny bars and generally being a fluffy nuisance before giving up.
This time she was silent.
Tired as I was, it took me a moment to realise that the wheel had felt a little, well, heavy. And it was only when I heard the sound of a hamster scuttling merrily around the bedroom that I caught on. Despite spinning the outside of the wheel, when I had opened the cage Beckett had climbed inside the wheel, presumably knowing that I would lift it out. She had sat quietly until I resealed the cage, and then made good her escape.
While this was all very impressive, I did reflect as I scrabbled on my hands and knees trying to catch her, that it's not a terribly proud moment to be outsmarted by a creature with the brain the size of a snow pea. I'm not sure I've ever got over it.
* all of the hamsters had to be named - for some reason - after figures connected to Canterbury Cathedral. Thus we had 'Beckett', 'Odo', 'Lanfranc', 'Cuthbert' and 'Reasonably Priced Gift Shop'.
I used to breed Russian hamsters.
That sounds a bit more dramatic than it was, since for the most part the Russian hamsters bred themselves. I had one girl Russian hamster. For reasons best known to herself my girlfriend of the time wanted another one. We thought we had another girl. We didn't. Then we had multiple Russian hamsters, all of which were in danger of getting pregnant themselves by the time they were 9 weeks old. It was a bit like Essex.
I was never that comfortable with the whole thing. I thought they were adorable (the humbug stripe down the back is particularly winsome), and the line in the "How To" book about scooping up any bewildered babies in a teaspoon to return them to their mother is unbearably cute, but in the end we were sticking a load of things in a cage and expecting them to be entertaining.
We tried all the usual things to keep them interested. The wheel didn't work, because Russian hamsters are so small that they'd fall through the slats. However, our original hamster, Beckett*, put it to good use. She would stand on the outside of the wheel and spin it with her forepaws. Now, this may well have been much needed cardiovascular upper body exercise, but I think Beckett did it because she knew that it was very, very annoying.
And while it might be nice to imagine the little rodent's mind enjoying our discomfort as she spun away at 2 in the morning, it's even better to recall what she actually did. One night, when the metallic squeaking of the wheel's revolutions became a little too much, I did what I'd done a couple of times before. I stumbled through the dark to the cage, flipped open the Rotastak, and lifted out the wheel, placing it on the floor as I resealed the cage.
The first two times i had done this Beckett had scampered around her cage in protest for a while, gnawing at the tiny bars and generally being a fluffy nuisance before giving up.
This time she was silent.
Tired as I was, it took me a moment to realise that the wheel had felt a little, well, heavy. And it was only when I heard the sound of a hamster scuttling merrily around the bedroom that I caught on. Despite spinning the outside of the wheel, when I had opened the cage Beckett had climbed inside the wheel, presumably knowing that I would lift it out. She had sat quietly until I resealed the cage, and then made good her escape.
While this was all very impressive, I did reflect as I scrabbled on my hands and knees trying to catch her, that it's not a terribly proud moment to be outsmarted by a creature with the brain the size of a snow pea. I'm not sure I've ever got over it.
* all of the hamsters had to be named - for some reason - after figures connected to Canterbury Cathedral. Thus we had 'Beckett', 'Odo', 'Lanfranc', 'Cuthbert' and 'Reasonably Priced Gift Shop'.
Wednesday 21 April 2010
Offender
18 April 2010
The recent offender - watchout4snakes.com - has just come back. This is helpful, since the other site was freaking me out and affecting my productivity. I do look forward to normal service being resumed, and me not being an offender myself.
Hurrah.
The recent offender - watchout4snakes.com - has just come back. This is helpful, since the other site was freaking me out and affecting my productivity. I do look forward to normal service being resumed, and me not being an offender myself.
Hurrah.
Glue
17 April 2010
Can you make glue out of cabbages? Probably. But that’s a close as I got.
People are never happy. I know I’m not. The grass is always greener on the other side, especially if you Photoshop* it. But we all know people who get ‘carded’, and it seems that they’re reaction is wildly inconsistent.
I know a 40-something woman who recites every last instant of someone getting her name wrong. She is consistent. She may be slightly obsessed, but at least she’s made up her mind.
On the other hand I seem to know quite a few people who are delighted when someone “in the street” gets their age wrong, but furious if they are asked for ID in a shop. What, ultimately, is the difference? I hear people say “and I told them, for fuck’s sake, I’m 35 I’ve been able to drink for 17 years”. And? So what? They think you look young. They’re not setting out to offend you. They’re all told to check anyone they think looks under 21 – sometimes 25 – so it’s not like they’re accusing you of being an embryo. It's still better than looking like William Hague.
Think on this – I once had a girlfriend who was carded buying glue. That’s depressing. It means that if I’d been with her they could have called the police of suspicion of my having sex with a minor.
Of course, I’m saying that you can’t blame shop staff for not knowing how old I was, but I suppose if my girlfriend really had been 15 and I had thought she was older, I would have been blamed for that. Ouch. Maybe we should scream at the bar-staff after all – if you can go to jail for getting an age wrong, why should they have an easy ride?
S.
* Adobe having issued guidance saying that Photoshop should never be used as a verb. The tits.
Can you make glue out of cabbages? Probably. But that’s a close as I got.
People are never happy. I know I’m not. The grass is always greener on the other side, especially if you Photoshop* it. But we all know people who get ‘carded’, and it seems that they’re reaction is wildly inconsistent.
I know a 40-something woman who recites every last instant of someone getting her name wrong. She is consistent. She may be slightly obsessed, but at least she’s made up her mind.
On the other hand I seem to know quite a few people who are delighted when someone “in the street” gets their age wrong, but furious if they are asked for ID in a shop. What, ultimately, is the difference? I hear people say “and I told them, for fuck’s sake, I’m 35 I’ve been able to drink for 17 years”. And? So what? They think you look young. They’re not setting out to offend you. They’re all told to check anyone they think looks under 21 – sometimes 25 – so it’s not like they’re accusing you of being an embryo. It's still better than looking like William Hague.
Think on this – I once had a girlfriend who was carded buying glue. That’s depressing. It means that if I’d been with her they could have called the police of suspicion of my having sex with a minor.
Of course, I’m saying that you can’t blame shop staff for not knowing how old I was, but I suppose if my girlfriend really had been 15 and I had thought she was older, I would have been blamed for that. Ouch. Maybe we should scream at the bar-staff after all – if you can go to jail for getting an age wrong, why should they have an easy ride?
S.
* Adobe having issued guidance saying that Photoshop should never be used as a verb. The tits.
Seafood
16 April 2010
The problem with the new random word generator is that it doesn’t seem to be properly random – a bit like the shuffle on a IPod that gets into deeply suspicious habits.
I’ve had fish and fur and shipwrecks and now I have seafood, combining my vegetarian moaning with a bit of nautical but nice action.
So I could talk about how there’s a concept of Sydney Vegetarianism, which includes seafood because the locals are genetically incapable of logical thought unless they’ve had seventeen prawns in the last 3 days. But I’m sure we’ve all had enough of that. So I’ll hope another day brings better news. Or words.
I’m betting of “cabbage” next.
The problem with the new random word generator is that it doesn’t seem to be properly random – a bit like the shuffle on a IPod that gets into deeply suspicious habits.
I’ve had fish and fur and shipwrecks and now I have seafood, combining my vegetarian moaning with a bit of nautical but nice action.
So I could talk about how there’s a concept of Sydney Vegetarianism, which includes seafood because the locals are genetically incapable of logical thought unless they’ve had seventeen prawns in the last 3 days. But I’m sure we’ve all had enough of that. So I’ll hope another day brings better news. Or words.
I’m betting of “cabbage” next.
Apple
15 April 2010
I want an iPad. And I don’t even know why.
I’ve never seen one in real life. I don’t have an iPhone (though I have an iPod Touch, and I love it very much, as a song might go). They just sound lovely and desirable. And I wonder if the fact that there’s clearly no point to them at all makes them more desirable. Like gold. Rare, valuable, useless.
As soon as someone tells me exactly what it’s for I’ll probably go off the idea.
I’m misrepresenting myself slightly. I like to watch TV and films on my iPod, and the obvious drawback of that is all the actors’ heads are so small they could all be played by Pam St Clement and you wouldn’t actually know. How I managed to make sense of the entire series of Battlestar Galactica on a 4 inch screen I’m not sure, but suffice it to say that it took me two seasons to work out that most of the Cyclons looked the same.
An extra few inches would make all the difference. And as my junk email folder shows, I’m not the only man in history to think that.
I want an iPad. And I don’t even know why.
I’ve never seen one in real life. I don’t have an iPhone (though I have an iPod Touch, and I love it very much, as a song might go). They just sound lovely and desirable. And I wonder if the fact that there’s clearly no point to them at all makes them more desirable. Like gold. Rare, valuable, useless.
As soon as someone tells me exactly what it’s for I’ll probably go off the idea.
I’m misrepresenting myself slightly. I like to watch TV and films on my iPod, and the obvious drawback of that is all the actors’ heads are so small they could all be played by Pam St Clement and you wouldn’t actually know. How I managed to make sense of the entire series of Battlestar Galactica on a 4 inch screen I’m not sure, but suffice it to say that it took me two seasons to work out that most of the Cyclons looked the same.
An extra few inches would make all the difference. And as my junk email folder shows, I’m not the only man in history to think that.
Monday 19 April 2010
Shipwreck
14 April
My body is a shipwreck, smashed to bits by the dual forces of a Swimathon and the first game of cricket of the season.
Ow. Ow ow ow. I’m clearly too old for this.
The Swimathon was a success (or again to bow to my artificial format of a post-a-day) will be a success. When I swim it. Even though I have. But I tried to achieve a personal best over 1km, and failed by two whole minutes whilst still being just as exhausted as if I’d succeeded. So as I limp around the office I just have to remind myself that the team raised over £1,000 for Marie Curie Cancer Care.
Unfortunately, I may never be seaworthy again. Ow.
My body is a shipwreck, smashed to bits by the dual forces of a Swimathon and the first game of cricket of the season.
Ow. Ow ow ow. I’m clearly too old for this.
The Swimathon was a success (or again to bow to my artificial format of a post-a-day) will be a success. When I swim it. Even though I have. But I tried to achieve a personal best over 1km, and failed by two whole minutes whilst still being just as exhausted as if I’d succeeded. So as I limp around the office I just have to remind myself that the team raised over £1,000 for Marie Curie Cancer Care.
Unfortunately, I may never be seaworthy again. Ow.
Sheepskin
13 April
Fur followed by sheepskin? Is someone trying to be funny? I could question the randomness of my new word generating site, or I could just get on with things.
This is officially the entry for the 13th, but I’m now so far behind pretending that I’m writing it on the day is only going to slow things down. So it’s really the 19th April. Are we clear?
That means the election debate on ITV has been and gone, the world is turning into a hoopla of flying Lib Dem birds and volcanic ash. The continent’s planes may well be in more danger of crashing into Nick Clegg’s rapidly inflating ego than they are of their engines being choked by bits of mountain, but while they remain grounded, the election has taken off.
I always thought that the debates could lend a fascinating dynamic to the campaigns. Polly Toynbee in the Guardian last week wondered why Gordon Brown could possibly agree to TV debates when he’s so rubbish at them. Maybe Polly was joining in the “boost Gordon by managing expectation game”, for if she wasn’t she was being uncharacteristically obtuse. Of course Gordon had to agree. He was losing. Anything different could only be worth a try. And he may well have already considered the potential of the Lib Dems to take a wrecking ball to the Tories’ best, but most hollow, election promise:
Change.
I have long pondered why, in the midst of an economic collapse caused by bankers and a lack of state regulation of their activities, that the party of bankers and low regulation should cry “change” and sweep away the Government. It is easy to accept that Labour made mistakes and allowed the crisis to hit the UK harder than most other places. It is harder to imagine that Tories would have done anything different. Indeed they would almost certainly have regulated less, not more.
So the arrival on the scene of Nick Clegg, Vince Cable and their troop of yellow pixies gives the electorate another, more convincing option. A party that may well have – genuinely – opted to increase regulation and diversify the economy: if only because they were never going to be in a position to do it.
Now, finally, Cameron needs to explain exactly what he is for. He can’t just be Change Guy. That’s Nick Clegg’s name. He can try being Big Society Guy, but wait until people clock that he wants people to run their own public services and not give them any money to do it. Brilliant! De-professionalise the public services so they’re run in people’s spare time, like a fishing club or the local drama society. And anyone who’s been involved in such organisation knows how difficult it is to motivate anyone to help out regularly who isn’t retired, slightly mad or utterly intoxicated by the idea of being in charge of something. A bit like David Cameron.
So far, rather than saying anything actually positive, Cameron has instead vowed to vaguely “emphasise hope over fear”. While he said this, his number 2 William Hague was launching a broadside against Clegg’s Lib Dems claiming that they will take us into a European Superstate. Michael Gove called their policies “eccentric”. George Osborn called Nick Clegg a “smug wanker with sticky-up hair”*. Cameron has vowed a new kind of politics, but whenever he is under pressure he resorts to all the traditional ways of doing things – not explaining his policies whilst attacking everyone else’s. He is the proverbial wolf in a sheepskin jacket; a used-car salesman with teeth.
My personal favourite snippet of dire hypocrisy was his warning that voting for Clegg will only benefit Brown. A quick look:
If the same proportion of people (41%) that Cameron need to vote for him to form an overall majority voted for Nick Clegg, the Lib Dems would have a majority all by themselves. So if it’s a wasted vote to vote for anyone who can’t get 41%, why is anyone bothering to vote Tory?
Is it entirely reasonable to suggest not voting for a party that believes in electoral reform on the basis that the current voting system cannot hand them a victory, and instead suggesting voters vote for a party that is the only one pledged to maintaining the current voting system that causing the anomaly that means only they can win?
First Past the Post benefits Labour because in seats where they have no chance of winning, their supporters tend to vote Lib Dem instead, or they have no supporters worth mentioning. The Tories plan to even this up by reducing Scottish MPs, therefore naturally reducing the number of seats Labour are likely to get. The problem with this is that it might address the balance between Labour and the Conservatives, but it does nothing to even the balance between them and the Lib Dems. And, as it seems since the ITV leadership debate, the people are really quite interested in change – they just have a different view about what constitutes change. Fun fun fun.
* OK, he didn’t. Sorry.
Fur followed by sheepskin? Is someone trying to be funny? I could question the randomness of my new word generating site, or I could just get on with things.
This is officially the entry for the 13th, but I’m now so far behind pretending that I’m writing it on the day is only going to slow things down. So it’s really the 19th April. Are we clear?
That means the election debate on ITV has been and gone, the world is turning into a hoopla of flying Lib Dem birds and volcanic ash. The continent’s planes may well be in more danger of crashing into Nick Clegg’s rapidly inflating ego than they are of their engines being choked by bits of mountain, but while they remain grounded, the election has taken off.
I always thought that the debates could lend a fascinating dynamic to the campaigns. Polly Toynbee in the Guardian last week wondered why Gordon Brown could possibly agree to TV debates when he’s so rubbish at them. Maybe Polly was joining in the “boost Gordon by managing expectation game”, for if she wasn’t she was being uncharacteristically obtuse. Of course Gordon had to agree. He was losing. Anything different could only be worth a try. And he may well have already considered the potential of the Lib Dems to take a wrecking ball to the Tories’ best, but most hollow, election promise:
Change.
I have long pondered why, in the midst of an economic collapse caused by bankers and a lack of state regulation of their activities, that the party of bankers and low regulation should cry “change” and sweep away the Government. It is easy to accept that Labour made mistakes and allowed the crisis to hit the UK harder than most other places. It is harder to imagine that Tories would have done anything different. Indeed they would almost certainly have regulated less, not more.
So the arrival on the scene of Nick Clegg, Vince Cable and their troop of yellow pixies gives the electorate another, more convincing option. A party that may well have – genuinely – opted to increase regulation and diversify the economy: if only because they were never going to be in a position to do it.
Now, finally, Cameron needs to explain exactly what he is for. He can’t just be Change Guy. That’s Nick Clegg’s name. He can try being Big Society Guy, but wait until people clock that he wants people to run their own public services and not give them any money to do it. Brilliant! De-professionalise the public services so they’re run in people’s spare time, like a fishing club or the local drama society. And anyone who’s been involved in such organisation knows how difficult it is to motivate anyone to help out regularly who isn’t retired, slightly mad or utterly intoxicated by the idea of being in charge of something. A bit like David Cameron.
So far, rather than saying anything actually positive, Cameron has instead vowed to vaguely “emphasise hope over fear”. While he said this, his number 2 William Hague was launching a broadside against Clegg’s Lib Dems claiming that they will take us into a European Superstate. Michael Gove called their policies “eccentric”. George Osborn called Nick Clegg a “smug wanker with sticky-up hair”*. Cameron has vowed a new kind of politics, but whenever he is under pressure he resorts to all the traditional ways of doing things – not explaining his policies whilst attacking everyone else’s. He is the proverbial wolf in a sheepskin jacket; a used-car salesman with teeth.
My personal favourite snippet of dire hypocrisy was his warning that voting for Clegg will only benefit Brown. A quick look:
If the same proportion of people (41%) that Cameron need to vote for him to form an overall majority voted for Nick Clegg, the Lib Dems would have a majority all by themselves. So if it’s a wasted vote to vote for anyone who can’t get 41%, why is anyone bothering to vote Tory?
Is it entirely reasonable to suggest not voting for a party that believes in electoral reform on the basis that the current voting system cannot hand them a victory, and instead suggesting voters vote for a party that is the only one pledged to maintaining the current voting system that causing the anomaly that means only they can win?
First Past the Post benefits Labour because in seats where they have no chance of winning, their supporters tend to vote Lib Dem instead, or they have no supporters worth mentioning. The Tories plan to even this up by reducing Scottish MPs, therefore naturally reducing the number of seats Labour are likely to get. The problem with this is that it might address the balance between Labour and the Conservatives, but it does nothing to even the balance between them and the Lib Dems. And, as it seems since the ITV leadership debate, the people are really quite interested in change – they just have a different view about what constitutes change. Fun fun fun.
* OK, he didn’t. Sorry.
Fur
April 12 2010
As you may have noticed, I’m a vegetarian. I haven’t – knowingly – eaten red meat for 19 years and 11.5 months. I may have buckled and eaten a couple of slices of chicken breast 6 months after I became veggie, but that was it. Since then the closest I’ve come to eating the flesh of beasts is eating a Trebor Xtra Strong Mint before I realised they contained gelatine.
Now, there are a million diets with a million names out there. I’m not interested in converting anyone to vegetarianism – if you don’t want to do it yourself you won’t make a very good one, so I’d be wasting my breath.
But please, if you eat fish, duck, frogs, snails, beetles, stuff that moves about and/or has a face, can we just be clear that you
ARE NOT A FUCKING VEGETARIAN!
So let’s have none of this “I am a vegetarian who eats fish” or “I’m vegetarian who eats poultry”. If I introduced myself as “an atheist who believes in God” you’d be pretty confused. You might even suggest that atheist was perhaps the wrong word, and that there were other titles available depending on which God you believed in.
I don’t care what you eat, but because of “vegetarians who eat fish” I am constantly offered – and in the worst cases actually given – fish when I ask for a vegetarian meal. Why is a fish less of an animal than a cow? I know it’s smaller, but tuna are bloody enormous. It can’t be because they’re not cute and furry – neither are pigs (in fact, we eat very few things with actual fur). It’s not that they live in water, because no one wants to eat dolphins or otters.
“I’m a vegetarian, but I eat otters”. That would do down well in the pub.
Mind you, the Spanish thing ham is a vegetable. It could be worse.
As you may have noticed, I’m a vegetarian. I haven’t – knowingly – eaten red meat for 19 years and 11.5 months. I may have buckled and eaten a couple of slices of chicken breast 6 months after I became veggie, but that was it. Since then the closest I’ve come to eating the flesh of beasts is eating a Trebor Xtra Strong Mint before I realised they contained gelatine.
Now, there are a million diets with a million names out there. I’m not interested in converting anyone to vegetarianism – if you don’t want to do it yourself you won’t make a very good one, so I’d be wasting my breath.
But please, if you eat fish, duck, frogs, snails, beetles, stuff that moves about and/or has a face, can we just be clear that you
ARE NOT A FUCKING VEGETARIAN!
So let’s have none of this “I am a vegetarian who eats fish” or “I’m vegetarian who eats poultry”. If I introduced myself as “an atheist who believes in God” you’d be pretty confused. You might even suggest that atheist was perhaps the wrong word, and that there were other titles available depending on which God you believed in.
I don’t care what you eat, but because of “vegetarians who eat fish” I am constantly offered – and in the worst cases actually given – fish when I ask for a vegetarian meal. Why is a fish less of an animal than a cow? I know it’s smaller, but tuna are bloody enormous. It can’t be because they’re not cute and furry – neither are pigs (in fact, we eat very few things with actual fur). It’s not that they live in water, because no one wants to eat dolphins or otters.
“I’m a vegetarian, but I eat otters”. That would do down well in the pub.
Mind you, the Spanish thing ham is a vegetable. It could be worse.
Wednesday 14 April 2010
Monster
11 April 2010
Automaton followed by Monster? What’s the world of random words trying to tell me?
Monster's a great word. Unfortunately – despite listening to Lady Ga Ga's “Fame Monster” as I write (by sheer coincidence, honest) – I don't really feel in the mood to do it justice. I could start talking about the monster hangover I had today (yawn), or start a really serious piece on what makes a monster and does evil really exist, but I'd probably end up concluding that it would be monstrous of a blog founded on a single, simple and relatively fun idea of riffing on random words to be quite so serious, and then feel a bit guilty.
I don't think I was ever much of a monster child. I was quite taken with dragons, but I don;t think I ever thought they were real, and I certainly didn't imagine that there was anything scaly living in the wardrobe. I was always more terrified by subtlety. There were a string of cardboard “Gingerbread Men” on my wall. By day I loved them, with their big smiling faces. At night those smiling mouths would move incessantly, mouthing silent statements at me as I lay awake in terror, trying to ignore what they might be trying to whisper. I would imagine shapes moving, or be terrified by unexplained noises, but I never assumed it was a beast. “Shadows of a nameless fear”, as Tolkien would have said.
I'm not sure what I thought was lurking. Did I really think the Gingerbread Men were hostile, or was I just freaked out because the darkness made their cardboard mouths look as though they were moving? Ghosts probably. Not actual ghosts of dead people, just unspecific spooky things.
Like Lady Ga Ga, I suppose.
I did have one dream that the house was full of monsters, which were sitting around and perching on the the bannisters as I walked down the stairs. But by far the spookiest dream I ever had was imaging waking up and finding a cowled monk at the foot of my bed just staring at me. So I was horrified to read that a friend's little girl had awoken and announced: “that she woke up in the night with 'Mr Nobody' standing beside her bed, looking down at her 'with no eyes and no face'.”
Worse than any monster. Poor kid. Next Neil Gaiman, I reckon.
Automaton followed by Monster? What’s the world of random words trying to tell me?
Monster's a great word. Unfortunately – despite listening to Lady Ga Ga's “Fame Monster” as I write (by sheer coincidence, honest) – I don't really feel in the mood to do it justice. I could start talking about the monster hangover I had today (yawn), or start a really serious piece on what makes a monster and does evil really exist, but I'd probably end up concluding that it would be monstrous of a blog founded on a single, simple and relatively fun idea of riffing on random words to be quite so serious, and then feel a bit guilty.
I don't think I was ever much of a monster child. I was quite taken with dragons, but I don;t think I ever thought they were real, and I certainly didn't imagine that there was anything scaly living in the wardrobe. I was always more terrified by subtlety. There were a string of cardboard “Gingerbread Men” on my wall. By day I loved them, with their big smiling faces. At night those smiling mouths would move incessantly, mouthing silent statements at me as I lay awake in terror, trying to ignore what they might be trying to whisper. I would imagine shapes moving, or be terrified by unexplained noises, but I never assumed it was a beast. “Shadows of a nameless fear”, as Tolkien would have said.
I'm not sure what I thought was lurking. Did I really think the Gingerbread Men were hostile, or was I just freaked out because the darkness made their cardboard mouths look as though they were moving? Ghosts probably. Not actual ghosts of dead people, just unspecific spooky things.
Like Lady Ga Ga, I suppose.
I did have one dream that the house was full of monsters, which were sitting around and perching on the the bannisters as I walked down the stairs. But by far the spookiest dream I ever had was imaging waking up and finding a cowled monk at the foot of my bed just staring at me. So I was horrified to read that a friend's little girl had awoken and announced: “that she woke up in the night with 'Mr Nobody' standing beside her bed, looking down at her 'with no eyes and no face'.”
Worse than any monster. Poor kid. Next Neil Gaiman, I reckon.
Automaton
10 April 2010
If I am an automaton, then I am – sadly – one which malfunctions very easily. A friend of mine came back from a holiday in Prague and admitted to losing 4 hours of her life after drinking absinthe. She knows she didn’t just collapse in bed, because her camera had over 400 pictures of her continuing to carouse around the Czech capital long after her final memory of the night. The pictures show that she is clearly with it and function – more or less – as a human being.
I, on the other hand, can mostly remember what I do when I’m drunk. This is because I don’t do anything. I sit while the room spins and complain that I’m drunk. I spend large portions of my life turning down a 4th pint because I know I won’t be able to handle it, and facing the humiliation of being out-drunk by a load of 20-something girls. It’s pathetic.
In my latest adventure, the son of a famous French Chef desperately tried to to persuade me to accompany him to Stringfellow’s. I’d had six pints. While I like to imagine that I would have made moral objections anyway, my principle reason for finally refusing an all-expenses paid trip to Soho’s most respectable tittie-bar was mostly because I knew I just wanted to go to sleep under a table, an act frankly more achievable in places with fewer bouncers and breast-wielding dancers.
So I bought him a curry instead. Looking back I’m not sure *why* I bought a curry for the son of one of Britain’s foremost imported restaurateurs, but I did. I think he had a chicken tikka. Everything is vague.
Being an automaton would clearly have its advantages. Your pants would probably be made of metal, you wouldn’t need to watch Snog, Marry, Avoid and best of all you could presumably drink whatever you liked. Unless it made you rusty. You might be a fibre-glass automaton, I suppose. Or one made entirely of fire-baked banana puree. Lego. Ant-carcasses. Anything.
Sorry. Clearly still drunk. I’ll leave you alone.
If I am an automaton, then I am – sadly – one which malfunctions very easily. A friend of mine came back from a holiday in Prague and admitted to losing 4 hours of her life after drinking absinthe. She knows she didn’t just collapse in bed, because her camera had over 400 pictures of her continuing to carouse around the Czech capital long after her final memory of the night. The pictures show that she is clearly with it and function – more or less – as a human being.
I, on the other hand, can mostly remember what I do when I’m drunk. This is because I don’t do anything. I sit while the room spins and complain that I’m drunk. I spend large portions of my life turning down a 4th pint because I know I won’t be able to handle it, and facing the humiliation of being out-drunk by a load of 20-something girls. It’s pathetic.
In my latest adventure, the son of a famous French Chef desperately tried to to persuade me to accompany him to Stringfellow’s. I’d had six pints. While I like to imagine that I would have made moral objections anyway, my principle reason for finally refusing an all-expenses paid trip to Soho’s most respectable tittie-bar was mostly because I knew I just wanted to go to sleep under a table, an act frankly more achievable in places with fewer bouncers and breast-wielding dancers.
So I bought him a curry instead. Looking back I’m not sure *why* I bought a curry for the son of one of Britain’s foremost imported restaurateurs, but I did. I think he had a chicken tikka. Everything is vague.
Being an automaton would clearly have its advantages. Your pants would probably be made of metal, you wouldn’t need to watch Snog, Marry, Avoid and best of all you could presumably drink whatever you liked. Unless it made you rusty. You might be a fibre-glass automaton, I suppose. Or one made entirely of fire-baked banana puree. Lego. Ant-carcasses. Anything.
Sorry. Clearly still drunk. I’ll leave you alone.
Monday 12 April 2010
Clam
9 April 2010
Random words still down, so this is still courtesy of nutmeg.
There's an embarassing moment in what is otherwise one of the best of the "classic" Dr Who serials, Genesis of the Daleks. The Doctor and his companions are wandering around in a subterranean monster cave for reasons known only to the author when they find genetically altered clams. These appear to be quite harmless since although they open their clammy mouths and shut them again, they can't actually move. They're clams. If they've been genetically modified to skip like happy children it is not apparent from the special effects team's efforts, whcih pretty much go down the route of traditional clam.
"I don't like the fuckin' modernist clams. I call a clam a clam and like it to act like one. A real clam. Fuckin' old school. That's how it's going to be, clamwise."
So when Harry or whoever it is gets his leg stuck in one, the viewer is left to wonder why the dip-shit dangled his ankle in a giant clam's mouth. Was it a dare?
But there are people who would. You just know it. A massively dangerous creature with jaws like a vice is just sitting there. It can't touch you unless you go and play footsie with it. Oh, go one then. Just a toe or two.
Snap.
There's probably a big fat analogy in there somewhere. I won't go there today. It might bite me.
Random words still down, so this is still courtesy of nutmeg.
There's an embarassing moment in what is otherwise one of the best of the "classic" Dr Who serials, Genesis of the Daleks. The Doctor and his companions are wandering around in a subterranean monster cave for reasons known only to the author when they find genetically altered clams. These appear to be quite harmless since although they open their clammy mouths and shut them again, they can't actually move. They're clams. If they've been genetically modified to skip like happy children it is not apparent from the special effects team's efforts, whcih pretty much go down the route of traditional clam.
"I don't like the fuckin' modernist clams. I call a clam a clam and like it to act like one. A real clam. Fuckin' old school. That's how it's going to be, clamwise."
So when Harry or whoever it is gets his leg stuck in one, the viewer is left to wonder why the dip-shit dangled his ankle in a giant clam's mouth. Was it a dare?
But there are people who would. You just know it. A massively dangerous creature with jaws like a vice is just sitting there. It can't touch you unless you go and play footsie with it. Oh, go one then. Just a toe or two.
Snap.
There's probably a big fat analogy in there somewhere. I won't go there today. It might bite me.
Sunday 11 April 2010
Ostensibly
8 April 2010
I'm cheating a little. The random word site is down, so until it comes back up this will have to be a slightly more traditional blog. Just wanted to be honest and straight with you, in the spirit of the General Election which we are currently enduring. A littlebitofnutmeg has promised me words to tide me over, starting with this one.
So though ostensibly this is a random word blog, it's not following quite the same rules.
See what I did there?
Of course if you skip these words in too easily then you don't have anything to write about, so you haven't done yourself any favours.
I attended my first "company audition" today. That - for those who couldn't give a shit about acting - is an audition where you are not going for a part in a play, but to join a company and be eligible to audition for parts. Ostensibly it is to maintain the overall quality of the acting troupe, but having gone through the process I'm not so sure. While you are there they take the opportunity to lecture you about helping out in other jobs - Front of House, Lighting, Painting the Set, walking the artistic director's poodle etc - coming to as many plays as possible and being a good citizen in general. Then they take money from you as soon as you qualify, sometimes using a flick-knife left over from a performance of West-side Story. So I wonder if it isn't an administrative ploy to pass everyone through the same bottle-neck so that you can disseminate your message to them and then get them to open their wallets. I wouldn't be surprised if they hadn't attached a small tracking device below the skin of a our fingers when they shook our hands so that they can check what you're doing when you say you're too busy to help out.
Sorry. A little cynical. In their favour they were very nice, though the chosen audition room did resemble something out of a 1950s nuclear bunker. The audition coordinator said we could use anything lying around as props if we wanted, but all that was lying around was a rusty bucket and some wire coat hangers. Perhaps if you were doing a piece set in the Tate Modern you could quickly knock up some accompanying art to lend verisimilitude. If I'd known the environment, I could have chosen something post-apocalyptic, instead of two scenes theoretically set in Greece. There must have been something from The West Wing set in Ainsley Hayes' office that would have been perfect.
I passed, anyway. And paid my money. One day I may find out how many people don't pass. Until that day I shall not feel remotely self-satisfied, since it could be that all I needed to do was not grunt like a baboon, drop my pants and take a shit on the audition panel's desk.
That's not even a joke. Acting attracts some novel personalities.
I'm cheating a little. The random word site is down, so until it comes back up this will have to be a slightly more traditional blog. Just wanted to be honest and straight with you, in the spirit of the General Election which we are currently enduring. A littlebitofnutmeg has promised me words to tide me over, starting with this one.
So though ostensibly this is a random word blog, it's not following quite the same rules.
See what I did there?
Of course if you skip these words in too easily then you don't have anything to write about, so you haven't done yourself any favours.
I attended my first "company audition" today. That - for those who couldn't give a shit about acting - is an audition where you are not going for a part in a play, but to join a company and be eligible to audition for parts. Ostensibly it is to maintain the overall quality of the acting troupe, but having gone through the process I'm not so sure. While you are there they take the opportunity to lecture you about helping out in other jobs - Front of House, Lighting, Painting the Set, walking the artistic director's poodle etc - coming to as many plays as possible and being a good citizen in general. Then they take money from you as soon as you qualify, sometimes using a flick-knife left over from a performance of West-side Story. So I wonder if it isn't an administrative ploy to pass everyone through the same bottle-neck so that you can disseminate your message to them and then get them to open their wallets. I wouldn't be surprised if they hadn't attached a small tracking device below the skin of a our fingers when they shook our hands so that they can check what you're doing when you say you're too busy to help out.
Sorry. A little cynical. In their favour they were very nice, though the chosen audition room did resemble something out of a 1950s nuclear bunker. The audition coordinator said we could use anything lying around as props if we wanted, but all that was lying around was a rusty bucket and some wire coat hangers. Perhaps if you were doing a piece set in the Tate Modern you could quickly knock up some accompanying art to lend verisimilitude. If I'd known the environment, I could have chosen something post-apocalyptic, instead of two scenes theoretically set in Greece. There must have been something from The West Wing set in Ainsley Hayes' office that would have been perfect.
I passed, anyway. And paid my money. One day I may find out how many people don't pass. Until that day I shall not feel remotely self-satisfied, since it could be that all I needed to do was not grunt like a baboon, drop my pants and take a shit on the audition panel's desk.
That's not even a joke. Acting attracts some novel personalities.
Friday 9 April 2010
Server Error in '/' Application.
7 April 2010
Well, it's not exactly a word, but it is the only thing that my random word site has come up with today.
It's all rather distressing. What happens if it never comes back? I'm attached to my random word site. I'm not saying there won't be others out there. But they have - gratuitously - the word "snakes" in their name, as if to indicate the whole random word concept. It's endearing.
I tried another site that claimed to generate a random word. It generated 'Rengid Wemt'. I'm really not sure it was quite what I was looking for. In fact, I'm struggling to imagine who exactly would decide that it was what they were looking for. There may be hidden meaning in these words, I suppose, meaning that a combination of the CIA, the Pope, Richard Dawkins, Dan Brown and Russ Abbot could all be seeking it.
Oh well. Hopefully tomorrow watchout4snakes will be back up and running and I'll have an interesting word, rather than 'Raghod Sorf', which sounds like something out of a Terry Pratchett story.
Tastil Wodd everybody. Sleep well.
Well, it's not exactly a word, but it is the only thing that my random word site has come up with today.
It's all rather distressing. What happens if it never comes back? I'm attached to my random word site. I'm not saying there won't be others out there. But they have - gratuitously - the word "snakes" in their name, as if to indicate the whole random word concept. It's endearing.
I tried another site that claimed to generate a random word. It generated 'Rengid Wemt'. I'm really not sure it was quite what I was looking for. In fact, I'm struggling to imagine who exactly would decide that it was what they were looking for. There may be hidden meaning in these words, I suppose, meaning that a combination of the CIA, the Pope, Richard Dawkins, Dan Brown and Russ Abbot could all be seeking it.
Oh well. Hopefully tomorrow watchout4snakes will be back up and running and I'll have an interesting word, rather than 'Raghod Sorf', which sounds like something out of a Terry Pratchett story.
Tastil Wodd everybody. Sleep well.
Wednesday 7 April 2010
Co-Author
6 April 2010
I could do with one of those.
I've been writing this "word a day" thing for almost 10 weeks now. In quantative terms it's going very well. I won't try and judge the quality, that's not my job. Or at least, if I allowed myself to worry about that I probably wouldn't write anything at all.
But it does get a bit trick at times. I'm sure no one is falling for the idea that I'm really, religiously writing this every day (MySpace lends itself to this illusion by allowing you to lie about when you posted, blogspot does not). In fact I will keep falling behind, just as I frequently used to do at school during cross country running. So it would be nice to have someone step in and write me a few entries from time to time, just to keep things ticking over.
But it could be very dangerous. What happens if I decide that my co-author writes more interesting random-word-based blog entries than me? What if they start getting comments and kudos from people? And what if those comments were things like "I love this one! Your bog iz v patchy mate but sometimes good, like this one and that other one about lizards you wrote last week"? I'm not sure I could handle it.
In reality it feels like a have a co-author anyway. I'm so moody that this blog feels like it's written by someone different every week. At the moment I'm a relatively serious person. Next week I might be back to packing in the surrealist jokes and bouncing off the walls, or I might be angry about politics and be Captain Rant. I don't choose the tone, it chooses me. There's not a wardrobe full of Speedys hanging amid the smell of mothballs. Which is probably a good thing, since I wouldn't have anywhere to put my velvet jacket and frilly shirt, and then what would I do the next time Dress Like Jon Pertwee day came round?
I'm losing the plot. Good night.
I could do with one of those.
I've been writing this "word a day" thing for almost 10 weeks now. In quantative terms it's going very well. I won't try and judge the quality, that's not my job. Or at least, if I allowed myself to worry about that I probably wouldn't write anything at all.
But it does get a bit trick at times. I'm sure no one is falling for the idea that I'm really, religiously writing this every day (MySpace lends itself to this illusion by allowing you to lie about when you posted, blogspot does not). In fact I will keep falling behind, just as I frequently used to do at school during cross country running. So it would be nice to have someone step in and write me a few entries from time to time, just to keep things ticking over.
But it could be very dangerous. What happens if I decide that my co-author writes more interesting random-word-based blog entries than me? What if they start getting comments and kudos from people? And what if those comments were things like "I love this one! Your bog iz v patchy mate but sometimes good, like this one and that other one about lizards you wrote last week"? I'm not sure I could handle it.
In reality it feels like a have a co-author anyway. I'm so moody that this blog feels like it's written by someone different every week. At the moment I'm a relatively serious person. Next week I might be back to packing in the surrealist jokes and bouncing off the walls, or I might be angry about politics and be Captain Rant. I don't choose the tone, it chooses me. There's not a wardrobe full of Speedys hanging amid the smell of mothballs. Which is probably a good thing, since I wouldn't have anywhere to put my velvet jacket and frilly shirt, and then what would I do the next time Dress Like Jon Pertwee day came round?
I'm losing the plot. Good night.
Declaration
5 April 2010
Odd. I was genuinely thinking about cricket as I accessed the random word website (thought it was about time I gave them a plug) and lo! It has delivered.
If acting is my winter pursuit, in summer I tend to become obsessed with the original beautiful game*. Not that I should suggest that I'm not obsessed with it the rest of the time- just slightly less so. When I was younger most of my travels tended to be linked into where the England cricket team was touring. Where they went, there I went also. I can attest that hanging around in a tropical country watching test matches is a very agreeable way of passing the time.
But the season is approaching, which means I move from watching to playing. I'm part of a Sunday team. We play "friendly" matches (they're not always, I assure you) on Sunday afternoons, so there's no league, no points and - theoretically - no real bench mark for success. But of course there always is one.
How many games did you win?
We had a bastard of a season last year. I think we won 4 games out of 22 or something. Evil. And it did lead to something of a spat later in the season when we played a team out in far north London. We didn't have much confidence by that point, but this team had never beaten us, and probably couldn't quite countenance the idea that we might be a bit ramshackle and, frankly, slightly shit. So when we batted for a long time to make sure we had enough runs (postponing the declaration), they thought we were being unsportsmanlike and had a massive hissy fit, calling the captain a prick and generally throwing cakes around the clubhouse. Like I said, so much for friendly. In the end they nearly won and were forced to concede that the declaration was pretty much on the money. But they didn't apologise for the "prick" bit.
The fact that a draw was a highlight of our month just shows how low our spirit was. Being crap at something is hugely depressing. Or it is when you know you're crap. Sport - and particularly cricket - is very ruthless in that regard. You have constant benchmarks. Number of wins, number of runs, number of wickets, catches, pace of scoring, number of fours hit, batting average, bowling average, number of times LBW... It's very easy to see a pattern, and it's normally forming a stylised bit of sky writing reading out "YOU'RE SHIT" in big fat bubble letters.
On the other hand you meet people who can't act, or can't sing, and they don't know it. They are utterly oblivious to their limitations, because there's no real way for them to tell. I'm not sure if I envy them or not. While it would be nice to have that level of unshakable confidence, do you really want to spend your life doing something that you're terrible at? I don't mean in a "well if you enjoyed it" sort of way, but doing it because you thought you were good when you were in fact about as gifted at it as Paris Hilton is at quadratic equations. That just sounds a little bit sad. In the traditional sense of the word. Though it works the other way too.
So, this summer I will mostly be doing something my success at which can be fully backed up by statistical analysis. Wish me luck. I'll need it. I am the captain.
* I did read somewhere that the phrase was originally coined about cricket, but it might be wrong. But while trying to find out if I could find reference on the internet, I found a British Council article from 2005 talking about cricket. The lovely thing about BC articles is that they include a wee glossary of any terms that might be considered a little colloquial, or specific to UK usage of English. In this case they had definitions for makeover ("a change to make something better than it was before"), complicated ("difficult to understand because it has lots of different rules") and nail-biting ("very exciting!").
More puzzling was their description of "generation". Here's the context:
"For the first time in a generation, England beat their oldest rivals, Australia.."
And here's the glossary entry:
"all the people born around the same time"
Let's put that together:
For the first time in all the people born around the same time, England beat their oldest rivals, Australia..
I'm not sure they're really going to improve the language skills of putative English speakers across the globe with that level of linguistic sensitivity. A generation is about 25 years. I was not born "around the same time" as someone born in 1995. It's not only meaningless, it's wrong. Silly bastards.
I wonder if someone has ever been tempted to put in an entirely fake glossary to see if anyone notices? We could do one for this very blog entry.
Pursuit - something that passes the time, a hobby
Unsportsmanlike - not behaving in manner appropriate to the fact that it is only a game; see also Bavarian Frog Tossers.
Hissy Fit - the Prime Minster of Uganda 1983-1987
Stylised - Gordon Ramsey's left buttock, or a leading brand of Norwegian yoghurt
Colloquial - a type of brown monkey with distinctive face patches
Silly Bastards - A collective term for the European Parliament.
Glossary - a subjective and misleading mini-dictionary designed to confuse foreigners.
Odd. I was genuinely thinking about cricket as I accessed the random word website (thought it was about time I gave them a plug) and lo! It has delivered.
If acting is my winter pursuit, in summer I tend to become obsessed with the original beautiful game*. Not that I should suggest that I'm not obsessed with it the rest of the time- just slightly less so. When I was younger most of my travels tended to be linked into where the England cricket team was touring. Where they went, there I went also. I can attest that hanging around in a tropical country watching test matches is a very agreeable way of passing the time.
But the season is approaching, which means I move from watching to playing. I'm part of a Sunday team. We play "friendly" matches (they're not always, I assure you) on Sunday afternoons, so there's no league, no points and - theoretically - no real bench mark for success. But of course there always is one.
How many games did you win?
We had a bastard of a season last year. I think we won 4 games out of 22 or something. Evil. And it did lead to something of a spat later in the season when we played a team out in far north London. We didn't have much confidence by that point, but this team had never beaten us, and probably couldn't quite countenance the idea that we might be a bit ramshackle and, frankly, slightly shit. So when we batted for a long time to make sure we had enough runs (postponing the declaration), they thought we were being unsportsmanlike and had a massive hissy fit, calling the captain a prick and generally throwing cakes around the clubhouse. Like I said, so much for friendly. In the end they nearly won and were forced to concede that the declaration was pretty much on the money. But they didn't apologise for the "prick" bit.
The fact that a draw was a highlight of our month just shows how low our spirit was. Being crap at something is hugely depressing. Or it is when you know you're crap. Sport - and particularly cricket - is very ruthless in that regard. You have constant benchmarks. Number of wins, number of runs, number of wickets, catches, pace of scoring, number of fours hit, batting average, bowling average, number of times LBW... It's very easy to see a pattern, and it's normally forming a stylised bit of sky writing reading out "YOU'RE SHIT" in big fat bubble letters.
On the other hand you meet people who can't act, or can't sing, and they don't know it. They are utterly oblivious to their limitations, because there's no real way for them to tell. I'm not sure if I envy them or not. While it would be nice to have that level of unshakable confidence, do you really want to spend your life doing something that you're terrible at? I don't mean in a "well if you enjoyed it" sort of way, but doing it because you thought you were good when you were in fact about as gifted at it as Paris Hilton is at quadratic equations. That just sounds a little bit sad. In the traditional sense of the word. Though it works the other way too.
So, this summer I will mostly be doing something my success at which can be fully backed up by statistical analysis. Wish me luck. I'll need it. I am the captain.
* I did read somewhere that the phrase was originally coined about cricket, but it might be wrong. But while trying to find out if I could find reference on the internet, I found a British Council article from 2005 talking about cricket. The lovely thing about BC articles is that they include a wee glossary of any terms that might be considered a little colloquial, or specific to UK usage of English. In this case they had definitions for makeover ("a change to make something better than it was before"), complicated ("difficult to understand because it has lots of different rules") and nail-biting ("very exciting!").
More puzzling was their description of "generation". Here's the context:
"For the first time in a generation, England beat their oldest rivals, Australia.."
And here's the glossary entry:
"all the people born around the same time"
Let's put that together:
For the first time in all the people born around the same time, England beat their oldest rivals, Australia..
I'm not sure they're really going to improve the language skills of putative English speakers across the globe with that level of linguistic sensitivity. A generation is about 25 years. I was not born "around the same time" as someone born in 1995. It's not only meaningless, it's wrong. Silly bastards.
I wonder if someone has ever been tempted to put in an entirely fake glossary to see if anyone notices? We could do one for this very blog entry.
Pursuit - something that passes the time, a hobby
Unsportsmanlike - not behaving in manner appropriate to the fact that it is only a game; see also Bavarian Frog Tossers.
Hissy Fit - the Prime Minster of Uganda 1983-1987
Stylised - Gordon Ramsey's left buttock, or a leading brand of Norwegian yoghurt
Colloquial - a type of brown monkey with distinctive face patches
Silly Bastards - A collective term for the European Parliament.
Glossary - a subjective and misleading mini-dictionary designed to confuse foreigners.
Monday 5 April 2010
Credibility
4 April 2010
I'm not sure what gives people credibility. I suppose a history of not breaking your promises counts, but what if you've never had a chance to break or keep them? How do you judge the credibility of someone who says - a la Del Boy - this time next year I'll be a millionaire before this time next year?
This is where people start to think too much about appearances, I suspect. In the absence of any other obvious clues all to often people will think - we'll, he's nicely turned out, or she has nice shoes or they combed their hair, they must be proper experts in astrophysics or now how to run the economy. But where would the world be if Albert Einstein had been judged on appearance?
It probably a shame we don't spend a little more time working it out, though I guess it would take an inordinate amount of time to work anything out. How long would you have to spend talking to the encyclopedia salesman if you asked him lots of questions about the product rather than just thinking "Encyclopedia salesman = scum" and slamming the door in his face. And it would all be utterly wasted because of course encyclopedia salesman are scum. Anyone you meet you form an opinion of immediately. It would socially debilitating to have to investigate all their souls to see if you had made a mistake or not.
You can't give everyone a chance. If someone comes to you and asks if you'd like to take their pet badger on to your firm of accountants you shouldn't feel bound to offer it an interview. But at the same time I'd like to see people judged on slightly different criteria to whether they fit into a nice, harmless, grey box of smooth behaviour and shiny shoes. Just occasionally. Because that would give me an excuse not to bother shining my shoes.
I'm not sure what gives people credibility. I suppose a history of not breaking your promises counts, but what if you've never had a chance to break or keep them? How do you judge the credibility of someone who says - a la Del Boy - this time next year I'll be a millionaire before this time next year?
This is where people start to think too much about appearances, I suspect. In the absence of any other obvious clues all to often people will think - we'll, he's nicely turned out, or she has nice shoes or they combed their hair, they must be proper experts in astrophysics or now how to run the economy. But where would the world be if Albert Einstein had been judged on appearance?
It probably a shame we don't spend a little more time working it out, though I guess it would take an inordinate amount of time to work anything out. How long would you have to spend talking to the encyclopedia salesman if you asked him lots of questions about the product rather than just thinking "Encyclopedia salesman = scum" and slamming the door in his face. And it would all be utterly wasted because of course encyclopedia salesman are scum. Anyone you meet you form an opinion of immediately. It would socially debilitating to have to investigate all their souls to see if you had made a mistake or not.
You can't give everyone a chance. If someone comes to you and asks if you'd like to take their pet badger on to your firm of accountants you shouldn't feel bound to offer it an interview. But at the same time I'd like to see people judged on slightly different criteria to whether they fit into a nice, harmless, grey box of smooth behaviour and shiny shoes. Just occasionally. Because that would give me an excuse not to bother shining my shoes.
Note
I'm up to date. Not in the sense of being properly up to date, because it's the 4th (in fact, early on the 5th) and I've just written the entry for 3 April. But There's now no more material on my MySpace page than there is here. I'm sure my only follower will be delighted to know that!
So, from now on the posts will appear on both sites simultaneously. Give or take the occasional moment of technical incompetence or possibly a whole year. I'd be amazed if anyone noticed.
So, from now on the posts will appear on both sites simultaneously. Give or take the occasional moment of technical incompetence or possibly a whole year. I'd be amazed if anyone noticed.
Marriage
3 April 2010
They will keep throwing the controversial ones at me.
I'm not married. Never have been. Looking unlikely at the moment, but never mind that.
I do wonder if I'm involuntarily abnormal. OK, I know that most abnormal people are involuntarily so, I just mean that I'm abnormal by association - almost none of my friends are married.
This doesn't mean - although I'm sure it happens - that I used to have friends who then became married and vanished off the face of the planet. It's just that I can count on my thumbs my actual proper friends who have tied the knot. Everyone else has tried the not.
The upshot of this is not just a weird disassociation with "normal" life; it also means I don't get to go to many weddings. I'm a bit miffed about this. Weddings are extremely expensive parties at which - for the small investment of a wok and listening to some utterly fatuous speeches - you are treated to vast quantities of free food and drink. My selfish friends for some reason think that any love they might have for their partners does not need consummating with a massive slap up feast and embarrassing binge drinking from teenage relatives -they think a simple life time of constant affirmation of affection and loyalty will somehow suffice. THE SELFISH FUCKERS! Are none of them thinking about ME??
So when I hear apparently intelligent, independent seeming women having conversations planning a wedding that - since they're single - exists only in their head, I have almost no cultural reference point to understand why they are doing it. Especially since there seems to be a lot evidence that women are limited and in some cases actually harmed by marriage. Marriage seems to be a bit like smoking in movies. Everyone knows it's not as harmless and glamorous as it looks, but as that 1940s femme fatale tags a drag she looks so damn cooool.
Maybe instead of railing against it I should try it. Oh. Might take a while. I think there's quite a few words I need to have randomly generated before I get that far.
They will keep throwing the controversial ones at me.
I'm not married. Never have been. Looking unlikely at the moment, but never mind that.
I do wonder if I'm involuntarily abnormal. OK, I know that most abnormal people are involuntarily so, I just mean that I'm abnormal by association - almost none of my friends are married.
This doesn't mean - although I'm sure it happens - that I used to have friends who then became married and vanished off the face of the planet. It's just that I can count on my thumbs my actual proper friends who have tied the knot. Everyone else has tried the not.
The upshot of this is not just a weird disassociation with "normal" life; it also means I don't get to go to many weddings. I'm a bit miffed about this. Weddings are extremely expensive parties at which - for the small investment of a wok and listening to some utterly fatuous speeches - you are treated to vast quantities of free food and drink. My selfish friends for some reason think that any love they might have for their partners does not need consummating with a massive slap up feast and embarrassing binge drinking from teenage relatives -they think a simple life time of constant affirmation of affection and loyalty will somehow suffice. THE SELFISH FUCKERS! Are none of them thinking about ME??
So when I hear apparently intelligent, independent seeming women having conversations planning a wedding that - since they're single - exists only in their head, I have almost no cultural reference point to understand why they are doing it. Especially since there seems to be a lot evidence that women are limited and in some cases actually harmed by marriage. Marriage seems to be a bit like smoking in movies. Everyone knows it's not as harmless and glamorous as it looks, but as that 1940s femme fatale tags a drag she looks so damn cooool.
Maybe instead of railing against it I should try it. Oh. Might take a while. I think there's quite a few words I need to have randomly generated before I get that far.
2 April 2010
Ash, I understand. "A campaigning public health charity that works to eliminate the harm caused by tobacco" makes a lot of sense.
I have more trouble understanding the point of FOREST - which "represents adults who choose to smoke tobacco and non-smoking adults who are tolerant of other people smoking". Which translates as constant and high-level whingeing against attempts to reduce the negative impact of smoking.
Now, I admit you have to feel a little sorry for long term smokers. They might have developed the habit during the war, when cigarettes were a popular means of keeping the troops happy and were given out like sweeties. Or shortly afterwards, when no one was really talking about the potential health impact. It was legal, it was safe and most of all it was fucking addictive, so that when it became clear that it was killing you it was too late for quite a few people who couldn't give it up*
So, sorry guys. It's a bit shit. But it seems to me that FOREST and pieces like this miss a few big things. One, you being "inconvenienced" as up against "12 year olds not smoking" (my quotes) ought to fall under the special category of "fuck off". Can anyone really stand up on a box in Hyde Park and say they're happy that a few extra pre-teens might start smoking and die of numerous hideous diseases if it means they don't have to walk an extra 100 yards on a rainy Thursday night to buy some fags? What kind of fat, lazy, fucked up self-absorbed child killer do you need to be to support this argument?
Secondly, there's quotes like this:
"There must be freedom of choice, something that is fast disappearing in this so-called free country."
Maggie Hambling
artist
There "must be freedom of choice"? Why? I don't have the freedom of choice to light up a spliff. I'm not allowed to take ecstasy, or LSD or speed my tits off on a Friday night. None of these things are statistically more likely to kill me than smoking. I don't have that freedom of choice. But does FOREST campaign for the legalisation of drugs? A quick search of their site for "drugs" reveals no results. As does a search for cannabis. So they don't even have any official position. Now, I can understand why they don't want to muddy the waters of their campaign by bringing in the freedom to use other substances, but if they want to take a moral civil liberties position - as they claim - they need to be consistent. Should we be able to do what we like or not? Come on Maggie Hambling, spit it out.
Finally, there is plenty of evidence that smoking bans and other restrictions persuade people to give up smoking (even in Portsmouth). FOREST are therefore taking a position that they would like to reverse a 5.5% fall in smokers' numbers. Thousands of people won't die because of legislation they oppose. How on earth can you take this position because you quite like inhaling noxious fumes?
Just because something remains legal, no one has a responsibility to make it easy for you to do it. It's legal to drive at 200mph - just don't do it on a public highway. It's legal to run around naked - as long as no one sees you do it. You can fire a gun - on a shooting range. There's all sorts of legal things which are a massive hassle to actually do, but there's no pressure group saying you should be able to soar up the M1 at the speed of sound while waving your cock out of the window. Well, if you discount the AA.
So I'm sorry smokers will have to walk a mile to get their cigarettes if the law is changed. Especially since they probably can't breathe properly anymore. But perhaps they should have thought of that before rather than campaigning to make sure they bring all their fellow smokers down with them when they die.
* including my Dad, who smoked for 50 years from his time in the RAF until a Doctor told him that if he didn't quit they'd have to cut his leg off.
Ash, I understand. "A campaigning public health charity that works to eliminate the harm caused by tobacco" makes a lot of sense.
I have more trouble understanding the point of FOREST - which "represents adults who choose to smoke tobacco and non-smoking adults who are tolerant of other people smoking". Which translates as constant and high-level whingeing against attempts to reduce the negative impact of smoking.
Now, I admit you have to feel a little sorry for long term smokers. They might have developed the habit during the war, when cigarettes were a popular means of keeping the troops happy and were given out like sweeties. Or shortly afterwards, when no one was really talking about the potential health impact. It was legal, it was safe and most of all it was fucking addictive, so that when it became clear that it was killing you it was too late for quite a few people who couldn't give it up*
So, sorry guys. It's a bit shit. But it seems to me that FOREST and pieces like this miss a few big things. One, you being "inconvenienced" as up against "12 year olds not smoking" (my quotes) ought to fall under the special category of "fuck off". Can anyone really stand up on a box in Hyde Park and say they're happy that a few extra pre-teens might start smoking and die of numerous hideous diseases if it means they don't have to walk an extra 100 yards on a rainy Thursday night to buy some fags? What kind of fat, lazy, fucked up self-absorbed child killer do you need to be to support this argument?
Secondly, there's quotes like this:
"There must be freedom of choice, something that is fast disappearing in this so-called free country."
Maggie Hambling
artist
There "must be freedom of choice"? Why? I don't have the freedom of choice to light up a spliff. I'm not allowed to take ecstasy, or LSD or speed my tits off on a Friday night. None of these things are statistically more likely to kill me than smoking. I don't have that freedom of choice. But does FOREST campaign for the legalisation of drugs? A quick search of their site for "drugs" reveals no results. As does a search for cannabis. So they don't even have any official position. Now, I can understand why they don't want to muddy the waters of their campaign by bringing in the freedom to use other substances, but if they want to take a moral civil liberties position - as they claim - they need to be consistent. Should we be able to do what we like or not? Come on Maggie Hambling, spit it out.
Finally, there is plenty of evidence that smoking bans and other restrictions persuade people to give up smoking (even in Portsmouth). FOREST are therefore taking a position that they would like to reverse a 5.5% fall in smokers' numbers. Thousands of people won't die because of legislation they oppose. How on earth can you take this position because you quite like inhaling noxious fumes?
Just because something remains legal, no one has a responsibility to make it easy for you to do it. It's legal to drive at 200mph - just don't do it on a public highway. It's legal to run around naked - as long as no one sees you do it. You can fire a gun - on a shooting range. There's all sorts of legal things which are a massive hassle to actually do, but there's no pressure group saying you should be able to soar up the M1 at the speed of sound while waving your cock out of the window. Well, if you discount the AA.
So I'm sorry smokers will have to walk a mile to get their cigarettes if the law is changed. Especially since they probably can't breathe properly anymore. But perhaps they should have thought of that before rather than campaigning to make sure they bring all their fellow smokers down with them when they die.
* including my Dad, who smoked for 50 years from his time in the RAF until a Doctor told him that if he didn't quit they'd have to cut his leg off.
Bubbles
1 April 2010
I haven't seen bubble gum for ages.
I'm not sure it isn't just me - have I had special bubble gum filters fitted to my spectacles? Was it some sort of side effect of having anti-Tory lenses fitted? Is there a malfunction?
The anti-Tory lenses, (C) Denial Ltd, are a very necessary thing at the moment. There are Tories everywhere on television and in the newspaper, and frankly if one had to see their smug faces or listen to their confused policy contortions one would go mental. The Anti-Tory lenses are a very efficient way of blocking out George Osborne's face, and since they went on the market work-days lost to stomach illnesses have plummeted.
The irony is that they are based on technology developed for the Conservative Party in the 80s, who were very keen on a product that stopped them having to look at poor and unemployed people.
So where has the bubble gum gone? Maybe no one chews it any more and I'm just showing my age. Oh well.
I haven't seen bubble gum for ages.
I'm not sure it isn't just me - have I had special bubble gum filters fitted to my spectacles? Was it some sort of side effect of having anti-Tory lenses fitted? Is there a malfunction?
The anti-Tory lenses, (C) Denial Ltd, are a very necessary thing at the moment. There are Tories everywhere on television and in the newspaper, and frankly if one had to see their smug faces or listen to their confused policy contortions one would go mental. The Anti-Tory lenses are a very efficient way of blocking out George Osborne's face, and since they went on the market work-days lost to stomach illnesses have plummeted.
The irony is that they are based on technology developed for the Conservative Party in the 80s, who were very keen on a product that stopped them having to look at poor and unemployed people.
So where has the bubble gum gone? Maybe no one chews it any more and I'm just showing my age. Oh well.
Friday 2 April 2010
Moorland
31 Mar 2010
I have nothing to say about Moorland. I am utterly devoid of inspiration. That's why I've stooped to inluding a picture of some moorland off Wikipedia. It's got that bad.
Maybe I'm not devoid of inspiration but that moorland is some kind of creative Kryptonite? It is a bit green after all. Or perhaps it's just I'm trying to stay clear of all the depressing stuff that comes from a bleak, forbidding landscape where nothing grows but harsh scrubby things and where gentleness of any kind is stunted by the caustic atmosphere in which it lives. You see where I could go with this? I don't want to!
I want to talk about flowers, and singing seals with hats and bright colours and exploding Nazis!
OK, possibly not the last bit, but it's better than Nazis that don't explode.
I'd better go.
Abridgement
30 Mar 2010
This was going to be a really long blog today. And then I saw the word. So...
I never really understood the point of the abridgment of books. Surely a book needs all its contents or the author wouldn't have put it there? Eventually, after reading (and writing) a lot more, I realised that authors frequently have no idea what they're putting in their books, and that a little trimming couldn't hurt with some of them.
But I didn't get why talking books were always edited to about 4 hours and mercilessly abridged until they could be shoe-horned into it.
That was before I tried recording myself reading a book. I read Terry Pratchett's Nation onto CD for my Dad, since he can't read very well anymore. It was exhausting. There's almost 10 hours of reading on disc, but that doesn't include all the mistakes and false starts and practicing tricky bits and choosing the best voices. So I think I get it now.
It would be nice if we could abridge other things. Meetings, bad films, periods of Conservative rule... the only problem is, who's the editor? Do we trust them? What if they cut out the best bits? They could doom us to a life of continually cooking polenta and watching The Antiques Roadshow. If you tried to sue them they'd just edit out the bit where you won the case. You could try and self edit, but I hear that taking a knife to your own life frequently ends badly. Though I think life generally ends badly anyway, so maybe the problem is that it middles badly.
I think I've lost it now. Abridge me! Abridge me!
This was going to be a really long blog today. And then I saw the word. So...
I never really understood the point of the abridgment of books. Surely a book needs all its contents or the author wouldn't have put it there? Eventually, after reading (and writing) a lot more, I realised that authors frequently have no idea what they're putting in their books, and that a little trimming couldn't hurt with some of them.
But I didn't get why talking books were always edited to about 4 hours and mercilessly abridged until they could be shoe-horned into it.
That was before I tried recording myself reading a book. I read Terry Pratchett's Nation onto CD for my Dad, since he can't read very well anymore. It was exhausting. There's almost 10 hours of reading on disc, but that doesn't include all the mistakes and false starts and practicing tricky bits and choosing the best voices. So I think I get it now.
It would be nice if we could abridge other things. Meetings, bad films, periods of Conservative rule... the only problem is, who's the editor? Do we trust them? What if they cut out the best bits? They could doom us to a life of continually cooking polenta and watching The Antiques Roadshow. If you tried to sue them they'd just edit out the bit where you won the case. You could try and self edit, but I hear that taking a knife to your own life frequently ends badly. Though I think life generally ends badly anyway, so maybe the problem is that it middles badly.
I think I've lost it now. Abridge me! Abridge me!
Geology
29 Mar 2010
I have no idea at what point in life I realised that a rock is not just a rock. It's probably very significant; much more important than working out that Santa isn't real - but of course I can't remember when that happened either. It's very frustrating.
So don't ask me to tell you when I realised that rocks could be forged in the heart of a volcano or packed together out of the bodies of millions of tiny wee beasties the size of your thumbnail.
It's important because it's one of those things you find out which add a layer to the burgeoning idea that there probably isn't a God. Because knowing that a rock isn't just a rock tends to explain most of the weird and wonderful features of the planet that are always the ones that make you go "Wow, how did that get there?", and if you're the kind of person who believes in things because they're uncomfortable with not knowing things then finding that Uluru wasn't deposited by aliens or by God but was compressed by the weight of a long vanished ancient river and was eventually exposed by millenia of desert winds is going to erode your faith.
Frankly, although the above fact is pretty remarkable I do sometimes long for someone to find prove that life on earth was seeded by a huge intergalactic octopus called Simon, or that Stonehenge was actually the world's first Guinness Book of Records attempt at a domino rally. But perhaps it's remarkable enough that one day an octopus called Simon might play catch with a rock made out of millions of tiny humans. And with any luck the Guinness Book of Records will finally have gone out of business.
I have no idea at what point in life I realised that a rock is not just a rock. It's probably very significant; much more important than working out that Santa isn't real - but of course I can't remember when that happened either. It's very frustrating.
So don't ask me to tell you when I realised that rocks could be forged in the heart of a volcano or packed together out of the bodies of millions of tiny wee beasties the size of your thumbnail.
It's important because it's one of those things you find out which add a layer to the burgeoning idea that there probably isn't a God. Because knowing that a rock isn't just a rock tends to explain most of the weird and wonderful features of the planet that are always the ones that make you go "Wow, how did that get there?", and if you're the kind of person who believes in things because they're uncomfortable with not knowing things then finding that Uluru wasn't deposited by aliens or by God but was compressed by the weight of a long vanished ancient river and was eventually exposed by millenia of desert winds is going to erode your faith.
Frankly, although the above fact is pretty remarkable I do sometimes long for someone to find prove that life on earth was seeded by a huge intergalactic octopus called Simon, or that Stonehenge was actually the world's first Guinness Book of Records attempt at a domino rally. But perhaps it's remarkable enough that one day an octopus called Simon might play catch with a rock made out of millions of tiny humans. And with any luck the Guinness Book of Records will finally have gone out of business.
Ordure
28 Mar 2010
I feel like shit. That's enough of a tie in the title, but I may as well cut the self-indulgence and move on to another definition: moral offensiveness.
Someone sent me a link to a new Pepsi Max advert. Here, have a link to it which contains a more intelligent description than I could manage of why it could be viewed as about as acceptable as an advert for Cesar Dog Food that shows a succession of poodles being buggered to death by an enormous man dressed as a smurf while a message flashes up "BUY CESAR OR NEXT TIME IT'S YOUR DOG".
The interesting thing about the Pepsi Advert is that a search of The Daily Mail website gives you no hits on it at all. The moral guardians of the nation have no comment about an ad in which men fake the end of the world to persuade a woman to sleep with their friend. I was particularly disappointed to see Tom Lenk in it, who - as Andrew in Buffy - has actually been in a scene where a bunch of guys messing around suddenly realise that their actions are tantamount to rape. Joss Whedon is probably tutting with disapproval at this very moment.
So, the Daily Mail saves its fire for other causes. I was delighted to see that they had covered the awful behaviour of a B&B proprietor in Berkshire who turned away a gay couple who had booked a room. But then I saw the link to the article: "Christian B&B owner who turned away gay couple faces police investigation", a point they lead on. There's no great opprobrium - it's one of the more balanced articles you'll ever read in the Scale - but they just couldn't help set it up from the angle of the proprietor in a snidey snidey sort of way.
So, they don't think that this was morally outrageous either.
What do they care about then? Well, currently they seem to be very upset that MPs can STILL (!!!!!!!!!! no doubt) employ their wives. And they've managed to get the Government to jump to their tune and ban meow meow - a drug so evil that the Government's advisory council on drugs told them not to ban it - amid claims it makes people rip their own scrotums off (hey, refer madness seems so tame these days!).
But I suppose we asked for it. 'We'. I don't know what that means, but the left had enormous success in closing down the acceptability of certain types of behaviour and offensive speech. Now the Daily Mail is slowly generating it's own version of political correctness. For the paper that so often shouts "It's political correctness gone mad!" it's rather fascinating watching them develop their own version. Whereas the left's PC involved protecting minorities from abuse and persecution, the Scale's version protects children and happy, fluffy innocent people from the corruption of the world. It's all very sweet. And it's working. In the real world it was naive of equality campaigners to think that only the cause of good could benefit from such a tactic. It would now be as big an act of career suicide for a politician to say "you should have listen to the advisory council on meow meow" as it would be for him or her to pull a Hitler salute on a visit to a Synagogue.
Watch it carefully. It's ordure. On many levels.
NOTE: I admit that I know bugger all about meow meow. But I'm kind of assuming that the advisory council do. Something Alan Johnson is clearly not willing to credit them with.
I feel like shit. That's enough of a tie in the title, but I may as well cut the self-indulgence and move on to another definition: moral offensiveness.
Someone sent me a link to a new Pepsi Max advert. Here, have a link to it which contains a more intelligent description than I could manage of why it could be viewed as about as acceptable as an advert for Cesar Dog Food that shows a succession of poodles being buggered to death by an enormous man dressed as a smurf while a message flashes up "BUY CESAR OR NEXT TIME IT'S YOUR DOG".
The interesting thing about the Pepsi Advert is that a search of The Daily Mail website gives you no hits on it at all. The moral guardians of the nation have no comment about an ad in which men fake the end of the world to persuade a woman to sleep with their friend. I was particularly disappointed to see Tom Lenk in it, who - as Andrew in Buffy - has actually been in a scene where a bunch of guys messing around suddenly realise that their actions are tantamount to rape. Joss Whedon is probably tutting with disapproval at this very moment.
So, the Daily Mail saves its fire for other causes. I was delighted to see that they had covered the awful behaviour of a B&B proprietor in Berkshire who turned away a gay couple who had booked a room. But then I saw the link to the article: "Christian B&B owner who turned away gay couple faces police investigation", a point they lead on. There's no great opprobrium - it's one of the more balanced articles you'll ever read in the Scale - but they just couldn't help set it up from the angle of the proprietor in a snidey snidey sort of way.
So, they don't think that this was morally outrageous either.
What do they care about then? Well, currently they seem to be very upset that MPs can STILL (!!!!!!!!!! no doubt) employ their wives. And they've managed to get the Government to jump to their tune and ban meow meow - a drug so evil that the Government's advisory council on drugs told them not to ban it - amid claims it makes people rip their own scrotums off (hey, refer madness seems so tame these days!).
But I suppose we asked for it. 'We'. I don't know what that means, but the left had enormous success in closing down the acceptability of certain types of behaviour and offensive speech. Now the Daily Mail is slowly generating it's own version of political correctness. For the paper that so often shouts "It's political correctness gone mad!" it's rather fascinating watching them develop their own version. Whereas the left's PC involved protecting minorities from abuse and persecution, the Scale's version protects children and happy, fluffy innocent people from the corruption of the world. It's all very sweet. And it's working. In the real world it was naive of equality campaigners to think that only the cause of good could benefit from such a tactic. It would now be as big an act of career suicide for a politician to say "you should have listen to the advisory council on meow meow" as it would be for him or her to pull a Hitler salute on a visit to a Synagogue.
Watch it carefully. It's ordure. On many levels.
NOTE: I admit that I know bugger all about meow meow. But I'm kind of assuming that the advisory council do. Something Alan Johnson is clearly not willing to credit them with.
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