Town Is Full Of Stars

Evening readers. How was your weekend? Enjoyable I hope. As the ol’ grindstone is turning into another week and free time is confiscated for another four days; has anyone else noticed that there are less people ‘out and about’ at the weekend? I’m not sure whether it’s January blues, better central heating or larger petrol receipts which are causing this trend, but I don’t like it.

Walking through town amid the hustle and bustle of weekend revellers and tweenage shoppers is something I hate to love. The manly man in me hates shopping and queueing and going to shops I’ve already visited...that hour, but the inner European in me loves people watching.

Seeing how couples, teenage cliques, retirees and under-the-thumb dads behave in public is the only theatre I adore and it’s Wicked viewing. See what I did there?...Anyway, January used to be filled with miscellaneous bargain-hunting vagrants and people using shopping as an excuse for taking the kids out for some exercise (before an evening take-out pizza and sitting in front of X-factor for three hours...Score!) But now, I feel a melancholy interwoven with the glistening frost of a new and potentially tempestuous year. This is not the ‘winter of our discontent’ our elders have clichéd and forewarned us about, but the signs of things to come.

The best thing about my bedroom (besides my ever-growing collection of Swedish low-cost furniture) is the south-facing window. Seeing the flicking of aeroplane lights on their way to and from Bristol airport and being offended by the harsh low winter sun are definitely worth the price of seeing the orange sky; a suburban phenomenon caused by street light ambience reflecting off the snow covered skyline. 

The reason I mention all of this is because the thing I love most about having a south-facing window is the stars. The stars aren’t soppy or celestial, they’re real and charming...you feel close to them, they make you smile, annoy you, change your perspective - the same way as the cute girl in town, the annoying sales person in the Orange Shop or the over-gentlemanly veteran in Debenhams. These are the people I miss  seeing out and about on the weekend:  The members of the public who make you wince, smile, cry and blush.

So if you wish to contribute to the so-called ‘big society’ which Mr. Cameron went on about, don’t feel you need to volunteer or martyr your skills - just amble about your local town for a bit on a Saturday and add some flavour to the social food-processor of life. Who knows who you might meet, or what fun might be had? 

(Avid readers - please do not hold it against me that Monday’s post is technically issued on Tuesday. Kind regards, yours truly)

Laughing at Latin

Afternoon all. Yesterday my work colleague told me some good news. His contract has been extended for another six months. This is good for two reasons. Firstly, I never like to see a good man unemployed and secondly, he proved a point I’ve been preaching to people for years. In life you make your own luck.

After being introduced to my (boss’ boss)² [you’ve gotta love the corporate hierarchy] my colleague briefly explained to him what work he was doing and now the chief guvna’ has decided that he is indispensable. If he had just shaken his hand and kept quiet, or been sick that day; he’d be on the scrap heap next month. It proves that if you work hard, meet people and keep your wits about you, you’ll be entering the workplace ‘flop’ with Ace-King rather than Jack-sh*t. 

Whatever your hopes, dreams, ambitions or national insurance number, the ability to get along with a wide spectrum of people and to have a sense of humour are paramount in today’s society. With this phrase ‘social mobility’ being thrown about like some journalistic beanbag, how easy is it to make your own way along the yellow brick road to red shoes and stardom?

The current ‘meritocracy’ that we have today (the idea that life’s rewards are awarded through merit) is partially true but notably not so in major British institutions. Legal, the Church of England, and most notoriously contemporary politics are becomings ‘boys-clubs’ which don’t seem to be accessible enough to inspire a new generation of hopefuls to ‘get on board’. Political heavyweight Andrew Neil writes: “Half the cabinet went to fee-paying schools - versus only 7% of the country - as did a third of all MPs....Top Labour politicians are less posh than the Tories or the Lib Dems but they are increasingly middle-class, Oxbridge-educated and have done nothing but politics.”

The problem isn’t that they’re bad politicians per se, they’ve all worked hard, are experienced and have earned enough public respect. The problem is that for all their merits and first-rate education - none of them have the sense of humour that’s required in any workplace or have the so called ‘common touch’ to be able to relate to anyone who hasn’t read Latin or subscribes to the FT. 

I didn’t mean for this to come out as some anti-establishment rant; I’m thankful that I live in Gloucestershire and not Grozny. It’s just frustrating to see people in the public eye without the ability to take the p*ss out of themselves and not being able to enjoy simple pleasures. (I somehow can’t imagine Clegg and Cameron playing Jenga whilst watching Friends on e4 and drinking cider out of a box...but if they did, BBC Parliament would be infinitely more watchable!)

So there we have it everyone. Some simple advice: Go out, chat to people, do things, laugh lots, live freely, and for Pete’s sake, Carpe Diem.

Too Much Cognac Makes Jong Ill

Evening all. It struck me on the morning commute how surprisingly powerful subliminal advertising is. I’m not talking about hidden messages when you play records backwards at 45rpm, or the arrow in the FedEx logo (yeah I know, I didn’t notice it either for about 21 years). I’m talking about explicitly naming brands within songs. 

The joys of driving to work via Shurdington village is that the fifteen sets of traffic lights give you ample time to ponder all sorts of useless trivia. I soon came to realise between the permian and triassic ages which occur between red and yellow that Hennessy brand Cognac (of which I am a fan) is mentioned by name in a shockingly large number of rap songs which I have been exposed to (probably the reason why I’m a fan). This isn’t me just making it up. It’s so true...it’s even on Wikipedia. Tupac Shakur, Sean Paul, Fifty Cent, Eminem, Dr Dre, Three Six Mafia...the list of Hennessy Cognac advocates is extensive albeit misogynistic. I don’t claim to understand why this particular brand of an unpopular liqueur is so popular with commercial rappers, I’m guessing it’s only because it rhymes with more words than ‘Courvoisier’ or ‘Remy Martin’?!

Rappers and ‘gangstas’ propagate a life in which they’re surrounded by homies, guns, mansions, bitches and bling but they ain’t got nuffin on North Korean leader Kim Jong Il. 

 “So if you never call me I'll be somewhere down in Tennessee

Washing away my sorrows in a cold cup of Hennessy.”

If this is the best you can do gentlemen, you so called ‘poets of the street’, you better pick another beverage to market; not only because the rhyme is shoddy but because the etiquette is aaaallllll wrong. Brandy should be sipped at one’s leisure and consumed from a well rounded glass and held; to ensure that it is warmed to room temperature thus magnifying layers of flavour for the palette. It’s prestigious Cognac not Um-Bongo you Philistines. And also...one cup? Pffft, you can tell they were never undergraduates. Mr Jong-Il (this is where the colloquial expression “illin” should’ve come from) imports $800,000 worth of the stuff a year. A fact which moves him from being associated with ‘despots’ and more with ‘man-points’.

So the next time you see a rap video with some half-naked delinquent ‘pimping’ it, pretending to look tough; remember that a 5’ 2” haggard-looking man in big glasses outdrinks him, has a DVD collection 20,000 strong and controls the lives of 24 million people. Less ‘keeping it real’ and more ‘living the dream’. 

I must add here that I do not advocate North Korea’s foreign policy, or its existence for that matter. I do however hold the belief that marketing should be left to professionals and that rappers should start using words like ‘subsequently’, ‘lobotomy’, and ‘hysterectomy’ instead of tarnishing a great brand’s image. To be fair, if Eminem manages to rhyme the word hysterectomy in his next single I’ll buy him a bottle of Cognac and take it all back.  

(In regards to my previous post; the honourable mention goes to Mr D Harris who suggested GIN Stefani.)

Getting Mugged By Wayne Rooney

I’m going to come clean. I was planning to write an article stating why Premier League footballer’s wages and banker’s bonuses are great to have in the UK at this time. (Basically, a drudgingly obvious article about how the Treasury gets 50% tax on most of it and it’s better that our government had it, than someone else’s....like ‘ze Germans’.) Then, whilst casually checking my email, Yahoo (yes, I am still in 1998) prompted me to read  this article  which, if you can’t be bothered to read it - outlines that numerous footballers, most famously Mr Rooney are evading paying top-rate tax by calling themselves ‘brands’ and are being taxed on their ‘image rights’ rather than by their actual weekly paycheques: Paying Georgey Osborne’s piggybank about 20% rather than 50% of their pocket money.

This aggravated me twofold. Firstly, it spoilt the subject of my article which I had been planning in my head for a matter of minutes. And secondly, because who actually sees Wayne Rooney et al as brands? My closest friend Joe Public and I mocked (albeit with a loving patronising quality) Stuart ‘the brand’ Baggs on this year’s saga of Britain’s Got the  Business Acumen Factor...sorry, I mean The Apprentice. But who’s mocking Wayne and his chums? 

If he is a recognisable brand like Nike or McDonalds, then why isn’t his face on my trainers or why aren’t I chewing on his buns...actually, don’t answer that. If Wayne really wants to defend his position as being classed as a ‘brand’ to HM’s Revenue & Customs,  then surely he could audition to be the new face of Starbucks! Cracking idea Gromit! Now that the American coffee giant feels itself so big that it doesn’t even have to name its own products, maybe Wayne’s face can replace the relatively abstract green girl, doll...mermaid....thing. If anyone knows what it is, answers on a postcard please.

Maybe that really is the idea to cutting down the British people’s reliance on overpriced caffeinated beverages? Put an undesirable face on the container, and give it a cool, cruelly sadistic name; par example ‘mug on a mug’! Bingo! British people save money and get their coffee at work, independent shops reclaim our high-streets and our heart palpitations disappear. Hazzar! They’d probably give Mr Rooney a Peerage for services for public health you know...especially if they extended the ‘mug on a mug’ range to alcoholic beverages. Binge drinking would disappear from public life faster than a hen party can shout “get it down you zulu warrior”.  Would you buy as many drinks if you had to look at an ugly face whilst consuming them? What’s more...you could have appropriately celebrities on their namesake bottles: Janet Street PORTer, Amy WINEhouse, this stuff writes itself. 

Before I’m either sued or put in charge of the NHS for this ground-breaking idea, I would like to thank you all for reading these incredibly ad hoc thoughts and for your continued support. 

PS: If anyone can think of anymore ugly-celebrity-alcohol-name puns, let me know and the best one will get an honourable mention.


PPS: Courtesy and copyright goes to Reuters for the picture.

Playing Scrabble With Cats

Is there anything more frustrating than being addicted to a computer game which isn’t a social phenomenon? I mean, if you say “I can’t stop playing Angry Birds on my iPhone” or “I’ve played World of Warcraft for 45 days over the last year” then you’re usually greeted by a resounding “OMG! I know!” Or something of the like by fellow tech-savvy friends. But what about the likes of us who are compelled to play games which aren’t marketing and media causes célèbres?

With Zynga’s Facebook-based FarmVille game totalling more than 80m active users, it begs the question as to how many people are playing (and therefore addicted to) less popular games, some of which are on social networking sites. Maybe all of us are addicted to a game (or in my case three) but keep it quiet as if it’s some sort of filthy habit. I would much rather my hypothetical children were addicted to Bejeweled than Meth-amphetamines...although I’m guessing it wouldn’t do much for their street cred or future careers as bohemian artistes. I seriously doubt Russell Brand’s anecdotes would be as self-deprecating or as funny if his ‘fix’ was five levels of marble-based arcade game Peggle rather than heroin.

In an ever-increasingly post-modern society, whereby we’re projecting our identity through our clothes, music choices, cars, pets et cetera, is an increase in ‘casual gaming’ the newest way of putting the ‘social’ into ‘social networking’?

With traditional board games seeing a revival in recent years and reporters quick to point the finger at it being down to “austerity” and “value for money” in a world filled with Chinese-imported plastic tat; I would argue that this new surge in enthusiasm is down to the availability of online versions of the game on Facebook et al. I have played Scrabble with strangers, my girlfriend and my mum for the last four years and we have never unfolded a board or picked out a tile from a cloth bag. I assure you it’s just as fun, but without the hassle of having to coordinate the personnel to the same dining room table, or as it is with my family - like trying to herd cats.

I for one hope that social networking improves in it’s security, its adaptability and potential to bring joy to the lives of many, be it through playing Uno, Scrabble, Bejeweled, Zuma, Pool, Boggle or Tetris with like-minded people across the world. So please do your part in promoting positive international relations - play games with strangers, enjoy it and have fun in the games you loved as a child. Make Marcel Proust and The United Nations proud.

I would like to use this sentence to give due copyright to all trade names used, and to remind my girlfriend that it’s her go on Scrabble.

Steinbeck in Wetherspoons

Like most people in the UK, I am in a job which I am paid too much to leave, but not enough to care. The life of a contractor is one of the subtly oppressed, none of this ‘squeezed middle’ rhetoric. As more and more large companies try and reduce their headcounts by hiring contractors rather than permanent staff, they’re actually spending more money to be seen to have a reduced workforce. In today’s ‘economic climate’ (is this the same as this ‘climate change’ I’ve been hearing a lot about?) sick-pay and severance pay have become the holy grails of modern employment. A higher hourly rate has replaced the benefits and pleasantries of being part of a workplace and alas, the level of camaraderie once demonstrated in British offices has diminished rapidly. Why should you be asked in an interview about your ability to be a ‘team-player’ when you’re working for yourself, charge by the hour, and can leave with a week’s notice?

Employment agencies provide a great service to graduates and school leavers alike in helping them find their feet on the proverbial career ladder (my ladder feels like one protruding from a Royal Navy search & rescue helicopter, and I’m the poor Scottish trawlerman being thrown about in a force eight gale). But agencies’ prerogative is to put pieces in the jigsaw for commission and bonuses; not to care about such trivialities as your ethical values, employee happiness, or your career progression.

The more I think about employment history, the more I believe that history is inevitably repeating itself. John Steinbeck famously documented the lives of drifters, casual labourers and who I would call the contractors of their day. The 500,000 Americans that lived in the covers of The Grapes of Wrath, as proclaimed President Truman, worked their hands to the bone for $50 a week, to eek out a hedonistic pleasure and upturn Maslow’s hierarchy.

“You give me a good whore house every time...A guy can go in an’ get drunk and get ever’thing outa his system all at once, an’ no messes. And he knows who much it’s gonna set him back.”

This quote from Of Mice and Men sounds like any pub or club on a Friday or Saturday night right? Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Quaker or Methodist Superintendent of the Fun Police; but working for five days to blam it all on overpriced sugar and fermented-potato based beverages and then purge them out of your body the following morning isn’t exactly clever or sustainable is it? Week after week after week, on holidays, birthdays and Christmas, blue-collared folk turn blue with hangovers then have the audacity to claim they don’t get paid enough. If I’ve seen you order four pitchers of ‘Woo-Woo’ at ‘Spoons then you’ve clearly got more money than sense....or taste for that matter.

The workforce I feel will always remain in this state of ‘get-cash-and-get-smashed’ whether on Steinbeckian whore houses or bottles of Hooch in Wetherspoons. Long may it continue as the poor’s alcohol duty is currently the main provider to the NHS of both revenue and in-patients. By God, I love Britain.

Dog Walking with a Hummer

Walking the dog is one of life’s great pleasures. Fresh air, the glorious Gloucestershire countryside, the camaraderie of fellow dog walkers, you name it. Do I do it everyday you ask?...In a word....no. The reason is not because I am lazy or irresponsible (I carry so many poo-bags on me, that I rustle more than a bag of Hula Hoops) but because my dog like many others, despises other dogs. The patience my lovely Labrador shows when being down-trodden and climbed-on by my 3 young nieces fails to appear when she’s wearing her lead. The red cord that binds us for 20 minutes is far from umbilical when we enter a a public environment as I try to break her line of sight to the Collies or Greyhounds who are frolicking freely like something out of a Disney classic. ‘Walking’ is generally more of an amble which sometimes bursts into 20 seconds of jogging when the puppy Malamute from the next cul-de-sac appears with its cute (albeit infuriating) inquisitive nature. Unlike many people, I don’t have a set route per se, I just tend to evade other dogs, but if you imagine the Volkswagen logo within a trapezoid, you’re probably halfway there.

I don’t know if you’ve ever conversed with a fellow dog-walker, but they really are a mixed bag of nuts. “Can you put it on a lead please love, I don’t want it to get eaten” is often received with a quizzical glare only before seen on John MacEnroe’s game-face. They call their sweetums back only after my Lab tugs enough to jerk my 16st frame...wise move.

Although, if one was to leave their dog off the lead, hypothetically, and it came up to the pair of us, and it did get bitten; why should I be sympathetic? I warned them, and they didn’t listen. Moral Highground 1 - German Shepherd 0 for all I care. For many people, their dog is a self-projected image of their class or status, like their car. If someone left the handbrake off their family saloon, you let them know in a polite fashion and they cared not to listen, why should you feel sorry for them when it crashes into a Hummer. I stand by that simile - not because I feed her petrol (please don’t call the RSPCA), but because she’s bigger than she needs to be, physically tough and is misunderstood by the general public.

But like other things misunderstood by the majority of the public, most notably global warming and grammar, my black lab is here to stay. So for those of you with your Prius-Pooches and your Honda-Hounds, good on you. Save petrol and keep on walking.