I laughed out loud on the tube this morning, always embarassing, but how could you not smile over this. Today is the first day in England for civil partnerships between gay couples, Northern Ireland was on Monday and Scotland yesterday and there were some typical protests from the religious right.
This is a letter from today's Metro:
"This is the final straw - our young children will no longer have any moral values. They will see same-sex marriages as the norm and opposite-sex marriages will be read about in history books. What are we teaching children? If God wanted two women or two men to join together in marriage, then he would have made them so they could reproduce
W Bent, West Yorks"
Now I obviously snorted at this on the train but I am doubtful whether that's genuine. I will confess here and now that publications, even newspapers, don't get anywhere near the amount of letters every day, week or month that most people think. We go out to 11,000 subscribers, and each issue is passed on to five others so that's 55,000 readers and we rarely get more than one and usually get none at all. The trouble with only getting one letter is that you can't really have a "Letters Page" with just a single missive on it so it's not unknown for the editorial dept to just make some up. The usual give away is "Name and address supplied" or something along those lines.
Of course, I would've put "I M Bent, West Yorks" or "I Bendover, West Yorks" so maybe I'm being overly suspicious.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Friday, December 16, 2005
Points of View
Being the whining anal pedant that I am, I left a comment at the BBC's Newswatch website moaning about my thoughts on reporting viewers' comments as fact. Newswatch was set up after the Hutton inquiry as a way for the BBC to be much more touchy feely with its viewers and listeners and deal with any complaints they have over news coverage. Think of it as Points of View but with the why-oh-why dial turned down a few notches.
Anyway, here's the reply in full:
Andrew,
Thanks for your comments. I have to say I did hear the explosion and I live in south London. I was awake at the time and thought my boiler was packing up!
But you're right that all comments from readers and viewers should be treated as just that and not taken as a reliable source. Interestingly, in the wake of the shooting at Stockwell tube station, the BBC defended
its extensive use of eyewitness accounts to tell the story. Now, as more evidence gradually seeps out, many of them appear to have been wrong.
A sensible warning, and one all broadcasters would do well to take note of.
Best wishes,
Ian Jolly*
NewsWatch
I thought this was quite a reasoned reply to be honest, although I would still argue that it probably was his boiler but several people in South London have told me in a got-your-eye-wiped kind of way that they heard it to. I'm obviously just a much heavier sleeper than I thought, I'd have been fucked in the Blitz.
*It's admirable that, post-Hutton, the BBC is hiring people whose name corresponds with their demeanour. If Andrew Gilligan's real name had been Andrew Killagain they might have avoided a lot of jip.
Anyway, here's the reply in full:
Andrew,
Thanks for your comments. I have to say I did hear the explosion and I live in south London. I was awake at the time and thought my boiler was packing up!
But you're right that all comments from readers and viewers should be treated as just that and not taken as a reliable source. Interestingly, in the wake of the shooting at Stockwell tube station, the BBC defended
its extensive use of eyewitness accounts to tell the story. Now, as more evidence gradually seeps out, many of them appear to have been wrong.
A sensible warning, and one all broadcasters would do well to take note of.
Best wishes,
Ian Jolly*
NewsWatch
I thought this was quite a reasoned reply to be honest, although I would still argue that it probably was his boiler but several people in South London have told me in a got-your-eye-wiped kind of way that they heard it to. I'm obviously just a much heavier sleeper than I thought, I'd have been fucked in the Blitz.
*It's admirable that, post-Hutton, the BBC is hiring people whose name corresponds with their demeanour. If Andrew Gilligan's real name had been Andrew Killagain they might have avoided a lot of jip.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Wrong, wrong, wrong
Ok, I'm always prepared to admit when I'm wrong. Sitting at my desk today I can gaze out the window at a plume of smoke hundreds of feet high. The strange thing is that it's a spectacular sight and most people here have been taking photos out of the window. There is a chance, of course, that it's nothing to do with the oil depot fire and is actually a big cloud or a really faulty exhaust.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Nothing but blue skies from now on
Incidentally, when I came to Harrow this morning there was a beautiful blue sky without the slightest hint of devastating black clouds anywhere. Funny that because, apparently, people could see it from miles away according to the news...
Oil be back
Sunday's oil depot fire in Hemel Hempstead (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4520430.stm) has been dominating all the headlines today. That's fair enough, it's a huge fire and has caused a lot of disruption. You'd think from the coverage though that armageddon had arrived and the four horsemen of the apocalypse were about to ride out of the smoke cloud.*
The Daily Express called it 'Hell on Earth', the Sun 'Black Sunday' and the Daily Mail relates the 'apocalypic scenes'**
What's really angered me though is the 'give us your views' part of the 24 News coverage on TV. It's all very well encouraging feedback from viewers, and getting them to send in video and images of the scene, but it shouldn't be accepted that simply because they're a viewer then they must be right.
"We've had a text from someone in Hastings saying they were woken up by the sound of the blast, which gives you some idea of the scale."
No they weren't. Of course they weren't. It's patently ridiculous to even imagine that someone in Hastings on the South Coast was woken up by the sound of a blast that, while spectacular, barely registered with people 20 miles away. If it had been loud enough to wake up someone in Hastings, well over 100 miles away, it would've been so powerful that Hemel Hempstead and many of the surrounding towns would've been completely obliterated.
Some tit even texted in from Holland saying they'd heard it. No he didn't and any respectable news organisation shouldn't be saying he did as if it was fact.
Many people here live very near Hemel Hempstead, one in Bovingdon which is less than five miles away. The force of the blast, which was heard in Holland remember, woke him up and his mother in law's loft hatch sprang open. Devastating.
What is it about some people that requires them to write themselves into events even if it's something totally unrelated to them. They see it on tv and suddenly that slamming car door that woke them up MUST have been the blast. The ultimate manifestation of this phenomenon is the flowers left when celebrities die or there's been a well publicised murder. I didn't know these people but I'm going to pay my respects anyway because I've been told by the news that it's very sad.
It just shows that despite hundreds of years of human development we're still just as gullible as a 15th century peasant being told there's monsters in the sea, the world is flat or smoking a leech will cure your headache.
Unbelieveable.
*Probably coughing
**In fairness, the Mail tends to use that phrase pretty much every day
The Daily Express called it 'Hell on Earth', the Sun 'Black Sunday' and the Daily Mail relates the 'apocalypic scenes'**
What's really angered me though is the 'give us your views' part of the 24 News coverage on TV. It's all very well encouraging feedback from viewers, and getting them to send in video and images of the scene, but it shouldn't be accepted that simply because they're a viewer then they must be right.
"We've had a text from someone in Hastings saying they were woken up by the sound of the blast, which gives you some idea of the scale."
No they weren't. Of course they weren't. It's patently ridiculous to even imagine that someone in Hastings on the South Coast was woken up by the sound of a blast that, while spectacular, barely registered with people 20 miles away. If it had been loud enough to wake up someone in Hastings, well over 100 miles away, it would've been so powerful that Hemel Hempstead and many of the surrounding towns would've been completely obliterated.
Some tit even texted in from Holland saying they'd heard it. No he didn't and any respectable news organisation shouldn't be saying he did as if it was fact.
Many people here live very near Hemel Hempstead, one in Bovingdon which is less than five miles away. The force of the blast, which was heard in Holland remember, woke him up and his mother in law's loft hatch sprang open. Devastating.
What is it about some people that requires them to write themselves into events even if it's something totally unrelated to them. They see it on tv and suddenly that slamming car door that woke them up MUST have been the blast. The ultimate manifestation of this phenomenon is the flowers left when celebrities die or there's been a well publicised murder. I didn't know these people but I'm going to pay my respects anyway because I've been told by the news that it's very sad.
It just shows that despite hundreds of years of human development we're still just as gullible as a 15th century peasant being told there's monsters in the sea, the world is flat or smoking a leech will cure your headache.
Unbelieveable.
*Probably coughing
**In fairness, the Mail tends to use that phrase pretty much every day
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
I had such dreams once....
I have received the kind of press release that has triggered one of those epiphanys (epiphanies?) that come along every so often. What the hell am I doing here?
"Verplas, the rapidly growing manufacturer of domestic modular ventilation ducting, has just launched a range of stainless steel wall outlets and ceiling extract valves in 100, 125 and 150mm.
"The product designs include two varieites of Bull-Nose shaped outlets, a Gravity Flap Outlet and a Cowled Outlet with Back-Draught Damper, all made in top quality steel and manufactured to last."
I can't believe they're still going with the Gravity Flap Outlet, that's soooo last year.
Take me now Lord, take me now.
"Verplas, the rapidly growing manufacturer of domestic modular ventilation ducting, has just launched a range of stainless steel wall outlets and ceiling extract valves in 100, 125 and 150mm.
"The product designs include two varieites of Bull-Nose shaped outlets, a Gravity Flap Outlet and a Cowled Outlet with Back-Draught Damper, all made in top quality steel and manufactured to last."
I can't believe they're still going with the Gravity Flap Outlet, that's soooo last year.
Take me now Lord, take me now.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Monday, November 28, 2005
The whole thing went over my head...
I forgot to say that the momentous meeting with Jane Asher was preceded by the National Home Improvement Council annual awards. No, really, this is the kind of thing I go to for a living. I shouldn't really knock it too much as we obviously have an awards ceremony ourselves that to the external* observer is pretty absurd, but even I had to wince at some of these.
Best Value in Window Replacement
Gas Safety in the Home
and my personal favourite, Roofing Excellence
The only saving grace was the misprint in the brochure that went with it. Look at it this way, if it really had been an award for the the Best Value in Widow Replacement, the afternoon would've been much more entertaining.
*And the internal too, there's no point denying it
Best Value in Window Replacement
Gas Safety in the Home
and my personal favourite, Roofing Excellence
The only saving grace was the misprint in the brochure that went with it. Look at it this way, if it really had been an award for the the Best Value in Widow Replacement, the afternoon would've been much more entertaining.
*And the internal too, there's no point denying it
Brimful of Asher
A new showroom opening last Thursday down near Waterloo saw the presence of cake and Crossroads legend Jane Asher. As desperate as I was to ask her about Alfie, Paul McCartney, the Maharishi and the fact that some of the Beatles' best love songs were written about her, she was unfortunately more interested in talking about her kitchen. A case of Here, There and Betterware.
No, you're right, that didn't really work.
Anyway, she had, predictably, baked a cake especially for the occasion but I'm sorry to report that it was also a let down. Does anyone actually like fruit cake with marzipan? Hmm? Anyone? No, of course not. If you're doing a cake for an occasion involving the consumption by a group then you go with chocolate or a sponge, any cake-baking fool knows that. Shame on you Asher.
No, you're right, that didn't really work.
Anyway, she had, predictably, baked a cake especially for the occasion but I'm sorry to report that it was also a let down. Does anyone actually like fruit cake with marzipan? Hmm? Anyone? No, of course not. If you're doing a cake for an occasion involving the consumption by a group then you go with chocolate or a sponge, any cake-baking fool knows that. Shame on you Asher.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Travel chaos
I commute everyday to work - I am an official Imperial class London commuter. To get to Harrow from Beckenham, I get a mainline train from Beckenham Junction to Victoria, then a Victoria line tube one stop to Green Park, followed by the Jubilee line to Finchley Road, and then the Met line to Harrow-on-the-Hill.
Christ, even writing it makes me angry and exhausted.
I've been doing this so long now that I just put my head down and travel on autopilot, it's not unknown for me to carry on reading my book walking between platforms. This does cause the occasional stamped foot or elbowed face but, well, they'll get over it.
The worst part of the journey is not so much the number of trains and changes, but the number of people. I'm jammed in like a vaccuum sealed pack of hot dogs and don't actually sit down until I get on the Met at Finchley Road, about an hour after I get on at Beckenham.
A full train, especially the tube, usually means people moaning and complaining that they can't get on and one thing guaranteed to get commuters shaking their heads and tutting it's not getting on but being able to see through the windows that there's space inside between the seats.
This leads to a phenomenon I've classified as Annoyance Dependent Emphasis Shift, or ADES. This is, I believe, part of the small print in Heisenburg's Uncertainty Principle* and goes something like this:
THE LEVEL OF IRRITATION IS PROPORTIONAL TO THE POSITION OF EMPHASIS
The standard test sentence for commuting, and it's very specific, is: "Can you move down please?"
So, for example, the first time it's uttered it will be "Can you move DOWN please?". This may perhaps be accompanied by a face at the glass, with a hand shielding the glare to really make it clear the non-movers have been rumbled.
This usually results in some embarrased shuffling within the carriage but little attempt at moving. Hence the move onto: "Can you MOVE down please". Knock on the window.
Then, perhaps unexpectedly, we shoot straight to "CAN you move DOWN please?" Even in their anger, their Englishness is still preventing them from singling out specific people.
Annoyance and anger then turn to exasperation and our final plea of "Can you move down PLEASE?" hits in. We've all been there son, we've all been then son.
*Probably written on the back, in pencil
Christ, even writing it makes me angry and exhausted.
I've been doing this so long now that I just put my head down and travel on autopilot, it's not unknown for me to carry on reading my book walking between platforms. This does cause the occasional stamped foot or elbowed face but, well, they'll get over it.
The worst part of the journey is not so much the number of trains and changes, but the number of people. I'm jammed in like a vaccuum sealed pack of hot dogs and don't actually sit down until I get on the Met at Finchley Road, about an hour after I get on at Beckenham.
A full train, especially the tube, usually means people moaning and complaining that they can't get on and one thing guaranteed to get commuters shaking their heads and tutting it's not getting on but being able to see through the windows that there's space inside between the seats.
This leads to a phenomenon I've classified as Annoyance Dependent Emphasis Shift, or ADES. This is, I believe, part of the small print in Heisenburg's Uncertainty Principle* and goes something like this:
THE LEVEL OF IRRITATION IS PROPORTIONAL TO THE POSITION OF EMPHASIS
The standard test sentence for commuting, and it's very specific, is: "Can you move down please?"
So, for example, the first time it's uttered it will be "Can you move DOWN please?". This may perhaps be accompanied by a face at the glass, with a hand shielding the glare to really make it clear the non-movers have been rumbled.
This usually results in some embarrased shuffling within the carriage but little attempt at moving. Hence the move onto: "Can you MOVE down please". Knock on the window.
Then, perhaps unexpectedly, we shoot straight to "CAN you move DOWN please?" Even in their anger, their Englishness is still preventing them from singling out specific people.
Annoyance and anger then turn to exasperation and our final plea of "Can you move down PLEASE?" hits in. We've all been there son, we've all been then son.
*Probably written on the back, in pencil
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Good head
Writing a good headline is a black art in any field of journalism. It has to pull the reader in, tell them enough to grab their interest but not enough to make them feel they don't need to read any of the story below it. It also has to not be shit.
It's one of those parts of a newspaper or magazine that everyone thinks is very clever when they see a good one, but believes they could've come up with something better when they read something poor. What they don't realise of course is that not only do they have to come up with the witty pun, they have to come up with a witty pun that fits exactly into space on the page. It also has to not be shit.
I bring this up because there's been some great examples floating round lately of how to, and how not to, do it. Commuter's cobbled together rag The Metro, for example, is particularly good at being exceptionally bad. I can only think that they must write the page one lead the afternoon of the previous day as nine times out of ten it usually has nothing to do with whatever the actual main story of the morning is.
This morning's main headline, for example, was the dodgy "Partying their way to mouth cancer". Which is not only confusing, misleading and uninformative, it's also broken rule number one of not remembering to not be shit. It's a story about high levels of alcohol and smoking being a major cause of the painful sounding mouth cancer, the trouble is though that this headline makes it sounds really, really fun. Yesterday's was the even worse "Teachers target pencil sharpeners". With what? Guns? Bow and arrow? Elastic band on the end of the thumb?* They also tortured the entire population of London's train system with the excrutiating "Owls it feel to be my best friend?". A dog has befriended a baby owl you see. Jesus.
The Harrow Observer is a classic local paper, on the other hand, and passing its offices on the way to work means I always see the hand written** posters that the street vendors use. This week it's the fantastic "Latest on stabbed vicar". Now that's a local paper headline. Firstly, it's the 'latest' on the unfortunate clergyman, which makes you want to know what the previous story was, then we know someone's been stabbed, always gruesome and therefore brilliant stuff, and finally, who's been stabbed? A man? A woman? No, a vicar. Perfect.
Headline of the week though? In The Sun following the England victory over Argentina the sublime "Senor not singing any more". They thought of that and then came up with the story didn't they?
The worst crime a sub can commit though is to refuse to let an idea go and try and crowbar and squeeze it into the space they've got by tweaking it. Trouble is, tweaking tends to cause trouble. This is what leads to the classic headlines "Man found dead in graveyard", "Police comb Shepherd's Bush" and "Stadium fire: Manager grilled". My favourite though is the local paper story of a business man stranded overseas during the Xmas holidays thanks to a baggage handlers' strike, therefore missing his child's first festive season. The headline? "Man stuck in Turkey for Christmas".
*Or 'lazzie band', see previous entry
**Actually printed using a font that looks like handwriting, therefore making the art of printing come a rather pointless full circle
It's one of those parts of a newspaper or magazine that everyone thinks is very clever when they see a good one, but believes they could've come up with something better when they read something poor. What they don't realise of course is that not only do they have to come up with the witty pun, they have to come up with a witty pun that fits exactly into space on the page. It also has to not be shit.
I bring this up because there's been some great examples floating round lately of how to, and how not to, do it. Commuter's cobbled together rag The Metro, for example, is particularly good at being exceptionally bad. I can only think that they must write the page one lead the afternoon of the previous day as nine times out of ten it usually has nothing to do with whatever the actual main story of the morning is.
This morning's main headline, for example, was the dodgy "Partying their way to mouth cancer". Which is not only confusing, misleading and uninformative, it's also broken rule number one of not remembering to not be shit. It's a story about high levels of alcohol and smoking being a major cause of the painful sounding mouth cancer, the trouble is though that this headline makes it sounds really, really fun. Yesterday's was the even worse "Teachers target pencil sharpeners". With what? Guns? Bow and arrow? Elastic band on the end of the thumb?* They also tortured the entire population of London's train system with the excrutiating "Owls it feel to be my best friend?". A dog has befriended a baby owl you see. Jesus.
The Harrow Observer is a classic local paper, on the other hand, and passing its offices on the way to work means I always see the hand written** posters that the street vendors use. This week it's the fantastic "Latest on stabbed vicar". Now that's a local paper headline. Firstly, it's the 'latest' on the unfortunate clergyman, which makes you want to know what the previous story was, then we know someone's been stabbed, always gruesome and therefore brilliant stuff, and finally, who's been stabbed? A man? A woman? No, a vicar. Perfect.
Headline of the week though? In The Sun following the England victory over Argentina the sublime "Senor not singing any more". They thought of that and then came up with the story didn't they?
The worst crime a sub can commit though is to refuse to let an idea go and try and crowbar and squeeze it into the space they've got by tweaking it. Trouble is, tweaking tends to cause trouble. This is what leads to the classic headlines "Man found dead in graveyard", "Police comb Shepherd's Bush" and "Stadium fire: Manager grilled". My favourite though is the local paper story of a business man stranded overseas during the Xmas holidays thanks to a baggage handlers' strike, therefore missing his child's first festive season. The headline? "Man stuck in Turkey for Christmas".
*Or 'lazzie band', see previous entry
**Actually printed using a font that looks like handwriting, therefore making the art of printing come a rather pointless full circle
Friday, November 11, 2005
Christmas Omnipresents
When I graduated from the University in Birmingham* way, way back many centuries ago (1994 or so to be vaguely precise), I decided that now I had finished my education and avoided the dog shit illuminated by the single lampost in the rite of passage, I looked out towards the future with ambition and imagination.
Having spent some time looking out that way, I decided I couldn't be arsed doing anything about it so moved to Coventry instead.
It wasn't as much as a whim as it sounds, my bezzie** mate Al was at Cov University and I had spent a lot of time there. I hadn't really enjoyed the social life at Birmingham, I'm no working class hero but the vast majority of students there were from the kind of places that didn't require your house to have a number. Coventry, on the other hand, was full of smelly bastards with vague pretensions of a future in music and specific pretensions for drinking as much watery lager out of wobbly plastic pint pots as possible. My desire to not get a job and somehow elongate my elapsed time as a student led me to Coventry and a shared house with Al and three others.
But rather than being a utopia of student fun, long hair, and booze, the 12 months I spent there descended into a depressing malaise and once our lease was up I ran away, cut my hair, and got a job in a bank. Trust me, that made me the Spartacus of Earlsdon. This Midlands melancholy was amplified ten-fold by the fact that Coventry is more depressing than the statistician who discovered that Sweden is the suicide capital of Europe.
The reason for this ramble is that I found myself in Cov yesterday for, brace yourself, the "Kitchen and Bathroom Specialists Association Corporate Members Networking Forum". Suddenly living in Sweden seems quite cheery.
As I cabbed my way through towards the hotel, trying to keep my eyes shut and pretend I was in autumnal New England, I glimpsed a sign at the front of church. Now I'm a committed and practising aetheist as you know but even if I was wobbling in my conviction I don't think I'd be swayed by:
"I'm the only one who knows the real time and it's getting very late - God"
Now, let's assume for a moment that I believe there is a God***. Firstly it's not that much of a boast to say that he knows the time, surely he can afford a decent watch, what's interesting is that he knows the REAL time. This does go some way to explain God's omnipresence, presumably all he's done is make sure his earth-bound subjects are unknowingly working a couple of minutes behind him, that way he can get everywhere before they do. This supposed quote direct from God is also, I'm guessing, meant to inspire passing Coventarians to stop and enter the church for a quick pray, but all it seems to do is tell everyone that they should probably hurry up and get home sharpish. Even God wants to get out of Coventry as qickly as possible.
*There was a real thing at the time about how we should refer to the University we went to in Britain's second city. It was nothing short of heresy to describe it as "Birmingham University", no, no, no, it was "The University of Birmingham". The Metallurgy department (which I relunctantly attended) had special dispensation to call it Birmingham University for the single reason that "Birmingham University Metallurgists" spelt out BUM when printed on a sweatshirt.
**Scousers have an uncanny ability to abbreviate most words with the addition of a 'z' or 'o'. If you're as lazy as we are we can't even be arsed forming whole words. So, for example, "I'm off to visit my best friend in the hospital to give him his Christmas present" slack-jaws its way into "I'm off to see me bezzie mate in the hozzie to give him his chrizzie prezzie".
***Which I don't
Having spent some time looking out that way, I decided I couldn't be arsed doing anything about it so moved to Coventry instead.
It wasn't as much as a whim as it sounds, my bezzie** mate Al was at Cov University and I had spent a lot of time there. I hadn't really enjoyed the social life at Birmingham, I'm no working class hero but the vast majority of students there were from the kind of places that didn't require your house to have a number. Coventry, on the other hand, was full of smelly bastards with vague pretensions of a future in music and specific pretensions for drinking as much watery lager out of wobbly plastic pint pots as possible. My desire to not get a job and somehow elongate my elapsed time as a student led me to Coventry and a shared house with Al and three others.
But rather than being a utopia of student fun, long hair, and booze, the 12 months I spent there descended into a depressing malaise and once our lease was up I ran away, cut my hair, and got a job in a bank. Trust me, that made me the Spartacus of Earlsdon. This Midlands melancholy was amplified ten-fold by the fact that Coventry is more depressing than the statistician who discovered that Sweden is the suicide capital of Europe.
The reason for this ramble is that I found myself in Cov yesterday for, brace yourself, the "Kitchen and Bathroom Specialists Association Corporate Members Networking Forum". Suddenly living in Sweden seems quite cheery.
As I cabbed my way through towards the hotel, trying to keep my eyes shut and pretend I was in autumnal New England, I glimpsed a sign at the front of church. Now I'm a committed and practising aetheist as you know but even if I was wobbling in my conviction I don't think I'd be swayed by:
"I'm the only one who knows the real time and it's getting very late - God"
Now, let's assume for a moment that I believe there is a God***. Firstly it's not that much of a boast to say that he knows the time, surely he can afford a decent watch, what's interesting is that he knows the REAL time. This does go some way to explain God's omnipresence, presumably all he's done is make sure his earth-bound subjects are unknowingly working a couple of minutes behind him, that way he can get everywhere before they do. This supposed quote direct from God is also, I'm guessing, meant to inspire passing Coventarians to stop and enter the church for a quick pray, but all it seems to do is tell everyone that they should probably hurry up and get home sharpish. Even God wants to get out of Coventry as qickly as possible.
*There was a real thing at the time about how we should refer to the University we went to in Britain's second city. It was nothing short of heresy to describe it as "Birmingham University", no, no, no, it was "The University of Birmingham". The Metallurgy department (which I relunctantly attended) had special dispensation to call it Birmingham University for the single reason that "Birmingham University Metallurgists" spelt out BUM when printed on a sweatshirt.
**Scousers have an uncanny ability to abbreviate most words with the addition of a 'z' or 'o'. If you're as lazy as we are we can't even be arsed forming whole words. So, for example, "I'm off to visit my best friend in the hospital to give him his Christmas present" slack-jaws its way into "I'm off to see me bezzie mate in the hozzie to give him his chrizzie prezzie".
***Which I don't
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Gym'll fix it
Yes, I know, posting every four months is hardly a document of my uninteresting life but it's better than nothing. The alternative is me sitting here every day and typing "watched several episodes of the West Wing" over and over again. Still, I like the West Wing so don't get lippy.
Today is yet another of those first-days-of-the-rest-of-my-life days where I resolve to change myself. manage to do it for a few weeks, and then just go back to the West Wing. I joined the gym today, well, I joined last week but had my induction today. I went over at 1pm expecting a run through of the machines but instead Dean, my personal trainer for a grand total of 40 mins, insisted I actually did some excercise. Dean was a nice guy, but far too fit for his own good. It's a strange struggle for gyms, if the staff are really fit then it will make the vast majority of gym goers feel like leathery gelatinous blobs, but if you employ yoghurt-faced Milky Ways then the gym-goers will think your gym is shit.
I'm inducted though, I know how the machines work and how I don't. I even did some sit-up things on a big rubber ball, not only does it look like I'm diddling a space hopper, it also bloody hurt. No pain, no gain though - which I believe is Newton's sixth law.
Dean assured me that I'd burn off the wobbling mass of goo orbiting my belly and tit "in a month at the most" if I go to the gym three times a week. That's sounds promising, but then so does Extreme Makeover, the proof of the low-fat pudding is in the not eating.
Today is yet another of those first-days-of-the-rest-of-my-life days where I resolve to change myself. manage to do it for a few weeks, and then just go back to the West Wing. I joined the gym today, well, I joined last week but had my induction today. I went over at 1pm expecting a run through of the machines but instead Dean, my personal trainer for a grand total of 40 mins, insisted I actually did some excercise. Dean was a nice guy, but far too fit for his own good. It's a strange struggle for gyms, if the staff are really fit then it will make the vast majority of gym goers feel like leathery gelatinous blobs, but if you employ yoghurt-faced Milky Ways then the gym-goers will think your gym is shit.
I'm inducted though, I know how the machines work and how I don't. I even did some sit-up things on a big rubber ball, not only does it look like I'm diddling a space hopper, it also bloody hurt. No pain, no gain though - which I believe is Newton's sixth law.
Dean assured me that I'd burn off the wobbling mass of goo orbiting my belly and tit "in a month at the most" if I go to the gym three times a week. That's sounds promising, but then so does Extreme Makeover, the proof of the low-fat pudding is in the not eating.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Oh, yes there are
I stand corrected, there are mosquitoes (which is the correct spelling, I got that wrong too) in the UK. Over 30 different species apparently but only the females bite. Yeah, that figures.
Andrew Begins
Hmm, what's that? Haven't done an entry for a long time? No, no, no...yes, you're absolutely right. Never mind though, it's not like anyone's reading it is it?
It's hot here. And when I say hot, I mean Roy-Castle-frying-eggs-on-a-rock hot. The English race is a strange bunch when it comes to coping with unexpected heat. It's nudging 90 degrees here and while some dress appropriately in light coloured loose clothing, others choose to just take clothes off and parade down the High Street in simply a pair of short shorts. My god, we're a pale, pasty bunch of individuals, how we managed to conquer most of the hottest countries on the globe I'll never know. Having said that, even now there's always someone who simply ignores the heat and continues to wear a coat and scarf, we are a fascinating if worrying race.
We spent last Sunday sitting in the garden which was a lovely day but we're unfortunately paying the price now, we've all been chewed up and spat out by some vicious insects. My feet in particular must've been delectable and I can hardly walk now. Where did these bastard things come from? We're in England for God's sake, we don't have mosquitos do we? Or Tstse flies, or scorpions or hyenas or anything else that could've caused these bites. Is this another result of global warming? Toothy insects losing their way?
It's hot here. And when I say hot, I mean Roy-Castle-frying-eggs-on-a-rock hot. The English race is a strange bunch when it comes to coping with unexpected heat. It's nudging 90 degrees here and while some dress appropriately in light coloured loose clothing, others choose to just take clothes off and parade down the High Street in simply a pair of short shorts. My god, we're a pale, pasty bunch of individuals, how we managed to conquer most of the hottest countries on the globe I'll never know. Having said that, even now there's always someone who simply ignores the heat and continues to wear a coat and scarf, we are a fascinating if worrying race.
We spent last Sunday sitting in the garden which was a lovely day but we're unfortunately paying the price now, we've all been chewed up and spat out by some vicious insects. My feet in particular must've been delectable and I can hardly walk now. Where did these bastard things come from? We're in England for God's sake, we don't have mosquitos do we? Or Tstse flies, or scorpions or hyenas or anything else that could've caused these bites. Is this another result of global warming? Toothy insects losing their way?
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Basingstoke or bust
I went to Basingstoke today and drove past Swing Swang Lane. It really doesn't get any better than that.
Monday, February 21, 2005
The cutting edge of headline writing
I like a good knife. One cannnot underestimate their importantance in the succesful function of everyday life, just imagine how you would struggle to cope without being able to cut, slice, gouge or carve at will. From buttering toast to conducting violent bus stop muggings, knives are crucial to keeping Tony Blairs' Britain great and I for one salute them.
It's as fundamental as this - could you eat your daily requirement of food without a knife?
The answer is of course yes, you'd probably get away with a spoon, but you see my point. What galls me is that the importance of the knife has not been formally acknowledged by our so-called Prime Minister. Oh sure, we'll welcome convicted terrorist Nelson Mandela into the country with open arms but we have nothing, not even a crumbling statue of a letter opener, to show the part knives have played in our development of our society.
And, as proved by a press release I received today, we're not just bringing up the Euro-rear in public transport, medical provision and voter apathy, no, we're also lagging behind in the knife stakes too. This is completely genuine.
INVITATION FOR INTERNATIONAL PRESS
The mayors of the knife-making cities of Albacete (Spain), Thiers (France) and Solingen (Germany) and the directors of the Knife Museums in these cities invite you to the presentation of the "Declaration of Albacete" in defence of the European knife-making industry, which will take place during the Ambiente trade fair in Frankfurt, on Saturday 12 February at 4pm in the Facette Hall in pavilion 3 of the exhibition site.
Mr Manuel Perez Castell, Mayor of Albacete; Mr Theirry Deglon, Mayor of Thiers; Mr Franz Haug, Mayor of Solingen; Mr Heinrich Beelan, President of the German Knife Museum Board; Mr Amos Nunez Juan, Executive Coordinator of the Municipal Knife Museum in Albacete and Mr Pierre Therias, President of the French Federation of Knife Making would be honoured by your presence at the above event.
It appears Spain, France and Germany (all of whom we've beaten in several wars, if only their backbones were as strong as their knives) have entire cities utterly dedicated to making knives. Metropolis' so fanatical about knife-making that they want to preseve it's future as well as acknowledge its past. I hope the Declaration of Albacete is heard by those in power in Brussels, the European knife-making industry is obviously struggling and yet I think a representative from the Belgian knife-making fraternity is conspicuous by his absence here. Perhaps the Belgian fork-making industry is having a resurgence and making headway into traditional knife-only markets like the vikings and gypsies. Or, more likely, the threat of chopsticks from the far east are making knives redundant and the Eurocrats are lining their fat cat pockets with Yen.
Who knows, but whatever happens to the European knife market, at least some countries are devoted to preserving its historic traditions which, while putting the UK to shame, at least means we can tour the German Knife Museum, the Spanish Municipal Knife Museum and perhaps drop in at the French Federation of Knife Making on the way home.
It is time this country followed suit and finally opened its own knife museum, I'm sure the Millennium Dome is still free.
It's as fundamental as this - could you eat your daily requirement of food without a knife?
The answer is of course yes, you'd probably get away with a spoon, but you see my point. What galls me is that the importance of the knife has not been formally acknowledged by our so-called Prime Minister. Oh sure, we'll welcome convicted terrorist Nelson Mandela into the country with open arms but we have nothing, not even a crumbling statue of a letter opener, to show the part knives have played in our development of our society.
And, as proved by a press release I received today, we're not just bringing up the Euro-rear in public transport, medical provision and voter apathy, no, we're also lagging behind in the knife stakes too. This is completely genuine.
INVITATION FOR INTERNATIONAL PRESS
The mayors of the knife-making cities of Albacete (Spain), Thiers (France) and Solingen (Germany) and the directors of the Knife Museums in these cities invite you to the presentation of the "Declaration of Albacete" in defence of the European knife-making industry, which will take place during the Ambiente trade fair in Frankfurt, on Saturday 12 February at 4pm in the Facette Hall in pavilion 3 of the exhibition site.
Mr Manuel Perez Castell, Mayor of Albacete; Mr Theirry Deglon, Mayor of Thiers; Mr Franz Haug, Mayor of Solingen; Mr Heinrich Beelan, President of the German Knife Museum Board; Mr Amos Nunez Juan, Executive Coordinator of the Municipal Knife Museum in Albacete and Mr Pierre Therias, President of the French Federation of Knife Making would be honoured by your presence at the above event.
It appears Spain, France and Germany (all of whom we've beaten in several wars, if only their backbones were as strong as their knives) have entire cities utterly dedicated to making knives. Metropolis' so fanatical about knife-making that they want to preseve it's future as well as acknowledge its past. I hope the Declaration of Albacete is heard by those in power in Brussels, the European knife-making industry is obviously struggling and yet I think a representative from the Belgian knife-making fraternity is conspicuous by his absence here. Perhaps the Belgian fork-making industry is having a resurgence and making headway into traditional knife-only markets like the vikings and gypsies. Or, more likely, the threat of chopsticks from the far east are making knives redundant and the Eurocrats are lining their fat cat pockets with Yen.
Who knows, but whatever happens to the European knife market, at least some countries are devoted to preserving its historic traditions which, while putting the UK to shame, at least means we can tour the German Knife Museum, the Spanish Municipal Knife Museum and perhaps drop in at the French Federation of Knife Making on the way home.
It is time this country followed suit and finally opened its own knife museum, I'm sure the Millennium Dome is still free.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Scissor Cisterns
This job is on the Guardian website:
Junior Garment Technologist
Organisation: QUEST SEARCH & SELECTION
Location: Central London
Salary: £16,000 - £20,000 + Benefits
Date posted: 24 Jan 05
Closing date: 24 Feb 05
Job description
You should have 1-2 year’s experience in a fashion or textile technical role from either a manufacturing or retail background. A basic Knowledge of pattern cutting, construction and manufacturing techniques is essential. You must also be a team player who likes a challenge and thrives in an energetic environment.
I'm being presumptive here, but does this mean that a Junior Garment Technologist is essentially someone who cuts things out with a big pair of scissors? It's like someone's Dad at a christmas party making bad jokes about job titles - "He's a waste management receptacle evacuation operative - a bin man to you and me, hahahaha."
Junior Garment Technologist
Organisation: QUEST SEARCH & SELECTION
Location: Central London
Salary: £16,000 - £20,000 + Benefits
Date posted: 24 Jan 05
Closing date: 24 Feb 05
Job description
You should have 1-2 year’s experience in a fashion or textile technical role from either a manufacturing or retail background. A basic Knowledge of pattern cutting, construction and manufacturing techniques is essential. You must also be a team player who likes a challenge and thrives in an energetic environment.
I'm being presumptive here, but does this mean that a Junior Garment Technologist is essentially someone who cuts things out with a big pair of scissors? It's like someone's Dad at a christmas party making bad jokes about job titles - "He's a waste management receptacle evacuation operative - a bin man to you and me, hahahaha."
Gollum Column 3
Here's the last one, you'll be glad to hear, and it's from November 2004. This was an exercise in filling up the space with nothing to say - that will become painfully clear when reading it. The brief background is that it was the mag's 20th anniversary and also my last column as editor. As a result I was past caring about making any actual points and just rattled some bollocks out in five mins.
COMMENT NOVEMBER 2004
This magazine is 20 years old this month, you may have noticed.
I have a confession to make though, as much as I believe in speaking authoritatively on such things, I’ll be honest with you and say that the only connection I had with the kbb industry in 1984 was spilling Ribena on my Mum’s nice new lino kitchen floor – I was 12.
Yes, I know, I know…I look older than 32.
Anyway, if you’d told me in 1984 that I’d end up writing about toilets, kitchens and taps for a living I’d have given you a dead arm and maybe drawn a rude cartoon about you in the back of my geography exercise book.
Now that I think of it, I do remember there was one lad in my class whose Dad worked in the kitchen industry – while the rest of us were backing our books with old wallpaper his were foil-wrapped.
See, I may not have been in the business 20 years but I can still make terrible jokes about it.
So while trade journalism was the last career I had in mind, considering my actual plan was to marry Princess Leia and maybe join the A-Team, that’s not a big surprise.
Twenty years later, luckily, it’s worked out rather differently. The A-Team turned down my application after it was discovered I was imprisoned for a crime I actually DID commit, and they chased me out of the Los Angeles underground altogether when they found out the crime involved was trying to wed Princess Leia against her will.
I actually feel very privileged to be at the helm of this magazine on the auspicious occasion of its 20th birthday. To be part of something so well served established and respected throughout such a large, varied and interesting industry is very rewarding both professionally and personally.
I hope you’ve already dug out the very special commemorative booklet from inside the mag and, of course, studied every word. Feel free to back it in wallpaper and keep it forever. It’s been a fascinating exercise for us to examine the last 20 years of the industry as well as look forward to the next 20 years and I’d really like to thank everyone who contributed to it.
We had an overwhelming response from people and companies who wanted to get involved and, quite frankly, we could’ve easily filled several issues of the magazine. So thank you to everyone and my apologies to those we couldn’t squeeze in.
The most interesting thing for me in looking back over 20 years is that I knew a lot more than I thought about trends and fashions. It really brought home to me how cyclical the kbb industry can be, and how often variations on the same theme come up again and again. The modern bathroom suite my mum and dad had in 1984 is now retro and the Ribena splattered hard lino floor, which was replaced by thick carpet tiles, is now a hard laminated wooden floor splattered with cranberry juice (I’m still as clumsy now as I was then).
COMMENT NOVEMBER 2004
This magazine is 20 years old this month, you may have noticed.
I have a confession to make though, as much as I believe in speaking authoritatively on such things, I’ll be honest with you and say that the only connection I had with the kbb industry in 1984 was spilling Ribena on my Mum’s nice new lino kitchen floor – I was 12.
Yes, I know, I know…I look older than 32.
Anyway, if you’d told me in 1984 that I’d end up writing about toilets, kitchens and taps for a living I’d have given you a dead arm and maybe drawn a rude cartoon about you in the back of my geography exercise book.
Now that I think of it, I do remember there was one lad in my class whose Dad worked in the kitchen industry – while the rest of us were backing our books with old wallpaper his were foil-wrapped.
See, I may not have been in the business 20 years but I can still make terrible jokes about it.
So while trade journalism was the last career I had in mind, considering my actual plan was to marry Princess Leia and maybe join the A-Team, that’s not a big surprise.
Twenty years later, luckily, it’s worked out rather differently. The A-Team turned down my application after it was discovered I was imprisoned for a crime I actually DID commit, and they chased me out of the Los Angeles underground altogether when they found out the crime involved was trying to wed Princess Leia against her will.
I actually feel very privileged to be at the helm of this magazine on the auspicious occasion of its 20th birthday. To be part of something so well served established and respected throughout such a large, varied and interesting industry is very rewarding both professionally and personally.
I hope you’ve already dug out the very special commemorative booklet from inside the mag and, of course, studied every word. Feel free to back it in wallpaper and keep it forever. It’s been a fascinating exercise for us to examine the last 20 years of the industry as well as look forward to the next 20 years and I’d really like to thank everyone who contributed to it.
We had an overwhelming response from people and companies who wanted to get involved and, quite frankly, we could’ve easily filled several issues of the magazine. So thank you to everyone and my apologies to those we couldn’t squeeze in.
The most interesting thing for me in looking back over 20 years is that I knew a lot more than I thought about trends and fashions. It really brought home to me how cyclical the kbb industry can be, and how often variations on the same theme come up again and again. The modern bathroom suite my mum and dad had in 1984 is now retro and the Ribena splattered hard lino floor, which was replaced by thick carpet tiles, is now a hard laminated wooden floor splattered with cranberry juice (I’m still as clumsy now as I was then).
Monday, January 24, 2005
Gollum Column 2
Here's the second installment of the editorial columns, this one from October 2004. It was in response to several stories that featured in that month's issue regarding company name changes. The page one lead featured Ideal Standard's design director Robin Levien giving his opinions on the concept of 'wellness' - the tissue-thin marketing speak used to describe anything in the bathroom intended to aid relaxation, such as whirlpools and spas. His exact description? "A load of bollocks".
COMMENT OCTOBER 2004
In order to provide flimsy metaphors for the kbb industry, you know how I like to share the intimate details of my life with the readership. I don't know what it is, I just can't help myself. In this spirit, I have a confession to make to you all. No, it's not that one, it was never proved and I maintain that telescope was used strictly for astronomy.
I'd like to admit that my middle name is Graeme.
Yes, I know. Don't blame me, I had little say in it at the time it was chosen. But what does that name say to you? Look at my picture....do I look like a Graeme? I've always thought (ok, wished) I looked more like a Clint, Harrison or Colt but gave up on it a long time ago as there's nothing I can do about it.
So here comes the flimsy metaphor - what's in a name? That's the question coming up several times through the news this month. In this age of branding and targeted marketing, is the actual name of the product or company becoming equally, or perhaps more, important than performance?
Merloni Elettrodomestici, named after founder and chairman Vittorio Merloni, has rebadged itself Indesit Company in order to 'meet the need to communicate effectively and with immediacy the strong links between the company and its brands'. And at the other end of the scale, although equally important to its owners, Ceramic Prints Ltd is now trading as the CP Group because 'we are now engaged in so much more than printing tiles'.
I'm not suggesting for a moment that company name changes are there to cover up anything, but the question is how much it really matters what the company is called as long as its products are good and all your customers know it? A Snickers is no more tasty than a Marathon.
This equally applies to kbb product names too. Look through this magazine and you'll see exotic names dreamed up by marketing men probably ten minutes before the brochure was printed. Kansas, Gullwing, Beachcomber, Xenon, Deauville and a hundred others, all very evocative and indicative of the design aesthetics but if they're good products would they sell more or less if they were called XP-ZC34?
This is also Robi Levien's point about the use of vague phrases like 'wellness' and 'designer' to describe products, the words are ultimately meaningless without proper facts to back them up.
With so many products now coming from overseas, and particularly the Far East, consumers are confused by the origin and quality of products. Producing a glossy brochure is easy, as is giving products an interesting name, but customers want to know the facts about what they're buying, not the marketing blurb. The physical quality of a product will always win out in the long run and that's when the name recognition will actually mean something.
I leave you with a bit of marketing speak taken word-for-word from a recent press release sent from Italy describing a new 'designer' bath - "A hemisphere with two cuts is a coloured back stall, an object that jokes with colours and materials, which simbolyse wrapper and soul".
If anyone has any idea what that means, let me know
COMMENT OCTOBER 2004
In order to provide flimsy metaphors for the kbb industry, you know how I like to share the intimate details of my life with the readership. I don't know what it is, I just can't help myself. In this spirit, I have a confession to make to you all. No, it's not that one, it was never proved and I maintain that telescope was used strictly for astronomy.
I'd like to admit that my middle name is Graeme.
Yes, I know. Don't blame me, I had little say in it at the time it was chosen. But what does that name say to you? Look at my picture....do I look like a Graeme? I've always thought (ok, wished) I looked more like a Clint, Harrison or Colt but gave up on it a long time ago as there's nothing I can do about it.
So here comes the flimsy metaphor - what's in a name? That's the question coming up several times through the news this month. In this age of branding and targeted marketing, is the actual name of the product or company becoming equally, or perhaps more, important than performance?
Merloni Elettrodomestici, named after founder and chairman Vittorio Merloni, has rebadged itself Indesit Company in order to 'meet the need to communicate effectively and with immediacy the strong links between the company and its brands'. And at the other end of the scale, although equally important to its owners, Ceramic Prints Ltd is now trading as the CP Group because 'we are now engaged in so much more than printing tiles'.
I'm not suggesting for a moment that company name changes are there to cover up anything, but the question is how much it really matters what the company is called as long as its products are good and all your customers know it? A Snickers is no more tasty than a Marathon.
This equally applies to kbb product names too. Look through this magazine and you'll see exotic names dreamed up by marketing men probably ten minutes before the brochure was printed. Kansas, Gullwing, Beachcomber, Xenon, Deauville and a hundred others, all very evocative and indicative of the design aesthetics but if they're good products would they sell more or less if they were called XP-ZC34?
This is also Robi Levien's point about the use of vague phrases like 'wellness' and 'designer' to describe products, the words are ultimately meaningless without proper facts to back them up.
With so many products now coming from overseas, and particularly the Far East, consumers are confused by the origin and quality of products. Producing a glossy brochure is easy, as is giving products an interesting name, but customers want to know the facts about what they're buying, not the marketing blurb. The physical quality of a product will always win out in the long run and that's when the name recognition will actually mean something.
I leave you with a bit of marketing speak taken word-for-word from a recent press release sent from Italy describing a new 'designer' bath - "A hemisphere with two cuts is a coloured back stall, an object that jokes with colours and materials, which simbolyse wrapper and soul".
If anyone has any idea what that means, let me know
Gollum Column
I've decided to stick a few of the editorial columns I wrote while I was the editor here on this blog, for no other reason other than it's as good a place as any to keep a copy. I'm going to use the pre-subbed copy too. They don't all work but in every one there's a couple of bits and phrases I quite like and ultimately, that's what this blog is for:
This first one is from the June 2004 edition. The page one lead covered a giant statue made from old washing machines that was scheduled to be built down on the South Bank. The plan was to raise awareness for the WEEE (Waste Electrical and Electronic Equipmnt) directive, a bit of legislation designed to make appliance manufacturers responsible for collection and recycling of their products at the end of their life. As of today, it still hasn't been built. Why? "Lack of funding" say the organisers. "Bloody stupid idea" says everybody else.
Yeah, I know, not exactly riveting, but I have to stick the background in.
COMMENT JUNE 2004
Every week, without fail, I take a wander down to the carpark of my local supermarket and spend ten tedious minutes shoving newspapers and bottles into the recycling bins. I'll be honest, I hate doing it. The newspapers are always full of inserts which spill out onto the pavement and, being a stereotypical journalist, I always have loads of empty bottles and they're heavy and sticky.
So why do I do it?
The 'environment' is such an incomprehensible entity that it is always hard to imagine that anything we, as individuals, can do will make any possible difference to it. How are my newspapers and copies of TV Quick going to save a rainforest?
When I first saw the picture featured on the lead story of this month's issue my first thought was that it looked like something out of Jason and the Argonauts. A huge three-storey metal man clawing its way out the banks of the Thames with the head of a washing machine and mind of a microwave, poised to climb the London Assembly buildings with Ken Livingstone in its grasp like Fay Wray and King Kong.
Alas, this was not the story we had unearthed.
However, the real story behind the WEEE man is a genuinely important one. Just how do you make the public aware of the way a lengthy piece of confusing legislation is going to directly affect them?
The WEEE directive, while being possibly the most amusingly named of all directives (especially to deputy editors with the mind of a schoolboy) is one of the most important pieces of legislation involving the kbb industry in years.
The legislation, and the debates and controversies surrounding it, has been around for some time and as usual it all comes down to money. Just who pays for the collection and recycling of used appliances? Should it be the retailer? The manufacturer? The government? The local authority?
This has always seemed a strangely unnecessary debate to me. It's perfectly clear that whoever pays the direct cost, it will be the customer who forks out the extra cash in the long run. As Marco Milani, ceo of Merloni UK, says in an interview in this magazine: "Are we a charity organisation? If there's an extra cost there will be an extra price."
But as most retailers are well aware, the average UK consumer doesn't see it that way. We are a price conscious nation and it will be left to the poor salesman on the showroom floor to try and explain to Mr and Mrs Smith that the extra surcharge they're paying on the cost of their new washing machine goes towards not just recycling it, but probably also a fridge bought 20 years ago by somebody else.
The WEEE directive was, at the beginning of its short life, a bit of a disaster. The problem was that it received a typically British reaction - no one was prepared for it, and everyone expected somebody else to sort it out while they moaned about the cost.
But if we stop and think in the long term, this kind of legislation IS forcing manufacturers to think about the environment more than ever before. The waste produced by appliances is massive, 106m tonnes a year, and that's growing by 5% annually. It's estimated that the WEEE directive will cause a 25% landfill reduction by 2010 and 50% by 2015. Not bad.
Everyone concerned in the manufacture, distribution and sale of these appliances is involved in the implementation of those reductions and should feel proud of it, rather than seeing it as yet another piece of red tape tying up their business.
I still hate going to the recycling bins though, I'm keen but not stupid.
This first one is from the June 2004 edition. The page one lead covered a giant statue made from old washing machines that was scheduled to be built down on the South Bank. The plan was to raise awareness for the WEEE (Waste Electrical and Electronic Equipmnt) directive, a bit of legislation designed to make appliance manufacturers responsible for collection and recycling of their products at the end of their life. As of today, it still hasn't been built. Why? "Lack of funding" say the organisers. "Bloody stupid idea" says everybody else.
Yeah, I know, not exactly riveting, but I have to stick the background in.
COMMENT JUNE 2004
Every week, without fail, I take a wander down to the carpark of my local supermarket and spend ten tedious minutes shoving newspapers and bottles into the recycling bins. I'll be honest, I hate doing it. The newspapers are always full of inserts which spill out onto the pavement and, being a stereotypical journalist, I always have loads of empty bottles and they're heavy and sticky.
So why do I do it?
The 'environment' is such an incomprehensible entity that it is always hard to imagine that anything we, as individuals, can do will make any possible difference to it. How are my newspapers and copies of TV Quick going to save a rainforest?
When I first saw the picture featured on the lead story of this month's issue my first thought was that it looked like something out of Jason and the Argonauts. A huge three-storey metal man clawing its way out the banks of the Thames with the head of a washing machine and mind of a microwave, poised to climb the London Assembly buildings with Ken Livingstone in its grasp like Fay Wray and King Kong.
Alas, this was not the story we had unearthed.
However, the real story behind the WEEE man is a genuinely important one. Just how do you make the public aware of the way a lengthy piece of confusing legislation is going to directly affect them?
The WEEE directive, while being possibly the most amusingly named of all directives (especially to deputy editors with the mind of a schoolboy) is one of the most important pieces of legislation involving the kbb industry in years.
The legislation, and the debates and controversies surrounding it, has been around for some time and as usual it all comes down to money. Just who pays for the collection and recycling of used appliances? Should it be the retailer? The manufacturer? The government? The local authority?
This has always seemed a strangely unnecessary debate to me. It's perfectly clear that whoever pays the direct cost, it will be the customer who forks out the extra cash in the long run. As Marco Milani, ceo of Merloni UK, says in an interview in this magazine: "Are we a charity organisation? If there's an extra cost there will be an extra price."
But as most retailers are well aware, the average UK consumer doesn't see it that way. We are a price conscious nation and it will be left to the poor salesman on the showroom floor to try and explain to Mr and Mrs Smith that the extra surcharge they're paying on the cost of their new washing machine goes towards not just recycling it, but probably also a fridge bought 20 years ago by somebody else.
The WEEE directive was, at the beginning of its short life, a bit of a disaster. The problem was that it received a typically British reaction - no one was prepared for it, and everyone expected somebody else to sort it out while they moaned about the cost.
But if we stop and think in the long term, this kind of legislation IS forcing manufacturers to think about the environment more than ever before. The waste produced by appliances is massive, 106m tonnes a year, and that's growing by 5% annually. It's estimated that the WEEE directive will cause a 25% landfill reduction by 2010 and 50% by 2015. Not bad.
Everyone concerned in the manufacture, distribution and sale of these appliances is involved in the implementation of those reductions and should feel proud of it, rather than seeing it as yet another piece of red tape tying up their business.
I still hate going to the recycling bins though, I'm keen but not stupid.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Beaver Patrol
Sometimes, do you ever get the feeling that people just don’t think things through?
M and I spent yesterday at my cousin’s wedding in Hastings, very nice it was too. Beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, sea was like glass and the bar was free. Doesn’t get any better than that.
However, travelling back today we ended up having to get a train to London Bridge followed by one back the other way to Blackheath and then a bus to Beckenham. In between deciding that we were going to move to Blackheath and what we were having for tea, we came through Lewisham – only a short walk from Blackheath yet the equivalent of buying a £300 pair of shoes only to stand in dogshit outside the shop.
And this is where we come to people not thinking it through. As I was idly gazing out of the bus window we passed, in the centre of Lewisham, the offices of the Beaver Housing Group.
See what I mean? Haven’t thought it through.
Part of me hoped that the administrators of the Beaver Housing Group have chosen to rise above the inevitable schoolboy sniggers their chosen name will cause with a disdainful shrug and snooty snort of derision.
It’s obviously proved difficult for them though. A look at their website (www.beaverhousing.co.uk) shows disdain is a tricky thing to pull off. Headlines such as "How to get involved with Beaver"; "Beaver objectives" and the probably illegal "What it means to work with Beaver and the latest on available positions" mean snorts will occur, just not ones of derision.
It must also mean they turn up in some Google search results that they'd rather avoid.
I was assuming that somewhere in the dingy past of Lewisham’s social housing history, a philanthropic gentleman named Mr Beaver started a scheme that has now grown to manage over 3,000 homes. Not the case either. The Beaver Housing Group actually consists of three member organisations – the Beaver Housing Society, the Otter Housing Society and Riverside Housing Developments.
I can only assume that as the organisation grows the Ratty, Badger and Toad Housing Societies will come on board, but it’s reassuring to know that over 3,000 disadvantaged single parent, drug addicted, benefit claiming, asylum seeking, small, soggy woodland riverbank dwellers are safe and snug within the boundaries of the boroughs of Lewisham, Croydon and Bromley.
We had chicken for tea, by the way.
M and I spent yesterday at my cousin’s wedding in Hastings, very nice it was too. Beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, sea was like glass and the bar was free. Doesn’t get any better than that.
However, travelling back today we ended up having to get a train to London Bridge followed by one back the other way to Blackheath and then a bus to Beckenham. In between deciding that we were going to move to Blackheath and what we were having for tea, we came through Lewisham – only a short walk from Blackheath yet the equivalent of buying a £300 pair of shoes only to stand in dogshit outside the shop.
And this is where we come to people not thinking it through. As I was idly gazing out of the bus window we passed, in the centre of Lewisham, the offices of the Beaver Housing Group.
See what I mean? Haven’t thought it through.
Part of me hoped that the administrators of the Beaver Housing Group have chosen to rise above the inevitable schoolboy sniggers their chosen name will cause with a disdainful shrug and snooty snort of derision.
It’s obviously proved difficult for them though. A look at their website (www.beaverhousing.co.uk) shows disdain is a tricky thing to pull off. Headlines such as "How to get involved with Beaver"; "Beaver objectives" and the probably illegal "What it means to work with Beaver and the latest on available positions" mean snorts will occur, just not ones of derision.
It must also mean they turn up in some Google search results that they'd rather avoid.
I was assuming that somewhere in the dingy past of Lewisham’s social housing history, a philanthropic gentleman named Mr Beaver started a scheme that has now grown to manage over 3,000 homes. Not the case either. The Beaver Housing Group actually consists of three member organisations – the Beaver Housing Society, the Otter Housing Society and Riverside Housing Developments.
I can only assume that as the organisation grows the Ratty, Badger and Toad Housing Societies will come on board, but it’s reassuring to know that over 3,000 disadvantaged single parent, drug addicted, benefit claiming, asylum seeking, small, soggy woodland riverbank dwellers are safe and snug within the boundaries of the boroughs of Lewisham, Croydon and Bromley.
We had chicken for tea, by the way.
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Friday, January 21, 2005
Shit shape and Bristols fashion
The Aurora cruise ship that has been forced to cancel its round the world voyage has finally let its passengers disembark after sailing round and round the Isle of Wight for several days.
If this experience alone doesn't put any potential future cruisers off then the whole cruise ethos can be summed up by this choice quote:
"I'm an entertainer. You take the rough with the smooth in this job. The passengers were fine. These are hardened cruisers. It's the British - the bulldog spirit," said entertainer Maurice Lee, formerly of the Grumbleweeds.
If this experience alone doesn't put any potential future cruisers off then the whole cruise ethos can be summed up by this choice quote:
"I'm an entertainer. You take the rough with the smooth in this job. The passengers were fine. These are hardened cruisers. It's the British - the bulldog spirit," said entertainer Maurice Lee, formerly of the Grumbleweeds.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Hi Andy!
As a journalist for a trade magazine, I have always been used to receiving terrible PR. It's an unfortunate part of the career I have chosen to pursue (although one could argue that if I was actively pursuing it I wouldn't be in the job I'm in) that I have to wade through dozens of product annoucements and press releases every day.
While most are terrible, some are laughable and the occasional one is useful, 90% of them either go into the bin or into a file we hardly ever look at. Take this one from today:
"Hi Andrew,
You're probably aware that exciting things are happening on the Dunlopillo and Slumberland stands (Hall 5, stands D72 and E66 respectively) at The Furniture Show this year.
Interior designer Oliver Heath will be leading the celebrations at an official launch of the new 2005 collections in the shared hospitality area between the two stands at 2pm next Monday, 24th January. We'd love you to join us for a glass of champagne if you are able to come along for five or 10 minutes.
Hope to see you there!"
I have never met, spoken to, emailed or had any contact with this woman before so starting with 'Hi Andrew' winds me up straight away, but it's the 'You're probably aware...' statement that gets me reaching for my hammer and ski mask.
I'm not aware of anything relating to Dunpillo and Slumberland, but she seems to think I should not only be aware of what they're doing on their stands but that I'll have naturally decided it's exciting. So exciting that they'd love me to join them but only for five or ten minutes. And then there's the exclamation mark - the point where I put down my hammer and exchange it for a axe handle and snooker ball in a sock.
The other type of press release is the 'clutching at straws'. Invariably, this involves the gamble that the involvement of a celebrity will make us want to write about something that is ultimately empty.
For example:
BODY IMPRESSIONS LAUNCH QUALITY MEMORY FOAM
MATTRESS TOPPERS ENDORSED BY SALLY GUNNELL
The new Body Impressions range of quality memory foam mattress toppers are the first on the market to offer real value for money, with trade prices starting at £46.50 + VAT. Endorsed by Britain's golden girl of athletics, Sally Gunnell, these affordable mattress toppers will make memory foam products a truly mass market proposition.
Sally knows the importance of a good night's sleep, she says "Sound, comfortable sleep is an essential ingredient for staying fit and healthy. Now, thanks to the new value for money Body Impressions mattress topper, the very best possible foundation for a good night's sleep is accessible to everyone."
Well, cheers Sally. I don't know about you but there's no one's opinion I respect in the field of mattress toppers more than Britain's golden girl of athletics.
Here's my favourite in this category though:
"Hi,
Makro is launching its new Luxana Duo-Tone range of toilet tissue and would
like to invite you to join me, Anna Ryder-Richardson, at one of its biggest
stores to mark the occasion.
I will be in Makro's Hillington store in Hillington Road, Glasgow between
11.00am and 1.00pm on Wednesday 15th September to help show off Makro's
latest bathroom innovation - Luxana Duo-Tone - and would be delighted to see
you there.
Best wishes,
Anna
Anna Ryder-Richardson"
What I particularly love about this one is the personal message and invitation from Anna herself. Not only has her career plummeted to plugging bog paper - at Makro no less - but she's been talked into putting her name on the invites. I didn't attend the event so I have been left wondering just how far Anna was prepared to go in showing off just how much of an "innovation" this new toilet paper is. But no matter how much of a leather-faced hasbeen Anna has become, I'm sure a picture of her squatting down, wiping her crack for the cameras, would have made it into Heat or Closer somewhere.
The third and final crap press release category is the "Completely Incomprehensible". These often eminate from Europe, but they can be home grown too. It's what happens when marketing people with nothing to say get carried away with a Thesauraus.
This is a great one - reproduced exactly - from an Italian company plugging its new range of bathroom products designed by architect Francesco Lucchese, whoever he may be. I make no comment on this as, well, I think it speaks for itself:
"Four are the works by Francesco Lucchese selected for the I.Dot - Italian Design on tour - pubblication. It will proced with a selection of at least 100 products to make a world itinerant show.
The bath-shower Tandem, designed for Titan; the plastic basin Omega, with two oval cuts for the napkins, designed for the russian Respect; You & Me, a collection designed for Hatria, which offers the theme "bath by author" inside little spaces. Basin and vase, thanks to particular conformation, can live into the "1 m X 1 m bath"; at least Twirl the lamp for Fabbian, made in Pe usign the rotational tecnology and which sintesize the actual design concept by Francesco Lucchese. It offers the torsion of a parallelepiped and the colours as a dinamic element, for touch it, memorize it and modulate it as you like."
While most are terrible, some are laughable and the occasional one is useful, 90% of them either go into the bin or into a file we hardly ever look at. Take this one from today:
"Hi Andrew,
You're probably aware that exciting things are happening on the Dunlopillo and Slumberland stands (Hall 5, stands D72 and E66 respectively) at The Furniture Show this year.
Interior designer Oliver Heath will be leading the celebrations at an official launch of the new 2005 collections in the shared hospitality area between the two stands at 2pm next Monday, 24th January. We'd love you to join us for a glass of champagne if you are able to come along for five or 10 minutes.
Hope to see you there!"
I have never met, spoken to, emailed or had any contact with this woman before so starting with 'Hi Andrew' winds me up straight away, but it's the 'You're probably aware...' statement that gets me reaching for my hammer and ski mask.
I'm not aware of anything relating to Dunpillo and Slumberland, but she seems to think I should not only be aware of what they're doing on their stands but that I'll have naturally decided it's exciting. So exciting that they'd love me to join them but only for five or ten minutes. And then there's the exclamation mark - the point where I put down my hammer and exchange it for a axe handle and snooker ball in a sock.
The other type of press release is the 'clutching at straws'. Invariably, this involves the gamble that the involvement of a celebrity will make us want to write about something that is ultimately empty.
For example:
BODY IMPRESSIONS LAUNCH QUALITY MEMORY FOAM
MATTRESS TOPPERS ENDORSED BY SALLY GUNNELL
The new Body Impressions range of quality memory foam mattress toppers are the first on the market to offer real value for money, with trade prices starting at £46.50 + VAT. Endorsed by Britain's golden girl of athletics, Sally Gunnell, these affordable mattress toppers will make memory foam products a truly mass market proposition.
Sally knows the importance of a good night's sleep, she says "Sound, comfortable sleep is an essential ingredient for staying fit and healthy. Now, thanks to the new value for money Body Impressions mattress topper, the very best possible foundation for a good night's sleep is accessible to everyone."
Well, cheers Sally. I don't know about you but there's no one's opinion I respect in the field of mattress toppers more than Britain's golden girl of athletics.
Here's my favourite in this category though:
"Hi,
Makro is launching its new Luxana Duo-Tone range of toilet tissue and would
like to invite you to join me, Anna Ryder-Richardson, at one of its biggest
stores to mark the occasion.
I will be in Makro's Hillington store in Hillington Road, Glasgow between
11.00am and 1.00pm on Wednesday 15th September to help show off Makro's
latest bathroom innovation - Luxana Duo-Tone - and would be delighted to see
you there.
Best wishes,
Anna
Anna Ryder-Richardson"
What I particularly love about this one is the personal message and invitation from Anna herself. Not only has her career plummeted to plugging bog paper - at Makro no less - but she's been talked into putting her name on the invites. I didn't attend the event so I have been left wondering just how far Anna was prepared to go in showing off just how much of an "innovation" this new toilet paper is. But no matter how much of a leather-faced hasbeen Anna has become, I'm sure a picture of her squatting down, wiping her crack for the cameras, would have made it into Heat or Closer somewhere.
The third and final crap press release category is the "Completely Incomprehensible". These often eminate from Europe, but they can be home grown too. It's what happens when marketing people with nothing to say get carried away with a Thesauraus.
This is a great one - reproduced exactly - from an Italian company plugging its new range of bathroom products designed by architect Francesco Lucchese, whoever he may be. I make no comment on this as, well, I think it speaks for itself:
"Four are the works by Francesco Lucchese selected for the I.Dot - Italian Design on tour - pubblication. It will proced with a selection of at least 100 products to make a world itinerant show.
The bath-shower Tandem, designed for Titan; the plastic basin Omega, with two oval cuts for the napkins, designed for the russian Respect; You & Me, a collection designed for Hatria, which offers the theme "bath by author" inside little spaces. Basin and vase, thanks to particular conformation, can live into the "1 m X 1 m bath"; at least Twirl the lamp for Fabbian, made in Pe usign the rotational tecnology and which sintesize the actual design concept by Francesco Lucchese. It offers the torsion of a parallelepiped and the colours as a dinamic element, for touch it, memorize it and modulate it as you like."
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Fame, I know someone who met a bloke who's gonna live forever
I've had this knocking around for a while. It's a compilation of the current runners and riders in a little league that exists entirely in my head called 'Dubious Claims to Fame' or 'DCTF' as it's known to my imaginary friends.
The rules are simple: the more dubious, distant and unconvincing the link to a celebrity the higher the points. In other words, meeting a celebrity yourself is just not good enough, it needs to be your mate, your mate's mum or your mate's mum's hairdresser. Secondly, the more obscure, Z-list and tangible failure your celebrity is the better also. So, met Tom Cruise? Rubbish. Met Ian Ogilvy? Top marks.
So here's what we have so far, I can update on here from now on. They are all genuine DCTFs.
"A guy I work with's father-in-law is one of the white coat clad knob twiddlers in Blofelds volcano lab in You Only Live Twice (Connery's a "lovely chap" apparently)."
Now, that's pretty damn good as an anecdote but suprisingly scores low on the DCTFometer:
1. The father-in-law of a guy he works with, classic bit of DCTF distancing there, the ambiguity of the bloke-at-work is always top notch and it's not his father, it's his father-in-law. Good start but prepare yourself for the fade...
2. Too famous, remember the more famous the person, the lower the score. If he'd been a white coat clad knob twiddler in the Cannon and Ball movie "Boys in Blue" then he'd be off the scale.
3. The twiddling knobs in the background status DOES register a score, but compare this to a guy at my work who was a background extra in Quadrophenia "and got cut out for smiling at the camera" and you'll see even this is a pretty amateurish attempt.
4. The closing flourish implying some matey back slapping bon homie with Connery does redeem a point, but it's too little too late.
Overall: 6/10. Good story but needs to try harder
"My former boss was once wore a pair of Sacha Distel's shoes that were given to him by a Status Quo roadie."
It's no good, no matter how many times I hear this it still makes my knees buckle like a newly born giraffe. It really does have everything the DCTF was made for.
1. It starts off slowly, it's my former boss, not a family member or spouse so it's not that close to home, but an ex-boss is detached enough to at least register on the DCTFometer.
2. But then it kicks in, hard. He didn't just OWN a pair of Sacha Distel's shoes, oh no, he tried them on.
3. Sacha Distel is as much a has been and barely known ex-star as possible, and he didn't just shake his hand or see him in a restaurant, no, he literally walked a mile in his shoes.
4. Did he get them off Sacha, no, that would be too easy. He was given them by a friend. Was the friend IN Status Quo? Nooooo, he was Status Quo's ROADIE.
5. God, there's tears in my eyes, move on, move on.
Overall: 9.5/10. As near perfect as it gets, only loses half a point for slight lack of detachment.
"A few of my mum's friends have kissed Keith Barron"
Short, sweet, and a very high scorer. It almost has everything, but again, lack of detachment means the cruel loss of precious points.
1. It's her mum, and you know how the DCTF judges feel about immediate family, but at least it's actually her mum's friends which redeems it slightly.
2. The key phrse which really scores highly in the first part of this is "a few". This alone puts another point on.
3. Shook his hand? No, they kissed him. Genius
4. And it's TV's Keith Barron, the hapless holidaymaker is pure DCTF gold, he's certainly in the top ten but obviously still behind TV's rougeish antique dealer Ian McShane.
5. What I love so much about this one is the slight suggestion of middle-aged sexual deviancy, there's just so many unanswered questions.....
Overall: 7/10. One of my favourites.
"I saw Paul Weller once having a cup of coffee outside Café Rouge in Notting Hill"
1. Oh good god man, if you're not even going to try there's no point taking part is there?
2. There's no point getting to 2, it makes no odds, get out my sight you make me sick.
Overall: 0/10. This country...
"My mate went to University with Eric Bristow's son"
I do like this one in principle as it's simple, yet effective. However it loses marks through lack of incident.
1. As regular readers will know, any DCTF stories that begin with the disconcertingly vague "my mate..." are off to a good start.
2. Part of what makes this interesting is the clash of high and low brow. The working class sport of darts jarring with the intellectual peaks of University. It evokes a tale of a dart player's son rising above the primordial ooze of the working class gutter to become the cream of the highly educated, thinking elite. In Coventry.
3. The fact that it's Eric Bristow tops this off. He's one of the most famous darts players (dartists?) of all time is the Crafty Cockerney, but sadly for him (yet great in terms of DCTF points), his star has fallen, his dart of fame has rebounded off the wire of public opinion.
4. Despite the above, this entry does lose some vital points due to lack of anecdotal incident. Just "going to University with.." isn't good enough. What you really need here is a "I went to university with Eric Bristow's son and beat him at darts cos he was rubbish." Or even better, "I went to University with Eric Bristow's son and beat him at snooker."
Overall: 6/10 Right idea, but does lack some imagination.
"The bloke I work with has fenced with Bruce Dickinson, and beaten him on every occasion."
This has almost everything you could want in a DCTF, vagueness, sharp instruments, heavy metal and triumph. It's a shame it has to lose a vital couple of marks again for lack of incident.
1. "The bloke I work with..." what a classic DCTF beginning, it's vague, it's harder to confirm and is probably a lie, knockout.
2. Fencing, not football, snooker or some other everyday sport, but fencing. Not only is it fantastically obscure, it involves an all in one white jumpsuit and despite being about fighting still manages to look incredibly gay.
3. Has he fenced with the UK champion? Or a legendary character revered in the sport? No, he's fenced with upper crust warbler and Iron Maiden frontman Bruce Dickinson. It's one step away from playing Rob Halford at dominos.
4. Not only has he fenced against him, he's proud enough to say he's beaten him every time. Not bad, but I'd prefer to see a hint of anecdote in there, for example "I've beaten him every time, but one of them was only because Steve Harris rang the doorbell and put him off his lunge."
Overall: 8/10 An instant foil waving, swashbuckling classic that scores very highly. A more detailed anecdote would've seen this DCTF threatening the real front runners.
"My mum's friend's husband is Cliff Richard's cobbler"
Boof, that's liquid DCTF. Just when your faith in the DCTF may be fading along comes one that hits you harder than an aroused John Leslie. Superb stuff.
1. Again, "my mum's friend's husband" is not bad, but it's not great so it's the only thing that loses a point for this DCTF. If this had been her mate' mate's sister, or a bloke at work then who knows what might have happened.
2. Cliff Richard, a very rare appearance on the DCTF chart considering how famous he is in this country. Normally, the more famous the person, the lower the score but Cliff's housewife appeal, dubious sexuality, botox reliance and World of Leather skin make the Peter Purves of Pop a prime target.
3. This is the real killer blow, I can't think of many services you can provide a celebrity more suited to the DCTF than that of cobbler. Not only is it one of the funniest words known to man (surpassed only, perhaps, by 'flannel'), but it's so obscure, so outdated, and so Charles Dickens it simply has to score top marks. Especially when you consider how light Sir Cliff is in his loafers, making his shoes must be like stitching slippers for the Nutcracker Suite.
Overall: 9/10 Lack of detachment once again loses this instant legend a vital point. There's no such thing as perfection but with a little extra effort this could be so close.
The rules are simple: the more dubious, distant and unconvincing the link to a celebrity the higher the points. In other words, meeting a celebrity yourself is just not good enough, it needs to be your mate, your mate's mum or your mate's mum's hairdresser. Secondly, the more obscure, Z-list and tangible failure your celebrity is the better also. So, met Tom Cruise? Rubbish. Met Ian Ogilvy? Top marks.
So here's what we have so far, I can update on here from now on. They are all genuine DCTFs.
"A guy I work with's father-in-law is one of the white coat clad knob twiddlers in Blofelds volcano lab in You Only Live Twice (Connery's a "lovely chap" apparently)."
Now, that's pretty damn good as an anecdote but suprisingly scores low on the DCTFometer:
1. The father-in-law of a guy he works with, classic bit of DCTF distancing there, the ambiguity of the bloke-at-work is always top notch and it's not his father, it's his father-in-law. Good start but prepare yourself for the fade...
2. Too famous, remember the more famous the person, the lower the score. If he'd been a white coat clad knob twiddler in the Cannon and Ball movie "Boys in Blue" then he'd be off the scale.
3. The twiddling knobs in the background status DOES register a score, but compare this to a guy at my work who was a background extra in Quadrophenia "and got cut out for smiling at the camera" and you'll see even this is a pretty amateurish attempt.
4. The closing flourish implying some matey back slapping bon homie with Connery does redeem a point, but it's too little too late.
Overall: 6/10. Good story but needs to try harder
"My former boss was once wore a pair of Sacha Distel's shoes that were given to him by a Status Quo roadie."
It's no good, no matter how many times I hear this it still makes my knees buckle like a newly born giraffe. It really does have everything the DCTF was made for.
1. It starts off slowly, it's my former boss, not a family member or spouse so it's not that close to home, but an ex-boss is detached enough to at least register on the DCTFometer.
2. But then it kicks in, hard. He didn't just OWN a pair of Sacha Distel's shoes, oh no, he tried them on.
3. Sacha Distel is as much a has been and barely known ex-star as possible, and he didn't just shake his hand or see him in a restaurant, no, he literally walked a mile in his shoes.
4. Did he get them off Sacha, no, that would be too easy. He was given them by a friend. Was the friend IN Status Quo? Nooooo, he was Status Quo's ROADIE.
5. God, there's tears in my eyes, move on, move on.
Overall: 9.5/10. As near perfect as it gets, only loses half a point for slight lack of detachment.
"A few of my mum's friends have kissed Keith Barron"
Short, sweet, and a very high scorer. It almost has everything, but again, lack of detachment means the cruel loss of precious points.
1. It's her mum, and you know how the DCTF judges feel about immediate family, but at least it's actually her mum's friends which redeems it slightly.
2. The key phrse which really scores highly in the first part of this is "a few". This alone puts another point on.
3. Shook his hand? No, they kissed him. Genius
4. And it's TV's Keith Barron, the hapless holidaymaker is pure DCTF gold, he's certainly in the top ten but obviously still behind TV's rougeish antique dealer Ian McShane.
5. What I love so much about this one is the slight suggestion of middle-aged sexual deviancy, there's just so many unanswered questions.....
Overall: 7/10. One of my favourites.
"I saw Paul Weller once having a cup of coffee outside Café Rouge in Notting Hill"
1. Oh good god man, if you're not even going to try there's no point taking part is there?
2. There's no point getting to 2, it makes no odds, get out my sight you make me sick.
Overall: 0/10. This country...
"My mate went to University with Eric Bristow's son"
I do like this one in principle as it's simple, yet effective. However it loses marks through lack of incident.
1. As regular readers will know, any DCTF stories that begin with the disconcertingly vague "my mate..." are off to a good start.
2. Part of what makes this interesting is the clash of high and low brow. The working class sport of darts jarring with the intellectual peaks of University. It evokes a tale of a dart player's son rising above the primordial ooze of the working class gutter to become the cream of the highly educated, thinking elite. In Coventry.
3. The fact that it's Eric Bristow tops this off. He's one of the most famous darts players (dartists?) of all time is the Crafty Cockerney, but sadly for him (yet great in terms of DCTF points), his star has fallen, his dart of fame has rebounded off the wire of public opinion.
4. Despite the above, this entry does lose some vital points due to lack of anecdotal incident. Just "going to University with.." isn't good enough. What you really need here is a "I went to university with Eric Bristow's son and beat him at darts cos he was rubbish." Or even better, "I went to University with Eric Bristow's son and beat him at snooker."
Overall: 6/10 Right idea, but does lack some imagination.
"The bloke I work with has fenced with Bruce Dickinson, and beaten him on every occasion."
This has almost everything you could want in a DCTF, vagueness, sharp instruments, heavy metal and triumph. It's a shame it has to lose a vital couple of marks again for lack of incident.
1. "The bloke I work with..." what a classic DCTF beginning, it's vague, it's harder to confirm and is probably a lie, knockout.
2. Fencing, not football, snooker or some other everyday sport, but fencing. Not only is it fantastically obscure, it involves an all in one white jumpsuit and despite being about fighting still manages to look incredibly gay.
3. Has he fenced with the UK champion? Or a legendary character revered in the sport? No, he's fenced with upper crust warbler and Iron Maiden frontman Bruce Dickinson. It's one step away from playing Rob Halford at dominos.
4. Not only has he fenced against him, he's proud enough to say he's beaten him every time. Not bad, but I'd prefer to see a hint of anecdote in there, for example "I've beaten him every time, but one of them was only because Steve Harris rang the doorbell and put him off his lunge."
Overall: 8/10 An instant foil waving, swashbuckling classic that scores very highly. A more detailed anecdote would've seen this DCTF threatening the real front runners.
"My mum's friend's husband is Cliff Richard's cobbler"
Boof, that's liquid DCTF. Just when your faith in the DCTF may be fading along comes one that hits you harder than an aroused John Leslie. Superb stuff.
1. Again, "my mum's friend's husband" is not bad, but it's not great so it's the only thing that loses a point for this DCTF. If this had been her mate' mate's sister, or a bloke at work then who knows what might have happened.
2. Cliff Richard, a very rare appearance on the DCTF chart considering how famous he is in this country. Normally, the more famous the person, the lower the score but Cliff's housewife appeal, dubious sexuality, botox reliance and World of Leather skin make the Peter Purves of Pop a prime target.
3. This is the real killer blow, I can't think of many services you can provide a celebrity more suited to the DCTF than that of cobbler. Not only is it one of the funniest words known to man (surpassed only, perhaps, by 'flannel'), but it's so obscure, so outdated, and so Charles Dickens it simply has to score top marks. Especially when you consider how light Sir Cliff is in his loafers, making his shoes must be like stitching slippers for the Nutcracker Suite.
Overall: 9/10 Lack of detachment once again loses this instant legend a vital point. There's no such thing as perfection but with a little extra effort this could be so close.
Monday, January 17, 2005
Sunday, January 16, 2005
Movie review: The Aviator
Went to see the Aviator last night.
Martin Scorsese is one of few living and working directors whose name alone carries a weight of expectation and anticipation. Perhaps only Woody Allen, Spielberg or Tarantino have their names above the title in the same way and while recent work like Gangs of New York, Bringing Out the Dead, or Kundun have all been disappointing by his standards the kudos gained by the remarkable body of work produced in the 70s and 80s has remained more or less intact. Not so much "he's lost it" as "he's having an off day". It's a sad fact though that his off day has been going on for a while, his last few films have all contained enough of his inventiveness and character to 'feel' like a Scorsese movie, but if we're being honest he hasn't made anything worthy of his name since Casino, and that was ten years ago.
Given his historical leanings towards the seedier and violent side of American life focussed on in his most dazzling work like Raging Bull, Mean Streets, Taxi Driver and Goodfellas, a biopic of billionaire, movie mogul, pilot and mentalist Howard Hughes seems a strange choice. Hughes' life, which included affairs with Katherine Hepburn and Ava Gardner amongst many others, is - on the surface at least - one of glamour, wealth and Hollywood at its flamboyant best.
Scorsese treats Hughes' early life as one of admirable and cocky determination, a man so sure of his own abilities and decisions that he simply cannot take no for an answer - much like Henry Hill in Goodfellas. Opening with the epic production of the World War I flying ace flick Hell's Angels, Hughes badgers and berates his crew into trying to achieve what he can see in his head - he halts filming for months until the right kind of clouds turn up, or until he can get hold of another two cameras because he needs 26, not 24, for one particular shot.
It's here in the first third of the film that The Aviator feels more like a Spielberg gloss-fest than the down-and-dirty character studies we expect from Scorsese. The sky battles of Hell's Angels swoop into the camera as Hughes directs and conducts from the cockpit, and the silk and diamonds of the Coconut grove are reproduced faultlessly. Di Caprio plays arrogant like a spoilt child and sweeps about pointing, shouting, hiring and firing like someone who deosn't believe he can possibly be wrong about anything.
So far, so Chaplin, but the second half kicks into more familiar Scorsese territory and it's that which makes this a biopic of superior quality. Hughes' demons start to come through as his obsessive behaviour begins to take him over, first with cleanliness and then with paranoia. As he wrestles with himself, his business empire is crumbling around him and he is forced to pull himself back from the brink for a final face off with the Pan Am-funded senator determined to see Hughes' TWA out of business.
It is here that the more recognisable Scorsese can be seen. Hughes' self-imposed incarcaration within his screening room is a descent into madness that previous films like Taxi Driver and King of Comedy are ultimately about. Hughes watches the same scenes from his own films again and again, he fills endless milk bottles with urine which he is compelled to keep, and he dictates tiresome instructions as to how his food should be served - down to the 45 degree angle a bag of cookies must be held at.
Di Caprio is astonishing in this film, I've never been a fan but he has grown up in this role. He will always look around 14 years old and he has garnered some criticism for being too young for Hughes but it's a credit to his remarkable performance that this is forgotten. He preens when Hughes is at his height and most inventive but then as madness falls he resists the temptation to 'act mad' and instead lets us see the logic behind the madness as Hughes views it.
Di Caprio is in every scene of this movie and the "Scorsese has asked me to be in his film, yay!" parade of stars actually turns out to be distracting. Cate Blanchett is good as Hepburn and Kate Beckinsale gives an admirable impersonation of Ava Gardner but both are under used. Willem Defoe pops up for a two minute scene as a newspaper reporter, and Jude Law swaggers in as Erol Flynn but he's gone as quickly as he arrives. Given the names attached to this picture it is perhaps ironic that the only person holding his own is the superb Alan Alda as the corrupt senator bringing Hughes to task. But make no mistake, this is Di Caprio's film from beginning to end and he deserves the plaudits he will no doubt receive.
The Aviator is Scorsese's most blatant attempt at a mainstream movie and he's obviously been following the technical achievements of Spielberg to allow him to pull off the grand scale of much of this film. It's no Goodfellas, but it is his best film in ten years and maybe it signals the end of his off-day. It does suffer from the blight of all biopics in that it is too episodic in places and covers too much ground to ever really get into anything too indepth. But for a man as complicated as Hughes it's a fine attempt.
SCORE : 4/5
Martin Scorsese is one of few living and working directors whose name alone carries a weight of expectation and anticipation. Perhaps only Woody Allen, Spielberg or Tarantino have their names above the title in the same way and while recent work like Gangs of New York, Bringing Out the Dead, or Kundun have all been disappointing by his standards the kudos gained by the remarkable body of work produced in the 70s and 80s has remained more or less intact. Not so much "he's lost it" as "he's having an off day". It's a sad fact though that his off day has been going on for a while, his last few films have all contained enough of his inventiveness and character to 'feel' like a Scorsese movie, but if we're being honest he hasn't made anything worthy of his name since Casino, and that was ten years ago.
Given his historical leanings towards the seedier and violent side of American life focussed on in his most dazzling work like Raging Bull, Mean Streets, Taxi Driver and Goodfellas, a biopic of billionaire, movie mogul, pilot and mentalist Howard Hughes seems a strange choice. Hughes' life, which included affairs with Katherine Hepburn and Ava Gardner amongst many others, is - on the surface at least - one of glamour, wealth and Hollywood at its flamboyant best.
Scorsese treats Hughes' early life as one of admirable and cocky determination, a man so sure of his own abilities and decisions that he simply cannot take no for an answer - much like Henry Hill in Goodfellas. Opening with the epic production of the World War I flying ace flick Hell's Angels, Hughes badgers and berates his crew into trying to achieve what he can see in his head - he halts filming for months until the right kind of clouds turn up, or until he can get hold of another two cameras because he needs 26, not 24, for one particular shot.
It's here in the first third of the film that The Aviator feels more like a Spielberg gloss-fest than the down-and-dirty character studies we expect from Scorsese. The sky battles of Hell's Angels swoop into the camera as Hughes directs and conducts from the cockpit, and the silk and diamonds of the Coconut grove are reproduced faultlessly. Di Caprio plays arrogant like a spoilt child and sweeps about pointing, shouting, hiring and firing like someone who deosn't believe he can possibly be wrong about anything.
So far, so Chaplin, but the second half kicks into more familiar Scorsese territory and it's that which makes this a biopic of superior quality. Hughes' demons start to come through as his obsessive behaviour begins to take him over, first with cleanliness and then with paranoia. As he wrestles with himself, his business empire is crumbling around him and he is forced to pull himself back from the brink for a final face off with the Pan Am-funded senator determined to see Hughes' TWA out of business.
It is here that the more recognisable Scorsese can be seen. Hughes' self-imposed incarcaration within his screening room is a descent into madness that previous films like Taxi Driver and King of Comedy are ultimately about. Hughes watches the same scenes from his own films again and again, he fills endless milk bottles with urine which he is compelled to keep, and he dictates tiresome instructions as to how his food should be served - down to the 45 degree angle a bag of cookies must be held at.
Di Caprio is astonishing in this film, I've never been a fan but he has grown up in this role. He will always look around 14 years old and he has garnered some criticism for being too young for Hughes but it's a credit to his remarkable performance that this is forgotten. He preens when Hughes is at his height and most inventive but then as madness falls he resists the temptation to 'act mad' and instead lets us see the logic behind the madness as Hughes views it.
Di Caprio is in every scene of this movie and the "Scorsese has asked me to be in his film, yay!" parade of stars actually turns out to be distracting. Cate Blanchett is good as Hepburn and Kate Beckinsale gives an admirable impersonation of Ava Gardner but both are under used. Willem Defoe pops up for a two minute scene as a newspaper reporter, and Jude Law swaggers in as Erol Flynn but he's gone as quickly as he arrives. Given the names attached to this picture it is perhaps ironic that the only person holding his own is the superb Alan Alda as the corrupt senator bringing Hughes to task. But make no mistake, this is Di Caprio's film from beginning to end and he deserves the plaudits he will no doubt receive.
The Aviator is Scorsese's most blatant attempt at a mainstream movie and he's obviously been following the technical achievements of Spielberg to allow him to pull off the grand scale of much of this film. It's no Goodfellas, but it is his best film in ten years and maybe it signals the end of his off-day. It does suffer from the blight of all biopics in that it is too episodic in places and covers too much ground to ever really get into anything too indepth. But for a man as complicated as Hughes it's a fine attempt.
SCORE : 4/5
Saturday, January 15, 2005
Shear locks home
It's a fundamental fact of natural history that the majority of male humans dislike getting their hair cut. I state right at the beginning that I am one of that majority. There is simply a social awkwardness that comes with someone not only invading your personal space, but invading your personal space with a pair of sharp scissors.
Men of this persuasion treat haircuts as an irritating necessity and something to be endured, like a trip to the dentist or a Richard Gere film and, as such, usually end up in a £7 just-a-trim-please-mate barber's. Very cheap, very quick and they offer an unspoken understanding of how uncomfortable a process it is. Don't want to talk? Then they won't talk. Don't mind talking? Then what team do you support?. It's like the topic of football cancels out the fact that another man has hold of your ears.
There is a drawback to this process though and that's that these barbers tend to offer a choice of two cuts - World War I tommy or Russian serial killer.
In my late teens and early twenties I had very long hair. I know, I know, but it was very big at the time and I thought it would get me girls - it didn't. My hair was gorgeous, long, with a slight curl and streaks of honey that shone after washing - and I washed it every day. Trouble was that it looked stupid crowning my squashy face. When I finally came to get it cut (about a year after I should've) I decided to go to a proper hairdresser's. I obviously hadn't had any kind of cut for years and before that it was either a barber's or a friend of the family.
So I went to the hairdresser's and the first thing they did was ask me the most awkward question possible - "what did I want?". I had no idea so I threw it back at them - "I dunno, what do you think I should have?". I walked out of there an hour later with a floppy Hugh Grant-style curtains cut. I know, I know, but it was very big at the time and I thought it would get me girls - it didn't.
From that moment on, I went to the barber's to get my hair cut.
The reason I am telling you all this is that I had my hair cut this morning - at Toni and Guys in Bromley. It cost £36 - another reason why men like barber's, they can never quite compute spending that much money on something that doesn't taste good or can be plugged in.
M talked me into it and, I'll be honest, I didn't need much persuading. My hair was showing the signs of years of ten-minute, £7 haircuts and coupled with my increasing grey, I looked ten years older than I am.
So in I went, 10am. There's a strange medical-ness to these kind of places - receptions, appointments, ill-fitting gowns, sharp implements, condescening air of superiority - that had me already feeling wary. Plus everyone is so good-looking, young and achingly hip that you feel like a Dad at a school disco.
The first action was the hair wash. Now here's a phenomenon that also gives men reason to go to barber's. Namely that I can wash my own hair. I can't cut my own hair, that's why I'm asking someone else to do it, but I am capable of washing it myself. It's like getting someone to cut up your food for you - the conditioner is like getting them to give it a couple of chews just to get it going.
Scott was my personal stylist, a really good guy, training to be a yoga teacher and hopes to have his own retreat one day - don't we all. He ended up taking about 45 minutes to do my hair, whether that's because it was really bad or they charge the fee per snip I don't know, but 45 minutes staring at yourself in an oversize mirror is so disconcerting I started to want to get up and smack that ugly fucker who was giving me the evil eye.
I am pleased with my cut though. Whether it's worth 36 english pounds I don't know, and considering I have to get my hair cut every month it could prove an expensive bit of ego massage. M likes it though, says I look younger and my head looks smaller. So I'll be back, I might go for the colour next time....
Men of this persuasion treat haircuts as an irritating necessity and something to be endured, like a trip to the dentist or a Richard Gere film and, as such, usually end up in a £7 just-a-trim-please-mate barber's. Very cheap, very quick and they offer an unspoken understanding of how uncomfortable a process it is. Don't want to talk? Then they won't talk. Don't mind talking? Then what team do you support?. It's like the topic of football cancels out the fact that another man has hold of your ears.
There is a drawback to this process though and that's that these barbers tend to offer a choice of two cuts - World War I tommy or Russian serial killer.
In my late teens and early twenties I had very long hair. I know, I know, but it was very big at the time and I thought it would get me girls - it didn't. My hair was gorgeous, long, with a slight curl and streaks of honey that shone after washing - and I washed it every day. Trouble was that it looked stupid crowning my squashy face. When I finally came to get it cut (about a year after I should've) I decided to go to a proper hairdresser's. I obviously hadn't had any kind of cut for years and before that it was either a barber's or a friend of the family.
So I went to the hairdresser's and the first thing they did was ask me the most awkward question possible - "what did I want?". I had no idea so I threw it back at them - "I dunno, what do you think I should have?". I walked out of there an hour later with a floppy Hugh Grant-style curtains cut. I know, I know, but it was very big at the time and I thought it would get me girls - it didn't.
From that moment on, I went to the barber's to get my hair cut.
The reason I am telling you all this is that I had my hair cut this morning - at Toni and Guys in Bromley. It cost £36 - another reason why men like barber's, they can never quite compute spending that much money on something that doesn't taste good or can be plugged in.
M talked me into it and, I'll be honest, I didn't need much persuading. My hair was showing the signs of years of ten-minute, £7 haircuts and coupled with my increasing grey, I looked ten years older than I am.
So in I went, 10am. There's a strange medical-ness to these kind of places - receptions, appointments, ill-fitting gowns, sharp implements, condescening air of superiority - that had me already feeling wary. Plus everyone is so good-looking, young and achingly hip that you feel like a Dad at a school disco.
The first action was the hair wash. Now here's a phenomenon that also gives men reason to go to barber's. Namely that I can wash my own hair. I can't cut my own hair, that's why I'm asking someone else to do it, but I am capable of washing it myself. It's like getting someone to cut up your food for you - the conditioner is like getting them to give it a couple of chews just to get it going.
Scott was my personal stylist, a really good guy, training to be a yoga teacher and hopes to have his own retreat one day - don't we all. He ended up taking about 45 minutes to do my hair, whether that's because it was really bad or they charge the fee per snip I don't know, but 45 minutes staring at yourself in an oversize mirror is so disconcerting I started to want to get up and smack that ugly fucker who was giving me the evil eye.
I am pleased with my cut though. Whether it's worth 36 english pounds I don't know, and considering I have to get my hair cut every month it could prove an expensive bit of ego massage. M likes it though, says I look younger and my head looks smaller. So I'll be back, I might go for the colour next time....
Friday, January 14, 2005
Don't tell him Pike...
I once went to a fancy dress party dressed as a pirate, granted it was the Queen's Silver Jubilee and I was five, but it was still a tasteless and poor choice of costume. I wish to apologise to the relatives and descendents of any Caribbean sailors brutally run through with a cutlass, their doubloons stolen, and left with the cost of clearing up peg leg scuffs and parrot shit.
The tabloid teacup storm over Prince Harry's naive choice of costume for a mate's 20th birthday is a fascinating one for many reasons. Chiefly, the red tops are concentrating on Harry's stupidity and the supposed outrage of Jewish groups but there are also secondary issues arising over what exactly is offensive and what isn't.
From a journalistic point of view, this is fantastic stuff. Prince Harry, the handsome playboy prince that we've already caught pissed up, stoned and scrapping outside nightclubs is snapped wearing a swaztika. Superb, stick it on the front, tell everyone to be horrified and get some Jews on the blower.
Trouble is, most people aren't horrified. Most people really can't be bothered and just say 'what an idiot, didn't think that through' and turn the page. Is this indicative of a lack of interest, genuine feelings that German uniforms aren't offensive, or more that the public is getting tired and bored of tabloids inventing controversy?
I hope it's the latter, newspapers are ultimately a commercial enterprise and will change content with the rises and falls in readership. For the last ten years newspaper sales have fallen dramatically, both for the tabloids and the broadsheets, and there is plenty of headscratching going on to discover why.
My own opinion is that it's a combination of many things. A big chunk of it is lifestyle. People are busier and so have less time to sit and read papers and with 24-hour tv news newspapers aren't the first with breaking stories anymore. People are already aware of the day's headlines before they leave the house in the morning and so don't need a paper to tell them what's going on.
This means that newspapers are stuck between two extremes. They can appeal to the TV watcher by filling the pages up with celebrities, pictures, gossip and fluff and go for the quick-flick-through coffee break market. This is the tabloid agenda and the success of magazines like Heat show that it's a viable market.
The other alternative is to go down an investigative route that gives a run-down of the headlines but then delves into background and analysis in a way that 24 hour tv cannot do. This is, nominally, the broadsheet view.
Trouble is, sales are still falling on both sides.
There's one simple reason for this in my opinion - and unfortunately it comes to down to bad journalism I'm ashamed to say. This Nazi Prince Harry episode and the lack of interest in it, despite the tabloids telling us we should be horrified, really exposes the current lack of trust and therefore interest in newspaper news. The general public is starting to see how much of this kind of journalism is faked, exaggerated and manufactured. The tabloid machine of PR and gossip has expanded to such a point that it has started to feed on itself. Max Clifford is now a celebrity in his own right, there are tv documentaries on how the paparazzi work and, most obviously, reality tv shows like Pop Idol and Big Brother have made themselves successful by showing the public the machinery of how celebrities are made and maintained.
Put simply, the public are now in on the joke and so the joke just isn't as funny anymore.
It isn't just celebrity either, the public perception of 'spin' is immense and so reading about politics and politicians is dismissed as unreliable, same for the proliferation of surveys and medical scare stories. Editors rely so much on the shock of the headline to tell a story that the details are unimportant. The furor over the MMR vaccine for example, or the omnipresence of paedophiles. These stories are clever in that they instantly appeal to our base fears and concerns, but if they're ultimately groundless or, even worse, readers feel slighty ashamed of being dragged along with it in reterospect (Princess Diana's death, for example) then they will stop getting that paper.
I believe there is a growing feeling that the public is beginning to really see they are being manipulated. Good, about time too and thank god - we are all aware, even Prince Harry, of the consequences that can happen when the population of a country blindly allows itself to be manipulated into prejudices and action.
The tabloid teacup storm over Prince Harry's naive choice of costume for a mate's 20th birthday is a fascinating one for many reasons. Chiefly, the red tops are concentrating on Harry's stupidity and the supposed outrage of Jewish groups but there are also secondary issues arising over what exactly is offensive and what isn't.
From a journalistic point of view, this is fantastic stuff. Prince Harry, the handsome playboy prince that we've already caught pissed up, stoned and scrapping outside nightclubs is snapped wearing a swaztika. Superb, stick it on the front, tell everyone to be horrified and get some Jews on the blower.
Trouble is, most people aren't horrified. Most people really can't be bothered and just say 'what an idiot, didn't think that through' and turn the page. Is this indicative of a lack of interest, genuine feelings that German uniforms aren't offensive, or more that the public is getting tired and bored of tabloids inventing controversy?
I hope it's the latter, newspapers are ultimately a commercial enterprise and will change content with the rises and falls in readership. For the last ten years newspaper sales have fallen dramatically, both for the tabloids and the broadsheets, and there is plenty of headscratching going on to discover why.
My own opinion is that it's a combination of many things. A big chunk of it is lifestyle. People are busier and so have less time to sit and read papers and with 24-hour tv news newspapers aren't the first with breaking stories anymore. People are already aware of the day's headlines before they leave the house in the morning and so don't need a paper to tell them what's going on.
This means that newspapers are stuck between two extremes. They can appeal to the TV watcher by filling the pages up with celebrities, pictures, gossip and fluff and go for the quick-flick-through coffee break market. This is the tabloid agenda and the success of magazines like Heat show that it's a viable market.
The other alternative is to go down an investigative route that gives a run-down of the headlines but then delves into background and analysis in a way that 24 hour tv cannot do. This is, nominally, the broadsheet view.
Trouble is, sales are still falling on both sides.
There's one simple reason for this in my opinion - and unfortunately it comes to down to bad journalism I'm ashamed to say. This Nazi Prince Harry episode and the lack of interest in it, despite the tabloids telling us we should be horrified, really exposes the current lack of trust and therefore interest in newspaper news. The general public is starting to see how much of this kind of journalism is faked, exaggerated and manufactured. The tabloid machine of PR and gossip has expanded to such a point that it has started to feed on itself. Max Clifford is now a celebrity in his own right, there are tv documentaries on how the paparazzi work and, most obviously, reality tv shows like Pop Idol and Big Brother have made themselves successful by showing the public the machinery of how celebrities are made and maintained.
Put simply, the public are now in on the joke and so the joke just isn't as funny anymore.
It isn't just celebrity either, the public perception of 'spin' is immense and so reading about politics and politicians is dismissed as unreliable, same for the proliferation of surveys and medical scare stories. Editors rely so much on the shock of the headline to tell a story that the details are unimportant. The furor over the MMR vaccine for example, or the omnipresence of paedophiles. These stories are clever in that they instantly appeal to our base fears and concerns, but if they're ultimately groundless or, even worse, readers feel slighty ashamed of being dragged along with it in reterospect (Princess Diana's death, for example) then they will stop getting that paper.
I believe there is a growing feeling that the public is beginning to really see they are being manipulated. Good, about time too and thank god - we are all aware, even Prince Harry, of the consequences that can happen when the population of a country blindly allows itself to be manipulated into prejudices and action.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Back again
Unreliable I know, but like a bad penny, undercooked chicken or persistent boomerang, I keep coming back. For good this time I hope, I need something to make me look busy first thing in the morning.
We had yet another leaving card come round today. This company is bleeding people at the moment and there seems to be another card coming round every other day.
There's a strange yet accepted etiquette to leaving cards which I've always struggled to come to terms with. For a start, why is there such an urge to sneak them around the office in envelopes or files so the leaver doesn't see them? How surprised do they expect them to be when this hilarious oversized card turns up? "For me? But everybody's signed it, that must've taken ages, look, there's a fold down the middle like a crude hinge, genius."
Secondly, what the hell do you write in these pissing things? Most people's jobs are reasonably insular, you deal with half a dozen people on a regular basis and that's it yet these cards keep plopping on my desk for people I don't know.
I keep writing "Sorry to see you go" on cards for people I have never seen come.
And then we come to the money, the familiar jingle of coins in an envelope. Our company has developed a tradition of printing off the phone list and sellotaping it to the front of the envelope. When you put your contribution in, you cross off your name. Give or be shamed.
So is it unreasonable not to give money towards a present for someone you've either never met, at worse, or, at best, only have a vague awareness of? Logic says no, English awkwardness says yes. I've slipped so many strangers 50p in the last two months I could've bought myself an engraved hip flask or personalised fountain pen with the total. More fool me.
Anyway, enough of that tedious rant, it wasn't really working anyway. One of the other reasons why I returned to this blog is that I have appeared on someone else's. Richard Herring, the comedian who I have talked about before, has a website and blog which I dip into quite often. He wrote about an idea he had for a new type of urinal and, well, I emailed him explaining why it wouldn't work.
I know, I know, but boredom and pedantry are a lethal combination.
Anyway, here's the link.
http://www.richardherring.com/warmingup/
The initial bit about his idea is on January 10th 2005 and then his answer to my mail on Tuesday 11th. Here's a telling, yet accurate, snippet that I want carved on my gravestone should I die tomorrow:
"Here are his expert opinions on the subject (and remember, he is an expert in urinals and thus we should listen to him and respect what he says, even though some might argue that he has wasted his life)"
We had yet another leaving card come round today. This company is bleeding people at the moment and there seems to be another card coming round every other day.
There's a strange yet accepted etiquette to leaving cards which I've always struggled to come to terms with. For a start, why is there such an urge to sneak them around the office in envelopes or files so the leaver doesn't see them? How surprised do they expect them to be when this hilarious oversized card turns up? "For me? But everybody's signed it, that must've taken ages, look, there's a fold down the middle like a crude hinge, genius."
Secondly, what the hell do you write in these pissing things? Most people's jobs are reasonably insular, you deal with half a dozen people on a regular basis and that's it yet these cards keep plopping on my desk for people I don't know.
I keep writing "Sorry to see you go" on cards for people I have never seen come.
And then we come to the money, the familiar jingle of coins in an envelope. Our company has developed a tradition of printing off the phone list and sellotaping it to the front of the envelope. When you put your contribution in, you cross off your name. Give or be shamed.
So is it unreasonable not to give money towards a present for someone you've either never met, at worse, or, at best, only have a vague awareness of? Logic says no, English awkwardness says yes. I've slipped so many strangers 50p in the last two months I could've bought myself an engraved hip flask or personalised fountain pen with the total. More fool me.
Anyway, enough of that tedious rant, it wasn't really working anyway. One of the other reasons why I returned to this blog is that I have appeared on someone else's. Richard Herring, the comedian who I have talked about before, has a website and blog which I dip into quite often. He wrote about an idea he had for a new type of urinal and, well, I emailed him explaining why it wouldn't work.
I know, I know, but boredom and pedantry are a lethal combination.
Anyway, here's the link.
http://www.richardherring.com/warmingup/
The initial bit about his idea is on January 10th 2005 and then his answer to my mail on Tuesday 11th. Here's a telling, yet accurate, snippet that I want carved on my gravestone should I die tomorrow:
"Here are his expert opinions on the subject (and remember, he is an expert in urinals and thus we should listen to him and respect what he says, even though some might argue that he has wasted his life)"
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