30 minutes ago
Thursday, 29 January 2009
I'm still standing - yeah, yeah, yeah.
I'm sorry readers, I've been a terrible host - it's like I've invited everyone round to my house and sat in the toilet reading a book whilst you chat amongst yourselves. On the other hand, you don't want to outstay your welcome - they tell me spring is going to put in a courtesy nod at some point, but I don't think winter is going to want to get off the stage any time soon. It's a miserable time, winter. Cold, wet, bleurgh. I don't care for it a great deal.
Sunday, 25 January 2009
Friday, 23 January 2009
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
Tick-tock.
I must admit that the world doesn't look a great deal different from where I'm sitting - it's amazing how changing the guy at the top can amazingly transform the perception of America for the entire world, like they're all just red or blue, chop and change, in and out - I'm convinced it's an incredibly nuanced, subtle, beguiling sort of country and I'd love to spend some more time there. Maybe I'll hang back 18 months and visit the newly-opened Disneyland Cuba - they're going to need to do something with that place.
Over here the mundane continues - the Brown bounce is now what happens when you try to cash a Government cheque, but Madonna is still in the paper with her madge hanging out (not quite cockney rhyming there, but you get the idea), rain and tax, the beat goes on. The faint stench of ennui hangs in the air. They thought it was London fog, but I suspect it was palpable indifference.
Does one chap have the power to change the world quite so profoundly? He's not Jesus, and even he took three years to get his point across - when you translate that to the US election cycle it just wouldn't have been doable - water into wine, midterms and you're running for re-election. The Great O has precisely 100 days to blow our skirts up, raise the dead, etc, etc - not that the world is going end if he doesn't, we'll just get bored.
Over here the mundane continues - the Brown bounce is now what happens when you try to cash a Government cheque, but Madonna is still in the paper with her madge hanging out (not quite cockney rhyming there, but you get the idea), rain and tax, the beat goes on. The faint stench of ennui hangs in the air. They thought it was London fog, but I suspect it was palpable indifference.
Does one chap have the power to change the world quite so profoundly? He's not Jesus, and even he took three years to get his point across - when you translate that to the US election cycle it just wouldn't have been doable - water into wine, midterms and you're running for re-election. The Great O has precisely 100 days to blow our skirts up, raise the dead, etc, etc - not that the world is going end if he doesn't, we'll just get bored.
Monday, 19 January 2009
Friday, 16 January 2009
Crime and punishment.
There are now signs down my road going away from the train station telling you to watch out because 'they want your pod', or that if you use your telephone someone is going to steal it. Bright colours, trendy language, approved by committee and down with the children, isn't it. I like that the police in conjunction with about seventeen public bodies have erected posters putting the onus on me to avoid crime rather than actually doing something about it. If I ever have the temerity to complain about getting mugged I'll probably be faced with "well, we did put up a sign to warn you". I wanted to make a phone call yesterday evening on the walk back to the house, so I crossed over. There aren't signs at all on that side of the road, and whilst it's far less picturesque it's clearly a lot safer.
It was interesting actually - on that journey home I was reading a newspaper over some lady's shoulder (mainly because I was stuck in that position and couldn't move my head too far without snogging some hirsute chap who positively screamed IT consultant) and there was one of those modish short interviews with Emma Bunton telling everyone how much weight she's lost since she popped a sprog. I've not picked up whether she's flogging anything or just keeping her hand in, but that's by-the-by. One of the erudite and insightful interrogations consisted of 'Madonna or Kylie?' Being the intellectual sexpot that she is and infinitely to her credit, she managed to come up with an answer longer than the question. What surprised me was the bit towards the end of the lengthy sentence where she plumped for Madonna (left). I'm assuming she didn't actually say that, unless choosing the moment to display an extraordinary prescience, as there was indeed a picture of Madonna to the left of the copy. What truly astounded me was the fact that Madonna has been at the top of her game for around 25 years now, she is in fact so famous that she doesn't even have need for a second name. I imagine you could probably send her a letter with a simple 'Madonna' on the envelope and it would swiftly be delivered to the nearest one of her seventeen houses. The only other people who would get that sort of treatment are Father Christmas and the Queen.
I'm not saying that London Lite is designed for idiots, but it's owned by the Daily Mail and has difficulty spelling its own name properly. I'm guessing most of the people wading through its incisive newsgathering for today's top 5 collection of must-have Spring heels would be able to spot Madonna in a crowded tabloid format without needing a signpost. Madonna (left) is more like Guy Ritchie's entry to a short story competition, it has no place in a newspaper that prides itself on dull celebrity drivel to get you the three minutes between Tube stops. Sometimes folks, I just despair.
It was interesting actually - on that journey home I was reading a newspaper over some lady's shoulder (mainly because I was stuck in that position and couldn't move my head too far without snogging some hirsute chap who positively screamed IT consultant) and there was one of those modish short interviews with Emma Bunton telling everyone how much weight she's lost since she popped a sprog. I've not picked up whether she's flogging anything or just keeping her hand in, but that's by-the-by. One of the erudite and insightful interrogations consisted of 'Madonna or Kylie?' Being the intellectual sexpot that she is and infinitely to her credit, she managed to come up with an answer longer than the question. What surprised me was the bit towards the end of the lengthy sentence where she plumped for Madonna (left). I'm assuming she didn't actually say that, unless choosing the moment to display an extraordinary prescience, as there was indeed a picture of Madonna to the left of the copy. What truly astounded me was the fact that Madonna has been at the top of her game for around 25 years now, she is in fact so famous that she doesn't even have need for a second name. I imagine you could probably send her a letter with a simple 'Madonna' on the envelope and it would swiftly be delivered to the nearest one of her seventeen houses. The only other people who would get that sort of treatment are Father Christmas and the Queen.
I'm not saying that London Lite is designed for idiots, but it's owned by the Daily Mail and has difficulty spelling its own name properly. I'm guessing most of the people wading through its incisive newsgathering for today's top 5 collection of must-have Spring heels would be able to spot Madonna in a crowded tabloid format without needing a signpost. Madonna (left) is more like Guy Ritchie's entry to a short story competition, it has no place in a newspaper that prides itself on dull celebrity drivel to get you the three minutes between Tube stops. Sometimes folks, I just despair.
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
Thursday, 8 January 2009
Wednesday, 7 January 2009
On human nature.
I shouldn't even be wasting my time with things like this, but I haven't stopped my google alerts for Bangor University - every week in the local paper in Bangor there is always a story of similar arse-clenchingly small-minded belly-aching inanity that flows forth from local rent-a-gobs like they're ill. Never a shortage of people queuing up to blam local students for all of the world's ills. In this case the lack of Christmas trade is down to the students because they're 'exclusively' catered for in Bangor - quite what students use exclusively that no other sector of society would be remotely interested in I'm not sure. What I do know is that in the case of this particular aggrieved shopkeer, students aren't interested in overpriced kitchenware all year round, it's not just Christmas. And Doug Madge should know much better than this - the University is buying up property all round Bangor? Give me a break. Well done Rebekah Severn, just next time throw a few punches.
I'd like to think that things are different in Westminster, but it's just the same wherever you go - any community of people define themselves not by what they are, but by what they're not. It explains thousands of jokes about the Irish, French and Germans that aren't actually that funny, but in laughing we join a club that says we belong together. By slagging off students, or Tories, or the general public, we find some common ground where we can momentarily pretend that in actual fact we couldn't find genuine common ground with Bear Gryls and a TomTom.
We're funny things, people. We crave acception whilst denying it to other people; we sate our guilt and iniquity by passing it on to strangers. I won't claim to be any better, I'm not. I wouldn't have written this post if I was, would I?
I'd like to think that things are different in Westminster, but it's just the same wherever you go - any community of people define themselves not by what they are, but by what they're not. It explains thousands of jokes about the Irish, French and Germans that aren't actually that funny, but in laughing we join a club that says we belong together. By slagging off students, or Tories, or the general public, we find some common ground where we can momentarily pretend that in actual fact we couldn't find genuine common ground with Bear Gryls and a TomTom.
We're funny things, people. We crave acception whilst denying it to other people; we sate our guilt and iniquity by passing it on to strangers. I won't claim to be any better, I'm not. I wouldn't have written this post if I was, would I?
Monday, 5 January 2009
A critique of Christmas.
I have felt entirely let down these holiday by two great stalwarts of Christmas traditions - Christmas telly and the New Year sales.
Let's be honest with ourselves, they were both completely crap. I enjoyed the Top Gear Christmas Special and I got myself a new pair of shoes for £20 but that was it really - there was naff all else to be had. What happened? Have we lost our self-respect as a nation? Has the looming threat of recession and privation at long last encouraged us all to aspire to something of the true meaning of Christmas by eschewing repeats and spurning the heady excesses of capitalism's tempting wiles? I can't say, all I know is that they were completely crap.
But even one day back into the working life I'm wistful for the sleepy days of yore, back in the deepest recesses of 2008 when I used to lie in of a morning and spend the day reading, or watching the West Wing on DVD. Indeed, the happiest two weeks of my life.
I got back to work today and couldn't remember which floor the office was on, I forgot my password on the computer and couldn't remember my phone number when booking a room for a meeting. This is why you shouldn't take time off work, this is why I don't relax between shifts - you get lured into a false sense of security and unlearn all of the daily chores and rituals you've bred into yourself over a prolonged period.
I've been wondering if 2009 will feel a lot shorter - a whole day and a second shorter than 2008, it shall surely whizz by.
In other news it took me over five sodding hours to get back from Coventry to London yesterday - not so much leaves on the line as lines on the line. I was ready to kill someone by the time I got home at half nine after a journey that was only supposed to take ninety minutes. The sordid experience has only strengthened my belief that legislation should be introduced to prevent Richard Branson from engaging in any sort of business activity that is going to cause distress or otherwise impact on any other living person's life. The only thing I can suggest as an alternative would be Virgin Prisons - the experience would be so excruciating that no-one would commit a crime ever again. The only downside being that people's sentences would over-run by several years and entire buildings would constantly be closed for improvements.
Let's be honest with ourselves, they were both completely crap. I enjoyed the Top Gear Christmas Special and I got myself a new pair of shoes for £20 but that was it really - there was naff all else to be had. What happened? Have we lost our self-respect as a nation? Has the looming threat of recession and privation at long last encouraged us all to aspire to something of the true meaning of Christmas by eschewing repeats and spurning the heady excesses of capitalism's tempting wiles? I can't say, all I know is that they were completely crap.
But even one day back into the working life I'm wistful for the sleepy days of yore, back in the deepest recesses of 2008 when I used to lie in of a morning and spend the day reading, or watching the West Wing on DVD. Indeed, the happiest two weeks of my life.
I got back to work today and couldn't remember which floor the office was on, I forgot my password on the computer and couldn't remember my phone number when booking a room for a meeting. This is why you shouldn't take time off work, this is why I don't relax between shifts - you get lured into a false sense of security and unlearn all of the daily chores and rituals you've bred into yourself over a prolonged period.
I've been wondering if 2009 will feel a lot shorter - a whole day and a second shorter than 2008, it shall surely whizz by.
In other news it took me over five sodding hours to get back from Coventry to London yesterday - not so much leaves on the line as lines on the line. I was ready to kill someone by the time I got home at half nine after a journey that was only supposed to take ninety minutes. The sordid experience has only strengthened my belief that legislation should be introduced to prevent Richard Branson from engaging in any sort of business activity that is going to cause distress or otherwise impact on any other living person's life. The only thing I can suggest as an alternative would be Virgin Prisons - the experience would be so excruciating that no-one would commit a crime ever again. The only downside being that people's sentences would over-run by several years and entire buildings would constantly be closed for improvements.
Thursday, 1 January 2009
An open letter to 2009.
Dear 2009,
Happy 1st January, me old mucker - your time has arrived at long last. It's a bit pressured coming at the end of a decade as people get a touch of deadline fever and try and squeeze everything in. 1969 we were on the moon, 1979 we were electing Frau Thatcher, 1989 we were ridding the world of Communism (it's still around a little bit, but mostly for the crack) and in 1999 we got a bit carried away and tried to stop the world from ending. Practical joke by some old bloke called Nostradamus.
2008 was a mildly inconsequential year - in some ways we needn't have bothered, we could have skipped from 2007 straight to you, but after several thousand of you the order seems to be quite important. We could have missed out economic misery and an entire 'nother year of Labour in power, Cherie Blair's book and that sodding Abba film. It even got to the desperate stage of giving everyone cash because our taxes were messed up, lower VAT rates to distract us from the fiscal cock-up and goodness only knows what they expected us to do with an extra second - economic stimulus gone mad, I tell you, especially when the extra second was at night. But no - as it was, the traditionalists had their way.
Please be kind to us - myself, this is my 25th year on the planet and as I approach my Silver Anniversary I feel the weight of history on my shoulders. As in the pressure to make some, even if I only end up with a colourful personal one. I'm not one for resolutions, really, but I might think of some for you - 2009 is an important year for me, it would be nice to have some goals to work towards.
At any rate - welcome, 2009 - may you shine favourably upon us and not be a twat.
All the best,
Sam
Happy 1st January, me old mucker - your time has arrived at long last. It's a bit pressured coming at the end of a decade as people get a touch of deadline fever and try and squeeze everything in. 1969 we were on the moon, 1979 we were electing Frau Thatcher, 1989 we were ridding the world of Communism (it's still around a little bit, but mostly for the crack) and in 1999 we got a bit carried away and tried to stop the world from ending. Practical joke by some old bloke called Nostradamus.
2008 was a mildly inconsequential year - in some ways we needn't have bothered, we could have skipped from 2007 straight to you, but after several thousand of you the order seems to be quite important. We could have missed out economic misery and an entire 'nother year of Labour in power, Cherie Blair's book and that sodding Abba film. It even got to the desperate stage of giving everyone cash because our taxes were messed up, lower VAT rates to distract us from the fiscal cock-up and goodness only knows what they expected us to do with an extra second - economic stimulus gone mad, I tell you, especially when the extra second was at night. But no - as it was, the traditionalists had their way.
Please be kind to us - myself, this is my 25th year on the planet and as I approach my Silver Anniversary I feel the weight of history on my shoulders. As in the pressure to make some, even if I only end up with a colourful personal one. I'm not one for resolutions, really, but I might think of some for you - 2009 is an important year for me, it would be nice to have some goals to work towards.
At any rate - welcome, 2009 - may you shine favourably upon us and not be a twat.
All the best,
Sam
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