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Monday, 31 May 2010
Thursday, 27 May 2010
The conference call.
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.
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.
Sunday, 23 May 2010
The root of all evil
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.
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.
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
The unwritten letter
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 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?
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
The emasculation of modern man…
…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.
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.
Sunday, 9 May 2010
Politics & Cheating
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.
(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.
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Hey Prestolino!
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.”
“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.”
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
The Superiority Complex
“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.
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.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Every cloud does not have a silver lining…
…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.
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.
Sunday, 18 April 2010
Diddy Daytona
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.
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.
Thursday, 15 April 2010
Volcano
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?'
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?'
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
The crassest ad ever?
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?
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