Forbes rich list

If you’re fed up with getting less than 3% on your savings, you could check out the Forbes list of the world’s richest people to see how they managed to make their fortunes.

But if you thought it was just full of bankers, IT ubergeeks and heirs of old money you’d be wrong. This list is proof that, with a bit of effort, practically anyone can make their millions (although admittedly it definitely helps if your rellies left you a small fortune to start with).

Take a look at number 1140 – Joaquin Guzman Loera. He’s made his meagre one billion dollars by drug-smuggling (allegedly) – although from a quick shufty at the comments on his page it would appear that he’s actually Mexico’s equivalent to Robin Hood.

At 459 is Philippe Foriel-Destezet, who made 2.5 billion dollars by starting a temp agency, matching up people who want to work with people who need workers. Now surely anyone could that, assuming they could be bothered.

One of the lucky heirs, William Wrigley, comes in at 565. He inherited a chewing gum empire from his granddaddy and is now worth 2.1 billion. Someone really should make him go around scraping the damn stuff off the pavement.

My personal favourite is at number 223 – Kjeld Kirk Kristiansen. He might have inherited his wealth but thanks to his genius ancestors this man has made 4.7 billion dollars out of Lego. I thought I used to be pretty creative with the stuff but 4.7 billion – that’s impressive!

Forbes 2011 billionaires list

Are you feeling less than excellent?

If January has left you feeling dismal and you’ve resorted to buying daffs and eating hot cross buns in an effort to hurry Spring up a bit, maybe a class at the London College of Excellence will sort you out a bit.

Yes, it really exists. I discovered the London College of Excellence on a bus map out at White City today and it gave me my first belly laugh of the year.

It made me wonder what went on there – and what other daft colleges there are: the College of Niceness maybe, or the College of Mediocrity (credited to my friend Anna) – so of course I had to get online and check it out to see what’s so excellent about it.

Having now done so, I wish I hadn’t bothered. Their website is about as dull and uninformative as it’s possible for a college website to be. Click on the page titled ‘Courses’ and you get no information whatsoever about courses. Definitely not excellent. Perhaps it should be renamed the College of Can’t-be-arsed. Much more appropriate for this time of year.

I don’t agree with Nick

There’s a quote from the Marilyn Monroe film How to Marry a Millionaire where someone says something along the lines of “hang around with plumbers and you’re going to marry a plumber, hang around with millionaires and you’re going to marry a millionaire”.

It’s a shame that Nick Clegg didn’t watch that movie before he signed up to a coalition with the Tory devils because there seems to be no room for doubt that the Tories pushed this university fees issue through to force the LibDems into an impossible situation.

The LibDems can only either go along with the Tories, thereby alienating a huge number of their previous supporters, or have to pull away from the coalition (ie show some balls), thereby losing all hope of remaining in government. Whichever way they vote today, this tuition fees issue will most likely be the death knoll for the LibDems.

What all these weeks of students strikes and media debate has really brought home for me is that there are really only two classes of people in this country: those with significant amounts of money and those with just enough to live on.

I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to understand it – probably because I belong to the latter class – but that is the class structure that our society is built on and that is the way it will probably stay long after the worms are snacking on me.

It’s not in the interest of the monied (and always ruling) class for it to change, and those in the other class are either too apathetic or too busy aspiring or dreaming of belonging to the monied class to do anything to force change.

Depressing as this realisation may be, it’s oddly liberating. I don’t feel the need to be angry about it any more. I can rarely remember who said things but there’s a famous quote about not bothering to worry about things you can’t change, only the things you can. This is one thing I can’t change so I’m not going to let it bother me any more.

Anyone know any millionaires I can hang out with? Or plumbers?

Cyberspam

Since I created the Shedroom in September, I’ve been bombarded with adverts about sheds and electric sockets whenever I go to an ad-supported website – even Screwfix stuck some in my face when I made a search for ‘shower filter’.

Now although I appreciate that some websites need ads in order to make their sites free, this targeted advertising feels a bit redundant as it only seems to flash things at me after I’ve already done my research and made a purchase – not right at the beginning of my search when it might actually be useful. When I was hunting for sockets a couple of months ago I would have loved ads that showed me some that I hadn’t already seen and rejected.

Surely it makes far more sense for the advertisers to be bombarding us with shiny new stuff we haven’t already searched for in order to get us to part with our cash?

Where have all the squirrels gone?

Six years ago, when I moved to my flat next to Battersea Park, there were squirrels chasing each other around the trees on a daily basis. Over the last couple of years they’ve almost disappeared and now it’s rare that I see them at all.

Today on the news they were talking about an alarming number of trees falling prey to diseases and I can’t help wondering if these diseases are killing off the squirrels too. That, combined with the diminishing number of birds and the drastic fall in the bee population, is making me think that the trees in the UK may be following the fate of the Truffula trees in The Lorax by Dr Seuss – which if you haven’t already got a copy, you should get one. And if it doesn’t make you cry just a little bit then you’re a hard, hard person.

In fact, some lovely geek has already typed it all up on the interboogle for you to read – but it’s a squillion times better with pictures so do treat yourself and get hold of the real thing too…
The Lorax

Now it may be that these diseases and population declines aren’t our fault and it’s just nature doing her evolutionary thing but I confess I’m a little bit scared. I love trees and don’t want them to disappear (except maybe Plane trees). And I love squirrels. And birds are ok too, so long as they’re not pooping all over things.

But what can we do? Well, we can start growing and planting more trees for starters…
Instructions on how to grow trees from seed

Or if we can’t be bothered or don’t have space to do that, we can give donations to those who do… Woodland Trust

Whatever you do, don’t make it nothing. That Dr Seuss knew what he was talking about.

Thanksgiving

It’s dawned on me that people in the UK are being shafted out of an Autumnal Bank Holiday by not celebrating Thanksgiving. Sure, we have Guy Fawkes Night – which is of course the best night of the year and I’ll write about that nearer the time – but we don’t get a day off because of it.

So I think we should campaign to get ourselves a Thanksgiving Bank Holiday and late October seems to be the perfect time to do it, coming right between the August BH and Christmas. And if the government come up with some blah-de-blah economic reason why we shouldn’t have an extra holiday, we can just trade off one of the May holidays. There’s too many then anyway – and what’s with them always happening on Mondays? Why can’t we have a Bank Holiday Wednesday for once? Or Friday so we can have a long weekend? (ok, we get Good Friday but that’s months away so doesn’t count).

In fact, as no-one else seems bothered enough to do it, I declare the last Friday in October as unofficial UK Thanksgiving – which this year would make it fall on Friday 29th October.

It will be a non-religious festival to celebrate the beginning of Autumn. We can light the first fire of the season (or spark up the central heating for us city dwellers) and as it will occasionally land on 31st October, will give people who don’t do the Halloween thing the perfect excuse to indulge in a bit of pumpkin carving.

After stomping through piles of leaves first thing in the morning, those of us who will be at work that day should just pretend we’re not and try and keep a happy and peaceful frame of mind and be thankful that our jobs aren’t a lot worse than they are. People who are not out at work should be temporarily thankful for that fact and spend the day preparing lots of lovely Autumnal treats for those who are (after going out for a bit of leaf-stomping, of course).

Here are some suggestions for such goodies – although I’m hoping that any Canadian or American visitors here (and anyone else who wants to) will offer up some more of their traditional Thanksgiving recipes…

Libby’s Famous Pumpkin pie
Pumpkin Ginger Nut Muffins(FYI: In London, you can get tinned pumpkin in Waitrose and Fortnum & Mason.)

Oh, and if you’re on your own and have neither the time, facilities, nor inclination to bake, get yourself down to Godiva and buy yourself a bag of half-chocolate-covered candied orange – not cheap but worth every penny.

What is it with crows?

One of the joys of having your own website on WordPress is that they supply you with detailed statistics about what internet search terms have brought people to your site.

As someone who often asks Google long-winded but usually sensible questions in an effort to articulate what I’m trying to find, as well as going for the single word option, I’m really surprised at the utter gibberish people often seem to type in the search box, along with the gross and downright weird.

Here are a few recent oddities that have brought people in my direction…

mcdonald’s won’t hire me cuz of my turban
pencil case in campise in kmaret
scary bloody hand prints on a wall
sad guinea pig portraits
yellow flakes under foreskin
damp crumbled chipboard
cctv to lard
chocolate wrappers waste
making contact with dead pets
omen dead fish smell
pink fish sandwich marks and sparks
funny cat flying falling down like an aeroplane in the sky
womble teeth
(and my own personal favourite) bunnies with big bumps and leaking

But strangest of all is the sheer volume of searches about crows that have been made. Almost on a daily basis at least one crow search comes my way and these terms are what people have been searching under…

crow nostril (umpteen times)
crows anatomy
two-headed crow
angry crow
anatomy of a crow’s nostrils
big sweaty crow
crows portrait
two crows
crows coming out of cake

And presumably, now I’ve mentioned the C-word so many times, it will bring a lot more crow-fanciers in my direction. So if you’ve arrived here because you used the word CROW in your search, please tell me – what is it with crows?

My hand modelling days are over

As I sit here picking the scab from my finger, having slashed it with a Stanley knife a couple of weeks ago, I recall my nephew coming home with the following written on his school report “J is often asked to sit out of games because he is a danger to himself and others”.

I think it’s quite clear whose genes he gets that from.

Lotto

This morning I woke to find an email on my Blackberry from the National Lottery telling me they had exciting news about my ticket for yesterday’s draw.

I tried not to get excited, thinking it was probably only a £10 win, but still a small part of me was buzzing with optimism. I mean, they said ‘exciting news’, not just ‘good news’ or ‘better than a poke in the eye news’.

What would I spend the money on? I wondered as I rinsed away all the farmers’ market mud from the bathtub. I could get a cleaner to do this for starters, I thought, but then decided that there’s no way I’m having someone else rummaging around my home.

Next I decided I would book an arctic holiday and stay at the Ice Hotel and go dog-sledding and zoom around on a snow-mobile. I could sleep in a glass igloo and watch the Aurora Borealis swirl its magic above me as I drift off to the land of nod – or not, as is usually the case whenever I’m on holiday.

I could sort out any of my family’s financial bothers so we could all be happy and free… and then I logged onto the Lotto website.

So, what shall I spend my tenner on?

Pillivuyt cow creamer

For some time now, I’ve coveted a cow creamer.

And even though I have no intention of buying one – I don’t need it, won’t use it and don’t do dust-gatherers – the cow creamer of my desire has to be made by Pillivuyt. I’ve seen cheapo versions that look almost identical and they do absolutely nothing for me at all.

But why do I want one? I’m buggered if I know. The only reason that I can think of is that somehow reading Jeeves and Wooster novels at a tender age has had a much greater influence on my tastes and desires than I would have suspected.

Perhaps, since a country house and a valet are both out of my financial reach, my inner self is compensating and squishing all my fading hopes and dreams of a life of luxury into a French milk jug in the shape of a cow.

US $1 coins

There was an odd story doing the rounds this week - apparently, despite the fact that Americans don’t like using them, the US government is pushing ahead with the production of one dollar coins. And because people are refusing to use them, the coins have been piling up at the US Federal Reserve to the point that it’s fast running out of space to store them.

But this isn’t giving anyone the hint to press the STOP button on the minting press so these coins are just going to keep on coming out and out and out until they’re flowing out of the Federal Reserve windows like a jackpot win on a Las Vegas slot machine.

So it would seem that someone needs to do a much better job in convincing Americans that one dollar coins are better than one dollar notes, and as no-one else appears to be doing the job with any success, I’ll give it a go.  

The first time we went to America, one of the first things my boyfriend and I did on arrival in Manhattan was go into the oldest, biggest, grandest American bank we could find and each swap one of our tatty green paper dollars for a shiny silver dollar. In reality they were old and a bit worn (like in the Marilyn Monroe song) but to us the dollar coin was the ultimate symbol of America. Several years later and I still have mine (but not the boyfriend), so I’m finding it hard to understand why Americans, having lost them, might not want the coins back. 

Here in England, the pound coin replaced the note back in 1983. My friends and I all liked it instantly. It was substantial and solid. We felt richer when our pocket-money was paid in these gold coins and were glad to see the back of all the grubby, sweaty green notes. It also had the psychological effect of making the notes we did get seem much higher in value. 

[I just read something about Margaret Thatcher saying the pound coin wouldn't be very popular and that the note would have to stick around too. Maybe that's why we liked the coin so much - anything to prove that evil old bat wrong.]

I suppose one complaint might be that coins are heavier than notes, but then you rarely have more than four in your pocket – any more and you just swap them for a fiver (a note).

In contrast there are lots of advantages. You can use them in vending machines and put them as deposits in shopping trolleys. They make a great noise when you throw them in charity collection buckets and you never get given one that’s still clammy with the sweat of the person who held it before you. Best of all, when you lose one, there’s always a chance that it will remain lost for hundreds or thousands of years and that you will have played a vital part in a future historic find. You don’t get that with a note.

So, good people of America, if I still haven’t convinced you to start using these dollar coins, I suggest you read the article below – particularly the bit about it being ‘the law’ that these coins continue to be manufactured regardless of whether you want them or not.

You might as well start using them because one way or another,  you’re paying for them.

BBC: Why the US keeps minting coins people hate and won’t use

 

Organs

There’s one bodily organ which most of us spend an enormous amount of time fiddling with or talking about – our skin.

We pick it, squeeze it, rub it, scrub it, stretch it, shave it, pluck it, wax it, scratch it, tear it, cut it, stitch it, burn it, colour it. We expose it to a wide range of temperatures and weather conditions. We drench it on a daily basis and spend a fortune on fragrances, chemicals and creams for it.

I’ve never been really comfortable in my skin and suspect I’ve spent more than the average amount of time poking around with it – mostly because my skin is ridiculously over-sensitive. It has a blue-white hue which goes pink in the sun, fading to freckles and the dreaded ‘brown spots’, and as for my feet – they blister if they even look at a pair of shoes which they suspect might not be comfortable.

In my teen years I suffered the usual T-zone spots and blackheads and have never quite grown out of them. Over the past couple of years, I’ve also developed a sun allergy which results in me spending most of the summer with a bumpy rash everywhere the sun touches unless I splash on the Factor 50. I’ve got more moles than a dot-to-dot book has dots. I have hyperhidrosis in my hands, resulting in perpetually sweaty palms and a dread of all occasions where I’ll have to shake hands with anyone. Skin-wise, I’m a bit of a mess.

But as I look around me at everyone else’s shades and textures, it does make me wonder about our insides. Is there such variety in any of our internal organs or is one spleen just like another?

Vampires in Volvos?

I’m yet to see any of the Twilight movies. When I saw the trailer for the first one I put it on my ‘to do’ list (or maybe I just meant Robert Pattinson) but when I saw all the screaming teenage girls at the film’s premier, changed my mind rather rapidly.

Although inside I quite often revert to being a teenage girl, I’m obviously far too cool (and old) to join in with their squeals (unless Chuck Bass’s nostril arch and eyebrow combination are involved – but that’s an entirely different matter).

Volvos, on the other hand, I still feel far too young for. They’re for old people with spare money and either too many kids or too many dogs. Old people with too many kids, too many dogs and a horse – for which there is always an old hair-covered blanket and tack box in the back of the car.

These people nearly always buy their Volvo new and keep it until death – usually the owner’s, not the car’s. Ancient Volvos who find themselves orphaned often seem to find new homes amongst the Hasidic Jewish community in North London. People who obviously appreciate that a Volvo is for life, not just for Christmas. Or Hanukkah.

So now pause for a minute and ask yourself what these two things have in common: teenage vampires and new cars for old, wealthy people.

Are you stumped? Me too! But for a few weeks now, the two have been sharing a very strange ad campaign indeed. And try as hard as I can, I really can’t find any kind of logical connection at all – unless it’s simply that the film was desperate for sponsorship and Volvo desperate to change their image.

I fully appreciate that times are tricky for car manufacturers trying to flog their wares but I find this particular partnership rather creepy. And that’s because it seems to imply that either teenage girls have a strong influence on the cars their dads buy (unlikely) or that maybe Volvo have noticed a paedophile-shaped gap in the car market.

The Big Stink

Something very odd happened in London today. It started with a bit of a funky odour when I got to Kings Cross. Even though I have a very sensitive sense of smell, at first I couldn’t quite work it out. I was just thinking it smelt like a mix of rotten feet with a splash of stale armpit thrown in when it hit me – falafel!

Obviously, being a cumin-hater, my first thought was a definite ‘Eugh!’, but I thought it fair enough – it was getting on for lunch time and there are people who like that sort of thing.

A couple of air-conditioned hours later (still in Kings Cross) and the smell on the street had been turned up to full whiff. I got on a bus and it was there too – stronger if anything. I had one of those horror moments, wondering if it was me who was emitting the smell, but a subtle sniff of my pits and a quick body check for squashed falafel gave me the all clear.

I hopped off the bus at Oxford Street and falafel-pong was everywhere. I sent a text to a friend to find out if the smell was just my brain playing tricks on me. I got a reply saying “maybe that’s why I’ve been wanting one all day”. So it wasn’t just me – something had obviously planted the seeds of falafel-desire in my friend’s head.

As I headed west, the smell remained. And when I got home, I was greeted with more falafel mixed with the smell of lilies.

So where has this vile stench come from? Is there a Falafel Festival going on somewhere in town that no-one warned me about?

They say every city has its own smell. Maybe falafel is London’s official odour and the lack of rain over the past few weeks has allowed the stench to fester and envelop the whole city. Grim!

Dead pets

It occurred to me today that, with the exception of the animals currently in my life, nearly all the pets I have ever known are now dead.

There were those who were part of my family: the guppies; Bubble and Squeak the (pointless) gerbils; Tigger the football-playing Angora rabbit and his painfully shy guinea pig friend PG Tips, who were both murdered by a fox; the goldfish Chicken George and Bowie; cute but mange-ridden guinea pigs Dorian and Aloysius and Rosie the Dutch rabbit, adopted from the kids I babysat for.

Later there was Big Fish and Little Fish; then Rabbit, the loveliest, cheekiest bunny ever, who died when he was only a year old but who taught me so much about rabbits and the importance of a balanced diet.

Then there were those who were part of my life but not mine: Whiskey the mad mutt from down the road and the Alsatian from next door, who bit my friend Elaine on the back of the neck when we were six.

There was Wagger the dog, who taught me that barky and bouncy doesn’t necessarily mean violent; Snowy the greyhound, from whom I learned the importance of regular teeth cleaning, and Anna, possibly the most beautiful agoraphobic greyhound there ever was, who once nipped me on the face when she was scared. There were umpteen cats, which I never really cared much for and a newt that ran away almost as soon as I caught it.

Lastly, there was Sammie, my sister’s dog, who I loved more than I could ever put into words. She was wayward and only affectionate when she felt like it but, for a short time, was the only reason I got out of bed in the morning.

Even though thinking about all these pets has made me a little bit sad, it’s also got me thinking about future pets that will come into my life. All the animals that aren’t yet born – in fact, whose parents or grandparents might not have been born yet. It’s an exciting thought and I can’t wait to meet them.

Jesus!

I once saw a face in a piece of old gum stuck to the inside wall of a number 19 bus. I could say it looked like Osama Bin Laden as there was a definite turban and a beard – but equally it could have looked like a squillion other beardy-blokes in turbans.

It puzzles me that people are always sending photos of vaguely face-like patterns to newspapers, claiming that they look like Jesus. And it puzzles me even more that the papers actually print these pictures without pointing out that they look nothing whatsoever like what’s come to be the standard Jesus image.

The Sun – Monday 5th July 2010

Take this article in The Sun – it has five pictures of dirt splodges and natural patterns slightly resembling faces, yet all have been claimed to be images of Jesus (and just so you can compare, they’ve put a picture of Jesus on the right – although he looks a bit like Russell Brand after a hair wash to me).

To my eyes, the image at the top looks like a silent movie actress holding a bouquet. Then bottom left to right: The Mona Lisa; a dead rodent holding the face of another silent movie actress; a baby in front of a dark curtain on the iron; and a woody Saruman from Lord of the Rings. 

So that’s three women, a dead vole, a baby and a wizard.

Like in a Rorschach test, these images probably look different to everyone, but please let’s stop with the Jesus-hunting and accept that there are random face-like images all over the place. And let’s just enjoy these faces for whoever they look like - be it Dale Winton in a chicken vindaloo-stained napkin or Vanessa Feltz in a cupcake wrapper.

I spy with my little eye…

Am I the only one loving all this talk of Russian spy-catching? Every time I read anything in the papers, images like something out of an episode of Mad Men appear in my head, along with giant-finned Cadillacs and twin sets – and it’s all in Glorious Technicolor.

I do wonder what kind of information they were/are trying to get though. Surely all the western world’s secrets are already out in the open by now?

We know who’s sucking the money out of the economy and what it’s being wasted on. We know how badly certain governments are running their countries and we know whose hands are up the backsides of those government leaders. What more is there to find out?

Except, perhaps they want to know why Joe Public continues to put up with being repeatedly dumped on without calling for a communist-style revolt.

It would explain why some of these people were planted in US suburbia along with their Coca Cola and light beer. Where better to spy on the average 2.4 and sow the seeds of revolution?

Wimbledon

The other day I caught myself watching the tennis. It was only for about ten minutes until I came to my senses – I’ve never really seen the point in watching sport. Playing is fine (especially sponge tennis, which has to be one of the best games ever invented) but watching it, no.

But anyway, it was the match between Errani (who made the noise “heeeh!” every time she hit the ball) and Radwanska (“hurrh!”). It occurred to me that if I was playing someone who made a daft noise, I’d be really tempted to mimic their noise just to piss them off. Or go all Tourettish and shout rude words every time I hit the ball: “slut!” “bitch!” “lardass!”

And “lardass” wouldn’t have been too far off the mark during this match. It’s been a long time since I watched any Wimbledon games but I do remember the female players always being really slim. In this match, the players were obviously very strong and fit but they were both carrying a fair few extra pounds too. The smaller of the two had loads of bra flubb and the other one had a muffin top the Fabulous Bakin’ Boys would be proud of. Obviously there was no wobble in their girdle-like tennis dresses but it did strike me as a bit odd that the person who won the match didn’t actually have a waist.

But who am I to point the finger when my muffin top is more like a pre-baked cottage loaf. Tennis anyone? Fyaaah!

I think I’m being watched

As far as having my photo taken goes, I’m a bit like those ancient African tribesmen who (so myth has it) thought that their souls would be stolen if they had their picture taken.

But I live in London and everywhere I turn there’s a camera somewhere pointing at me. I can’t leave my flat without having my soul zapped (assuming the camera above the front door is working).

There are tourists everywhere, getting in my way with their posing or aiming their cameras at the bus as I’m gazing out of the window. And even though that highly dubious figure of 300 snaps a day for your average person in the UK is bandied about willy-nilly, it’s probably fair to say that I am pictured in an awful lot more photos than I’d prefer (ie none).

I put up with this, usually uncomplaining, because I realise that the CCTV cameras are there for a reason. If they help even one baddie to be locked up, then they’ve done a good job. Besides, I don’t wander around doing things I’d be too worried about other people seeing.

That said, over the last few months there’s one camera that has been making me a little bit nervous. It’s the camera that points at me every time I open the lid on my laptop.

I’ve never connected it – don’t even know how to – but what if it’s just on, without my knowing?

 What if ‘on’ is the default setting and every time I log on, there is someone, somewhere just staring at me as I type. How would I ever know?

Unless they made some sort of collage-type film and when I turn on the TV one day, there will be a film of me staring back at myself, looking – let’s just say – not at my best.

Although I realise this is some kind of vanity – I mean, why would anyone choose me to stare at over anyone else? – but in these times people seem to like staring at people doing bugger all.

Take Big Brother for example. People watch that crap even in the middle of the night when all the freaks contestants are sleeping. And as Big Brother is taking its final breaths, the producers are sure to be looking around for their next project.

So, if you’re somebody who knows and feel up to a bit of soul-saving, please explain to me how to tell if my laptop camera is recording anything. Until then, where’s that gaffer tape?

Portraits & pimples

Thanks to Photoshop, it no longer matters if you have a giant zit on your chin when you get a new passport photo. Just scan it into your computer and in a few clicks your skin is spot-free for the next 10 years.

It occurred to me that portrait painting back in days of yore was probably similar to Photoshop in that wealthy gents might pay the artists a few extra pennies to do a little… tidying up.

But then I saw this statue of Sir Hans Sloane in Chelsea. It’s so beautifully carved – the eyes actually look like they’re drawn on in pencil – yet the sculptor has carefully chiselled two hideous great moles on the poor man’s face.

Today I went to see the Wallace Collection and it was full of paintings of people who could only, at best, be described as ordinary-looking, complete with a whole assortment of lumps, bumps and droopy jowls.

If I was going to spend hours on end sitting still while someone painted or carved my likeness, feel free to call me shallow but I’d want them to concentrate on my good bits. None of that photorealism for me.

Obsession

Yesterday afternoon I started to watch series 3 of Grey’s Anatomy on catch-up. I’m not sure why – I didn’t watch either of the previous two series and never really fancied it but still my arse has been glued to the sofa for 25 episodes.

As I was watching it, I started to think about people who are obsessed with their careers. People who are so driven to do something each day that it’s all they can think about. I’m not one of those people. Whenever I’ve had a job I really thought I wanted, it turned out I didn’t want it that much after all. Apart from this writing thing, which I’ve dipped in and out of over the years, I’m all about the ‘been there, done that, now what?’

Except when it comes to watching American medical TV shows. I think I’ve watched every episode of MASH ever broadcast. Several times. And House. I’ve learned so much medical stuff from watching these shows I’d probably be quite handy in a 54 car pile-up. I’m sure it’s not entirely correct learning – I’m under no delusions that I’d be able to pass any medical exams – but I do know the difference between cardiomyopathy and an autoclave.

I think the reason I find these shows so fascinating is that I’m a wee bit jealous of people who have jobs that are vocational. It must be so reassuring to be sure that you’re doing the right job. To have studied for a career, knowing that there’s a path for you to follow provided you’re willing to put in a bit of effort and follow the instructions.

But I’ve never been one for instructions and the nearest I ever got to a path is this quote I read a few years ago – There’s no such thing as a path of life, just a load of crazy paving that you put down yourself as you go along.

It’s certainly true for my life but I don’t find it at all comforting. If there is such thing as reincarnation (which I very much doubt), next time I want to be a vet.

Music

It seems I’ve fallen out of love with the hunt for new music lately. I’m not too worried though – we’ve fallen out before but always found each other again sooner or later. Music never bears a grudge.

The last time my love waned it was – and I really to hate to use this term – ‘Britpop’ that brought me back. Somewhere in 1994 I heard Alright by Supergrass and decided to turn the radio back on. I was rewarded with an abundance of gifts from a whole host of lovelies who I’m not going to name in case any of them read this and think they were my favourites. If you were listening to the radio back then you doubtless know who they are anyway.

I once said I would never get rid of any of my music collection but recently (partly to do with my THRIFT column) I gathered up some CD’s that I never really liked anyway and sold them all to MusicMagpie. With the proceeds, I bought a little machine that converts cassettes to MP3 format so now I can resurrect some of my old favourites before they disintegrate.

Still don’t think I could ever part with my old vinyl though. I guess that as you get older you take more risks with what music you buy than when you were younger and money was harder to come by.

The worst thing, musically-speaking, about getting older is that no-one makes you mix tapes any more. I was thinking of making an MP3 version and posting it here for you but it would probably break umpteen copyright laws so I’m chickening out. Battling with The Man isn’t something I want to waste time on.

Instead, I’m going to list a few random songs that I’d be quite happy to hear right now and if you feel like listening to a great tune that you’ve not heard in a while - or ever – you can get dearest Google to help you find it (the sound quality will probably be just as bad as a dodgy old C90!).

Motown blood - Mando Diao
Gangsters - The Specials
I feel love - Donna Summer
My heart beats faster than techno - Milky Wimpshake
Whatever - Oasis
Tightrope & Tell me - The Stone Roses (I do like to play the back-to-back game on a mix-tape)
Macy’s day parade - Green Day
I’m in the mood for love - Lord Tanamo
1am - The Subways
I feel the blues coming on & You are my sunshine - Hayden Thompson
Get busy - Sean Paul
Kansas City – Wilbert Harrison
Where did you sleep last night? - Nirvana
Jolene - Dolly Parton
Sort it out – The Caesars
Roller coaster by the sea - Jonathan Richman & the Modern Lovers
Would? - Alice in chains

There you go. Quite a short list really but it’s a start. And if you can think of any tunes that you think I shouldn’t miss out on hearing, please let me know. Particularly new stuff.

May Day

Pinch and a punch and all that… I forgot it was May Day today. The day when we should all choose something new to rebel against.

This tradition started for me 10 years ago when I was working with a bunch of morons who were moaning about the May Day anti-capitalist protesters. They were trying achieve something good for us all with their protests and I felt quite sad that I wasn’t out there with them. So instead, I thought I’d have my own little rebellion against ‘The Man’ and decided to ban McDonald’s from my life. Not that I went there very often anyway but I realised that by selling burgers for 59p they were pricing the little sellers out of the market and virtually forcing people on low incomes to feed them to their kids.

At the end of that day in May 2000, the police got a bit heavy-handed and riots kicked off so I decided never to join the protestors publicly but when I remember, I like to do something small in the fight against the greedy.

This year I’m going to ban Cadbury’s. Once one of the great English chocolate production houses supporting their community – now sold off to the Americans. And the Americans might make the best burgers in the world (excluding McDonald’s) and the best ice cream but they know nothing about how to make chocolate. Unless you like chocolate that gives you an aftertaste of fresh vomit.

So that’s it. No more Cadbury’s chocolate for me. Ever.

Vote for me

The UK election babble is all about policies this week. For Gordon Brown and David Cameron the first week was all ”…I agree with Nick”. The second week was all “…bloody hell! Didn’t expect that” but now they’re each having to persuade us what is special about them and their policies.

My original instincts about David Cameron and the Tories have become firm opinion. The majority of people in this country will not benefit under a Tory government and the already ginormous gap between the rich and poor will continue to grow.

I’m feeling more charitable towards Gordon Brown and his Labour gang. They’ve had a hard time of things recently and are taking the blame for financial disasters that had roots deep in Thatcher’s Tory days. I suspect that ‘the crunch’ would have happened whoever had been in charge of the country’s finances but I’m not even going to pretend I know how or why it all happened. Overall I don’t think Labour have done such a bad job over recent years. But don’t interpret my ‘not bad’ for anywhere near ’good’.

My vote is still for Nick Clegg and the LibDems. UK politics needs a boot up the arse and if the LibDems get in, hopefully that will kickstart real political reform.

As this week is all about policies I thought I’d make up a few of my own…

Tax
Everyone earning over £10,000 should pay the same levels of tax as everyone else. The only differences would be that the tax rate will be stepped in the following way…
£0-10,000 tax-free, £10,001-15,000 @ 15%, £15,001-20,000 @ 20%, £21,001-25,000 @ 25%, £25,001-35,000 @ 30%, £35,001-45,000 @ 35% and so on, up until a maximum tax rate of 80%.

The rate will be applied so that someone on the current average salary of £25,000 would pay no tax on the first £10,000, then three different tax rates on the remainder.

This system might be rather complicated for the accountants but I’m sure they’d welcome that sort of challenge and those working for the uber-rich would really be earning their money.

Unemployment
No-one would be allowed to claim unemployment benefit for more than six weeks. After that period, they would have to undertake some sort of work-place training or community service (a fairly endless choice of places would be available), for which they would receive the same payment as they got for unemployment benefit,  plus travel expenses. For agreeing to take on trainees, companies would receive 1% reduction in their business rates.

This training would be supported and monitored with progress reports and qualifications where applicable. Help would be given with job applications when a suitable standard of work was achieved. Companies would not be allowed to treat these trainees as cheap labour. Full child-care would be provided where necessary.

Crime
Hopefully this would drop dramatically with everybody busy working and learning new skills. Short-term sentences would be replaced with extra work hours and more training. ‘Do the crime – get over-time’.

Education
School will run from 9-5 daily, with morning and evening clubs for children whose parents work longer hours. Children will be tutored under a child-adapted version of Cesar Millan’s Dog Whisperer training method: exercise, discipline, affection. Learning will be fun. All parents will be given an extra day of leave each term to act as classroom assistant.

Healthcare
The NHS will have more funding where needed – particularly in areas of training. Any ‘waste’ that currently exists, will be redirected into any areas in need of extra help. Preventative healthcare would get a higher priority than at present.

Pensions
“I agree with Nick”. More research and discussion needed on this one. The tough question is: should someone who has worked hard all their lives but never earned enough to buy their own home - a nurse, for example – be denied the same standard of living in their retirement as, say, a bank manager? One has given more in care and helped to save lives – the other has contributed more taxes enabling the other to be paid for that work.

It’s a bit of a chicken and egg situation and I’m inclined to think that both should be given the same excellent care in their old age. I need to talk to the accountants to see what we can do.

Immigration
Let the illegals already here stay under an amnesty. It would be far too expensive and protracted to go through the legal hoops to deport them all. That said, the borders should be closed to any new non-EU people whose services UK society doesn’t currently need (excepting genuine asylum seekers).

Defence
Just think how much money would be saved if world leaders could agree to be nice to each other. I’m sure the war-mongering arms dealers wouldn’t stand for it though and would start to shit-stir, so I guess we’d have to keep the forces and a few weapons but I’d definitely try harder for a bit of global niceness.

So there you have it – my policies for the 2010 UK election (and in typical political-style, I reserve the right to change them as and when I please).

Surprisingly, I haven’t been invited to join the Leaders Debate this coming Thursday but if any of the big parties wish to copy my policies, feel free. Just remember where you saw them first!

A&E

“Was it an accident or did you do it on purpose?” asked the serious-looking assessment nurse with a strong Irish accent. It was one of those moments when you realise that there are so many completely barmy people in this world and that most of them spend a fair bit of time in hospitals’ A&E departments. Or maybe she was just looking at my file and noticed that it was my second visit since the month started.

The first time was an E – my brain decided to play mean tricks on my body. This time was definitely an A. I reached down to get a spare battery for my drill without noticing the steel wood-cutting bit pointing in my direction. All 12mm of the driving spike rammed into my hand just below the lower joint on my thumb. “Ouch!” would be an understatement. 24 hours later and I’m still finding blood-spatters all over the place. It was like the opening credits from Dexter.

My first A&E visit happened on Good Friday. I had to wait almost four hours and got to watch all of The Sound of Music with subtitles. This time my wait was comparatively short and I only got to skim a newspaper that was uncomfortably large for someone with a damaged hand. The broadsheet producers really should show more consideration for the disabled and the careless.

Now the puncture is dark and looks like a vampire has visited. The swollen skin around it is a subtle shade of blue. It hurts when I bend it and is stopping me from getting on with anything useful. Stopping me doing the job I was doing when the A happened.

If only I could turn back the clock until that moment just before skin hit metal and warn myself not to be such a numpty. But if I could do that I wouldn’t have fallen off my bike when I was seven - resulting in a stone being removed from my knee a year later. I wouldn’t have gone snowboarding or skiing – resulting in more damage to the ligaments in that same knee and I wouldn’t have tripped over the fallen road-works sign last month – resulting in my knee almost doubling in size and, despite spending the morning under a packet of rapidly-thawing sweetcorn, turning a colour resembling something like the inside of a blueberry muffin.

But there is no time-turner and the ancient saying ‘That which doesn’t kill us makes us strong’ springs to mind. My body says bollocks to that!

The election

Until recently, I’ve been dreading the election. For most of my voting life I’ve been a LibDem (or whatever they called themselves at the time) supporter but after Charles Kennedy was given the boot for being a bit too fond of the home-brew, their policies began to drift away from my own views. So for the past year or so, I’ve been listening to what all three top parties have been saying and consequently started to panic.

I’ve tried to keep an open mind during this time but it’s been hard. I grew up under a Tory government and felt (along with the majority of the British population, I expect) completely and utterly screwed by Thatcher and her band of evil weasels.

And going by the plane-grounding clouds of sulfuric, pumice-filled gas emanating from David Cameron’s mouth (don’t let anyone kid you that it’s fallout from the Eyjafjallajökull volcano), I don’t believe that the Tories have changed much since then. Thatcher’s greed culture is already showing itself in Cameron’s anti-Labour speeches about a “…class war on aspiration…”. Is he so ignorant of the fact that an enormous percentage of the population don’t share the Tory view that success in life means earning (or acquiring) more money than they can possibly spend and paying as little tax as possible? The Tories are only banging on about class because they know it’s still very much in existence and that as there’s far less of ‘them’ than there are of ‘us’, they have far more to lose if people vote within class boundaries.

But my favourite bit of David Cameron’s agenda is his aim to cut ’waste’ in public organisations. Anyone who has ever worked in a company of any description will know that cutting said waste usually ends up with the company spending more money than it saves and that it’s really just a game involving figures on a spreadsheet. Funny how he fails to mention the impact this waste-cutting will have on all the people who will lose their jobs. And their families. And the services and retailers who rely on their custom…

As for Labour, I feel their intentions were once fairly sound but they seem to have become increasingly distant from the people who voted for them when they won the election back in 1997. Perhaps this is what happens when a party has been in the top seat for so long – they all become institutionalised politicians, forgetting what it’s like to be a ‘real person’. It might go some way to explaining the fraudulent behaviour of those MP’s involved in the expenses scandal – and parliament’s ‘Scullions’ who encouraged such antics.

So back to the LibDems – certainly not perfect but, in my opinion, still the best of a bad bunch. Until the TV debate the other day I was facing the dilemma of whether I should vote for them or vote tactically for a party that I have little respect for in order to ensure that the other lot don’t get the job. Now, thanks to his performance (but not to his Jackanory-worthy anecdotes), the media are getting all excited, saying Nick Clegg is ‘almost as popular as Churchill’ and that the election is now going to be a three-horse race.

So let’s assume - based on past experience - that the majority of promises politicians make during election times are just spin or, at best, wishful-thinking. No-one knows what the future has in store and taxes will go up if needs be. Cuts will be made if needs be. Besides, isn’t it the Civil Service who run the country anyway? (I’m guessing here that Yes Minister was based on some pretty sound research). And if that is the case, does it really matter who gets the big chair?

If not, I suggest that we all take a risk and follow David Cameron’s advice to ‘Vote for Change’. Not Tory, not Labour but Liberal Democrat.

Thrift

Since New Year, I’ve been on a bit of a spending spree. I’ve not come into money or anything like that, it’s just that because there seems to have been something of a freeze by my flat’s leaseholders on their plans to do some exterior work (costing me an enormous lump that I don’t have) I decided to spend some of the money I’d saved on finishing doing up the inside of my flat and generally making myself happy.

It makes sense to me – after all, I could be squished under the 319 bus with the mean driver tomorrow. Plus it’s not as if my savings are earning much in the way of interest (which should probably be renamed more appropriately when it dips as low as it currently is).

I’ve also been on  a bit of a purge of all the excess baggage in my flat. I’ve donated an Ikea blue bag brimming over with clothes to the local Hospice shop – mostly barely worn or not-at-all. I sold bigger items on Ebay – including a guitar that I had one lesson on and a crosstrainer which I used for less than half an hour in total. I think I got more exercise (and fun) assembling it than I did using it. 

Now my flat is looking rather lovely and my cardigan wardrobe hung neatly in order of colour (believe me when I say this really is the only bit of order in my life!).  There are still a few little jobs to do but nothing major. At least, nothing that will cost me anything major.

Trouble is that even when there’s nothing I need or want, I do tend to spend money like there’s no tomorrow. And although that may be the case (as I do try to catch the 319 on a regular basis), as the last few months have seen my salary whittled down so much that it barely covers the bills, I really need to get a grip.

So this morning, when my credit card bill plopped onto the mat with a total about three times bigger than I’d hoped it would be and about twice what I thought it should be, I decided that I would try to have a month spending nothing that wasn’t absolutely necessary.

An easy decision. The hard part is going to be living amidst the battle between the thrifty bit of my brain and the much stronger part that always gets exactly what it wants. The Japanese Knotweed of grey matter which demands I eat whole bars of chocolate when one square would suffice. The part that keeps me rolled up in the duvet on a Sunday morning when I want to get up and the part that makes me stay glued to the sofa watching reruns on TV when the other part of me wants to go and do something more interesting instead. It’s going to be war and I need some weapons.

Of course the best weapon would be willpower but it seems Mother Nature didn’t bestow me with any of that. Nor self-determination or self-control. She did give me gluttony, self-destruction and self-deprecation though. Seems to me Mother Nature’s a bit of a mean old bag. Wouldn’t surprise me if she had a day-job driving the 319.

But anyway, I’m going to do my best – however not-very-good that may turn out to be. And please get in touch if you know of anyone who’s selling willpower on the cheap (or ‘Woof-Woof’, as The Sun probably calls it).

Fashion

Written in May 2009

Recently – probably because I made my usual annual mistake of buying a fashion magazine – I thought I should start weaning myself off wearing trainers and start dressing like a grown-up. So I bought some very lovely shoes, which are now sitting in the cupboard at home while my feet are lightly steaming under my desk in my old shell-toe trainers recovering from an assortment of blisters. The new shoes are lovely but I live in a city where the streets are bumpy, slippy and covered in crap – literally! Trainers are the most comfortable and appropriate thing to wear, so why do I feel I ought to wear something different? It’s not like I’m the only person in my age group wearing trainers.

This dilemma has been bugging me for a few weeks now but finally I realised what the problem is. It’s not that I’m dressing like a teenager, it’s that teenagers are dressing like old people.

Occasionally I see the odd punk but they’re just a bit sad – and they’re usually Italians just hanging on to the past because there’s no modern ‘cults’ for them to follow. I want to see something new. I want to see absurdly bad taste. I want to see something so bad, so laughable that I’d never dream of dressing like that myself. I want the equivalent of punk for the noughties. Instead all I see is matching ironed hair and ballet pumps on women from eight to eighty and blokes who just look… dull.

The most alarming look around is the ‘jeans hanging well below the bum crack’ look that some boys like to sport. And it’s only shocking because whenever I see it, I’m either fighting the urge to run up to them and yank their jeans down around their ankles or looking around in the hope that someone else will do it. I’m waiting for a shock that never happens.

I feel I’m now at the age where I should be looking at young people and being a bit disturbed by what they’re wearing – or at least surprised enough to have my eyebrow twitch. When I was young pissing off your parents was half the fun of shopping. Now it seems there’s no such thing as rebellion. Looking as ordinary as possible seems to be the look ‘the kids’ are going for these days.

So on Saturday, figuring if the kids won’t rebel maybe the adults ought to, I bought myself a new pair of Adidas Superstars. Gold ones.

Thought

Written in September 2008 – first published in May 2009

I think too much. You might think this is a good thing but I think you’d be wrong. Too much thinking is definitely bad. I wrote this article last September and thought I’d already posted it but it seems I didn’t. So you’ll just have to use your imagination and think it’s last September instead of now, otherwise you’ll think you’re in a time warp…

Even if I’m thinking about something totally abstract – for example I just saw a clip on TV of American Republican presidential running-mate, or whatever job title she has, Sarah Palin. For weeks now she’s been reminding me of a cartoon character and I just haven’t been able to think who it is. Yet every time I see her or hear her name, I start thinking ‘who the hell is it?’ Although in some ways this is a good thing, because while I’m thinking that, my head shuts off actually listening to what she’s saying or what anyone else is saying about her. And that’s a good thing because why should I waste my time considering her gibberish when I have no control over her future or not as one of America’s leaders? Despite working in a place full of Obama supporters, I couldn’t give a stuff who’s in charge of America next. Surely anyone’s got to be better than George Bush junior and one egocentric American loony’s pretty much like another so far as I can tell. But all that’s beside the point – where was I?

Oh yes, …even when I’m thinking about something abstract, my mind takes that thought in every direction possible. And what really annoys me is that even if that thought initially starts in a good place, the opposite argument soon raises its ugly head and before I know where I am, I’m feeling as glum as Murun Buchstansangur. So then I think, ‘how on earth did I get to thinking this?’, and I think about that for a bit and soon I’ve completely forgotten about what it was I was thinking about in the first place and make my head hurt trying to think what I was originally thinking.

I’ve tried not thinking – but have you ever tried not thinking? It’s impossible. The more I try to stop thinking, I find myself thinking about not thinking. Someone once told me to try meditation by thinking of a subject to concentrate on and then only thinking of things related to that subject. I picked snow as my subject. Snow boots, snow balls, snowmen, snow business like show business like snow business I know. But it was snow good – however hard I tried, my brain just wandered constantly through a list of mental images I was creating. Admittedly some nice images as I’m rather fond of the cold white stuff but hard as i tried I just couldn’t stop thinking.

In a moment of self-analysis and wondering where all this incessant thinking started, I remembered how as a child I couldn’t stand to eat meat. The fact that my mum usually overcooked it so it resembled shoe sole (sorry mum!) probably didn’t help but I used to chew it and chew it until it was just a bit of rank grey sinew that I just couldn’t bear to swallow. And I’d end up in tears, the last one at the table being refused pudding because I hadn’t eaten my meat. This is kind of how my brain works. I take every thought and chew it over until it’s just mental gristle.

The thing that frustrates me more than anything though, is having to live in a world where so many people hardly seem to think at all. One part of me envies them – their lives must be so much easier never thinking about things before doing them or analysing the things they’ve done afterwards. The other part of me hates their time-wasting stupidity and willingness to create needless tasks that could easily be avoided if only they thought more.

But despite the annoying stuff, thinking has its up-side too. My imagination is my favourite personal attribute. With it I can live any life I want and without it all I’d get is what the real world lets me have. And day-dreaming has to be one of the best ways to pass the time when you’re doing drudge tasks. Plus thinking about better, quicker ways to do essential but dull jobs means I have more time to think about what to do next. Or to think about who which cartoon Sarah Palin reminds me of – and I finally got it: Peggy Hill from King of the Hill. Google her and you’ll see what I mean.

Enough thinking for now. I’ll leave you with a little saying my sister always used to come out with whenever I said I was thinking about something – Thought thought his feet were sticking out of the end of the bed so he got out and went to have a look. Think about it.

Bodies

Written in October 2008

This last couple of weeks have forced me to be even more aware of my body than I usually am – which, as I’m a fairly normal woman, is pretty much.

I had a week off which started with a trip to the doctor that I couldn’t bear to put off any longer. Turns out I’ve got some form of tennis elbow – or ‘floor layer’s elbow’ as I prefer to think of it. Later that day, I very stupidly twisted a muscle in my back so a pain-killer cocktail was called for to give me a good day out at the seaside on Day 2. So there I am, walking on Brighton Pier. I take one bite out of a stick of rock and my tooth breaks. Actually not painful as I’d broken the same one so many times before that it’s more filling than tooth but still, my tongue wouldn’t leave it alone so I soon got an ulcer. Day 3 came and I couldn’t move. Hot baths, ibuprofen, paracetamol, codeine and a blanket on the sofa – total waste of a day (except I did get to re-read Comet in Moominland). Day 4 necessitated a trip to the dentist and as I was lying there trying to think about anything other than the fact that there was a drill in my mouth it occurred to me that I do an awful lot of harm to my body on a regular basis.

I constantly feed it crap. I rub it, scrub it, pluck it and coat it with chemicals (although not as many as my friend who recently pointed out that in the previous 24 hours she’d put over 30 different potions on her body). To top that off I do almost no exercise. Over the years I’ve abused it to the point of ridiculousness. I’ve fallen off bikes and scooters; up kerbs and down stairs. My body’s covered in scars from an assortment of ‘incidents’ – mostly my fault – and almost always has at least one bruise blossoming somewhere or other. Basically, when it comes to my body, I’m a lummox.

So as the drilling went on, I started to think about dogs (always the best thing to think about whenever stress levels rise). Dogs eat all sorts of crap yet I’ve never heard of one breaking a tooth. They jump all over the place but whoever saw a dog with a broken nose or even so much as a bruise? They run around on all surfaces yet the tips of their nails never seem to snap off painfully. And when was the last time you saw a dog clutching his head screaming for paracetamol? Sure, they get run over some times but it seems to take quite a lot to damage a dog. Human beings are total wimps in comparison.

On the tube home I started looking around me and playing a dog version of the tube game (for those who don’t use the tube: ‘If that person were a ………, what …….. would they be?’), and after I’d gone through the half-dozen people in my carriage, started to think about what dog I would be. No doubt I’d be a mutt. I’m built a bit like a Labrador; hair like a Springer Spaniel; intelligence: maybe a Jack Russell, and temperament: definitely a wilful terrier of some sort.

The thing about dogs though is that they don’t obsess about their bodies like we do. Letterboxes and hoovers maybe but self-image, no. I guess they have it easy in that they’re not surrounded by patisseries and supermarket aisles stacked high with sweets and biscuits like we are but still, I’ve never seen a dog turn away from a biscuit with a “no, I really mustn’t…” look on its face? Plus they don’t view a run around the park as exercise, it’s just fun.

So why is it just us humans who treat our bodies so badly yet are still so fixated with them?

People constantly point the finger of blame at the fashion magazines, but I don’t really think it’s them or those people who obsess to the point of absurdity and then project their bizarre ideas onto the rest of us (such as pube topiary and finger nail extensions). I blame the person who invented the mirror.

If mirrors hadn’t been invented, none of us would know what we really looked like. Maybe this is the reason why dogs aren’t concerned with image. If they look in a mirror, they don’t realise* it’s themselves that they’re looking at. And if you don’t know what you look like, you probably aren’t that bothered what anyone else looks like either. And besides, us humans with our over-inflated egos would probably just assume we were one of the better looking people anyway.

*This is just a guess – I’m sure Stephen Fry could point out otherwise.

Advertising

Written in September 2008

I used to love adverts. They’re like the ultimate in film-making – having to catch your eye, hold your attention and win you over in only a few seconds. But lately it seems the only products being advertised are insurance and anti-ageing cream and not only are these products mind-numbingly boring but their adverts are equally tedious. (And is it just a coincidence that both products are related to maintaining personal status quo?)

So what’s their excuse? My first thought was that maybe, along with everything else rubbish these days, it could be blamed on the Credit Crunch – the budgets of anything creative always being the first thing cut when the money gets tight – but adverts have been crap for ages now and this latest city-boy cock-up thing is fairly new. Anyway, times were hard back in the 70’s/early 80’s too but adverts were way better then than they are now. And surely ads must be so much cheaper to make these days with all the advances in technology? No, I’m convinced it can’t be the money thing. There are thousands – probably millions – of people out there making low-budget mini movies to paste-up on places like You Tube. Real creativity doesn’t need Spielbergian budgets and neither does a good advert designer need a fantastic product to inspire them – look at the old Pirelli advert where tyres save the world from ending. Great ad, dull product.

Could the lack of decent ads partly be the fault of political correctness? I’m sure the old Tango ads were removed because someone complained they encouraged happy-slapping; and would advertising agencies still be allowed to get away with images such as a hot bloke sitting in a launderette in his undies or is that now considered sexist? Or a naked babe in the bath teasing the end of a chocolate bar with her tongue? – Too lewd for the PC brigade? Neither of those ads make my top ten but they obviously worked. Sales of Levis soared and Flakes are still prominent on every sweetshop counter. But if political correctness is to blame, why is no-one shouting out in horror about the adverts for Renault and Money Supermarket, which both portray men as mindless numpties just sitting there (or standing) looking gormless while the missus takes charge? Is this an advertising lie that’s degrading to men or do statistics actually show that women in relationships make all the decisions while their men just nod along passively? And if so, what does that say about the state of the male population?

But that’s another subject and talking of nodding, I can’t write about advertising without getting off my chest my deepest loathing for Nadine Baggot - her of the Olay advert. The garbage spewing out of her mouth is fair enough, I’m assuming she didn’t write it herself and everyone has to pay the bills somehow but what really gets me – the thing that if I saw her in the flesh might give me a brain-ache so bad that I would have to batter her skull into a wall to alleviate my own pain – is her nodding. Nod, nod, bloody nod all the way through the advert. Why does she have to nod with every word? Is it some sort of subliminal thing and that the combination of words like ‘pentapeptides’ along with her nodding will brainwash us all into believing that Olay will work any better than any other face cream? Well call me contrary but Nadine Baggot has the opposite effect on me. I’d rather smear razorblade-loaded lard on my face than use Olay thanks to her and her wobbly head. And for the record – I have freckles, not ‘brown spots’!

Thanks to the lack of quality ads these days, some old adverts are revered way beyond the product they advertised and of course I have to mention the Smash advert here. Even people too young to have watched television back in the 70′s know that ad. People who never have and never will eat instant mashed potatoes know that ad. It certainly wasn’t a sexy product and was it high budget? I suspect not. A high budget advert would be that British Airways one from the late 80′s with all those hundreds of people in red, white and blue moving together to create a face/map. The logistics of making that must have been a nightmare – the queue for the catering van alone doesn’t bear thinking about – but it does seem to mark the end of grand budget advertising.

The last advert I heard anyone talking about with any excitement is the Cadbury’s one with the gorilla drumming along to a Phil Collins tune. This has to be one of the cheapest ads ever made – the royalties for the use of the song alone probably cost more than the hire of the monkey suit, drum kit and studio costs combined – but how depressing is it that an ad using a Phil Collins song became so popular? That advert says more about the current sorry state of advertising than I ever could. Quite frankly, when it comes to monkeys and marketing, I’d rather have a bowl of Coco Pops.

Lard

Written in September 2008

Really fat people make me sick. They waddle breathlessly around in their elasticated trousers taking up way too much space and looking generally repulsive. It’s just wrong!

Now before you get on your politically-correct high horse and call me a fat-fascist, remind yourself that we’re now in the noughties and ignorance about nutrition can no longer be used as an excuse. Obesity in adults is self-induced, caused by gluttony and a total lack of self-control. And how can obesity in children be seen as anything other than child abuse? Besides, it’s not as if I’m some skinny bitch pointing the finger – I am dangerously close to joining the bouncy castle brigade. Medically speaking, I am well into the overweight stripe on the BMI chart. Maybe that’s why I can’t stand fatties – it’s my own fear about what I’m so close to becoming staring me right in the face.

Despite all this knowledge we have about the medical problems being fat causes, it’s impossible to get away from fat people. If they’re not out there taking up too much room on the bus, they’re on TV – either being nagged at by Gillian McKeith (one skinny woman who looks so rough she actually has me reaching for the pies) or being told they look great naked by Gok ’I used to be fat too’ Wan. I don’t look that bad naked either – from the front in the right light and if I suck in and hoick up – but put some tight undies on me and turn me sideways… yeuch! Flab muffin is not good on anyone and neither are bingo wings.

But enough of all that. This isn’t just an anti-fatso rant or a bit of self-flagellation. The powers that be are always going on about the great burden to the National Health Service fat people add so I’ve given it some thought and come up with an easy-fix solution. It won’t require education of the masses or even self-control – this is a sure thing.

I’m proposing that food should be charged by the calorie: 1 calorie = 1p. Lard-arses like me who now happily skip lunch in exchange for a bag of Cheese & Onion and a Snickers would soon change our eating habits – we’d have to! Buy-one-get-one-free on all the crap that isn’t good for anyone will have to bog-off because when I rule the world a bag of crisps will be about £1.70 and a Snickers £3.23. In comparison, a big bag of salad would probably be about 30p. See where I’m going with this? Fairly fatless meat, most fish, veggies, loads of fruit… all would be cheap as chips – although that expression will have to change because the price of chips will become extortionate. Chocolate will need to be reserved for special occasions only and pies will be strictly blue moon stuff.

Following my regime, poor people would become slim and healthy. Kids would be able to run and play – and if the reports about low IQ and Attention Deficit Disorder being related to poor diets are true, they’d be brainier and better behaved too. It’d be fun to see how the rich people fared too. Lardiness would once again become a sign of affluence. Wouldn’t you just love to see Posh Spice waddling around in a pair of size 22 tracky-b’s?

I admit there is one big flaw in my plan and that is that it would cost your average person about £22 per day to eat a healthy balanced diet. Now this might be pretty much what most single city dwellers already spend if you include alcohol but it might be a bit steep for a single-income family of four. So as a concession, maybe complex carbohydrates could be supplied at a slightly reduced rate but only in their basic ingredient format. Nothing ready-made should be cheap. Just think how easy it would be to go on a diet. None of that endless weighing stuff and calorie-counting – you’d just have to take, say, £15 out in cash each day and just eat and drink until your money runs out.

But until someone-who-can takes my idea to the masses, we’ll just have to continue living in a world where junk food is the cheapest luxury available – and when many of us feel getting out of bed each day is the modern equivalent of facing a battleground we want a bit of luxury to help us keep our swords raised. Starbucks anyone?

Death

Written in August 2008

I saw a road crash yesterday. Actually what I saw was probably about three minutes after the moment when a motorcycle and large car collided on a cross-junction leaving the motorcyclist splattered over the road and the car driver wishing he hadn’t had that second glass of wine at lunch. (I’m being unfair here: I want the driver NOT to have been drunk. I’m just bitching because it was that it was that ‘late lunch’ time of day and people driving big cars in the city piss me off.)

I’m hoping the motorcyclist is ok but I wouldn’t put money on it. One man was pumping away at his chest and another looked like he was feeling for a pulse. The medics hadn’t arrived yet. I guess I’ll know in a couple of days when I walk by and see one of those ominous yellow incident signs that the police always put out.

It’s made me think how precarious life is. One minute you’re walking around worrying about DIY, work, sex and lunch (in no particular order) – next minute you’re dead.

First it got me thinking how pointless it all is. Then I blew off the gloom and thought how important it is to pack everything all in before your time’s up. But now I’m thinking, what if everyone in the world knew from the beginning how long they’d got? It would change so much. Such as, if you knew you were going to die at 22, would you bother going to school or struggling your way up the career ladder? Or even going to work at all?

Not me! I’d have run around trying to find a few more people with my same death date and convinced them that we should start some sort of band. It would be such a driving force knowing that you all had only so much time to make your mark before going out with a giant bang. Imagine if you were in a band of bank-robbers, knowing that police bullets wouldn’t be able to wipe you out until your official Dying Day.

And what if you were going to live to be 104? You could really pace yourself and chill out a bit; maybe choose a career path where it didn’t matter that you had to spend the first thirty-odd years studying all the time. And you wouldn’t begrudge putting that little bit extra away each month in your pension fund – you’d be sure of seeing every penny again, eventually. Plus you’d be more inclined to look after your body if you knew it had to hold out for that long.

Dating would take on a whole new twist. The romantics would want someone who would die on the same day as them; the cynical long-lifers would look for a series of cash-rich partners with a not-too-distant expiry date; and there’s bound to be a few weirdos who’d want to date people with only a few days left, just for the thrill of being around at the last moments.

The best thing about always knowing your death date would be that death wouldn’t be scary or sad any more because we’d all be so prepared for it. Perhaps almost looking forward to it. Although I’m thinking that ideally there should still be some element of surprise, so we shouldn’t know what time or how we were going to die, just the date. The excitement would be unbearable – in fact, that’s probably what would kill half of the population!

You could have a big Death Eve party to say fond farewells to those you loved and ‘up yours’ to those you didn’t. Instead of leaving stuff to people in your Will you could actually give it to them face-to-face. And imagine the thrill of getting to 23:59 on your Dying Day? How about getting together with all the other people your age due to die that day and doing something amazing? Obviously what people would find amazing will depend on their death age; a bunch of 6-year-old boys would probably be happy with cake and a bouncy castle. 96-year-old boys would probably prefer cake and a bouncy barmaid.

I’m sure I’m not alone in wondering about how much longer I’ve got. I’m hoping to be around for a fair bit still but not as long as might result in me sitting in a puddle of warm wee in an Old People’s Home. Although, I’ve just found out I have a small lump on my right ovary so maybe that’s the beginning of the end and I’ll peg it long before I get targeted by the Saga magazine people.

Either way, when my batteries finally expire, I want to be rolled up in my duvet and buried in the middle of a field beneath a coppiced silver birch tree. Anyone who might miss me should just mix themselves a large gin & tonic and listen to Whatever by Oasis. Cheers!
.
PS: Due to popular demand I would just like to add that a yellow sign never appeared in the road by the accident and my lump completely disappeared.

Me

Written in August 2008

In the past week, three people have asked me whether I need to be so ‘coarse’ in my writing. Two of these people were my parents and so I expected nothing less; the third was someone I knew to be a bit language-sensitive, but nonetheless, it made me wonder – am I a particularly coarse person?

I re-read my last column for the umpteenth time and couldn’t see one word or paragraph that I could have written differently that wouldn’t have changed the tone of how I feel about the whole circumcision issue. Anything else would’ve made it a purely academic exercise and I’m neither interested in nor good at that sort of thing – I took four attempts to get my English O level! (although I’m still stumped as to how I could have only been given a U for my excellent written observation about how you can tell someone’s personality from the contents of their shopping trolley.)

So anyway, there I was this morning, musing about whether I was coarse or not, while opening an Amazon package that I’d just collected from the Post Office. It was a book that I’d ordered ages ago but the publishing date kept getting pushed back and finally opening it somewhere near the front, the very first words I read were “I can feel a book coming on. You know, like when you get the first inclinations you might need a shit”. I laughed out loud. Then admitted, ‘Ok, I do have a slightly coarse sense of humour’.

Then that Orange advert started playing in my head. You know, the one where the voiceover guy says how he’s a product of all the people he ever met – his mum, his sister, his best friend, the teacher who always put him down, the one who encouraged him, and so on. And I thought, I could add to that all the places I’ve ever been, the books I’ve read, the TV I’ve watched, the conversations I’ve overheard, the pets I’ve cared for, the music I’ve sung along to… I am what I am because of everything I have ever seen, done, heard, tasted, felt or smelt. And I’m sure there’s at least one other sense I’ve missed there. What is that? Imagination?

Perhaps ‘coarse’ is how I sometimes come across, but maybe it’s simply a shell I’ve developed to protect my inner mush – a bit like a Locket – because inside I’m still the scaredy little child who glared defensively when, at five years old, a strange Scottish girl called Elaine turned up in my back garden telling me she’d come round to play; the same child whose heart broke into a million pieces two years on when Elaine moved away again. And I could give you shed-loads of violin moments between then and the time some years later when I came home from work one day and the man I loved looked at me coldly and said “Fuck! Is it that time already?”.

But that was then and this is now and I stand before you as an adult (physically if not mentally – and actually I’m sitting down but let’s not split hairs here). I’m not an academic and I very much doubt I’ll ever be awarded the this-that-or-other prize for literature, but I am a passionate person and I’ll continue to express myself exactly as the words choose to erupt from me. So I’m sorry if my language or sensibilities offend you in any way but let’s face it – if you’ve ever met me, then I am partly what YOU made me.

The book referred to here  is 17 by Bill Drummond.

Circumcision

Written in August 2008

Last week saw the start of the circumcision season in parts of Kenya. A period when certain tribes round-up young men and forcibly remove their foreskins without anaesthetic or sterilized cutting tools. It’s viewed there as a rite of passage and any man who avoids the knife becomes an outcast.

This year, as if to add justification to the event, some people are banging on about World Health Organisation info that being circumcised can help stop men catching AIDS if they have sex with an infected woman. So there are millions of men out there who heard that headline only and now think it’s safe for them to have unprotected sex.

Most of the people I work with come from countries or cultures where circumcision is the norm, so in discussions about how we cover this story, I’m pretty much alone in putting forward the case that medically unnecessary circumcision is mutilation. My colleagues say ‘it’s tradition’ and ‘it’s for religious reasons’, yet no-one can actually tell me why. They seem to think that ‘because it’s always been done’ is a good enough excuse – and they laugh at me for so vehemently trying to fight for the cause of a little flap of skin that I’ve never had anyway.

“Why?” I asked. “Why did it ever become normal to cut off foreskins?”. “Whose bright idea was it to one day look at a naked man and think ‘that bit of skin isn’t doing much, let’s chop it off’?”. Despite all their knowledge and bible-reading not one of my colleagues could tell me. So I did some research (okay, I Googled for a bit) – and still I’m none the wiser as to why circumcision came into being or became so widespread.

The most common reason my hunting unearthed is to stop men from enjoying masturbation – but why in these modern times would anyone want to ruin that little pleasure? Playing with yourself is about the only real joy in life that costs absolutely nothing and does no-one any harm. Besides, a couple of circumcised men I know told me that a personal polish is still enjoyable for them – although how would they know what they’re missing out on when they were snipped as babies so have nothing to compare? And surely a circumcised wank can’t be as good as an uncircumcised one or those joy-killing fore(skinless)fathers would have put a stop to circumcision long ago.

Even more bizarre than this mutilation for religious or traditional beliefs is, is the American view that a circumcised penis looks better and is cleaner.

One of the most ridiculous bits of TV I ever saw is that scene in Sex and the City when Charlotte sees an uncircumcised dick for the first time, wrinkles up her face and complains to her friends that “…it looks like a Shar Pei!”. No it doesn’t you silly tart – it looks like a penis! And then the guy in question goes and gets circumcised because apparently other women have also looked shocked by his un-cut member. Am I the only person in the world who thinks this is absolutely bonkers? To get part of your knob cut off just because it looks the way it ought to?

A penis isn’t a handbag – it’s not meant to look pretty. It’s for peeing out of when it’s soft and for willing individuals to bounce around on when it’s hard. If you want pretty, buy a bunch of flowers. As for the argument about cleanliness – a dick’s only as clean as its owner keeps it, circumcised or not.

If you’re a man reading this and you have your tackle in tact, I say “Well done you!” Hang on to your foreskin (feel free to slip your own jokes in here) – and if any stupid woman (or man) ever tells you they’d rather you didn’t have one, tell them to go screw themselves and find yourself someone who appreciates your penis as nature made it.

Art

Written in July 2008

 

Wandering around on the top terrace of the Hayward Gallery the other day I came across an odd-looking building made out of chipboard and plywood. Inside, a film had just started and some guy on-screen was saying that someone else had “always wanted to bury a building” and for that fleeting moment as my friend and I pushed past the other viewers and settled down to watch, I thought what a great idea that was. I could just see it; a small detached house like the sort that kids draw – perhaps one that had just been left for the day, washing-up still in the sink, clothes drying on a rack – you know the sort of thing. There it was in my mind, earth falling all around it, encapsulating it in a cocoon of damp darkness like a time capsule being left there sleeping to be discovered centuries later.

 

But that was where the daydream was brought abruptly to an end. The building in question was not a carefully chosen house, but just a crumbling wooden lean-to that happened to be redundant and on-hand in the grounds of Kent State University where Robert Smithson had been invited to create something. And he didn’t bury it either – just pushed a heap of soil over one end until it could no longer take the weight. Then he titled it Partially Buried Woodshed and gave it a price tag of $10,000 or so.

 

Now as someone who rarely finishes anything, I know an unfinished project when I see one. Did Robert Smithson simply run out of time or inclination? Who knows? What I do know is that if Smithson was just some random student, the shed project in question would never have been mentioned again, let alone have a gaggle of academics spouting verbiage about its importance in the history of the world and all that crap forty-odd years later.

 

In an effort to resist a Tourettish outburst and stop my arteries bursting open and spattering the carefully jigsawed woodwork, I let my mind drift off into the structure surrounding us and recalled one of my earlier visits to the Hayward Gallery. Back in the late 1980′s I was a first year art student, studying sculpture out in the sticks. Our tutors had declared it of ‘utmost importance’ that we do a group trip to London to see the Rodin exhibition. They marched us painfully slowly round the show, verbally masturbating all over each piece. Now I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been into figurative works of art. To my mind, even the most boring live person is infinitely more interesting than one made out of bronze or painted onto canvas (although thinking back, perhaps my college tutors were the exception to that rule).

So anyway, sticky with pseudo-intellectual ejaculate and under the pretence of needing the loo, I escaped to the top floor to find out what The Boyle Family were all about.

Now you’ll have to forgive me if I get their thing a bit wrong but from what I gathered, The Boyle Family had thrown a dart in a map, then got a larger scale map of the area where the dart hit, then thrown another dart and gone to that place and picked a piece of the land to make an exact copy of it out of resin.

I wandered around looking at these casts and fell completely arse-over-tit in love. It was an epiphany. As a kid growing up in the countryside, I’d spent many a happy hour with my face pressed to the ground watching ants and daisies and stuff but not once had I actually looked at the land simply to see what it looked like – colours, textures, patterns, composition and all that. Now here I was, staring at it on a gallery wall like I was a just-landed alien looking at a planet for the first time and thinking it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

I skipped back to my group, high on my newly-discovered knowledge but when I tried to share it, my tutors looked at me as if I’d just smeared dog crap on their precious Rodin and whisked us all out of the gallery faster than you can spit.

Twenty years on and not a day goes by when I don’t look at the land beneath my feet and get something back from it. And it’s not just visual things either but history and sociology and so much more than my limited vocabulary can describe. Random stuff like reflections of trees in puddles and looking down at Oxford Street from the top of a bus, counting the numbers of gum spits per paving slab and noticing how much more concentrated they are at the Marble Arch end.

I don’t need art buffs or price tags to tell me what I ought to be looking at and neither do you. Art is everywhere we look and is everything we look at – but maybe we need to see it in a gallery once in a while to remind us.

Psycho Buildings is on at the Hayward Gallery until 25 August 2008. My favourite piece was Rachel Whiteread’s Place (village).