Is this really my first post in 2006? Shocking.
Anyway, I'll gloss over that and begin by saying that I'm sick. Or more precisely, I was literally sick a couple of days ago. Now I'm well aware that tales of other people's "I threw up everywhere" exploits are about as interesting as listening to detailed descriptions of their dreams but this is worth noting for the record.
It begins with M being sick on Saturday. We had been over to Kew in the morning so that she could buy some material and I could visit the National Archives*. We went into town and had a bit of lunch at a pub before going to see a film - Capote if you're interested, think Larry Grayson meets Dead Man Walking.
As the credits rolled I leaned over to M and asked "What did you think?" to which she succinctly replied "I think I'm going to be sick". Before I could say "I think that's a little harsh, perhaps Philip Seymour Hoffman's performance was a little theatrical but surely it captured the mood of the times..." she was up and running for the toilet.
She then proceeded to throw up a few more times before getting home, including into a plastic carrier bag on the train, mmm. It laid her out for the next couple of days and she only properly ate something yesterday (Wednesday). We put it down to the nachos she'd eaten at lunch time and resolved never to eat pub mince again**.
We couldn't have been more wrong though, after a work trip on Tuesday I was in the car back when I started to feel dodgy, and my innards starting grumbling like a pensioner in a post office queue. I was dropped off in Amersham and caught the train to Marylebone when I really felt like shit. By the time I had got to Victoria and got on the train to Beckenham my stomach was grumbling like an Israel-Palestine boundary negotiation.
As we approached West Dulwich, a good four stops before Beckenham it was all getting a bit faint. I thought that if I got up and stood by the door when it opened I could at least get some fresh air***. The train pulled into the platform, I leapt up and once everyone had got off I leant out of the door and sucked in a deep breath. All this managed to do was displace whatever was bubbling in my stomach and I jumped off knowing that I couldn't put it off. I managed to wait til everyone who'd just got off had filed past me and I walked quickly in the opposite direction down the platform away from the entrance.
The platform was long and lit with lamposts but at least it was now deserted, I got as far along as I could before my diaphragm spasmed and my mouth filled with vomit. I clamped my hand to my mouth to hold it in, took three more steps, turned to the fence and blew the lot onto the floor, via my shoes.
Just at that moment, the train I'd just got off pulled away. As I retched my breakfast and lunch into the floor, safe in the knowledge that the platform was deserted the crowd of people on the platform opposite got a full view of me hunched over, wiping sick from my nose and plucking my glasses out of the puddle of now steaming vomit on the concrete under a lampost.
I went and tried to get a cab but couldn't find one, the smell of sick was in my nose, and the stain of sick was on my shoes, suit and dignity. I had to hang around for twenty minutes before another Beckenham train came though. When I eventually got home I stripped off, got straight in the bath, got out, threw up again, got back in, got out, dried off and went to bed.
I took the next day off.
*Family tree stuff, I know, I know, a bit of a fad at the moment but I've been sucked in and it is annoyingly fascinating. Look at it this way, I'm vaguely related to a bigamistic fraudster and a family from Norwich called Whittle. They are not the same person.
**The fact that this says 'again' shows how slow on the uptake we are.
***No, it is quite fresh, it's Dulwich remember, not Crystal Palace.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Civil War
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.
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.
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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)