RANT

Give me a parachute. No, make it two.

2010-10-13T20:52:00.000+01:00

Once upon a time in a land not that far, far away people the world over could produce exciting and innovative work. They could push the boundaries of their imagination and create works of great joy and vision for all to behold. But then a dark, dark figure appeared on the horizon. His shadow cast far and wide and the world cowered in his wake. The Dark Lord of Accountability had arrived and proceeded to use his evil powers to grip the world in fear.

No longer would we need to think beyond the obvious, or be challenged by an idea. No more the sweet nectar of the untried, the surprising or the fantastical. Under the watchful eye of their dark master the tick box tickers would rule the world.

Management teams, focus groups and members of every department would have to agree on every aspect of every idea produced and should just one man, woman or child be less than convinced then the whole sorry idea shall be strangled and choked until every last drop of oxygen has drained from its body and left a quivering wreck of what might have been.

From that day forth we had to ensure that every backside was covered, every reputation left untarnished and every career left unthreatened. If there was the slightest chance of offence, then a safety net must be offered. Any possible chance that an imaginary sub set of society will not understand an idea unless it is spelt out in language so clear a two year old could get it then a back-up plan must be offered. And if, God forbid, there was any sign of the idea being even remotely memorable, engaging or effective then in the name of all that’s holy we should offer an alternative so safe it would make a Volvo look like a motorbike made of axes.

Brief (pending approval)

2010-10-08T16:17:00.000+01:00

The world seems to have gone process mad. In keeping with this I have put together a brief to help re-introduce a little sanity. I have distributed it, following the correct procedures, and it has now come back with a few requested amends from the ‘team’.

Why are we communicating?

We are communicating because a large percentage of the working population are sick and tired of process driven, top down, time inefficient, ego massaging nonsense. People would like to get on with their jobs in the most effective manner possible and be treated with the respect they have spent their career earning.

Not right. We are communicating to reinforce the brand message that systems equal success. Remember, ‘Lots of cooks make the broth better.’ Please revise.

What are we trying to communicate?

We are tying to communicate that if we all stop and think things through clearly and without prejudice we can make the working process easier, more efficient and then everyone will feel happier and the end results will be better.

Not right. We would like to communicate that the obvious answer is the best answer. We need to get across that employees shouldn’t question anything, but simply follow procedure to produce average work that is easy to sell.

Who is our target audience?

Our target audience is anybody who has an ounce of common sense.

Not right. This is way to general, be more specific. Try something like this.

Our target audience is Peter. Peter is a Caucasian, dark-skinned male from the south west of England, somewhere near Yorkshire. He guards his age but is somewhere between 21-55. He has forged a successful career in the IT/public sector, working as a higher, intermediate managerial administrative clerical worker with developed manual skills. He is as happy fixing a car as he is seeking spiritual enlightenment at the weekend. He is single but in a long-term relationship. He has no children but lots of nephews and nieces who he dotes on like a parent. He likes beer, wine, spirits, abstinence, sport of any kind, driving, walking, reading all books and likes watching any type of TV programme or film as long as it is entertaining/informative, action-packed, romantic, long or short. He is hard nosed and takes no prisoners, but has a soft spot for the weaker members of society.

This type of specific targeting will help us connect better with the target audience.

What is the best way to communicate this?

Talking to each other.

Not right. Let’s not simply talk to ‘each other’, be more ambitious. Let’s talk to our key demographic who are ABC1CD2 high/low achieving, independently minded but easily led decision makers with personality variables. Consider other media. How about a facebook campaign or a hilarious but corporately relevant and correctly branded viral video?

Requirements.

Some common sense.

No, no, no. We need a series of meetings with various members of the team at different times and to ensure the whole process is as drawn out, unproductive and frustrating as possible. Only by utilising this important corporate tool will we be able to meet the demands of today’s business model.

Timings

ASAP

Unrealistic. Some time before the financial year-end.

Too much information

2010-10-06T17:52:00.000+01:00

Just recently I deleted over two and half thousand unread emails from a couple of my accounts. That’s two and a half thousand useless and completely redundant pieces of information that will never be read, never be looked at and never be acted upon. The contents were so pointless, banal, dishonest or self-serving that they didn’t even warrant the physical exertion of a click on the delete button until that point. However, all that has happened is that they have now been replaced by several hundred more messages of digital nothingness. At some point I will have to spend another hour or so of my life deleting them all, only for more to arrive and so the whole sorry cycle will continue until I have a mental or nervous breakdown, throw my computer out the window and start living my life as a hermit underneath a motorway bridge with just cheap cider, cardboard boxes and vermin for company.

However it’s not just emails telling me that a network problem in Budapest has been resolved, Voyage holidays have a fantastic sale on, I am entitled to claim back thousands of pounds on an accident I don’t remember having, lots of single women are just waiting to meet me or that I can extend the length of my penis. No, life is just one long succession of pointless messages being fired at me like some kind of scattergun shit spreader. Do I really need to know that MFI still have a sale on (when don’t they?), or that my Chicken Tikka Masala needs to be served hot? Do I need to know that my local councillor has fixed a pot hole in the road, an X Factor contestant has had a hard life, Katie Price has never been happier, Katie Price has never been sadder, objects in the rear view mirror may be closer than they appear, my cup of tea ‘may contain traces of nuts’. Do I really need to be told to look left? Look right. Buy now. Pay later. I really don’t want to be poked by a friend of a friend of a friend. Who cares that M & Ms melt in your mouth not in your hand, Friday night is music night, a duck’s quack doesn’t echo, cats like Felix like Felix or that Christina Aguilera doesn’t know where the Cannes film festival is being held.

Add to this the ever-increasing mediums for all this information. Once upon a time there were three TV stations. Now there are thousands that are either repeating what was once shown on the three channels that used to be enough, or trying to entice us into an inevitable downward spiral of despair that is the world of TV poker/bingo or online shopping. As for the printed word, we are now drowning under a tidal wave of paper covered in more shit than an alcoholic’s boxer shorts. Just to add to the data diarrhoea, you are now nobody unless you have your own celebrity magazine. Oprah Winfrey and the likes of Gordon Ramsey, Rio Ferdinand and Jamie ‘I’m so sincere and good, really I am’ bloody Oliver all have their own magazines. Who the hell reads a Jamie Oliver magazine? Contents: Jamie’s recipes. Jamie’s gossip. Jamie’s advice page for sad fat people who like Pizza and chicken nuggets. Jamie’s driving tips and Jamie’s spot the odd one out between Jamie, Jamie, Jamie and Gordon.

Being a Dickhead's cool.

2010-09-10T17:06:00.000+01:00

Strongbow offers some financial advice.

2010-09-03T12:37:00.001+01:00

Notes to an advertiser

2010-08-16T17:55:00.000+01:00

A few comments from somebody who works in advertising, but also remembers they are a member of the public.

1) Tomorrow’s technology today, is by its very essence, today’s technology today.
2) Innovation does not have a human face. And if it did, I’m sure it would be a very smug one that deserves a slap.
3) You are not freedom. You are not strength. You are not technology. You are not such stuff as dreams are made of. You are an overpaid actor talking nonsense from a script and selling your soul for the Yankee dollar. Bank balance 1 – Integrity 0
4) Social networking is just what it says. ‘Social’. It is not corporate. If a product says it has 56,382 facebook friends then it is probably because that product and their advertising agency have 56,382 employees between them.
5) A flash mob began as an anti establishment fun activity. By the people for the people. Not by a corporation for its customers. If you try to do a branded version you stand a very real danger of looking monumentally stupid. (Yes I’m looking at you here Dr Pepper)
6) Brand advertising that doesn’t include a product had better include at least a product truth. Otherwise it is nothing more than a bunch of egos tugging each other off.
7) Your product is not New and Improved. It is either New or Improved, it can’t be both.
8) If your product is now suddenly twice as good as it was, then it must have been really shit before. You know, when you told us it was great.
9) If I am buying a shampoo I neither know nor care what Pentipepsides are. You know I don’t know what they are, and I know you know I don’t know what they are. I also know you don’t know what Pentipepsides are either, so let’s stop kidding ourselves.
10) Fun size means small, which means I, as a consumer, get less. What’s fun about that?

This post is bought to you by Toilet Duck. Please join us at Toiletduckisyour bestfriend/facebook/twitter/myspace/snailmail

Gr8t post innit?

2010-08-10T17:57:00.000+01:00

As me get older an’ everytin’ me want to stay feelin’ young, yeah. So me got ta tinkin’ dat it be time me got down wid da young uns, Yo! Age is just a state a mind, yeah. And me got da mind of da yoof, innit. So me gone and got me some well good jeans yeah, dat hang round me thighs so me can hardly walk and dat, widout lookin’ like some kinda constipated duck, ya get me?

Me also gonna’ stop pluggin’ me headphones into me phone, so all dem oldies can hear what me listen to as me walk down da street listenin’ to me Ragga, innit. After that yeah, me gonna’ buy me one of them hoodies and start lookin’ menacin’ an that.

Me bought a sk8board, but me did a move that was well wrong and now me got a slightly disloc8ted shoulder, so me give it up and me spend me spare time wid a good book, or a well wicked documentary on BBC4.

Me an me bloods is meetin l8ter to hang out round the shoppin’ centre an drink Stella and sneer at people an that. But first me has to mow me lawn, as it is getting well out of hand innit? Yesterday me went to get me ear pierced with a well-wicked jewel ting, but it didn’t really go wid me ear hair. Which was well shit.

Me homie buzzed on da phone earlier to arrange a meet at Maccy D’s for a burger kindathing. But me had to give him the big whatever cos I already had a nice antipasti of mozzarella, chilli and lemon crostini so me was well stuffed.

He said “No worries bro, that’s life.”

I said “Yo, Life is a series of collisions with the future; it is not the sum of what we have been, but what we yearn to be. Innit?”

He said “Bollocks!” which me thought was well sick.

Anyway, me gotta’ go now, me has a mash-up to put up on youtube an’ shit, but first me gonna treat myself to a facial scrub before having a light nap.

Friday Fun

2010-07-30T12:16:00.000+01:00

I have Ranters block again, so here are some people looking silly.

Just pass on by

2010-07-21T14:52:00.001+01:00

For no particular reason, I thought I would do this post as an homage to this rather lovely McDonalds commercial.

To the gaggling teen

Snarling and mean

In his sagging jeans

Worn round their thighs, so obscene

Just pass on by

And the delinquent types

And ‘awight bruv’ types

And listen to their music without headphones tikes

Just pass on by

Those rabbiting on their phone

As if they’re alone

Talking about their boyfriends

Loudly having a moan

Just pass on by

To the knuckle-draggers

And over-confident braggers

And intelligence flaggers

Just pass on by

The arrogant shop assistant

So annoyingly persistent

So much fury I’d like to vent

And their noses to dent

Just pass on by

And the cold callers

Those far away jawlers

Whose scripts are flawless

But whose pitch appal us

Just pass on by

And the thieving bank

Who would rather you sank

And give you a spank

And make you walk the plank

Just pass on by

And the colleagues who shout

And preen and pout

And prance about

And perception of nought

Whose ideas they tout and ignorance they flout

Please, just pass on by

There’s a rant for everyone

The estate of Rant Lee Yieung

2010-07-15T23:04:00.001+01:00

Dear Reader, let me introduce myself. I am Yew R. A. Liu Ser, Principal Assurance manager for the China Trust Commercial Bank in China. I have asked an honest friend coming to the UK to write this post on my behalf. I am getting in touch with you as an honest and noble man, regarding the estate of Rant Lee Yieung and his investment placed under our banks management 10 years ago.

I would respectfully request that you keep the contents of this post confidential and respect the integrity of the information you come by as a result of this post, although it is completely honest. In the year 2000 Mr Rant Lee Yieung came into our very honest and distinguished bank. He said he had a portfolio of some £12 he wished us to invest on his behalf. We invested this money in honest and very profitable opportunities like squirrel breeding and alchemy. The profits and interest on this account now mean we have a sum of £125,000,000 in our very honest bank.

It is my sad duty to tell you that Mr. Rant Lee Yieung died recently in a bizarre and sexually ambitious pineapple incident. He had no immediate next of kin, and you dear reader, have a one in four chance of being the closest thing he had to family. In fact he even mentioned you once in a moment of Saki induced introspection.

To check if you qualify for the figure of £125,000,000 (minus legal fees) from our very honest bank, simply send us your full name, date of birth, mother’s maiden name, account number and sort code as proof of identity.

To ensure that the money gets to you as soon as possible, we must act quickly. Please send me your details by return, and please keep this correspondence confidential and not tell anyone like the police. This is for tax reasons.

Just think what you can buy with £125,000,000. A new future for your family, a big house, lots of cars, maybe as many rabbits as you want. Perhaps some drugs, immoral but adventurous members of the opposite sex, illegal immigrants, the list goes on and on.

I await your response. Best and honest regards, Yew R. A. Liu Ser

An angel touched me and then my dog died.

2010-07-08T17:12:00.000+01:00

Perusing the bookshelves of WH Smiths or Waterstones recently is like being bombarded with a shower of saccharine sorrow. There are rows of tragic true-life stories with titles like ‘Don’t tell Mummy.’ ‘The little prisoner.’ And ‘Ewww, Daddy. What’s THAT?’

I don’t mean to trivialise the true stories in question, or the therapeutic effect of writing these books, but what I do find distasteful is the way they are now being turned into a brand. They all look the same and someone; somewhere is making tearfuls of money from them. Abused children the world over won’t know who to talk to first, a social worker or a book agent. Sad, blonde-haired, cherubic children against white backgrounds with a wispy typeface stare out, imploring you to spend £7.99 of your money to share in their pain.

I don’t profess to have ever read one of these books, but as they seem to be quite popular at the moment I thought I would write a post in a similar vein.

What follows is a true story.

‘It was a cold Monday morning and it hit me. Bang. I had left my cup of tea to stew too long. It would now be ruined, cold and there was no going back. The cup would be stained, much like my soul and try as I might the tea could never be saved. The damage would be irreconcilable and I would never know the pleasure that simple cup of tea would offer. I sunk to my knees, with my head in my hands and wept. Wept like I’d never wept before, the truth dawning on me in waves of sadness as the tears flowed from my eyes like a torrent of rain on the coldest, wettest, bleakest day.

Slowly, unsteadily at first, I stood. My knees buckled a little, but I was determined to stand, and stand I did. This was just another hurdle in a life of sorrow and I would be strong. I would beat it. One day. I had to, there was simply no other option. The week before I had put on some toast and again forgotten about it, only realising when it was cold and brittle and I had gotten over that. I would get over this. Wouldn’t I?

What hurt more than the defiled cup of PG Tips was the fact my family knew about it. They had known all along and done nothing. Choosing to ignore the tragedy befalling my cup. They had seen the stewing tea and carried on with their lives as if nothing was wrong. All this had happened behind closed curtains. A house of horror in a sleepy suburban town, the neighbours blissfully unaware of what was going on under their noses. Had just one of them noticed anything suspicious, made a call to the authorities, it could all have turned out so very differently. But no, I was alone. Just me and that soiled cup of tea, staring at me, teasing me hurting me in every sinew of my body.

But then, all at once, I turned a corner. I heard a click and was suddenly bathed in a warm light and then it happened. I was touched by an angel; it sounds incredible I know, but I was touched by an angel. And then she spoke. “Get out of the way.” She said, and suddenly all became clear. Get out of the way of the negativity and hurt. Let the sunshine back into your life and stop worrying about the tea. I could wash the cup, perhaps even add a little bleach and leave it to soak. I could boil the kettle and make another cup of tea.

Hallelujah and rejoice I was saved.

Those days are behind me now, and although I will never forget the hurt, I will move on. I will be strong. I will survive. I will have another cup of tea.’

S is for Soccer. S is for Socialism. S is for Stupid.

2010-07-01T14:23:00.000+01:00

Quite possibly the stupidest man on the planet explains why Soccer equals Socialism.

La-Di-Da London

2010-06-25T21:57:00.000+01:00

The in-crowd. The beautiful set. London at it’s preening, pouting best. This is what I was greeted with last night in a rather (s)wanky restaurant in Regent Street. There they were in all their ‘Look at me, look at me. I’m so gorgeous and better than those wretched poor people outside’ glory.

The terrace overlooking the London skyline was filled with ex public school boys, with their Eton hair and smarmy-pants expressions, and beautiful women resplendent in their compulsory over-sized, bug-eyed sunglasses. Mingling amongst them were a swarm of fifty plus men with sandy hair, mahogany tans, Rolex watches and cat that got the cream expressions, as they regaled hilarious stories to the young beautiful women. The young, beautiful women laughed uproariously, clearly only interested in the wealthy, walking tanned wallets for their personalities.

What a repulsive sight it was.

Eventually a waiter who seemed like the love child of Adrian Chiles and Larry Grayson wandered over to take our order. One by one he caught our eye as we deigned to request some liquid refreshment. Every order was greeted with a ‘well if that’s what you really want, fine.’ expression. The same waiter later impressed me in equal measures when my meal arrived. I had ordered a Beef dish, with vegetables and fat chips. When I finished counting my two beans I enquired where my fat chips might be.

“Fat chiiiiiips. You not get fat chiiiiips with this, only with the beef.”
“But I ordered the beef.” I said. “What’s this then?”
“It’s peeeek.”
“What?”
“Peeeek.”
“What?”
“Peeeek.”
“What’s peeeek?" I enquired, considering this to be a fair question.
“Peeek. Peek, you know peeeeek.”
“Do you mean pig? Pork? Are you saying this is pork?”
“Yes pork. Peeek. You want it changed?”

So changed it was, and as everyone else finished their meal my cooooooooooooow arrived. As tasteless a piece of meat as I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating. Still, never mind I’ll enjoy my fat chiiiiips. But where were they? I looked under the two new beans. Not there. I looked either side of the leathery main course, and then it struck me. That solitary rectangular yellow mystery object residing on the left hand side of my plate was my fat chips. One. One fucking chip. One fat fucking chip. I went through all that for one feckless, fat fucking chip.

Anyway, it was a nice evening, with good company and plenty of wine. But it was a reminder of what a pretentious, shallow and pompous city London can be. It’s a good job that London has so much else going for it. For all the general buzz, great bars, parks, shops, museums etc I can forgive a few la-di-da, big-haired, loud-mouthed ponces and the equally vacuous clothes dummies.

But I can’t forgive being given only one fucking chip.

Situation Vacant

2010-06-20T23:02:00.000+01:00

An exciting opportunity has arisen for a Spherical Object Progression Executive.
Short-term contract based in South Africa.

The successful candidate will have a passion for fast cars, orange girlfriends, nightclubs, oversized watches and ‘roasting’ teenage girls.

The role requires you to work up to 6 hours a week including occasional weekend shifts. We offer a competitive seven-figure salary with bonus scheme.

The team has a diverse opposition base and a growing reputation for being as useful as a whore’s chastity belt. As Spherical Object Progression Executive you will be responsible for delivering goal-optimised ball passes, producing a little bit of effort and hitting the back of the fucking net occasionally.

Responsibilities include
• Kicking
• Running
• Standing with hands on hips
• Shouting
• Swearing
• Falling over
• Spitting
• Excuse making

We actively promote equal opportunity employment and will consider current Spherical Object Progression Executives with learning disabilities or delusions of adequacy. Experienced footballers are expected to be able to feed and dress themselves, read without moving their lips and walk upright. The ability to kick a ball in a straight line is desirable.

Applications are to be submitted by email or crayon. Grunting or faecal smearings will not be accepted.

Please note that due to exceptionally high levels of response, we are only able to get back to those applicants who can read.

What happens when BP spills a cup of coffee?

2010-06-14T22:18:00.000+01:00

A charity appeal on behalf of MAHWAB

2010-06-09T23:11:00.000+01:00

I hope I can take a few minutes of your precious time to make an urgent appeal on behalf of a charity that is particularly close to my heart. MAHWAB is a new organisation, and one that I hope can bring some relief to the suffering of many poor souls across the country.

For those of you who have not heard of it before, let me introduce you to MAHWAB. It stands for Middle Aged, Hard Working And Broke. Yes there are thousands of sufferers across the land who spend their days juggling the demands and expense of a career, family and life in general. But yet to add to their woes we are living in phenomenally expensive times. Tax, National Insurance, food, drink, mortgage payments, childcare, petrol, utility bills, insurance policies, the list goes on and on and on.

What can we do to help these unfortunates you may ask? Where can we find the funds? Goddammit how can we help? Fear not, the people at MAHWAB have had a great idea of where to find the cash. The welfare state, that’s where. It’s time for a fairer redistribution of wealth. They are not for one minute suggesting we take anything away from the people who honestly need the help of the government. The ones who really can’t work for genuine medical reasons or who want to work, and are doing their best to find a job, but can’t. No, clearly these people need help and it’s right they get it. The people MAHWAB are talking about are the work-shy, lazy, ignorant, scum sucking leeches who sit in their state funded houses, in front of their state funded 50” Plasma screens, watching state funded Sky television, drinking state funded cider and complaining that life is hard. The ones who can’t be bothered to look for work because they get everything handed to them on a plate. The ones who contribute nothing, yet say they are only claiming what they are entitled to? The ones who realise the more children they have the more money they get, so set about breeding faster than a couple of bored rabbits.

Did you know there is a family in Hull for instance, who live in a council provided seven-bedroom house with their ten children? The father has been out of work for 15 years and his wife has never had a job. Yet thanks to the generosity of the welfare state and the tax you and I pay on our hard earned wages, they receive about £33,000 a year. £628 a week in income support, disability allowance, carer's allowance, child tax credit, plus £120 a week rent on their home. You or I would have to earn £46,500 a year before we even matched their income.

So the MAHWAB plan is to take some of our money back. Cut payments to the lazy and dishonest. Have a huge car boot sale of their flat screen televisions, cars and designer clothes and sell off their houses as affordable homes to those more worthy.

Please pledge your support at www.takethemoneybackfromthelazybastardsandgiveittothehardworkingandmoredeserving.com

The automated post.

2010-05-31T21:10:00.002+01:00

Hello, and thank you for visiting.

Right let’s get you started.

Please press one for a witty post. Two for a youtube clip. Three for a good old rant, and four for some mindless swearing.

Okay, lets get you the post you’re after. Please press one to read something. Two to watch something. Three to listen to something and four to link to something.

Thanks, that’s great. We have few more simple options for you. Please press one for a topical piece. Two for a political piece. Three for sarcastic piece and four for a near the knuckle piece.

Fantastic. Please press one for something insightful. Two for something thought provoking. Press three to read something a little uncomfortable and four for something you would normally only consider reading in a doctor’s waiting room.

Great. To help us get you what you want as quickly as possible, press one to peruse. Two to read in depth. Three to question what has been said and four to discuss.

Nearly there. Please press one if you’re male. Press two if you’re female and three if you’re neither.

Just a couple of simple options now. Okay, Ready? Press one to lose the will to live. Two to see the candle of your existence flicker precariously in the wind. Three to build up a rage inside that burns at your very soul and four to shout a very, very rude word very, very loudly.

Great, here’s four more simple options to get you to the piece you want; fast. If you could attack strangers for simply enjoying the freedom they relish by not being embroiled in the endless spiral of despair that is the automated service, press one. If you have already thrown objects across the room causing your property or loved ones damage, press two. If you are thinking of strolling into a public area, dropping to your knees and screaming at the top of your voice 'Why me? In the name of God, why me?' press three. If you wish to give up your soul to the devil and wreak havoc across the land, inviting the four horsemen of the apocalypse as harbingers of the last judgement to bring pestilence, war, famine and death to all around you, press four.

The post you are after is unavailable. Please close the window and try again later.

The conference call.

2010-05-27T19:39:00.000+01:00

The first light bulb was invented by Humphry Davy in 1809. The invention of the first motorcar is generally attributed to Karl Benz, the telephone by Alexander Graham Bell, television by Philo Farnsworth and the PC by IBM.

Any one of these names is open to debate and opinions vary, but that is not my point. My point is, what bloody idiot invented the conference call? Surely this is one of the most annoying, soul destroying and humiliating inventions ever. Why did they do it? What possessed them? There are few things in life worse than shouting into a small plastic object whilst gathered around a table. People talk over you, you talk over people. You react to things you disagree with by rolling your eyes and making obscene gestures to the little hateful plastic box in front of you, and in another room, miles away someone else returns the favour.

Almost worse than these conference call traits though is the silence. That terrible, interminable, yawning chasm of time when you’ve finished screaming across the boardroom table into the little box of misery and nothing happens. Everyone on your side of the call looks at each other awkwardly until some brave soul breaks the silence. Of course what’s happening is that a thousand miles away a group of faceless people are whispering to each other while you uncomfortably wheel your chair back and forth and look longingly at the plate of biscuits in the middle of the table. Eventually someone has to crack and it’s usually you who pipes up ‘Um, uh, comments?’ Then, a voice from afar squawks back with the question they’ve collectively constructed in their quiet time. Now you leave your own silence whilst you consider who is best qualified to answer, who knows the answer, who hasn’t spoken yet and who doesn’t have their mouth full of Jaffa cakes. Somewhere far away a room full of people are wheeling their chairs back and forth uncomfortably whilst looking longingly at the plate of M&Ms in the middle of their own table.

There will be those that argue that it saves time and money. You no longer have to leave the office, or travel to a meeting. All in all it has been hugely successful in further de-humanising business. I can’t argue with the fact that thousands of air miles, man-hours and carbon emissions are saved by steering clear of aeroplanes, motorways and overcrowded train carriages. And by confining ourselves to our desks or meeting rooms we are helping save our time, money and the planet. But the fact remains that the conference call is one of the most unpleasant tasks known to man. Right up there with hair waxing and attending children’s birthday parties.

Perhaps the only way to get through them in future is to introduce a little entertainment into proceedings. Maybe a game of musical chairs mid call? Whoever is without a chair when the music stops has to shout something controversial into the box. Can you introduce a surreptitious swearword into the call? “Let’s schedule a face-to-face and meet for coffee. Bob, you up for coffeee? I said Fuck offy. How about you Pam, you up fuck offy?” There’s always the old favourite ‘Bullshit bingo’. Anyone who can get more than six pointless buzzwords into the conversation gets first choice at the chocolate nut cluster.

If all else fails there’s always the fire alarm.

The root of all evil

2010-05-23T23:29:00.000+01:00

It’s not, as commonly thought, money. No, the root of all evil, in my humble opinion is the business management tool SAP. Has there ever been a more time stealing, soul destroying, life-erasing entity of rancid, bowels of hell stinking pointlessness? Answers on a post card please, although I suspect not. There are almost limitless ways this foul, pernicious company can make the average workers life more difficult and stop them getting any work done.

I recently attended a training course on how to use their expenses program. It took about an hour of my time and a quarter of my soul to realise that never in a million years would any one of us present in that room be able to use this tool in an efficient and time productive way.

In the bad old days before technology optimized our skill set and we realised we needed an enterprise wide initiative to realign our personal fiscal state of operations (or claim back the £2.50 we spent on a coffee whilst heading to a client meeting) life was much simpler. You simply filled in a pink sheet of paper, stapled your receipts to the back, got a signature and took it to an old lady who sat down the bottom of the corridor and smelled of lavender and cats. And then, as if by magic, three weeks later the £2.50 would appear back in your bank balance. But with the dawn of a bright new technological era we have streamlined the process and made the whole thing so complicated that even Professor Stephen Hawkins would shrug his shoulders and say in his inimitable mechanical way ‘I’ll be fucked if I know.’ Now you have to fill in endless ‘fields’ in endless pages requiring endless numbers and authentification codes to be sent to endless people who will ignore it before you chase them up and then check endless different pages in the hope that somebody somewhere will give you back your own money you have spent on the company’s behalf.

Obviously you will not get your money back immediately because you will, without question fill the form in wrongly. Then a little man who sits in a darkened room with a bad haircut, comfortable shoes, Primark suit and delusions of adequacy will reject it. This will then become a never-ending task to rectify. Hours of your billable time that you should be spending producing work for your company or their clients will be spent in front of the computer screen dying slowly inside.

I simply do not understand how anybody can justify changing a system that is straightforward and effective to one that requires hundreds of people and untold thousands of pounds to set up and results in an entire workforce grinding to a halt for large chunks of their day. A more cynical man than I might think they were making the whole process this difficult so that nobody would bother claiming their own money back, saving the company the expense of repaying them. But I am clearly not cynical by nature so can only presume that they know best. Perhaps it is a government scheme to create employment for would be accountants. There are probably thousands of people across the country with no social skills and greasy hair who like sitting in stale smelling rooms with ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps’ posters on the walls who need a purpose. For this reason we have no choice but to welcome this pointless program into our lives in the knowledge that it is creating employment for a whole swathe of people who would otherwise be watching Jeremy Kyle and experimenting with biscuits.

The unwritten letter

2010-05-18T17:48:00.000+01:00

I’m sure we all have at least one if not hundreds of latent unwritten letters inside us. I mean those letters that you want to write, plan to write, mentally write but never quite get round to writing. Often this is a good thing, as the best letters are the ones that you would probably write in the heat of the moment and result in instant dismissal or a lawsuit.

The one where your 23 year old bank manager patronises you, makes an idiotic comment or generally annoys you to the level where you would like to take your fingers to the keyboard and write ‘Dear XXXXX, you seem to have the mental stability of a lactating gypsy woman on steroids who has just found out her husband has been fornicating with Geraldine the one eyed goat. Please could you explain how, in your current mental state, you consider yourself fit to pass judgement on a decision that is far too complicated for your shrunken brain to understand?’

Of course there’s the letter to the shop manager about their rude sales assistant where you might be tempted to ask ‘…where this cretinous individual was found? When he came for the interview was there no concern about his lack of eye contact, speech or any form of reasonable thought pattern? If he were to develop into a half-wit he would be twice as intelligent as he is now, yet you saw fit to put him in a position where he can talk to your customers like they are shit on his shoe.’

You might be tempted to write to the local municipal office and inform them of a worrying experience you had at the local tip. ‘Dear XXXX, it was whilst trying to throw the cardboard box of my son’s new Battlestar Galactica toy space ship into container number twelve that I was approached by a strange, unknown being, the like of which cannot possibly be human. It’s spiky, bleached blonde fur, strange misspelt markings on its forearms and aggressive behaviour are surely that of a previously undiscovered species. I was somewhat taken aback when it uttered a terrible groaning sound that sounded something like ‘oi, wha tha? Ah it ot any olystyrene innit? Eh? Ah it? Tak it art.’ I think you might like to consider informing the army and try and capture it for medical science.’

How about the letter to the local train company asking where exactly the money goes that they reap from their preposterous train fares? ‘…as the money clearly doesn’t get spent on improving the trains, tracks, service or personnel training am I to consider that the money is possibly being used for the benefit of the board and stakeholders? Is it possible that rather than putting more trains on the tracks, there are people somewhere putting money in their back pocket, white powder up their nose and their tiny peckers in small Indonesian boys whilst on a ‘fact-finding mission?’

Then there’s the letter to the owner of the call centre that rings you of an evening with the unmissable offer of a state of the art conservatory, bank loan or double-glazing. ‘Dear Sir/madam. Die. Yours sincerely Mr XXXX’

Let me know if you have any you’d love to write?

The emasculation of modern man…

2010-05-11T22:58:00.001+01:00

…Which is basically a poncy way of saying I’m sick to the back teeth of doing the fucking washing up. And the laundry, and the hoovering, polishing, bathroom cleaning and all the other jobs my forbearers would have laughed at seeing another man do. In their day they would have strode out amongst the wild plains, hunted down a stag for dinner, drank large quantities of ale, ravished a fair maiden and returned to their perfectly maintained dwelling for a large feast around the fire, prepared lovingly by their wives. Even in my parent’s day the boundaries seemed much clearer. Dads across the land would go out to work at nine, and come home to dinner at half past five. They might then pop out to the Red Lion for a quick eight pints of Whitbread’s best bitter before returning home to fall asleep in front of Angela Rippon.

Now clearly I accept that times change and life moves on. It’s not as if I have a great hankering to spend my spare time bear baiting or bare knuckle fighting. I don’t really wish to rebuild a Triumph Dolomite from spare parts or join a tug of war team. I just think that to come home from work and spend all my time as some kind of Mr Mop indicates that something, somewhere has gone terribly wrong. I generally return of an evening to find a house full of people that I have either married or sired wandering around littering, eating and generally creating work for me like it’s some kind of family duty. My wife leading the children on their merry-mess-making way like a latter day Pied Piper, leaving discarded banana skins, dirty clothes and unwashed plates in their wake. I’m sure I heard my daughter say the other day ‘Please Mummy, I don’t want to make any more mess today.’ To which my wife fierily replied ‘Dammit, it’s not about what you want. It’s about what’s right. If we don’t create a never-ending mess for your father to clear up then he could be tempted to start juggling chain saws or pursue a career on the oil rigs, now drop that Goddamn crisp packet on the floor.’

The problem is that years of housework and domesticity have rendered me useless in the ways of men from a bygone era. Any kind of building work is out. My attempt at fitting a humble cat flap has taught me my shortcomings there. Anything more complicated than filling the car up with petrol is generally beyond me, so engineering is looking doubtful. I guess I could chop down a tree and start a fire, but the local council are sticklers for that kind of thing.

It would appear that I am rather stuck with my lot. Whilst I would rather be building a fully self-sufficient outhouse from reclaimed wood, or fine tuning the engine of my six cylinder two-seater sports car, it seems that I’m stuck marvelling at the benefits of washing clothes at 30 degrees or the new five, yes five in one thunderball, sparkle guarantee, performance enhanced, lemon zest dishwasher tablet. Lucky me.

Politics & Cheating

2010-05-09T23:40:00.000+01:00

In keeping with recent events and largely down to my persisting Ranter’s block there seemed no better time to remember the wit and wisdom of Mr. Malcolm Tucker.
(The Politics)
As the saying goes ‘Those who can, do: those who can’t, copy and paste.’
(The Cheating)

“He’s as useless as a marzipan dildo”
“He’s a fat guy with a tiny little dick the size of a bookie’s biro”
“Cliff fucking Lawton. Hey, was the Cillit Bang guy not available?”
“You were like a sweaty octopus trying to unhook a bra! It was like watching John Leslie at work…”
“We’re gonna get this tosser… Don’t you worry – he’ll be at The Sport photo-shopping the tits of ‘Hollyoaks’ extras by the end of the month.”
“You’re gonna be spread out there in front of them like a trollope in the stocks…”
“Julius Nicholson, right, blue sky thinker, ex-business guru, dog rapist… He’s been a nuisance to me; he also has got plans to squeeze this department so hard that you’ll be lucky if you’re left with one bollock between the three of you…”
“Did you ever travel 100mph head first through a tunnel filled with pig shit because that’s what’s going to happen to you tonight…”
“I will personally fucking eviscerate you, right? …And I mean, I don’t have your education, I don’t know what it means, but I will start by ripping your cock off and I’ll busk it from there, ok…?”
“What happens if he does stand a chance, eh? He’ll fuck you harder than Ron Jeremy. And with less warmth…”
“If you don’t go and get me some cheese, I’m gonna rip your head off and give you a spinedectomy…”
“Stop fucking blinking! Or I will take your optic nerve and strangle you with it…”
“There’s nothing you know that I don’t know, I’m Doctor fucking know…”

Hopefully before long there will be a new post, or at the very least a new government.

Hey Prestolino!

2010-04-25T16:11:00.000+01:00

A guest columnist promotes his latest video.

“Hi there, Björn Olofsson here. Senior Marketing manager and ultra cool dude for WMF Hey Prestolino coffee machines.

Let’s break bread a little here my lovely cool British homeboys and girls. You maybe wonder what I up to here? Well I tell you, I have super cool video to share with the world. My super cool team said to me ‘Hey Björn, how can we make the Hey Prestolino coffee machine super cool and trendy, just like our customers?’

I organised a think tank with some of my cool colleagues and then it hit us like a lightning bolt. What does every super cool, state of the art, fully automatic speciality coffee machine need? I’ll tell you what it needs. Rock and Roll. Yeah baby.

It seems such an obvious fit, don’t you think dudes and dudesses? A modern design and intuitive operation. Cool, yeah? Rock and Roll. Super cool, yeah? Yeah baby yeah!

So what I decide to do is hire coolest band in Stockholm, ‘Exkrementgnidning’, which I think translates to Faecal Rubbings. How super cool is that? So they saw the fit straight away, or as soon as I offered them the cheque and free coffee machine. See how they buy into the dream? Those guys are super cool and down with it alright?

So we got top director, the band and me into a studio and hey presto, we made some magic. Or we made a corporate video that made our coffee machine look as funky and with it as the band. You see that guy in the studio with the thinning hair and moustache giving the high five? That’s me. Yeah baby yeah. I showed it to my teenage daughter and she said I looked like a complete dickwad, which I think is your English slang for super cool fly guy. And when I tell you about the response from my more junior marketing team you will not be surprised. One man said I was biggest Jiz stain arse wipe patronizing piss pipe he had ever had pleasure to work with. Not sure of exact translation, but tears of honour flowed from my eyes like a flushed toilet.

Take a look at my super cool video and see how Rock and Roll and coffee go together like rama lama lama ke ding a de dinga a dong. And remembered for ever like shoo bop shoo wadda wadda yipitty boom de boom.”

The Superiority Complex

2010-04-21T21:20:00.000+01:00

“If I can just give you a bit of advice mate?” Said the cretinous, patronising security guard at Heathrow to the well-dressed businessman scrabbling around on the floor looking for the money that had just fallen there. “Never, ever, ever put your belt in the small tray. Never. That was an accident waiting to happen. It was always going to make it tip up, taking your change with it. I could have told you that.”

Well, thank you very much Einstein. Those pearls of wisdom will stay with all of us present until the day we die. I personally shall turn to my children whilst lying on my deathbed and say, “If I can give you a bit of advice kids? Never, ever, ever put your belts in the small tray, it’s an accident waiting to happen.” This will be a lesson they can take with them through the rest of their lives and lead to them developing into well rounded, self-sufficient, productive adults. If I had been the well-dressed businessman I would have taken said belt, wrapped it round the guard’s stupid, scrawny neck and tightened it until all the life had drained out of his moronic pock-marked face, then removed it and beaten him black and blue with it. Okay, obviously I wouldn’t, I would have smiled benignly and thought about it whilst silently calling him a very rude name.

There is a certain type of person, usually employed in a position where the only qualifications needed are to have breath and opposable thumbs, which delight in lording it over everyone else. They seem to think that because they know how to do one single task better than the general population, they are some kind of mastermind, and we are all ignorant heathens. We all know them: Security guards, tip workers, traffic wardens, train revenue inspectors, bouncers the list goes on. Why they feel the need to act like a prize dick at every opportunity is anyone’s guess, but they do. Perhaps its some kind of a peak cap syndrome? How they would love a peak cap, and possibly epaulettes to mark out their rank. ‘I hold the temporary balance of power, so therefore I am far more important than you are, and I will take every opportunity to let you know.’ You can just imagine them saluting themselves every morning in the bathroom mirror, before putting on their uniform, collecting their packed lunch, kissing their mum goodbye and heading off for work.

Every cloud does not have a silver lining…

2010-04-20T19:43:00.000+01:00

…especially the one spewing out of the Eyjafjallajoekull volcano (surely a name conjured up by a cruel news editor to challenge Alastair Burnet and company). The chaos caused by this unprecedented event has left over 150,000 Britons stranded abroad, three of whom happen to be my wife and children.

As pissed off as I am (and I am) there is no one to complain about, no one to complain to. Their safety has to come first and while there is any risk at all it is only right that they stay where they are. This makes it even harder, because without anyone or anything to rant about I have no outlet for my burgeoning rage. Instead I am left pottering around my quiet, tidy house with only our wretched cat for company. I don’t even like the bloody animal, but yet it has turned into a little black shadow following me around at all times. I can’t even go for a pee without two black paws and a head appearing between my legs to check if all is in working order. Urinary personal space issues aside, a Morecombe and Wise-esque relationship seems to have developed between us. Two lonely beings co-existing in their suburban retreat; me mooching around looking for things to do, and the cat following behind to see if it can join in. I half expect a song and dance routine to start at any time, and a famous actor to pop up as a surprise guest.

When we are in the middle of our busy, stressful lives we all crave some quiet time; a little quality period of rest and reflection. Yet when you have it, by God it’s boring. Did you know for instance that we have 326 tiles in our kitchen, or that if you close your eyes really tight for a long time and rub them with your fingers you get an amazing kaleidoscopic light show of all different shapes, colours and patterns behind your eyes? No of course you didn’t know about my kitchen tiles, and I’m sure you couldn’t care less about my kaleidoscopic light show because they’re fucking pointless and you would have to be bored out of your mind to even think about it. Can you imagine how depressing it is to have a water gargling competition on your own?

My family are stranded in Dubai trying to make the most of their unexpected stay, while I muddle along here in good Old Blighty. I’m not sure who has the shittier end of the stick, although I know where I’d rather be. At least I know they are safe, and as I watch the news I am heartened by the spirit and resilience of those affected by the disruption. Whether finding their long way home or making new friends. Out of adversity has come ingenuity and isolation has come friendship.

However none of this helps me much so I’m off to kick the cat.

Diddy Daytona

2010-04-18T14:42:00.000+01:00

I have never felt the need to live near Santa Pod, or Daytona, the Hockenheimring or indeed any other racetrack. So I guess I should consider myself lucky that my distance from the world of racing is countered for by the plethora of boy racers who see fit to roar along the high street covering tiny distances at a time, at very nearly a great speed.

What makes these daredevil young racers ever so slightly laughable is the vehicles they have to perform in. Due to the outlandish insurance costs now available for anybody under the age of 87, these brave young men are forced to buy cheap slightly less than super minis, and then do with them what they can. This usually involves painting them a hideous colour (lime green seems to be a favourite), adorning them with ridiculous patterns and then equipping them with an exhaust bigger than most people’s television sets. This gives the sound of a jet fighter, with the unfortunate side effect of the performance of a shopping trolley. Then for the Pièce de résistance: The stereo. A ludicrous monster that they can turn up to roughly the same volume as the Live aid concert.

I was lucky enough to witness one the other day as he roared past me at 28mph, the four hooded occupants nodding away rhythmically to their song of choice. I was left somewhat bemused by the song itself, a mix of ‘Loving you is easy ‘cause you’re beautiful’ by Minnie Riperton and some kind of ragga drum and bass track. It was the aural equivalent of combining treacle and barbed wire. Not my cup of tea, but hey, each to their own.

In a world of order, peace and tranquility what every regional town needs is a courageous band of unintelligent boy racers to liven things up. The sight of their bobbing heads accompanied by the roar of the engine and thumping music is enough to stir the soul of even the most die-hard car hater. Without them life would simply be too quiet. Too pleasant. My only hope is that they don’t crash and burn in a horrifying accident, caught inside their mangled mini, surrounded by flames that match the ones painted on their doors. The banging on the window for help drowned out by a delightful techno ditty, as we stand by watching; mouthing the words ‘What? Sorry can’t hear you. What are you saying? You want some kelp, are you sure? Strange boy.’

This would clearly be a tragedy.

Volcano

2010-04-15T14:09:00.001+01:00

My family were due home today after nearly three weeks away in South Africa.
With the house tidied, beds made and shopping done I was just about to set off for Gatwick when Peter Pessimist, the annoying voice in the back of my head piped up:
"I wonder if anything will go wrong?"
'Don't be so negative' I thought, what could go wrong?
"Perhaps the flight will be delayed?" Said Peter Pessimist.
'Well, I'll just get a coffee.' I thought.
"What if there are delays?"
'I'll just be a bit late, not the end of the world.'
"What if the car breaks down?"
'The car is fine, it's not going to break down.'
"What if there's a volcanic eruption over Iceland causing all flights in and out of the UK to be cancelled?"
'Don't be ridiculous.' I thought. 'What are the chances of that happening?'

The crassest ad ever?

2010-04-13T22:37:00.000+01:00

Surely it's one thing to be caught out as a serial philanderer, but to then allow your dead father's voice to help you use that to sell running shoes is ever so slightly tasteless?

Dawdlers

2010-04-08T09:00:00.000+01:00

Can I start by saying that I fully accept that it is everybody’s God given right to dawdle if they choose. Whether it be through old age, infirmity or inclination that they see fit to walk at a snail’s pace, so be it. But can I just say, on behalf of the rest of us, if you do choose to dawdle, can you please for the love of God get out of the bloody way?

It can be almost unbearably annoying to get stuck behind a two mph roadblock that restricts you to walking at the kind of pace that would send a sloth into a rage of impatient apoplexy. Heaven help you if you get two together, a dawdling duo, then all chance of overtaking is lost and you are left bobbing and weaving from side to side like some kind of frustrated boy racer in a souped up Citroen Saxo. And to make matters worse the dawdlers seem to have a Puffer fish like ability to swell to twice their normal size, just to ensure there is no available route past.

But worse than the dawdler, so much worse than the humble dawdler, is the slaloming dawdler. Those people with the sixth sense or hidden eyes in the back of their head who know exactly when you try to pass and then totter over to block your path. You go to overtake on the right; they meander over to the right. You quickly make a dash to the left, but too late, they’re already there. Stumbling across with all the time in the world and not a care to speak of.

Dawdlers are usually to be found at airports or train stations, or indeed any other location frequented by people in a hurry. Shopping centres on a Saturday afternoon are also a popular venue, and it is of course here that they can really spread out with shopping bags or other props to hinder a safe passage through to the car park before your ticket runs out.

Is it not reasonable to suggest a dawdler lane? Perhaps even an unspoken agreement that the sauntering strollers among us stick to the right hand side of the path, and let the rest of us by at a respectable pace? This way they will be far less annoying; we might become friends, we may even wave at them as we pass. If there are any renegade slaloming dawdlers however, then I can only suggest that they are rounded up and carted off to a countryside exile where they can take up as much room as they want and wander off dawdling to their hearts content.

So...?

2010-04-05T18:57:00.000+01:00

There seems to have developed a rather annoying habit of certain people ending each statement with the word so.

This new convention seems to be taking over as the default end to a sentence, so…?

I can only presume this is because they don’t quite know how to finish their thought, but by leaving a questioning so? They hope somebody else will do it for them, so...?

It has become almost as annoying as Australian Question Intonation, where the voice goes up questioningly at the end of each sentence. A trait that is particularly popular with young girls influenced by Neighbours, Home & Away etc, so…?

I wonder where people have lost the confidence in their own point of view so much that they feel the need to let somebody else finish off their thoughts, so…?

It could be that they aren’t even looking to illicit a response, but simply have no idea what they are actually talking about, so…?

It’s possible that the idea of leaving a thought hanging could indicate an open mind on the subject, so…?

It could also suggest they would rather hand over the task of finishing their thoughts to someone else, so…?

It takes the responsibility off them and they can simply nod in agreement to whatever follows, so…?

They still seem intelligent enough to have proposed a question, even if it started off life as a fact, so…?

I suggest a fine system for anyone caught ending a sentence with the wrong intonation, a thought left hanging and double penalty points for using the word so.

So…?

Snatch Wars

2010-04-03T10:54:00.001+01:00

This has been doing the rounds a bit recently, but is very funny.
Here is a man who truly knows how to Rant.
The east end meets outer space.
(Be warned, the language is a little fruity if you're thinking of watching it in front of your grandparents or eight year old niece)

Oo-er Missus

2010-03-28T16:05:00.000+01:00

Here are 12 of the finest double-entendres that were aired on TV & Radio  

These were sent to me by Darrel. I think they are juvenile and silly, and anyone who finds them amusing should be thoroughly ashamed of themselves.

1. Pat Glenn, weightlifting commentator - 'And this is Gregoriava from Bulgaria . I saw her snatch this morning and it was amazing!'  

2. New Zealand Rugby Commentator - 'Andrew Mehrtens loves it when Daryl Gibson comes inside him.'  

3. Ted Walsh - Horse Racing Commentator - 'This is really a lovely horse. I once rode her mother.'   

4. Harry Carpenter at the Oxford-Cambridge boat race 1977 -  'Ah, isn't that nice. The wife of the Cambridge President is kissing the Cox of the Oxford crew.'  

5. US PGA Commentator - 'One of the reasons Arnie (Arnold Palmer) is playing so well is that, before each tee shot, His wife takes out his balls and kisses them ..... Oh my god!! What have I just said??'  

6. Carenza Lewis about finding food in the Middle Ages on 'Time Team Live' said: 'You'd eat beaver if you could get it.'  

7. A female news anchor who, the day after it was supposed to have snowed and didn't, turned to the weatherman and asked, 'So Bob, where's that eight inches you promised me last night?' Not only did HE have to leave the set, but half the crew did too, because they were laughing so hard!  

8. Steve Ryder covering the US Masters - 'Ballesteros felt much better today after a 69 yesterday.'  

9. Clair Frisby talking about a jumbo hot dog on Look North said: 'There's nothing like a big hot sausage inside you on a cold night like this.'   

10. Mike Hallett discussing missed snooker shots on Sky Sports: 'Stephen Hendry jumps on Steve Davis's misses every chance he gets.'  

11. Michael Buerk on watching Phillipa Forrester cuddle up to a male astronomer for warmth during BBC1's UK eclipse coverage remarked: 'They seem cold out there, they're rubbing each other and he's only come in his shorts.'  

12. Ken Brown commentating on golfer Nick Faldo and his caddie Fanny Sunneson lining-up shots at the Scottish Open:  'Some weeks Nick likes to use Fanny, other weeks he prefers to do it by himself.'

Research

2010-03-24T17:36:00.000Z

Nowadays you can’t release a film, an album, a commercial, a car, an electrical product or a fart without first submitting it to the rigours of a research group. If you wish to present anything to the public now, you have to take whatever it is that has been so lovingly crafted and put it in front of a focus group. A bunch of people will turn up for the promise of a small fee and a plate of sandwiches and be asked what is wrong with it? Then to justify their existence in the room they will tell you how they could have done a far better job themselves.

Can you imagine if research had always been around? Would it have been better? What would have happened, for instance, if the music of yesteryear had undergone a similar fate?

Here is a classic piece of work with possible research comments in italics.

Yesterday

Yesterday,

(Why look back. Too negative.)

All my troubles seemed so far away,

(There is no need to mention troubles. It puts a problem in the listeners’ mind that doesn’t need to be there)

Now it looks as though they're here to stay,

(No, no, no.)

Oh, I believe in yesterday.

(What about believing in ‘Today’?)

Suddenly,

(Good, group liked spontaneity)

I'm not half the man I used to be,

(Not liked at all. He should be twice the man he was)

There's a shadow hanging over me,

(Sounds negative, change to something sunnier)

Oh, yesterday came suddenly.

(Not very believable)

Why she

Had to go I don't know, she wouldn't say.

(No. Suggests lack of communication)

I said,

Something wrong, now I long for yesterday.

(Not liked. Could they say something right and look forward to tomorrow?)

Yesterday,

(Refer to previous comment)

Love was such an easy game to play,

(Liked)

Now I need a place to hide away,

(Again negative. Sounds a bit lonely)

Oh, I believe in yesterday.

(Refer to previous comment)

Repeat previous two verses.

(Heard it all before. Try something new)

Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm.

(Group had no strong opinions on the letter m.)

Here’s how a research friendly might sound.

Today

Our today.

We’re going on holiday for a nice getaway.

A nice resort where the kids can play.

Oh, I believe in our today.

Suddenly,

I’m as happy as I can be,

To spend quality time together as a family,

Oh, our today will come suddenly.

Why we

Have to go, with the flow, I couldn’t say.

I said,

Something strong, like I long, for our today.

Nn-nn-nn-nn-nn-nn-nn.

I think you’ll agree that research has certainly helped improve the rather negative words of Mr. McCartney.

The client

2010-03-21T22:38:00.000Z

I have decided to change career. I am going to become a client.

The first thing I am going to do as a client is buy a dog. Not just any dog you understand, but a really expensive dog that requires lots of maintenance and money spending on it. Day after day I will pay to keep it fed, healthy and hearty. And not just an expensive dog, but a really intelligent breed of dog. One that has been bred and trained over many years to perform specific tasks really, really well. Once I have bought this dog, which is so clever and costs me so much money in upkeep, the first thing I am going to do is start barking myself. Whenever the dog feels the need to let itself be heard, ‘woof woof woof’ I shall go.

I shall do this because I’m the client now and I know best. I will be surrounded by people who spend all day telling me how clever I am, so therefore I will know best about absolutely everything there is to know about absolutely everything, because I know best. Because I’m a client now and therefore I’m bloody brilliant. Simple as that, get used to it.

If the dog decides to fetch my slippers, I shall tell him how to fetch my slippers; which route to take, how to hold them and the exact point by my feet to leave them. If it sits on command, I shall tell it where to sit and how to sit more comfortably. These animals can’t just rollover willy-nilly, oh no, there is a certain way to rollover, and I will take it upon myself to show it how to rollover. If I throw a stick for it to fetch, then I shall run and fetch it first, because nobody knows how to fetch a stick better than I do.

To get the best out of my new dog I shall undermine it at every opportunity, and show it how I can do everything better than he can, regardless of the consequences. This will be client led motivation at its best. My decisions and natural instincts will put it to shame, so I will never use the dog for the reasons I paid for it in the first place, because this would go against all that seems natural.

This is how you get the best out of a dog. I know this to be true, because I have seen this approach in action so many times.

Blah, blah, blah!

2010-03-18T20:34:00.000Z

Blah blah blah blah blah a lovely new red car blah blah blah Chris has a blue one blah blah blah blah I know, I know blah blah blah blah I said to him blah blah blah blah and he said to me blah blah blah. Ooh, I’m really hungry blah blah blah blah. Tenerife blah blah blah peeled like an orange blah blah blah. My Mum, can you believe it? Blah blah blah blah. Did you ring him? Did you? Did you? You didn’t, you didn’t. No, no, no blah blah blah blah. A bit like Suzy but with smaller ears blah blah blah blah. Then I went blah blah and he went blah blah so I was like blah blah blah. Do you know what I mean? He’s like so blah blah blah. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow blah blah but we’ll talk before then blah blah blah. Byeee. A Doberman I think. Blah blah blah. Bye. Bye. Yeah, yeah blah blah blah. Okay, bye. Bye. Bye. Okay, I will blah blah blah. Byeeee.

Shuuuuuuuuutttttttt Uuuuuuuuuppppppppppp.

To the girl sat behind me on the 6.30pm train, and every other person who feels the need to discuss their life on the phone in great detail and at great volume, can I just say that neither I, nor I suspect the rest of train, could give a flying fist fuck about your car, holiday, Chris or any other part of your life. So why do you feel the need to talk about it at the top of your loud, irritating voice?

Sshhhhhh.

8 Idiots

2010-03-17T23:08:00.000Z

A few members of the gene pool we could manage without.

The Banker

2010-03-15T22:21:00.001Z

It is the year 1508 and a 33-year-old Michelangelo awaits his audience with Pope Julius the second. The sunlight streams through the window as the young man clutches his plans for the great Cistene chapel ceiling in his hands. They are brave, audacious, ambitious and will become the stuff of legend; of this he has no doubt. But first he must present them to the Pope’s right hand man.

“It is the doctrine of humanity’s need for salvation that is the overt subject matter.” He tells the intermediary. “It is a visual metaphor for humankind’s covenant with God.” He continues, ready to hit him between the eyes with the visual majesty of his plans. At 14 metres wide and 40 metres long the designs will take just over four painstaking years to complete, they will require the artist to develop a completely new technique of painting and be like nothing else on earth.

Once the presentation is over the Pope’s trusted advisor leans back in his chair and speaks:

“Hmmm, I like it. No I do, I like it. But let me put my client head on for a moment. Isn’t it all a bit, well, religious? Aren’t all these figures a bit, I don’t know, overkill? Let me present it, but let’s have a back-up plan. A banker. I’m thinking something in eggshell white. What do you think?”

I wonder if Norman Foster looked at the designs for 30 St Mary Axe, and said to his team of architects “Hmmm, isn’t it all a bit Gherkin like? It’s kinda’ cool and everything, but if I was to put my client head on for a moment; I’d be thinking we should also present a banker. I’ve always been a big fan of the cereal box shape. OK?”

When the Beatles recorded Sgt Peppers, did they record a banker? A Val Doonican cover perhaps? Did the designer of the Bugatti Veyron put his client head on, and have a Vauxhall Vectra clone as a back-up plan? Did Francis Ford Coppolla put his client head on and have a version of Apocalypse Now with that whole war bit toned down a tad? No, of course they didn’t. They all had a purity of vision, and the balls to support it.

It is sad that so many buildings, films, TV shows, commercials and music are so banal, formulaic, safe and unmemorable. They were the easy option, the no brainer, the banker, therefore they held no risks. Subsequently they will hold no attention, have no impact and form part of the unremarkable wallpaper of life.

Incidentally the original version of this post was carved into the back of a small Lithuanian gentleman, painted gold and hung upside down outside Tesco’s. However, I put my client head on for a moment, and decided it would be safer to post it on this blog.

Man Flu

2010-03-10T08:30:00.000Z

Surely the most brutal affliction to strike down mankind that Mother Nature has ever deemed fit to bestow upon us? The sheer savagery and cruelty of this terrible illness has to be experienced to be believed. How we men survive is a mystery to all.

I know women will complain that they suffer too; but I don’t think you can really compare the gift of childbirth or the monthly visit from Mrs Mood Swing to the full horror of Man Flu.

As I sit here unable to sleep, sneezing, trembling like a turkey at Christmas, with my blocked, yet runny nose, sky high temperature and a general feeling that the grim reaper is close at hand, beckoning with his taunting bony finger, I have only the prospect of a fourteen hour working day ahead of me for comfort. How I will manage is anyone’s guess, but I will probably have to call upon the kind of Dunkirk spirit that us men are so famous for in these times of hardship. There will be those that suggest I warrant some form of bravery award. They may well be right.

But what separates us man flu suffering victims from mere mortals in these challenging times is our enviable ability to simply get on with things. As close to death’s door as we may be, we don’t moan, we don’t whinge and we don’t feel sorry for ourselves. We put on a brave face, and get on with life. We underplay the seriousness of the situation, rather than worry those around us. I may be fighting back the forces of nature like some kind of naïve King Canute, but damn it I’m going to try and pull through this.

It is a quality that we should all be proud of.

It is to be applauded.

If only I had the strength.

Bombay Creative Battle

2010-03-07T16:38:00.002Z

It would seem the 'Creative - Client' relationship is the same the world over.

NB: Apparently for some reason this doesn't work on a PC. I know not why.
If you would like to see it, click here
<a href="http://www.grapheine.com" title=agence pub internet>web agency lyon</a>

Who says politics should be boring?

2010-03-03T16:21:00.000Z

MEP Nigel Farage delivers a major tirade against EU President Herman van Rompuy, a man paid a salary higher than President Obama, yet is unelected. Whether you agree with him or not, it's good to see an MP who's not afraid to pull his punches.

Out of office. Out of order.

2010-03-01T20:47:00.000Z

Well it would seem the ‘Out of office’ function on your trusty email is now well and truly redundant. There is now never any excuse to be out of the office. With the Internet, Blackberry, iPhone or virtual private network you are linked to the office with a digital umbilical cord that can never be severed.

We are told this is fantastic news and that productivity can jump to record levels, whilst each employee is contactable and fruitfully employed at a moments notice. Any time of day. Anywhere in the world. Brilliant.

But hang on. Aren’t we forgetting something? Oh yes; we are human fucking beings, and we don’t necessarily want to be working 24 hours a day, putting our jobs before time with our families, and never having a moment to switch off and relax. Even machines need maintenance.

I am abroad on a work trip at the moment. Away from the bosom of my family in the back end of nowhere. A stranger in a strange town. Another embarrassing English victim of that damn ivory tower, but away nevertheless, overseeing quite a tricky project. So imagine my unadulterated delight when an email dropped into my inbox requesting that I just do a little job that will take no more than quite a lot of hours.

‘Just fit it in if you have any down time, or perhaps do it tonight. If you run out of time, I will try and reorganise it so that you can work on it tomorrow night as well.’

Oh, will you really? Well thank you very much. Thank you very fucking much indeed. It’s not as if I need to concentrate on what I’m doing here, I’m just sat around with my thumb up my arse, singing along to the smash hits of John Denver whilst trying to decorate my shoes imaginatively. And once I’ve finished I can think of nothing I would like to do more than go back to my soulless hotel room and do some more work. Tell you what; why not send over a couple of new briefs for me to look at while I’m at it? And heaven forbid I should stop working before midnight, but if I do I will attempt to learn the art of sword swallowing whilst juggling squirrels to entertain the rest of the staff at the Christmas party. How’s that?

Surely things were better when work was work, home was home and evenings and weekends were our own? Is it really that productive to have employees splitting their time so much that no one job gets the attention it warrants, and the employee ends up less motivated, less engaged and less effective?

I suggest we bring back the ‘out of office’ function, and when we’re out, we stay out.

White Collar Pikeyness

2010-02-24T23:51:00.001Z

Following on the the previous post 'Ignorance isn't bliss', here is a slightly different take on the subject that I put together.
A nightmare vision, when two worlds collide.
The white collar buzz word bonkers business man and the pig ignorant pikey.
Could it happen? Surely not. Pray to God it doesn't.

Ignorance isn’t bliss

2010-02-21T19:53:00.001Z

Have you noticed that there are some seemingly very clever people who appear incredibly stupid? And how strange it is that certain people get more stupid the more they read. They leaf through the right magazines, the right books and the right online articles and all it does is give them a whole host of phrases they can trot out at will, without having the first idea what they’re talking about.

We are left with a whole generation of pseudo intellectual sheep bleating along with the latest buzz phrase or hot topic.

“Hey John, let’s take a helicopter view of our enterprise skill set?”

“Baaaaa.”

“I like it John, a goal orientated resource repurposing structure is a great idea. I’ll set up some face time.”

“Baaaaa.”

But it’s only the white-collar set that feels the need to hide common sense in a stew of bullshit. You don’t get your local mechanic telling you they’ve had some blue sky thinking and they’re pretty sure your gear box has failed it’s performance management appraisal. The local fish and chip shop doesn’t ask if you’d like to downsize your cod. So why does business feel the need to wrap everything up in gibberish?

The other day I heard somebody say they that they were trying to humanise analytics. Humanise analytics? What the bloody hell does that mean? Absolutely nothing, that’s what it means. In an act of constructive criticism I immediately set fire to him. Apparently this is wrong, but I was only trying to humanise pyrotechnics! What’s the problem?

So why is there this need to replace original thinking and simple, solid ideas with nonsense? Do we really need to lock ourselves away in the ‘Conception Lab’ to hypothesise about distributed possibilities, or do some empathic research into products suffering from featuritis?

Personally, I would like to see a paradigm shift away from the globalization of knowledge process outsourcing, and a return to a proactive sea change that can only be empowered by traditional out of the box thinking and inevitably lead to a long tail, circle back, next level, state of the art, value added, upstream, win-win scenario.

And I don’t think I can be any clearer than that.

The cost of living

2010-02-16T23:18:00.001Z

Contrary to my last post, I am starting to think that modern life is a big pile of poo. Here I am, careering towards the inevitable bad party that is middle age, having passed the first flush of youth some time ago. I work hard, and I have a reasonable job, earning a reasonable salary. My wife also works hard and has a reasonable job earning a reasonable salary. We have a reasonable house, a reasonable car, a reasonable family pet and reasonable children. We are at that point in life where we should be on the home straight.

So why is it that at every turn there is a big shitty stick waiting to give us a large whack in the knackers?

Out of our reasonable salaries must come our unreasonable mortgage payments, water, gas, electricity, council tax, credit card payments, child-care and any number of other outgoings that would test the financial prowess of Simon Cowell. By my calculations an average couple would need to earn somewhere in the region of twelve and a half million pounds a year to simply earn enough to get through the month and enjoy a guilt free tub of Haagen-Dazs at the weekend.

Even if you manage to scrape through the month without the weight of the British banking system bearing down on you with it’s collective ‘tut tut,’ there will always be something, anything, that will pull the rug from under you. The butter side down principle of finance. For me, this month it’s our car. This two-ton spite mobile, held together by hate and venom for its owner, decided to break down at the worst possible moment, practically and financially. While I used every trick at my disposal (i.e. shout at it and call the RAC) it sat choking away like a spoilt child trying to blag the day off school. ‘I’m not going anywhere you bastard. I’m happy where I am, and I want a little TLC at the local garage.’ There were any number of other locations and occasions that would have been less problematic, but no, this delinquent heap of rust infested junk decided to wait until it was good and ready and could cause the most problems.

Of course it doesn’t have to be a car. It could be a broken boiler, a flooded bathroom, an unexpected vets bill, projectile vomiting children ruining your carpet in the dead of night or a meteorite landing on your new greenhouse. Anything. The only certainty is that it will happen at the worst possible moment.

But going back to my original point, these things should be easily dealt with. I should be able to draw on the large cash reserves that my hard work surely warrants. I don’t spend the vast majority of my life either at work or travelling to work, just so a large financial corporation can line their pockets from that evil little piece of plastic in my pocket.

But no, I have to get the vile vehicle to a garage and then drop to my knees in prayer, hoping against hope that just this once it will be okay. Knowing, of course that a large greasy man with tattoos and an ‘I’m so much cleverer than you’ attitude will eventually phone me and, starting the conversation with a sharp intake of breath, give me a whole load of flannel that basically translates to ‘it’s fucked.’

And because I live in the modern world, which is only geared up for millionaires and politicians, I shall have to plunge myself deeper into debt, in the hope that the next financial, emotional or physical breakdown can wait another month.

Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be.

2010-02-14T23:25:00.000Z

There’ll never be a band as good as the Beatles they say. Never be a boxer like Ali, and never be a footballer like George Best. There will also never be an actor in the same class as Olivier, never be a car as good as the E-Type Jag and never be a decade like the sixties. Or seventies, eighties or nineties depending on your age.

Why is this? Nostalgia; the simple utopia of everyone’s memory.

Whilst taking nothing away from the aforementioned, every example is either subjective or impossible to measure. It’s simply that a golden memory is always better than a grey present day.

Whatever went before is nearly always considered better than what we have now.

‘In my day, you knew where you stood.’ They say. ‘Criminals were gentlemen. You could leave your door unlocked. Music had tunes. There was no traffic jams. Kids played outside all day. Cheese and onion crisps came in green bags. The first division was the first division, three channels was all you needed and you tied a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree.’

Clearly the past had a lot going for it, whatever period your past happened to be. However there are far more areas where life is now infinitely superior. The opportunities for education are far better now than ever. The Internet has made information and entertainment available at the click of a mouse. Choice in every area of life is beyond recognition to twenty years ago. The advent of mobile phones, whilst annoying when you’re sat next to someone jabbering away on a train, has meant that this generation need never be out of contact with a loved one. Terrestrial TV is by no means great, but with the multitude of channels and methods of recording, there should always be something to watch.

So perhaps those people who insist that they lived in the greatest period, had the best music, the best sportsmen, the best mates, the best of everything should try being a little more open minded. They may have had rolling green fields where the multiplex is, or a bobby on the beat. But they also had scurvy, a choice of three warm beers in the pubs and Showaddywaddy.

All in all then, I would propose that we all stop looking back at what we remember, and start concentrating on what we’ve got and look forward to what we’ll have in the future.

Apart from cheese and onion crisps. They should definitely be in green packs.

Train Etiquette

2010-02-10T23:16:00.001Z

Some simple rules to follow if you get a train regularly:

If I’m waiting on the platform. I’m in this spot for a reason. Don’t stand in front of me; I may push you onto the track.
When you get on the train, and there is a queue of people behind you, don’t stop at the first seat, take your coat off, fold it neatly, place it carefully on the rack, get out your laptop, close the case and then put that on the rack, clean your glasses, take out a chewing gum, blow your nose, meditate or indeed any other time consuming activity. Move down the carriage and let the rest of us find a seat, before the crowds from the other end take them all.
I don't pay several thousands of pounds a year so your Targus briefcase can enjoy a seat at my expense. It does not need to relax and take in the view, it is an inanimate object. Move it please.
You don’t need both arm rests, leave one for me.
If your ears are hurting slightly, I can hear your iPod. Turn it down.
If you have a broadsheet newspaper, fold it over. Otherwise I will lean over and read it with you.
If I have a newspaper, it’s folded, don’t lean over and read it with me.
Take your finger out of your nose. We can all see you.

These are all very simple and easy to follow rules, and ultimately better for all of us. If there are any travellers who don’t wish to comply, please note I shall be adopting a name and shame policy.

For example:

Mr Marcus Theakston from seat 32 B last Wednesday. You not only used both armrests, but had your iPod turned up to 11. On top of that, you were listening to N-Dubz.

We may have to kill you.

Going crackers in Caracas

2010-02-08T00:01:00.001Z

First off this isn’t a rant at all, rather a diary of my time in Caracas. I know that it’s not in keeping with the spirit of the blog, but as an old teacher of mine once practiced: What is a spirit for if not to be broken.

The trip started well; a trouble free, if early flight to Madrid and then after a short wait, off to Caracas. On both flights I had no one sat next to me and so managed to spread out in comfort. So far so good. On arrival I was to be met by a driver. Unfortunately due to some bizarre airport politics he wasn’t allowed to wait at the arrivals entrance or carry a card with either my, or his name on it. Clearly this made life a little tricky, and for the first time, but certainly not the last, my lack of Spanish proved to be somewhat of a hindrance.

Eventually reconciled we headed off to the hotel. The drive brought home the realities of life in South America as we passed the burned out cars, mountainside slums and gatherings of men around small fires by the side of the road. To the west of the city are the 'Barrios', the very poor neighborhoods in the hills, which I was advised was not a place for an alabaster white tourist to go wandering around asking if anyone has an iPhone charger they can borrow.
All of this witnessed as we whizzed past at 100mph weaving in and out of traffic.
I was to learn that there are a few rules to driving in Caracas that are adhered to by all drivers:
Drive as fast as you can at all times. A green traffic light means Go. A red traffic light means Go. Cars crossing an intersection in the opposite direction means Go. Indicators are used on a ‘you don’t need to know basis.’ If you are forced to stop, then honk your horn until you are moving again. In Britain it is against the law to speak on a mobile phone whilst driving. No such namby pambyness here. Not only is speaking on a phone allowed, but texting, emailing, taking pictures, uploading videos onto youtube or anything else you can do with a phone.

On arriving at the rather splendid hotel, I checked in, quickly unpacked and headed back downstairs to speak to the concierge as I was keen to hit the bars.

“Where can I walk to for a few drinks?” I asked.

“Walk?” Said the incredulous concierge. “You can’t walk anywhere sir. At anytime. Don’t walk, don’t wear jewellery. Don't wear watches. Don’t carry credit cards. Only carry a minimal amount of money. Don’t carry any reference to your hotel room number and don’t get in unlicensed taxis. Welcome to Caracas.”

I immediately ensconced myself in the bar and checked all the hotel door locks.
The following day I attended a meeting, and as I left was told that there were protests throughout the city, and it was more dangerous than usual. It’s probably best if you don’t leave the hotel said my helpful client. What a great trip this was turning out to be. By 8pm I could take no more. ‘Tell me the name of a good bar, and I won’t take no for an answer’ I boldly said to the bemused hotel bar man. I then hopped in a taxi and headed down town, where I was dropped off at La Rossalinda, a bar in the Las Mercedes district. Now at 3am this place is probably jumping, but at 8.30pm it’s crushed velvet curtains, dance floor, mirror ball and over priced whiskey menu were all a bit too much for myself and the other two customers. As I was in the middle of God knows where, with no immediate means of transport, I couldn’t simply walk out so had to endure a rather lonely and expensive hour before sheepishly returning to the hotel bar.

The reason for my trip was to attend a photo shoot. About 18 months ago I art directed a shoot in Cape Town and now an agency in Caracas were doing some photography for the same client that needed to fit in with that shoot. The client insisted that ‘someone from the London office’ be present, and so I volunteered quicker than a quick thing. The down side to this is that there would already be an art director here, and to them my presence would be about as welcome as swine flu. Not to worry, we’re all adults I thought, and I was sure it would be fine.

Unfortunately the art directors English was as good as my Spanish, and when she arrived late and found out that I had completely changed the set up of the first shot, I could tell by her eyes that we were not going to be lifelong friends. However, worse than that was her friend. I never found out what her role was, but I think it was simply to be her friend. Every time I spoke she would leap to her defence and explain why my suggestion was an utterance of lunacy. When I insisted that something was changed, the friend would then call the art director outside and give her a big hug and tell her the big, bad man would soon be gone. I never found out the name of the friend, but I did have a very special name of my own for her. One that was Concise. Unapologetic. No-nonsense & To the point. After 14 hours all the shots were taken, and no one had been hurt. As I bade farewell to the crew there was no social kissing conundrum for the art director and the Concise. Unapologetic. No-nonsense & To the point person, a simple wave was all that was required. The rest of the team however were lovely, warm and friendly and made me feel very welcome.

The highlight of trip was a cable car trip to the peak of El Avila, 3000 metres above sea level. 20 minutes hovering hundreds of feet above the ground in an oversized match box. At the top I was treated to great views, a nice lunch and some interesting company.

All in all, a strange, interesting, frustrating but eventually enjoyable trip. Would I return? Probably not, certainly not on my own. But I have developed an interest in South America, and given the chance would love to explore further. I shall just have to work the Angel Falls or the Estaiada bridge, Sao Paulo into my next ad for gravy or flea treatment. Not easy, but give me time.

To kiss or not to kiss?

2010-02-01T23:38:00.000Z

Can somebody please establish a set of guidelines for the etiquette of social kissing? Whether at a party or work meeting, the moment of decision can be an excruciating time. There is no clear directive, and this inevitably leads to many moments of extreme embarrassment.

I have lost count of the number of times I have either gone to shake the hand of a woman who was zoning into my cheek for a kiss, leaving an awkward moment worthy of a Borat movie, or have gone to kiss the cheek, only to have the woman look at me like I’m about to assault her and give grounds for a mace retaliation.

Then there’s that awful moment when both heads go in same direction and you end up weaving from side to side like a pair of cockatoos. Equally painful are those times when you are lining up at a business meeting to say goodbye to somebody that everyone except you knows. One by one they plant a smacker on the cheek, whilst you wait your turn not knowing what to do. You’ve maybe known each other for an hour in a formal setting which is not really the grounds for a physical relationship, but yet you don’t want to seem rude and be the only person to keep their distance. What do you do? Shake hands, single kiss, double kiss, air kiss, right cheek first, left, faint, run away?

Of course the Mediterranean culture has had a big influence, so there are people who will kiss both cheeks and maybe even go in for a hug. I have even witnessed occasions of a quick kiss on the lips, but for God’s sake, where does it stop? Will there come a time when it’s de rigueur to perform French kissing followed by a bear hug, a breast grope or even a little light cunninglingus?

We need a set of simple to follow rules so we all know where we stand. Any thoughts welcome.

Mwah Mwah!

iPad paddywhack, that deserves a groan.

2010-01-29T17:46:00.002Z

So it’s arrived after much hype and rumour, the sleek, new, beautifully designed iWhat-the-hell-is-it?
Now I confess I am an Apple fan. I have a MacBook Pro laptop, an old iMac and an iPhone. If there were an iCar, an iHealth drink or an iPackage holiday I would probably get one of those too. But I just don’t get the iPad. What is it for? It seems like a product looking for a niche, rather than a niche needing a product. It’s not a replacement for the laptop, as you can only run one app at a time, and can’t run any programmes that would be of any use. You can send emails and surf the web, but so can my phone and I can do it without that nosy chap to my side seeing what I’m typing or looking at. You can watch films, but if I want to watch a film I’ll do it on my TV or while eating popcorn at the cinema. I don’t want to be watching Last tango in Paris on the train, thank you very much.

There’s a far more ebullient review here by Stephen Fry who enthuses as only he can. The main thrust of his text is that you can only really appreciate it once you have tried it. Well that’s all well and good if you have been flown out to the keynote speech and been given a test go by Apple, but most of us haven’t been afforded that luxury, so can only go by what we see. And what I see is an oversized iTouch that has no real purpose. A gadget for gadget’s sake.

Still, as I've said before it's all too easy to criticize, and this is only my opinion. So in the sense of fairness, I have included the views of another, impartial observer below.

Everyone’s a critic.

2010-01-28T14:17:00.003Z

As I was stood on the train platform this morning I overheard a conversation about the film Avatar. As I am planning to see it soon I was interested to hear their views.

“You know, there was one thing that ruined it for me.” Said a young woman. “They have called the star system Alpha Centauri. Can you believe it? What a terrible name. What struck me was the lack of imagination!”

Hang on a minute. ‘Lack of imagination.’ Are you serious? I haven’t seen the film so can’t comment, but let’s exam a few facts:

1) James Cameron created an entire planet from scratch that matched the vision in his head.

2) He conceived the movie 15 years ago, and had to wait for the technology to catch up before he could make it.

3) It took four years to make and consists of 60% computer generated elements. To clarify ‘computer generated’ does not mean the computer had the ideas. They came from somebody’s imagination.

4) They invented an entire language, consisting of over a thousand words.

5) The critics said it would crash and burn in a ball of blue, CGI flames.

6) It is already the highest grossing movie of all time.

Now, what part of that suffers from a lack of imagination? Oh yes, the name. Alpha Centauri, how terrible. James Cameron should hide his head in shame, how dare he make so little effort. He was probably lying around all day on the settee, scratching his balls and watching Oprah, whilst being fed grapes by a small Polynesian virgin. What a lazy bastard!

I dare say the young lady who stood with us mortals on the train platform, waiting to be transported into our delightful capital had a far more imaginative day ahead. Perhaps she was going to re-examine the theory of relativity. Possibly she had been troubled by the artist André Breton’s assertion that Surrealism was first and foremost a revolutionary movement, and intended to spend her lunch hour developing an obscure, yet aesthetic and more temperate art movement of her own? One can only wonder at the sheer majesty and wonder of her imaginative and productive day.

It’s all so easy to criticize the work of others, and is usually done without thought or consideration for their endeavours. Everyone knows better than everyone else. It’s easier to criticize than to do.

It’s the same at work, down the pub, on the football terrace and in front of the TV.

Clearly not all criticism is bad. Constructive criticism is a good thing, and if you are reviewing something like the lyrics to a cheeky girls song, then even destructive criticism is a good thing.

Criticism is fine, just as long as it’s considered, considerate and justified.

Surely to accuse a film like Avatar of lacking imagination for the sake of one name, is a bit like suggesting the ceiling to the Sistine chapel is a bit unambitious.

Anyone want a cat?

2010-01-26T18:19:00.001Z

Cat available to good home. Or bad home. In fact, doesn’t even really need to be a home. If you’ve got a shed, an allotment or even a small mat, it’s yours.

It’s got black fur, a six-inch scar from a recent operation; a blue hooded collar to stop it licking said scar, and an ever-excavating anus.

I can’t move for this wretched animal following me, sticking it’s wet nose in mine, or scratching at my leg. Wherever I walk, it’s right in front of my feet. If I lie down, it’s on my chest, clawing away. Turning in circles, so I either have its nose or arse in my face. If I’m in the house it craps all day long. However if I’m not in the house, it manages to hold it in until the second I walk through the door, and then runs towards me, so that I can trip over it, before immediately racing to its litter tray and depositing a lovely, aromatic present for me. Then it waits for me to clear out its tray, looks at me like I’m the world’s biggest moron and walks back over nonchalantly to leave another deposit.

When I wake up it’s there, lying on top of me, purring, sounding like a Nissan Micra on a cold morning. The first thing I see are two staring, glaring eyes, and it’s wet nose that has no doubt recently been in the vicinity of it’s ever-active rectum.

Even as I’m typing this, it’s nearby. As my fingers tap out these words, it’s on the table next to me, walking over the keyboard so my heart felt plea turns into nothing more than a litany of Bolljkjjjvughfbydbygbsysghcpojjmcks!

This furnisher of feline faeces is available for immediate pick-up. Or I will deliver; anywhere in a two hundred mile radius. It answers to the name of “Oh, fuck off cat.” Or “Aaaaargggh, piss off you bloody nuisance.” Or Holly.

Unfortunately though, I suppose the children will notice if there is no smell of rancid cat shit to wake up to. They will undoubtedly miss the thing, and then there will be tears, and then recrimination, and then the guilt will set in, and then my wife will go out and get another one and then the whole sorry story will start again. So I guess I’m stuck with the bloody animal.

It's not quite Slumdog Millionaire

2010-01-23T19:46:00.001Z

Bombay Bankers Ballad

<a href="http://www.grapheine.com">Web agency Graphéine</a>

Anyone for Pizza?

2010-01-22T09:46:00.000Z

Very funny prank call to a Pizza delivery shop. Radio one DJ Scott Mills had called the night before for a pizza and this chap had been very rude. This is his revenge.

Evolution not Revolution

2010-01-19T13:56:00.000Z

Imagine the scene; you’ve just invented the wheel, and you’re as happy as happy can be. You take your invention to the elders who are sat around a roaring fire outside their cave. You explain what your invention is, and what it’s for. It can be used for transport and carrying things you tell them. The possibilities are endless.

‘I like it.’ Says one.

‘Me too.’ Says another.

‘It’s perfect for the job.’ Says a third.

‘Could it be better?’ Says a dissenting voice. ‘I like it, but have you thought about a better way?’

Now we have a committee, and the problems start.

‘Does it really have to be so, well…round? I use a horse for transport and carrying things, and a horse isn’t round.’

The others nod sagely.

‘The moon is round. The moon only comes out at night. Night is dark. Dark is negative. Won’t people associate a round invention as being negative?’

More nodding.

‘What about a square? I like squares.’ Says the chief elder.

‘But it won’t work.’ You say. ‘It needs to be round to go round, do you see?’

‘Hmmm. Got it.’ Says voice number two. ‘How about square with round corners?’

Everyone agrees this is a marvellous idea. It’s not square, but it’s not round either. It’s somewhere in the middle. Perfect.

‘But it won’t work.’ You repeat. ‘It’ll simply be an ineffective ornament.’

The elders take you to one side. They have many years of wisdom to draw upon, and they want to share it with you.

‘Our people are simply not ready for your round invention. Evolution not revolution is the key. Let them get used to the square with round edges, and then maybe, further down the line, we can put the wheel into research.’

‘But it won’t work.’ You protest.

You are slain and fed to the lions.

Now everybody is happy.

Just what are we all afraid of?

2010-01-13T22:41:00.001Z

Why has there developed such a stifling fear of upsetting everyone? It doesn’t matter what industry you work in, there is always a Mr or Mrs X who are not allowed to be upset, and consequently there is an endless amount of work that is dull, tedious, safe and ineffective.

I happen to work in advertising and had an example recently. I had written a couple of radio commercials for a large German company, and they had been approved. Great. However, the account team wanted to change one small thing? I had proposed a couple watching the BBC’s flagship hour of nothingness ‘Casualty’ in one script.
‘We are worried that the client will associate Casualty with an accident’, said the account executive in all seriousness, ‘and we don’t have time to wait for them to ask us to change it. So shall we just change it?’
What? No, don’t be fucking ridiculous. Of course we shouldn’t change it. Let’s at least give them the benefit of the doubt of being sane. If they prove to be a bunch of muttonheaded morons, who can’t distinguish between a badly made drama show and a life threatening incident, then let’s talk again.

As it turned out, the BBC decided to be a little sheep headed itself, and wouldn’t let us use the name of one of it’s programmes anyway. So Casualty was a casualty and died within the script. I then changed it to the couple fighting over the remote control.
‘I think the client will associate fighting over the remote with being aggressive.’ Said the same account executive. ‘Shall we think of a back up option?’

I quickly beat her to death with a hat stand.

Okay, I didn’t really, but for the love of God where did this mentality come from? Firstly, can we not train people to think for themselves?
“I appreciate your concern Mr Client, but in all honesty you are being a complete ass. Not a single one of your customers will think like that. Now please stop worrying and get back to arranging the wedding to your own sister you inbred moron.”

It’s safe to say I would never have made a client facing account man, but really. Pick the bones out of the sentiment and deliver it with a benign smile.

Secondly, this fear stems from somewhere, and I’m not innocent enough to think all these concerns are unfounded. Fear breeds fear. And the people our account team are afraid of, are in turn afraid of someone else. They are probably afraid of the board, which is afraid of the shareholders, who are afraid of the public. But the inescapable truth is that the public nine, times out of ten, simply doesn’t give a shit!

If you mention Casualty, then I as Joe Public do not immediately think your company is going to be responsible for a calamitous disaster. If I hear the term ‘fighting over the remote control’ I do not presume that means fighting to a slow, painful and graphic death. I’m sure I’m not alone. But a blame culture has led to an accountability culture. If something goes wrong, someone is to blame. So unfortunately we have to cater for the lowest common denominator to ensure there is never any risk of anyone being to blame, and therefore no one ever being upset.

‘A Mrs Smith in Coventry recently complained that her cat was upset by the loud noise emanating from her television set when Emmerdale starts. Apologies have been issued, staff have been sacked and every episode from now on will carry instructions on how to lower the volume.’

Unfortunately, this now means that members of the lowest common denominator often end up holding very senior positions in some very large companies, and the rest of us spend our working days trying to appease them. I would suggest we try and rid the world of these soul-destroying cretins, but I’m worried somebody might take offence.

Grandma and Granddad. Bless!

2010-01-09T15:05:00.000Z

Wisdom doesn't automatically come with old age. Nothing does - except wrinkles. It's true, some wines improve with age. But only if the grapes were good in the first place.
Abigail Van Buren (1918 - )

Thistle in my side

2010-01-07T23:23:00.000Z

I had to stay in a hotel last night to ensure I made a work commitment. (A Thistle Hotel, near the Barbican if you’re a detail person) The country had been brought to its knees by the snow, and the concern was that if I took the train home, I wouldn’t get back into London again. So rather than rely on East Midland trains, who have taken to running their service on a ‘special occasions only’ basis, I would stay near by.

Now, I have nothing against staying in hotels; the prospect of being away from my family is usually offset by the extra hour in bed the following morning, and leisurely start to the day, which is in stark contrast to the bedlam of a usual morning getting myself and the kids ready. If it’s only for one night, I have nothing against hotels at the cheaper end of the market; I can survive at a push without haute cuisine, marble floors or infinity pools. I don’t really have anything against dreary seventies décor, or unpleasant carpets. What I do have a problem with, however, is being taken for a ride.

However, I arrived at the reception desk and was greeted by a young, camp looking Mediterranean man who said without, taking a breath “Hellomynameisirrelevantcanitalktoyouinacondescendingmannerforamoment?”
I smiled meekly and thrust my booking form into his hands. “Thankyouiwon’tbeoneminutesirpleasestandtherefeelinguncomfortableamomentlonger”
Eventually after my introduction to the hotel and the new language, I was off to my room. It was the usual undersized, lazily decorated fair that chain hotels do so well. The air conditioning unit sounded like it was powered by midgets banging the inside with a lump hammer, but not to worry, I would drop my bag off, quickly log on to the internet for a bit and then pop downstairs for a bite to eat.

Oh no I bloody wouldn’t. £6 an hour for internet access. How the hucking fell can anybody justify £6 an hour for internet access? £6 an hour! If I was after hard-core pornography, or browsing was accompanied by a massage from a young lady called Candy, then fair enough. But £6 an hour just to check emails or youtube is surely taking the piss. So, no internet for me. I headed downstairs to check the bar snacks. I’m sorry, but how can bar ‘snacks’ start at £17? Possibly Heston Blumenthal might charge that for a snack, but I would expect a crispy red squirrel cooked in Nitrogen for that.

I took my custom elsewhere, and returned later that evening and settled down for the night to be entertained by the choice of five, yes five, channels and the air conditioning team drummers. After a sleepless night I attended breakfast the next morning, which fortunately was included in the bill. But when I was handed the courtesy receipt I noticed that if I had paid, it would have cost £15.90. Wow, I thought, this should be good. It’s probably a bit early for caviar and champagne, and I shall forego the foie gras on moral grounds, but hey, why not. The reason why not was that for £15.90 you got cold scrambled eggs, cardboard hash browns, ‘value’ sausages and soggy mushrooms. They might as well have dished up a dollop of gruel and been done with it.

I left the Thistle hotel with a rather unpleasant taste in my mouth, and it wasn’t just down to the beggars breakfast, but more down to a feeling that chain hotels are doing very nicely out of their guests unsatisfactory experiences. Next time I shall take ear-muffs, a picnic and a wireless router.

oops!

2010-01-06T13:56:00.000Z

I would imagine the foreman's rant following this little incident would have been worth hearing!
(Ok, I know that's tenuous, but the video is definitely worth a watch if you've not seen it before)

The Second Button

2009-12-31T19:14:00.000Z

The world can be a terrible and dangerous place. There are so many different subjects to rally against, and it’s important for everyone to take their responsibility as a citizen of the world seriously and make a stand against the wrongs of humanity. For this heartfelt post I have decided not to comment on the perils of social injustice, or poverty, or corruption, or preventable disease or even the ever-spiralling descent of a generation into a world of crime and hopelessness. No, this post is about something else altogether. A little discussed and often over-looked subject; but one that needs bringing to the fore and talking about in an adult and constructive manner.
The second button. There, I’ve said it. The second button down on a man’s shirt. Not a suit shirt that you might wear with a tie. No, the more utilitarian casual shirt. The preserve of a gentleman’s wardrobe for many years.
The question I am asking is, what has happened to the second button down? It seems to have moved, but in the name of all that’s good and holy, why? Goddamit, why? It is now far too high, leaving a generation of men with the terrible conundrum of which buttons to leave undone and which to fasten. The top button, is there for nothing more than decoration. A mere Jason Orange in the world of fashion. No one fastens their top button, unless they are a serial killer or are a self employed IT technician. So that leaves the second button, but now it is too high, so if you only unfasten to there, you look like ‘serial killer lite’. Obviously this is no good, so the only answer is to unbutton to the outer reaches of decency with the third button. But now you are entering a whole new world, and it’s not a world for everyone. Now you are entering David Starsky world. If you unbutton to the third, you had better be damn sure you can carry it off. If you have the hairy chest and confidence of a 1970s detective from southern California then that’s all well and good, but if like me you don’t, you are left in a confusing no man’s land.
So what is the answer to this terrible problem? Do you take a chance, and try a little personality adjustment? Perhaps men up and down the country could try running along the beach very fast, or jumping across car bonnets, but there is an outside chance of looking faintly ridiculous. They could try the subtler approach of sitting with their feet on the desks, chomping away on doughnuts and winking at passing women, but I fear the ugly face of ridiculousness is still close at hand. What about sticking with the second button option and hoping that the serial killer look becomes ‘in vogue’? It’s an option, but not a good one.
The other possibility is that we rebel against the fashionistas, who are clearly having a laugh at our expense. We could set up our own shirt making franchise ‘Shirts for the ordinary man’. It might work, it could work. By God, let’s make it work. This is a call to arms (and body, neck, cuffs and collar) for a disenfranchised generation of men to take matters into their own hands and stand up and be counted. What may start as small band of brothers could grow into an army. An army can grow into a movement and through the powers of the collective spirit we can win. We can design a shirt with a correctly placed second button. A million man army marching down the streets of Britain with banners proudly proclaiming ‘I AM NOT DAVID STARSKY’ or ‘I AM NOT A SERIAL KILLER’. We can do it. We just need to believe.
Either that or we could just wear a T-Shirt.

Complaints Choir of Chicago

2009-12-30T17:33:00.000Z

What more is there to say? It's a choir. From Chicago. With complaints.

24 Days. 580 hours. 34,800 minutes. 2,088,000 seconds.

2009-12-29T19:25:00.000Z

That’s the amount of repeats we are being subjected to this Christmas. That’s not over all the multitude of terrestrial and digital channels. Just the four main channels. 24 days of unoriginal, dredged up, bottom of the barrel entertainment to keep us enthralled over the festive period.
Years ago, this would be a golden time for British television. We would have a dry spell in the build up, but then we would be hit between the eyes with several big hitters of shows. It wasn’t just that they were big, but they were new. Fresh from the writer’s pen, a delight of good writing, big name actors and fine acting. What did ITV have to offer on Christmas day this year? An ‘All star Mr & Mrs Christmas Special’ followed by Inspector fucking Poirot. As for BBC2, they presented us with a cutting edge selection of Dad’s Army, Blackadder the Third, a Top Gear repeat and a couple of old men drinking wine and passing wind. Channel Four had a repeated documentary, a repeated Alternative Christmas message, a repeated comedian’s DVD for Christmas performance and a monosyllabic magician standing still inside a giant ice cube (Repeated from the year 2000).
In fairness, BBC1 had a new Royle Family and Gavin & Stacy, but that hardly passes for a night to remember. Why is it such a pitiful offering? Why are the major channels not making new and interesting programmes of note and merit? If you’re interested in the answer, there’s a very thought-provoking article here http://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/2009/10/why-britain-cant-do-the-wire/ If you’re not interested in reading it, I dare say you could just as easily pass your time by turning on the old goggle box and relaxing to half an hour of One man and his dog, or a repeated twelve year old topical news quiz.

Bank charges explained

2009-12-21T17:05:00.000Z

The supreme court, in it's infinite wisdom, has thrown out the case for repaying unfair bank charges. Through another little film I put together through xtranormal, a leading bank manager explains exactly where the money goes.
(Note: This is a reposted and revised, less sweary version)

A little rant from a big mouth!

2009-12-20T16:36:00.000Z

Little Gordon Ramsey starts as he means to go on.

Young, dumb and.....,well that's it really!

2009-12-19T20:38:00.000Z

A delightful German teenager gets a little carried away when his computer doesn't play ball!

Train chairman Q&A

2009-12-17T11:47:00.000Z

A little film that I wrote and put together through xtranormal.com.
An imagined interview with a train company chairman. Any connections to East Midlands trains are not to be drawn from this.

"I don't heart Lily Tomlin'

2009-12-16T14:13:00.000Z

It certainly sounds like director David O Russell isn't totally in love with Lily Tomlin on the this out take. Still, a little motivational talk never hurt anyone. "Stop acting like a f*****g child!" That should do the trick.

Bankers and bum fluff

2009-12-15T18:47:00.000Z

We are all wondering why the banking system is in such disarray? The country has lost all of its money, and the bankers are busy counting their six figure bonuses while the rest of us convince ourselves that shopping at Lidl and reusing tea bags is actually ok. ‘You know, like it’s been a really valuable experience and everything. It’s made me re-evaluate the meaning of money. I’m more in tune with what’s really important in life.’ Oh please, it’s been bloody awful, and we all know it. I don’t want to be counting the pennies or eating own label baked beans thank you very much. Yes family, health and a roof over our heads are the most important things, but quite frankly the ability to treat ourselves to a takeaway chicken tikka masala with all the trimmings and a nice bottle of wine, when the mood takes are pretty important to me as well. I know, I’m shallow. Good, I like being shallow!
However, we are all being assured the green shoots of recovery are staring to bloom and life will soon be back to some sense of normality within the next twenty years. Phew! This post is nothing to do with the champagne quaffing, bonus-busting bankers; that’s what the Daily Mail is for. No, this is for a completely different type of banker. This is for the ones who decided that the most qualified person to dispense financial advice in times of crisis, is a spotty faced, spiky haired twelve year old, who looks like he should be offering to clean your car for bob a job week. Honestly, I was called in by my bank a little while ago to discuss some personal banking matters. They were probably upset that my account was looking a little battle weary. I duly went in at the agreed time to my nearest branch, expecting to meet a steely eyed, middle aged bank manager who would wag his finger at me, and then set about offering me some well intentioned advice, garnered from his many years of experience. What I wasn’t expecting was to be sat in an open-plan area and have to discuss my most private matters with somebody called Wayne. Wayne, with his over sized suit, fluffy chin and acne pocked chin looked like he would be better suited to giving advice on how to get the best out of your conker performance, not how to live within your means to the bank’s satisfaction.
Now you maybe thinking I’m being a bit harsh on the spotty faced urchin. Don’t confuse youth for inexperience, you might suggest, leave poor Wayne alone. But shall I tell you what pearl of wisdom passed through those youthful, whispery moustache covered lips. Shall I tell you? ‘Perhaps you could try spending a bit less money sir.’ I kid you not, ‘Perhaps you could try spending a bit less money sir.’ This was the best the world’s local bank could offer. Blimey, all the world’s financial ills solved with that one simple statement. It was as if a heavenly light had shone down from above, and bathed his gel-encrusted, spiky hair in a warm bath of genius. Maybe I could try spending a bit less money on my mortgage, or my water, gas, electric, council tax, car tax, train fare, child care or any of the other monthly bills that savage my monthly salary. Perhaps I could try spending a bit less on the food my family digest to stay alive, or the children’s clothes, which they keep annoyingly growing out of. Perhaps I could try spending a bit less on the enormous bank charges which this particular establishment insisted on taking out of my account for looking at my bank balance the wrong way. Or perhaps, this font of all knowledge, with his many years of real life experience, is worried that I am spending too much money on my gold leaf encrusted Osprey egg collection. Does he worry that I might be frittering away my hard earned salary on too many Rembrandts? Surely that can be the only reason older people go through their money. That’s what it is, his worldy-wise maturity, gained through years at the coalface have caught me out. He does indeed know better. From now on, I shall take his advice and spend less money wherever possible. I absolutely promise not to add to my chandelier collection. How’s that Wayne? Any happier?
Of course it’s not really Wayne’s fault; how is he meant to have the abilities to offer any real and constructive advice. It is the fault of the people upstairs, who decided that rather than have our Wayne sort through the leaflets that no one reads, or make the tea, he should be the face of the bank. In future when I’m called in to discuss my money matters, I think I’ll just send in my seven-year-old daughter with her piggy bank, and they can discuss it over a blueberry Hooch.

You're not alright Jack

2009-12-15T15:25:00.000Z

This is an audio of Jack Palance doing a voiceover. He is not overly enamored with the direction he receives.

Pachelbel Rant

2009-12-14T09:15:00.000Z

Following on from the musical rant of Dave Carroll, here is an equally entertaining musical tirade from comedian Rob Parovian. He tells how much he hates playing Pachelbel's Canon in D on the cello, and it's far more amusing than it sounds.

A Hunter with a movie executive in his sights

2009-12-11T16:59:00.000Z

In 2001 notorious author Hunter S Thompson sent a letter to his production executive. The rather angry note concerned the adaptation of his novel The Rum Diary. Progress had been slow, and this had left Mr Thompson a little miffed.

HOLLY SORENSON / Shooting Gallery / Hollywood / Jan 22 '01

Dear Holly,

Okay, you lazy bitch, I'm getting tired of this waterhead fuckaround that you're doing with The Rum Diary.

We are not even spinning our wheels aggresivly. It's like the whole Project got turned over to Zombies who live in cardboard boxes under the Hollywood Freeway... I seem to be the only person who's doing anything about getting this movie Made. I have rounded up Depp, Benicio Del Toro, Brad Pitt, Nick Nolte & a fine screenwriter from England, named Michael Thomas, who is a very smart boy & has so far been a pleasure to talk to & conspire with...

So there's yr. fucking Script & all you have to do now is act like a Professional & Pay him. What the hell do you think Making a Movie is all about? Nobody needs to hear any more of that Gibberish about yr. New Mercedes & yr. Ski Trips & how Hopelessly Broke the Shooting Gallery is.... If you're that fucking Poor you should get out of the Movie Business. It is no place for Amateurs & Dilletants who don't want to do anything but "take lunch" & Waste serious people's Time.

Fuck this. We have a good writer, we have the main parts casted & we have a very marketable movie that will not even be hard to make....

And all you are is a goddamn Bystander, making stupid suggestions & jabbering now & then like some half-bright Kid with No Money & No Energy & no focus except on yr. own tits.... I'm sick of hearing about Cuba & Japs & yr. Yo-yo partners who want to change the story because the violence makes them Queasy.

Shit on them. I'd much rather deal with a Live asshole than a Dead worm with No Light in his Eyes.... If you people don't want to Do Anything with this movie, just cough up the Option & I'll talk to someone else. The only thing You're going to get by quitting and curling up in a Fetal position is relentless Grief and Embarrassment. And the one thing you won't have is Fun...

Okay, That's my Outburst for today. Let's hope that it gets Somebody off the dime. And if you don't Do Something QUICK you're going to Destroy a very good idea. I'm in the mood to chop yr. fucking hands off.

R.S.V.P

(Signed)

HUNTER

Hey you. Yes you in seat 41.

2009-12-10T13:09:00.000Z

Yes you the in the Tesco’s suit and unpleasant blue, patterned tie/shirt combination. Yes you with your man-bag and tedious looking, pie chart adorned presentation taking up two seats on the busy commuter train. Yes I’m talking to you. When you got on the train this morning, I dare say it was all lovely and quiet, and you probably thought ‘why don’t I just spread out a little? Why don’t I make full use of the available space around me?’ Brilliant, that’s great. Why shouldn’t you? But guess what, when you get to a busy station with hundreds of people running back and forth, thanks to the station announcements being incapable of getting either the platform number or which end first class is right, move your shit. Is that a lot to ask?

You have probably arrived into a commuter town, full of commuters and guess what they do early in the mornings? That’s right, they commute. And when people commute in large numbers, there is usually a small window of opportunity for them to find a seat. And at that time of the morning, they really want, no need a seat, so that their inescapably tedious journey to work can be just a little bit more bearable. Don’t wait for the marauding hoards to get on and barge little old ladies and the infirm out of the way, in the morning bun fight for said seat. Move your shit now, so it’s ready.

At 7.55am most people will not only sit in the first available space, but also ruthlessly assault with menace, anyone who gets in their way. We’re not bad people, we’re just tired and want to sit down. It’s all done with the best of intentions. It’s a bit like a sport. But what we don’t need, Mr Nasty Tie, is to stand in the aisle with a line of similarly weary travellers behind us, while you grumpily look surprised that anyone else should dare to want a seat. Should dare to suggest your poor bag and document are less deserving of that seat than the person who has paid a small fortune for it with their rail fare. It’s really rather annoying when you are asked politely whether that seat is free, and you look at the newly arrived commuter as if he has just asked if he can rifle through your pockets, steal all your money and request a piggy back to the buffet car to buy armfuls of M&Ms and sausage rolls. Just move your shit quickly and politely. That’s all I ask.

A good 'Rant-a-Long'

2009-12-10T12:56:00.000Z

Really talented people can even rant through the gift of song.Musician Dave Carroll had his guitars damaged by United Airlines, and used YouTube to vent his frustrations with this catchy ditty. It's so far received over 6,000,000 views and been a PR nightmare for the airline. Well done Dave.

What a load of rubbish

2009-12-07T17:52:00.001Z

Is there a lower form of life anywhere on earth than those Neanderthal morons who work at the local tip? Never in all my life have I encountered such an ignorant, rude and condescending collective waste of breath. What’s amazing is that they are exactly the same wherever you happen to live. It’s as if they have to go through a rigorous training programme to become a fully qualified household waste recycling cretin. Just this Sunday I was witness to a perfectly pleasant man, who politely asked where he should dispose of his waste. To see the expression on the face of the little Hitler by the skip, you would have thought the man had asked if he could sodomise his daughter.

Should any tip employees happen to read this, or have it read aloud to them by their carer, can I just say, ‘we are all literate you know?’ When we walk past the clearly labelled signs reading ‘wood. Paper. Metals’ etc and ask for your advice on where to dispose of our old piece of furniture, we know it doesn’t belong in the garden waste container. However we want to be certain which is the correct container to put it in. It might be, for instance, that we believe that Granny’s old armchair may have been made from an open cell flexible polyurethane foam, and there is potentially more than one option. What we don’t need is your eyes rolling in despair at our sheer stupidity before whispering a mumbled answer that no mere mortal could possibly hear, thus forcing us to ask the question again, which somehow gives you permission to scream with barely concealed rage “NUMBER TWELVE MATE! NUMBER TWWWEEEELVVVE!” Obviously your closest colleague will then look to the sky with disbelief at our foolishness in an act of camaraderie amongst gits.

Surely everybody’s experience would be significantly improved if members of this hideous breed were to remove the two enormous chips from their shoulders and accept that it is not our fault that they spend their days up to their elbows in rubbish. I dare say it’s not the best way to spend your working career, but it was their choice and trying to belittle everybody else who enters their domain doesn’t hide the fact that it is done because they so wish they were doing something else. In much the same way that the school bullies always pick on the clever kids, this bunch of bleached hair sporting, earring wearing, tattoo adorned monkeys try to intimidate those higher up the food chain than themselves i.e. everybody else.

May I suggest there is a government cull of these offences to human nature and we dump them all in one enormous container called ‘Waste of space.’?

Gentlemen, approach with caution.

2009-12-06T17:55:00.000Z

A genuine letter, sent to Procter & Gamble:

Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your 'Always' maxi pads for over 20 years and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core or Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa
dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell
you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from the curse'? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my time of the month is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces
violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call 'an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.' Isn't the human body amazing?

As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customer's
monthly visits from 'Aunt Flo'. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into

a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy!

The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants.. Which brings me to the reason for my letter. Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: 'Have a Happy Period.'

Are you f------ kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness, is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless
you're some kind of sick S&M freak, there will never be anything 'happy' about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory.

For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like 'Put down the 'put down the hammer or 'Vehicular Manslaughter is Wrong', or are you just picking on us?

Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep.
Always. . .

Best,
Wendi Aarons
Austin , TX

Just tell me who you are?

2009-12-04T10:41:00.000Z

Is it too much to ask for a website to be upfront about what it is? This blog is called 'rant' for instance, and you won't be surprised to find out that it is a place for people to have a rant. It is not a place to buy shoes, save polar bears, download music or look at people with no clothes on. It is what it says it is. A place to rant, moan, whinge, complain and generally get stuff off your chest. I mention this because of a rather embarrassing incident that happened to me yesterday.

Whilst taking the 6.30pm train home after a hard days work I decided, through the marvels of modern technology, to check there that there were no other websites doing the same thing as this one. There are a couple of ranting sites set up by Wisconsin based teenagers to complain about things I'm far too old to understand, but none as far as I can find that are an open forum, inviting others to contribute. So far, so good. Unfortunately during my research I clicked upon one particular site with the word rant in (I won't tell you the rest for reasons that will become apparent), and was given rather a shock. As I was sat on the full commuter train, iPhone in hand, I shared a polite smile with the young lady to my left while the page loaded, a mutually understood gesture that said 'Hello, please don't talk to me, I'm English.' Imagine, if you will, my horror when an image filled my screen that, frankly will stay with me for some considerable time to come. Two men, one with a moustache, neither with clothes and if I say that one of them was 'playing the trumpet', you'll start to build a picture. I immediately pressed the bookmarks page to load another site, any other site, but of course now the screen was frozen, a little ball whirring round on top of the two close friends, teasing me. I had to then hold the phone, screen covered, while the browser eventually loaded a new page, once it was good and ready. On top of the shock, and colossal embarrassment my phone is now probably loaded with dirty cookies, and I will become not only the recipient of endless spam emails of an unsuitable nature, but also fall under the watch of 'Operation Ooh I say!' of Scotland yard.

Now if that web site had had a more relevant name, I would not have gone near it with a barge pole, and the poor woman sat next to me on the train would not have had the unsettling experience of wondering why the man next to her was holding his phone by his ankles.

Not another bloody blog

2009-12-03T14:14:00.000Z

An apt title for what is, in essence, a completely needless entity. Why oh why would anybody think there was a need for yet another pointless blog in the cyberverse? There are so many other useful things I could be doing with my time; working, finding Christmas presents for my kids, exercising, feeding my mind, thinking of ways to create world peace. But no, I thought I would try and create a blog where people can moan, whinge, complain and generally attack whatever it happens to be that's making their life worse at that particular moment in time. Why? Because, it's immensely satisfying, therapeutic even, to get these things off our chests. Who doesn't want to scream obscenities at the cold caller who's ringing from Mumbai to discuss the weather, before trying to sell you life insurance? Or castigate the customer service representative who tells you your new fridge is out of stock and can't be delivered for another three weeks, even though you bought the display model. As nice as it would be to throttle the inventor of the automated answering machine, the reality is writing down our feelings is our only real outlet for these everyday, unnecessary, hideous frustrations. Not only do I personally find it cathartic to write down with great vengeance and furious anger, in the safe knowledge that it won't result in a punch in the mouth from the recipient, but I also find it enormously satisfying to read the literary tongue-lashings of others. It reminds me that I am not alone in being generally dissatisfied with with world at it's worst, but it is often done with far more wit and imagination than the beneficiary deserves. This led me to the conclusion that there should be home for these outpourings. Somewhere we can all retreat to and berate whoever, and whatever we see fit. And if it is done with humour and panache, then others may just want to read it. Indeed if I, or anybody else should come upon a suitably entertaining rant, then post it here, for it will find a welcome home. All of this led me to the conclusion that the best place to house these diatribes would be a dedicated blog. And that, dear reader, is why there is another bloody blog in the world.