Past My Best
As is natural for any writer I sometimes wonder about the impact of this blog. No, column. I'm going to call it a column and you can go ahead and call me pretentious.
Anyway I don't mean it's impact internationally. I don't expect it to become a regular feature in a national broadsheet leading to two best-selling novels (a la Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones), but I remain hopeful that those who know me might enjoy it from time to time.
It is with this in mind then that I found something a friend said to me at the weekend quite disturbing. Admittedly he is my friend and therefore biased, and he had been drinking Guinness for four hours previous to our conversation, but the thrust of his message was that he enjoys my work immensely. All of which was a very welcome boost until it transpired that he hasn't even seen this blo.........er column, and was in fact referring to a series of diaries I wrote when I was a teenager.
So, if you don't think much of what you are reading now, you can rest assured that I was a good writer 20 years ago. In the opinion of one of my closest, lifelong friends. The question of why any teenager would allow even (especially?) his closest friends to read his diary is something else entirely, and something which even the world's greatest psycho-analysts may never figure out.
Cheese Balls
It was a depressing Monday morning. The reasons for this are a blog (damn it!) of their own, and one which will not be published until the situation reaches it's denouement. Despite the gloom I happened to strike up a cheery, polite conversation with a young girl who works at the other end of our office. I couldn't even tell you what she does, or even what department she works in. All I know is that she is friendly and polite.
Now this conversation is relevant only because my colleagues take every opportunity to find humour in my antics. Not in a nasty way, you understand, but you have to have something to get you through the day. Especially in the current climate. All of which led one colleague to refer to me during the ensuing discussion about my perceived intentions as a 'Cheese Ball'.
'What does that mean?' I asked.
'It means you are cheesy' she answered unsatisfactorily.
I laughed, despite having never really grasped the concept of what 'cheesy' actually means in this context. Perhaps that fact proves my colleague's point, and that cheesiness is something which can only be truly achieved by those who don't know they are doing it. Or perhaps I really was chatting her up and am therefore morally reprehensible, and due to be shot at dawn.
Whatever gets you through the day, but I maintain my innocence.
Monday, 26 April 2010
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Sudafed - Don't Do It Kids
I'm not here to laugh at suicide, but when having a spot of lunch (get me, they don't have lunch in Thatto Heath) with a couple of friends the other day we did stumble upon an amusing anecdote that is loosely related to the theme.
Many years ago I came home from a night out in town feeling utterly terrible. Events had conspired against me (which they seemed to every week but usually I was more philosophical about it) and so I decided I didn't want to feel anything any more. At this point an important distinction is necessary. I didn't want to die, or even be hospitalised or anything of such gravity. I just didn't want to feel anything. I ended up feeling a twat.
Now my mother doesn't normally stock the kind of drugs that provide what I needed and so as I was living with her at the time I had to make do and mend. I went to the medication drawer (everyone has one, don't they?) and could only find a packet of Sudafed. To this day I am not entirely sure what Sudafed is meant to do. I think it is something to do with nasal congestion but it might just as easily be a remedy for the Bubonic Plague.
What I do know about it is that it does not kill you. At least it did not kill me. I took somewhere between six and eight tablets (I can't accurately recall, it was a long time ago, which is a defence I swear by) and was soon fast asleep. And so it had the desired effect you might think. Well yes, until you consider that for three days afterwards my head was spinning like Lord Mandelson on Speed (or Sudafed) and that everything seemed to be happening at three times it's normal pace. This was most disconcerting and was enough to ensure I have not repeated the exercise since.
These are the kind of things I laugh at when I go for lunch with my mates. Seriously, there is something very wrong with me.
Many years ago I came home from a night out in town feeling utterly terrible. Events had conspired against me (which they seemed to every week but usually I was more philosophical about it) and so I decided I didn't want to feel anything any more. At this point an important distinction is necessary. I didn't want to die, or even be hospitalised or anything of such gravity. I just didn't want to feel anything. I ended up feeling a twat.
Now my mother doesn't normally stock the kind of drugs that provide what I needed and so as I was living with her at the time I had to make do and mend. I went to the medication drawer (everyone has one, don't they?) and could only find a packet of Sudafed. To this day I am not entirely sure what Sudafed is meant to do. I think it is something to do with nasal congestion but it might just as easily be a remedy for the Bubonic Plague.
What I do know about it is that it does not kill you. At least it did not kill me. I took somewhere between six and eight tablets (I can't accurately recall, it was a long time ago, which is a defence I swear by) and was soon fast asleep. And so it had the desired effect you might think. Well yes, until you consider that for three days afterwards my head was spinning like Lord Mandelson on Speed (or Sudafed) and that everything seemed to be happening at three times it's normal pace. This was most disconcerting and was enough to ensure I have not repeated the exercise since.
These are the kind of things I laugh at when I go for lunch with my mates. Seriously, there is something very wrong with me.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Take That And (The Conservative) Party
'A working class hero is something to be'. So sang John Lennon in December 1970.
Apparently the legendary ex-Beatle was trying to tell us something about working class people being 'processed' into the middle classes of an increasingly capitalist society. Or becoming wealthy, as it might be more commonly known.
Were Lennon to convey the same message now he could easily be talking directly to Gary Barlow. Unwisely, the Take That front man has publicly pledged his support to the Conservative Party for the forthcoming General Election. In doing so, he has taken the even more dubious step of being seen on the road with David Cameron on the campaign trail. The pair were seen launching a new X-Factor style talent contest for young people, though it remains unlikely that Cameron will replace Robbie Williams as the fifth member of the group. Come on, they're not a band. Bands play instruments.
Which is not to say that Barlow is not possessed of great talent. In fact, whether you like pop music or not as a genre, you have to concede that Barlow is one of the best songwriters of his generation. Very few of his peers have churned out such a volume of pop classics in a career now spanning almost 20 years. Barlow is consistently brilliant in his field.
Yet I can't help but feeling some measure of disdain for his political choice. For one thing it is unwise for someone so heavily reliant on populist culture to reveal anything about his politics. The only possible result is that you will alienate a large number of your audience to some degree. I for one will never listen to 'Never Forget' again without the nagging feeling that he has done just that. For another he is just plain wrong. There is something sad about his Phil Collins-esque alliance with the politics of greed. There may be finer margins between the two main parties' ideologies these days, but to side with the Tories is still to fart in the face of social justice.
It would have been easy to pepper this piece with Take That references to pick up my usual quota of cheap laughs. But surely I'm above that? Er....no.
Are the Tories Back For Good? In politics Everything Changes if you have a little Patience. Personally I'm going to Pray that May 6 does not become the Greatest Day of Cameron's life and that the smarmy tosser never gets to Rule The World. Or even the UK.
Apparently the legendary ex-Beatle was trying to tell us something about working class people being 'processed' into the middle classes of an increasingly capitalist society. Or becoming wealthy, as it might be more commonly known.
Were Lennon to convey the same message now he could easily be talking directly to Gary Barlow. Unwisely, the Take That front man has publicly pledged his support to the Conservative Party for the forthcoming General Election. In doing so, he has taken the even more dubious step of being seen on the road with David Cameron on the campaign trail. The pair were seen launching a new X-Factor style talent contest for young people, though it remains unlikely that Cameron will replace Robbie Williams as the fifth member of the group. Come on, they're not a band. Bands play instruments.
Which is not to say that Barlow is not possessed of great talent. In fact, whether you like pop music or not as a genre, you have to concede that Barlow is one of the best songwriters of his generation. Very few of his peers have churned out such a volume of pop classics in a career now spanning almost 20 years. Barlow is consistently brilliant in his field.
Yet I can't help but feeling some measure of disdain for his political choice. For one thing it is unwise for someone so heavily reliant on populist culture to reveal anything about his politics. The only possible result is that you will alienate a large number of your audience to some degree. I for one will never listen to 'Never Forget' again without the nagging feeling that he has done just that. For another he is just plain wrong. There is something sad about his Phil Collins-esque alliance with the politics of greed. There may be finer margins between the two main parties' ideologies these days, but to side with the Tories is still to fart in the face of social justice.
It would have been easy to pepper this piece with Take That references to pick up my usual quota of cheap laughs. But surely I'm above that? Er....no.
Are the Tories Back For Good? In politics Everything Changes if you have a little Patience. Personally I'm going to Pray that May 6 does not become the Greatest Day of Cameron's life and that the smarmy tosser never gets to Rule The World. Or even the UK.
Monday, 19 April 2010
Monday's Wheel Issues
I don't normally write about anything that happens at work. It's a bit of a taboo. There's far too much scope for offending the wrong people unintentionally, which would be disastrous if they happen to be more important than me. Which most of them are.
But.........
Late this afternoon I was asked by a student to check whether we had received her attendance sheet for a placement she had been on. I went through the relevant file and found nothing, roping two of my eager-to-leave colleagues (It was almost 4.30pm) into the search. They couldn't find it, not that is until one of them went back to the original file and located the offending document AT THE FRONT OF THE FILE!
Now, everyone makes mistakes, but this is not what you need as a wheelchair user. People think you are a spasmo to begin with, so there is no future in making such elementary errors. The combination of a wheelchair and staggering stupidity (albeit temporary at the end of a long and quite stressful day) only serves to intensify the humiliation. I have set the Disability Rights movement back decades and can only apologise to any of you out there who might be among our number.
Unless you are thick in which case you deserve all you get.
Able-bodied people can be just as thick. Yesterday a friend of mine (wheelchair user, but they are not all, I promise you), phoned to ask if I was alright. He had heard that someone using a wheelchair had been involved in an accident near to my local pub. There were police and an ambulance in attendance, and the victim had clearly suffered significant injury.
'Nah, wasn't me mate, I stayed in on Friday', I told my friend, to which he replied;
'Oh good. Tell you what though, I got told it was me!'
I nearly dropped the phone laughing. For some we wheelchair users all roll into one. I have lost count of the number of times I have been mistaken for another wheelchair user (this friend Phil, and another friend Paul being just two examples). I look nothing like either from the seat cushion upwards. Yet neither of these beat being mistaken for Malcolm, who uses an electric wheelchair! I look nothing like Malcolm from the fucking wheels up!
Come on Britain. You're not trying..............
PROLOGUE
While we're on a theme, I have an older story for you. No less embarrassing, and sadly no less true.
I was on a night out with a group of friends in Liverpool some years ago. It was one of the wettest, shittiest nights weather-wise in all human history. I was crossing the street close to Lime Street Station (I love it there) when a man approached me with a big friendly smile;
"Alright mate.........." he began as he approached me, adding;
"I've got a brother just like you.............."
I gave him a look of puzzlement, carefully considered my options and said;
"What, you mean he is piss wet through?"
He did not continue the conversation..........
But.........
Late this afternoon I was asked by a student to check whether we had received her attendance sheet for a placement she had been on. I went through the relevant file and found nothing, roping two of my eager-to-leave colleagues (It was almost 4.30pm) into the search. They couldn't find it, not that is until one of them went back to the original file and located the offending document AT THE FRONT OF THE FILE!
Now, everyone makes mistakes, but this is not what you need as a wheelchair user. People think you are a spasmo to begin with, so there is no future in making such elementary errors. The combination of a wheelchair and staggering stupidity (albeit temporary at the end of a long and quite stressful day) only serves to intensify the humiliation. I have set the Disability Rights movement back decades and can only apologise to any of you out there who might be among our number.
Unless you are thick in which case you deserve all you get.
Able-bodied people can be just as thick. Yesterday a friend of mine (wheelchair user, but they are not all, I promise you), phoned to ask if I was alright. He had heard that someone using a wheelchair had been involved in an accident near to my local pub. There were police and an ambulance in attendance, and the victim had clearly suffered significant injury.
'Nah, wasn't me mate, I stayed in on Friday', I told my friend, to which he replied;
'Oh good. Tell you what though, I got told it was me!'
I nearly dropped the phone laughing. For some we wheelchair users all roll into one. I have lost count of the number of times I have been mistaken for another wheelchair user (this friend Phil, and another friend Paul being just two examples). I look nothing like either from the seat cushion upwards. Yet neither of these beat being mistaken for Malcolm, who uses an electric wheelchair! I look nothing like Malcolm from the fucking wheels up!
Come on Britain. You're not trying..............
PROLOGUE
While we're on a theme, I have an older story for you. No less embarrassing, and sadly no less true.
I was on a night out with a group of friends in Liverpool some years ago. It was one of the wettest, shittiest nights weather-wise in all human history. I was crossing the street close to Lime Street Station (I love it there) when a man approached me with a big friendly smile;
"Alright mate.........." he began as he approached me, adding;
"I've got a brother just like you.............."
I gave him a look of puzzlement, carefully considered my options and said;
"What, you mean he is piss wet through?"
He did not continue the conversation..........
Friday, 16 April 2010
Clash Of The Titans
I was going to write a review of this, the 2010 version of a classic tale of Greek mythology, with it's preposterously large serpentine monsters and grumpy Gods. I still might, but before I do there is something I should probably share with you about Clash Of The Titans.
My Dad took me to the old Savoy cinema in town to see the 1981 version. Now the most under-used club since Tiger Woods' 4-iron, the Savoy was once the only option if you wanted that cinematic experience. Sadly, it only had three screens. None of them were wheelchair accessible, but that's another story. We've had all that with the trains. Anyway, it's 1981. What do you want? Equality? Fuck off. We need at least 2010 years for society to get anywhere near that. And even then...........Ok, I'll stop now...........
The point is, anyway, that I was terrified as a five-year old. One look at a ludicrously large winged horse and that was me, screaming the place down. Best we not even get started on Medusa, save to say that I have had a phobia of snakes for as long as I can remember and it might just be down to her hairdresser.
I was hoping to be rather less hysterical upon visiting the infintely more accessible Cineworld in 2010. I managed it, though that is not to say that there isn't enough in Clash Of The Titans to inspire a slight tantrum should one be so inclined.
For the most part it is all good fun. If you can get past Sam Worthington's Perseus being played out as a faithful tribute to Russell Crowe's Maximus in Gladiator. If you don't mind the appearance of a random Bond girl (Gemma Arterton) pushing Andromeda out of the role of love interest and into the relative walk-on part of Kraken-fodder. If you can avoid spending the entirety of the film wondering if Draco (do you think that is where J.K.Rowley got the idea from?) is played by The Rock. He's not, he's played by Mads Mikkelsen, last seen in the same God Awful Bond Movie as Arterton.
If you can get past this, and Worthington's muddled accent (Australian? Scottish? South African? Gungan? Turns out Worthington was born in Surrey but is a graduate of the Australian National Institute of Dramatic Art), then there is much to enjoy also. What's not to like about a plot which sends Perseus on a quest to discover how to fell the aforementioned Kraken, thus sparing the life of Andromeda? To do so he must behead Medusa, who is now apparently so repugnant to men that one look into her eyes turns them to stone. So why do I still fancy her then? Could it be because she is actually played by Natalia Vodianova, a Russian actress and model who may sound like a tennis star, but is actually most notable for being the face of Calvin Klein and for once hosting a semi-final of Eurovision? Probably.
Andromeda is placed in mortal danger by Ralph Fiennes' creepy Hades, a performance that has unfairly sparked comparisons to Rowley's Lord Voldemoort. After all, Hades is much older than any two-bit Wizard-waster, and thus has first dibs if there is any croakily-voiced slithering (Slytherin?) to be done. Hades thinks that mortals are most ungrateful, and has decreed that he will release the terrifying Kraken unless the people of Argos agree to sacrifice Andromeda within 10 days. Does anything get delivered from Argos within 10 days? Do they even deliver? If not, that joke doesn't work and I can only apologise. I'm an idiot.
Less convincing is Liam Neeson as Zeus, who it is revealed is not only the biological father of our hero (Star Wars, anyone?), but also a rapist. Turns out he sneaked into Perseus' mum's room late one night and enjoyed the most wicked of ways. You're a fecking God! Just ask. Yet to say that this indiscretion is out of character for Zeus would be unfair, as character is something that this particular incarnation lacks almost completely. Neeson spends much of his time wearily arguing with brother Hades, and wanting to be anywhere else but here.
Yet through all of this, through all of the overly long battles with giant scorpion creatures, you can't help but will Perseus on as he flies in on the back of the mighty winged (and oddly black) Pegesus for his final confrontation with the Kraken. And I don't think I'm spoiling it (this story is roughly 2500 years old after all) when I tell you that our favourite Demi-God does not disappoint. Though personally I felt that the Kraken was a somewhat one-dimensional fighter, relying far too heavily on his sheer enormity and ugliness than any great combat skills.
Clash Of The Titans will not change your life, but it may very well make your five-year old cry so do the decent thing and book yourself a babysitter.
My Dad took me to the old Savoy cinema in town to see the 1981 version. Now the most under-used club since Tiger Woods' 4-iron, the Savoy was once the only option if you wanted that cinematic experience. Sadly, it only had three screens. None of them were wheelchair accessible, but that's another story. We've had all that with the trains. Anyway, it's 1981. What do you want? Equality? Fuck off. We need at least 2010 years for society to get anywhere near that. And even then...........Ok, I'll stop now...........
The point is, anyway, that I was terrified as a five-year old. One look at a ludicrously large winged horse and that was me, screaming the place down. Best we not even get started on Medusa, save to say that I have had a phobia of snakes for as long as I can remember and it might just be down to her hairdresser.
I was hoping to be rather less hysterical upon visiting the infintely more accessible Cineworld in 2010. I managed it, though that is not to say that there isn't enough in Clash Of The Titans to inspire a slight tantrum should one be so inclined.
For the most part it is all good fun. If you can get past Sam Worthington's Perseus being played out as a faithful tribute to Russell Crowe's Maximus in Gladiator. If you don't mind the appearance of a random Bond girl (Gemma Arterton) pushing Andromeda out of the role of love interest and into the relative walk-on part of Kraken-fodder. If you can avoid spending the entirety of the film wondering if Draco (do you think that is where J.K.Rowley got the idea from?) is played by The Rock. He's not, he's played by Mads Mikkelsen, last seen in the same God Awful Bond Movie as Arterton.
If you can get past this, and Worthington's muddled accent (Australian? Scottish? South African? Gungan? Turns out Worthington was born in Surrey but is a graduate of the Australian National Institute of Dramatic Art), then there is much to enjoy also. What's not to like about a plot which sends Perseus on a quest to discover how to fell the aforementioned Kraken, thus sparing the life of Andromeda? To do so he must behead Medusa, who is now apparently so repugnant to men that one look into her eyes turns them to stone. So why do I still fancy her then? Could it be because she is actually played by Natalia Vodianova, a Russian actress and model who may sound like a tennis star, but is actually most notable for being the face of Calvin Klein and for once hosting a semi-final of Eurovision? Probably.
Andromeda is placed in mortal danger by Ralph Fiennes' creepy Hades, a performance that has unfairly sparked comparisons to Rowley's Lord Voldemoort. After all, Hades is much older than any two-bit Wizard-waster, and thus has first dibs if there is any croakily-voiced slithering (Slytherin?) to be done. Hades thinks that mortals are most ungrateful, and has decreed that he will release the terrifying Kraken unless the people of Argos agree to sacrifice Andromeda within 10 days. Does anything get delivered from Argos within 10 days? Do they even deliver? If not, that joke doesn't work and I can only apologise. I'm an idiot.
Less convincing is Liam Neeson as Zeus, who it is revealed is not only the biological father of our hero (Star Wars, anyone?), but also a rapist. Turns out he sneaked into Perseus' mum's room late one night and enjoyed the most wicked of ways. You're a fecking God! Just ask. Yet to say that this indiscretion is out of character for Zeus would be unfair, as character is something that this particular incarnation lacks almost completely. Neeson spends much of his time wearily arguing with brother Hades, and wanting to be anywhere else but here.
Yet through all of this, through all of the overly long battles with giant scorpion creatures, you can't help but will Perseus on as he flies in on the back of the mighty winged (and oddly black) Pegesus for his final confrontation with the Kraken. And I don't think I'm spoiling it (this story is roughly 2500 years old after all) when I tell you that our favourite Demi-God does not disappoint. Though personally I felt that the Kraken was a somewhat one-dimensional fighter, relying far too heavily on his sheer enormity and ugliness than any great combat skills.
Clash Of The Titans will not change your life, but it may very well make your five-year old cry so do the decent thing and book yourself a babysitter.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
No Pain, No Train - Part 2
TWELVE DAYS LATER........................
Tuesday, March 23 2010. Those of you familiar with the tale of woe that was part 1 will be alarmed to know that it takes less than two weeks for more train tomfoolery to take place.
Again it is those serial offenders at Lime Street Station who must be held responsible for this latest farce. Again it is assistance on the 5.01pm to Thatto Heath which proves beyond their capabilities. Only this is a different type of farce. A whole new angle on balls-ups. On reflection, I can only admire their versatility in this field. It must take a great deal of effort.
4.45pm. Just as out of breath as I was previously, I arrive at the station in good time. I pass through the platform gate and notice the same burly woman at the gate from the original, sorry tale. Again I ask for assistance. Again she nods and begins whispering into her walkie-talkie. 'Charlie Tango, Tea-kettle Barbecue.' Or something. I take it that means I should go through and wait by the platform.
There is a digital clock on the platform. A few minutes pass. 4.55pm. No panic. After all, notwithstanding the obsessive security surrounding ramps at Lime Street, it shouldn't take that long to board the train. I go back to my mp3 player and my muddled, post-work thoughts. A passing rail-worker suddenly attracts my attention. I'm about to ask for help, but he's on to me in a flash;
"It's not us mate." he offers, pointing to the company logo on his uniform.
"It's Network Rail." I think he says, though I'm so stupefied by the idea that privatisation has come to this that I can't be sure. If I'm right, what he is telling me is that he cannot assist me onto the train because he does not work for the company providing the train. And he's not alone. No fewer than three men tell me the same thing. It's like being left to die on the side of the pavement by the Good Samaritan because he has just got a job with BUPA.
I look up at the clock once more. 4.59 and 35......36..........37........38 seconds. At the other end of the platform, near the front of the train, I can make out the rotund figure of the guard. I wave at him. Casually at first, upping the ante with each movement until by 5.00 and around 28 seconds I am wildly jesticulating like a soon-to-be ex-extra in a Jaws movie. He's no Roy Scheider, and consequently decides that he hasn't seen me. I wasn't expecting him to start ringing bells and telling everyone to get off the beach, but I can't help but feel a little let down as he noncholantly steps back aboard the train.
I glance once more to the gate area and see nobody, turning my gaze again to see the 5.01 to Thatto Heath pulling away from the platform. There is a quite ludicrous moment when I think about pushing after it. Chasing the very last train when it's too late, as James Morrison might say. I am reminded of Gene Wilder doing something similar in a film called the Silver Streak and realise it's futility. If an able-bodied actor in an action comedy can't keep up, what chance an overweight raspberry who really needs a tyre change in any case? I don't move, but can still hear the voice of my late Grandmother shouting at Gene to 'hurry up, you fool.' as he begins his pointless pursuit. She was an optimist.
At this point I do something I am not normally given to doing. I complain. It's probably not her fault, but I tell the burly woman at the gate with the walkie-talkie that she and her colleagues are 'a disgrace'. She seems unmoved by this, or by the fact that they have actually managed to let me miss my train home. Still, she mumbles into the walkie-talkie once more, waving a hand at me as if to suggest I should be a little more patient and all will be fine.
Moments later a man I presume to be her senior comes through the gate and questions me over the incident. He's extroardinarily bald. He puts me in mind of the little man in the Benny Hill Show who spent entire episodes being slapped on his bald pate and running away from scantily clad women. I can hear the famous, accompanying music in my head as he apologises profusely, and can't help but think that the image suits this ridiculous situation.
There are no scantily-clad women by way of any consolation, but the man does at least help me onto the next train, due to depart around 20 minutes later. He makes it clear to all staff on board what will happen to their nether regions should they fail to help me disembark at Thatto Heath. I can't resist pointing out to him that his staff had already demonstrated this part of their repertoire less than two weeks earlier. I'm in full complaint mode now, but a sense of relief stops me giving it the full Victor Meldrew.
I go back to the music and my own thoughts, and try not to think too much about where I will end up this time.................
Tuesday, March 23 2010. Those of you familiar with the tale of woe that was part 1 will be alarmed to know that it takes less than two weeks for more train tomfoolery to take place.
Again it is those serial offenders at Lime Street Station who must be held responsible for this latest farce. Again it is assistance on the 5.01pm to Thatto Heath which proves beyond their capabilities. Only this is a different type of farce. A whole new angle on balls-ups. On reflection, I can only admire their versatility in this field. It must take a great deal of effort.
4.45pm. Just as out of breath as I was previously, I arrive at the station in good time. I pass through the platform gate and notice the same burly woman at the gate from the original, sorry tale. Again I ask for assistance. Again she nods and begins whispering into her walkie-talkie. 'Charlie Tango, Tea-kettle Barbecue.' Or something. I take it that means I should go through and wait by the platform.
There is a digital clock on the platform. A few minutes pass. 4.55pm. No panic. After all, notwithstanding the obsessive security surrounding ramps at Lime Street, it shouldn't take that long to board the train. I go back to my mp3 player and my muddled, post-work thoughts. A passing rail-worker suddenly attracts my attention. I'm about to ask for help, but he's on to me in a flash;
"It's not us mate." he offers, pointing to the company logo on his uniform.
"It's Network Rail." I think he says, though I'm so stupefied by the idea that privatisation has come to this that I can't be sure. If I'm right, what he is telling me is that he cannot assist me onto the train because he does not work for the company providing the train. And he's not alone. No fewer than three men tell me the same thing. It's like being left to die on the side of the pavement by the Good Samaritan because he has just got a job with BUPA.
I look up at the clock once more. 4.59 and 35......36..........37........38 seconds. At the other end of the platform, near the front of the train, I can make out the rotund figure of the guard. I wave at him. Casually at first, upping the ante with each movement until by 5.00 and around 28 seconds I am wildly jesticulating like a soon-to-be ex-extra in a Jaws movie. He's no Roy Scheider, and consequently decides that he hasn't seen me. I wasn't expecting him to start ringing bells and telling everyone to get off the beach, but I can't help but feel a little let down as he noncholantly steps back aboard the train.
I glance once more to the gate area and see nobody, turning my gaze again to see the 5.01 to Thatto Heath pulling away from the platform. There is a quite ludicrous moment when I think about pushing after it. Chasing the very last train when it's too late, as James Morrison might say. I am reminded of Gene Wilder doing something similar in a film called the Silver Streak and realise it's futility. If an able-bodied actor in an action comedy can't keep up, what chance an overweight raspberry who really needs a tyre change in any case? I don't move, but can still hear the voice of my late Grandmother shouting at Gene to 'hurry up, you fool.' as he begins his pointless pursuit. She was an optimist.
At this point I do something I am not normally given to doing. I complain. It's probably not her fault, but I tell the burly woman at the gate with the walkie-talkie that she and her colleagues are 'a disgrace'. She seems unmoved by this, or by the fact that they have actually managed to let me miss my train home. Still, she mumbles into the walkie-talkie once more, waving a hand at me as if to suggest I should be a little more patient and all will be fine.
Moments later a man I presume to be her senior comes through the gate and questions me over the incident. He's extroardinarily bald. He puts me in mind of the little man in the Benny Hill Show who spent entire episodes being slapped on his bald pate and running away from scantily clad women. I can hear the famous, accompanying music in my head as he apologises profusely, and can't help but think that the image suits this ridiculous situation.
There are no scantily-clad women by way of any consolation, but the man does at least help me onto the next train, due to depart around 20 minutes later. He makes it clear to all staff on board what will happen to their nether regions should they fail to help me disembark at Thatto Heath. I can't resist pointing out to him that his staff had already demonstrated this part of their repertoire less than two weeks earlier. I'm in full complaint mode now, but a sense of relief stops me giving it the full Victor Meldrew.
I go back to the music and my own thoughts, and try not to think too much about where I will end up this time.................
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
No Pain, No Train - Part 1
Working as I do in Liverpool, it is sometimes necessary to travel to and from work by train. For most people, this is as simple and as straightforward a part of everyday life as there is. How is it then that I manage to turn it in to the kind of transport ordeal normally reserved for Tiger Woods and Lewis Hamilton?
It's the wheelchair again. Yes, I know it is crass and melodramatic to blame everything on disability but in this case it's justified. Besides, crass and melodramatic is what I do, and I'm darned good at it too.
If you are still in any doubt that disability is the cause of all this then allow me to share with you a story of recent dealings with our friends in the rail service. It's Thursday March 11 and I have just finished work. I'm on the train. That is to say I have to get the train. I'm not on it yet. I end up wishing I never had been.
The train from Lime Street to Thatto Heath leaves at 5.01pm. I arrive at Lime Street around 4.50. I'm a little put out to begin with. The slopes between my place of work and the station are becoming increasingly unkind to me. It's the wheelchair again. No, it's not. It's age and the fact that I haven't done any meaningful exercise since Live Aid.
Catching my breath, I roll over to the barrier between the concourse and the platforms. I ask a chunky looking woman who looks more suited to working on the doors of the city centre bars if I might possibly have some assistance boarding the train. She doesn't answer, even though I say please. She just mumbles something incoherent into her walkie-talkie. I'm not suspicious yet but I should be. Who uses walkie-talkies in 2010?
Mercifully, it is only a few minutes until an equally heavy-set but different woman arrives on the platform. Like her colleague, she doesn't look at or speak to me, just nods in the direction of the far end of the train and begins unlocking the ramp. Yes, you read that right. Unlocking the ramp. They chain it to the platform railing, or the wall. Why? Who is going to steal a portable ramp, and what for? I should, as it turns out.
I push up the ramp and board the train. This is a minor triumph already. Usually the steps to the train are so steep that the ramp needs to be placed at an almost vertical angle. Edmund Hilary would have trouble making the ascent. Well he would if he couldn't use his legs. All of which necessitates the indignity of having to be pushed up the ramp. I look again at the woman assisting me and feel thankful to have escaped that fate on this occasion. She's a big lass. If she pushes me up that ramp I might very well come out of the opposite door and end up on the railway.
'I'll give them a ring' she says, meaning the people at Thatto Heath station who will need to meet me to assist me in leaving the train. She turns to the guard who is just approaching and repeats this promise to him, putting an outstretched thumb and little finger to her ear as she says it in that way that Peter Kay has made a living from lampooning.
'Where you going mate?' asks the guard.
'Thatto Heath', the burly woman answers for me.
'Sound. I'll sort yer out lad.'
But he doesn't. In fact he doesn't even get on the train because he is not the guard. I don't know who he is. He has a rail workers uniform on, but then I'm wearing a Liverpool shirt and I'm not Fernando Torres. My mistake.
'Thatto Heath'. he blurts in the direction of another man who has just entered the driver's cabin. The driver nods. We leave Lime Street.
We pass Edge Hill. Wavertree. Broad Green. Roby. Huyton. Prescot. Eccleston Park. Thatto Heath.
Thatto Heath. Hang on? Thatto Heath? But shouldn't I be...........?
Well yes, but I'm not. The driver has forgotten about me.
And yet it is not a feeling of horror, panic or even mild anger which envelopes me as we pull away from Thatto Heath on our merry way to St.Helens Central. It's just a kind of weariness similar to that which Blackadder conveys after hearing another of Baldrick's cunning plans. We know it will turn out this way, so what's the point of getting over-excited about it? Better to just roll my eyes and get on with it.
It is due to no small amount of good fortune that I am allowed to disembark at St.Helens, as opposed to any number of stops on the way to Wigan North Western. There happens to be a station employee wandering around aimlessly on the platform as the doors open, and I manage to attract his attention and explain. Not only is he a Godsend in as far as I know that he will help me, but I'm also struck by his ability to talk to me rather than about me.
Meanwhile the driver steps out of his balloon basket and offers a chillingly dense enquiry;
'Didn't they get you off the train at Thatto Heath?'
Er...........no. Didn't you? Didn't your colleague specifically ask you to? Two colleagues in fact, if you count the burly woman who was allegedly making the phone call. I want to say all of this but say none of it, choosing instead to huffily advance through the station towards the taxi rank, turning down the offer of assistance on the next train back the other way. I haven't got all night. I have to be back at work for 8.30 the following morning. Best make alternative arrangements.
So I get a taxi.
'Make sure you get a receipt.' offers the accidentally helpful station employee, but I hardly hear him. I'm in the taxi telling the driver most of this story. I pay him £5.30 for his trouble, but get nothing for mine. I resolve to write a letter of complaint, but then remember the last time I did this and received a written apology and a travel voucher worth £1.00 I decide my life is too short. I still haven't written that letter..............
It's the wheelchair again. Yes, I know it is crass and melodramatic to blame everything on disability but in this case it's justified. Besides, crass and melodramatic is what I do, and I'm darned good at it too.
If you are still in any doubt that disability is the cause of all this then allow me to share with you a story of recent dealings with our friends in the rail service. It's Thursday March 11 and I have just finished work. I'm on the train. That is to say I have to get the train. I'm not on it yet. I end up wishing I never had been.
The train from Lime Street to Thatto Heath leaves at 5.01pm. I arrive at Lime Street around 4.50. I'm a little put out to begin with. The slopes between my place of work and the station are becoming increasingly unkind to me. It's the wheelchair again. No, it's not. It's age and the fact that I haven't done any meaningful exercise since Live Aid.
Catching my breath, I roll over to the barrier between the concourse and the platforms. I ask a chunky looking woman who looks more suited to working on the doors of the city centre bars if I might possibly have some assistance boarding the train. She doesn't answer, even though I say please. She just mumbles something incoherent into her walkie-talkie. I'm not suspicious yet but I should be. Who uses walkie-talkies in 2010?
Mercifully, it is only a few minutes until an equally heavy-set but different woman arrives on the platform. Like her colleague, she doesn't look at or speak to me, just nods in the direction of the far end of the train and begins unlocking the ramp. Yes, you read that right. Unlocking the ramp. They chain it to the platform railing, or the wall. Why? Who is going to steal a portable ramp, and what for? I should, as it turns out.
I push up the ramp and board the train. This is a minor triumph already. Usually the steps to the train are so steep that the ramp needs to be placed at an almost vertical angle. Edmund Hilary would have trouble making the ascent. Well he would if he couldn't use his legs. All of which necessitates the indignity of having to be pushed up the ramp. I look again at the woman assisting me and feel thankful to have escaped that fate on this occasion. She's a big lass. If she pushes me up that ramp I might very well come out of the opposite door and end up on the railway.
'I'll give them a ring' she says, meaning the people at Thatto Heath station who will need to meet me to assist me in leaving the train. She turns to the guard who is just approaching and repeats this promise to him, putting an outstretched thumb and little finger to her ear as she says it in that way that Peter Kay has made a living from lampooning.
'Where you going mate?' asks the guard.
'Thatto Heath', the burly woman answers for me.
'Sound. I'll sort yer out lad.'
But he doesn't. In fact he doesn't even get on the train because he is not the guard. I don't know who he is. He has a rail workers uniform on, but then I'm wearing a Liverpool shirt and I'm not Fernando Torres. My mistake.
'Thatto Heath'. he blurts in the direction of another man who has just entered the driver's cabin. The driver nods. We leave Lime Street.
We pass Edge Hill. Wavertree. Broad Green. Roby. Huyton. Prescot. Eccleston Park. Thatto Heath.
Thatto Heath. Hang on? Thatto Heath? But shouldn't I be...........?
Well yes, but I'm not. The driver has forgotten about me.
And yet it is not a feeling of horror, panic or even mild anger which envelopes me as we pull away from Thatto Heath on our merry way to St.Helens Central. It's just a kind of weariness similar to that which Blackadder conveys after hearing another of Baldrick's cunning plans. We know it will turn out this way, so what's the point of getting over-excited about it? Better to just roll my eyes and get on with it.
It is due to no small amount of good fortune that I am allowed to disembark at St.Helens, as opposed to any number of stops on the way to Wigan North Western. There happens to be a station employee wandering around aimlessly on the platform as the doors open, and I manage to attract his attention and explain. Not only is he a Godsend in as far as I know that he will help me, but I'm also struck by his ability to talk to me rather than about me.
Meanwhile the driver steps out of his balloon basket and offers a chillingly dense enquiry;
'Didn't they get you off the train at Thatto Heath?'
Er...........no. Didn't you? Didn't your colleague specifically ask you to? Two colleagues in fact, if you count the burly woman who was allegedly making the phone call. I want to say all of this but say none of it, choosing instead to huffily advance through the station towards the taxi rank, turning down the offer of assistance on the next train back the other way. I haven't got all night. I have to be back at work for 8.30 the following morning. Best make alternative arrangements.
So I get a taxi.
'Make sure you get a receipt.' offers the accidentally helpful station employee, but I hardly hear him. I'm in the taxi telling the driver most of this story. I pay him £5.30 for his trouble, but get nothing for mine. I resolve to write a letter of complaint, but then remember the last time I did this and received a written apology and a travel voucher worth £1.00 I decide my life is too short. I still haven't written that letter..............
Monday, 29 March 2010
Being Angry And Wet Wit
This is the first post on this blogspot (pardon my fuckwit language) since March 5 2009. Today's date is March 29 2010. We are a year further on and, upon returning to my work out of an interest re-ignited by something a friend said, I notice that I am the world's angriest person.
I'm not quite sure how this happened but the evidence is compelling. My assessment of Gok Wan following his appearance on the 2009 BRIT awards show spat more venom than a viper who has just received a phone call in the middle of Eastenders. Wan's crime on the night was only to present an award to some admittedly undeserved recipient. Yet I couldn't leave it there. I was incandescent with rage about Wan getting paid to sneer at people. Getting paid to sneer at people was probably my number one ambition before I started my current job. Irony eh?
On further inspection there were several other victims of my ire, not all of them alive enough to offer any kind of defence. Job interviews, karaoke (which I love, figure that out), family dos, people who don't like Joss Stone, people who do like Rihanna and Lily Allen, people who want to park their car in the same place at the same time as I do, The Ting-Tings and Estelle all managed to grind what Peter Griffin might call 'my gears'. These things seem relatively trivial even to me now, so where does all of this splenetic juice-firing come from, and what's the point?
Dry wit, that's what. When I'm churning out this stuff I am driven to do so by a faint amusement at the rubbishness of all of these things. So it is an attempt at humour which, when you read it back a year later, leaps off the page not as some kind of Newswipe-esque meandering but as a furious tirade against British culture. Something seems to get lost in the translation. I make the mistake of thinking at the time of writing that people will 'get me', when all but a select few are really thinking 'get him'.
So if dry wit leads me down this path ,where would 'wet wit' take me? Is there such a thing? If there is who are it's greatest (worst?) exponents? Uncomplicated humourists like James Corden and our mate Vegas make people laugh, so who am I to say that their wit is decidedly damp? Or that if it is that there is something wrong with that? They're the ones getting paid to be shit, after all. I'll be getting up for work again tomorrow morning and it is 11.41pm now. Laugh at that Orford.
Or do what you always do and just get angry...........in a dry, witty way.
I'm not quite sure how this happened but the evidence is compelling. My assessment of Gok Wan following his appearance on the 2009 BRIT awards show spat more venom than a viper who has just received a phone call in the middle of Eastenders. Wan's crime on the night was only to present an award to some admittedly undeserved recipient. Yet I couldn't leave it there. I was incandescent with rage about Wan getting paid to sneer at people. Getting paid to sneer at people was probably my number one ambition before I started my current job. Irony eh?
On further inspection there were several other victims of my ire, not all of them alive enough to offer any kind of defence. Job interviews, karaoke (which I love, figure that out), family dos, people who don't like Joss Stone, people who do like Rihanna and Lily Allen, people who want to park their car in the same place at the same time as I do, The Ting-Tings and Estelle all managed to grind what Peter Griffin might call 'my gears'. These things seem relatively trivial even to me now, so where does all of this splenetic juice-firing come from, and what's the point?
Dry wit, that's what. When I'm churning out this stuff I am driven to do so by a faint amusement at the rubbishness of all of these things. So it is an attempt at humour which, when you read it back a year later, leaps off the page not as some kind of Newswipe-esque meandering but as a furious tirade against British culture. Something seems to get lost in the translation. I make the mistake of thinking at the time of writing that people will 'get me', when all but a select few are really thinking 'get him'.
So if dry wit leads me down this path ,where would 'wet wit' take me? Is there such a thing? If there is who are it's greatest (worst?) exponents? Uncomplicated humourists like James Corden and our mate Vegas make people laugh, so who am I to say that their wit is decidedly damp? Or that if it is that there is something wrong with that? They're the ones getting paid to be shit, after all. I'll be getting up for work again tomorrow morning and it is 11.41pm now. Laugh at that Orford.
Or do what you always do and just get angry...........in a dry, witty way.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Changeling
Directed by Clint Eastwood, the story of Christine Collins is a pretty harrowing affair. Angelina Jolie stars as Collins in a film apparently based on a true story.
It's March 1928 and Collins is unexpectedly called out to work. She's a telephone supervisor. On roller skates. Stay with me. It's 1928. They probably did those kinds of things back then. Anyway she returns from her shift to find her son 9-year-old son Walter has vanished.
And so begins a relentless pursuit of the truth behind Walter's disappearance. At every turn there is a development which offers hope to Collins, before ripping it away in the cruellest of ways. At a certain point you find yourself thinking that no woman could possibly have endured this much false hope followed by such crushing disappointment, yet at no point does he lose faith that she will find her son.
The corrupt Los Angeles Police Department are less convinced, and so hatch a plan to convince Collins that her ordeal is over. The plan is simple enough. They just find a boy that looks more or less like Walter, and hand him over. Collins' protests at being re-united with a boy she has never met before (if that is possible) spark a chain of events that would seem even less plausible were we not remembering that all of this is true. Apparently.
Forced incarceration, electro-therapy, fingers in private orifaces. It's all here as Collins feels the full force of the LAPD's determination to exhibit her as a psychiatric case study, and thus continue to revel in the glory of having 'found' Walter. The handling of Collins' transformation from worried mother to cuckoo's nest in-patient could have been handled a little smoother.
Some of the acting is unconvincing, especially Jeffrey Donovan's portrayal of police captain J.J.Jones. We're hearing him give the reasons why he thinks Collins would deny the new boy is hers, but the sane among us are not believing a word. Also, and without giving too much away, the performance of young Eddie Alderson as the boy who unlocks some (but crucially not all) of the secrets of Walter's disappearance is decidedly shaky. Even for a child.
The best performance in the film is probably Jolie's, although points are knocked off for a shower scene which shows us absolutely nothing of interest. A monumental waste of potential I'm sure you'll agree. On a similar theme John Malkovich is slightly under-used as the reverand pastor who helps unravel the LAPD's web of lies, and provides support for Collins during some very dark moments. Yet the most interesting performance in a film is often that of the villain, and the same is true here as Jason Butler Harner has you believing absolutely in the simple-minded madness of the man responsible for Walter's abduction.
I'm not a parent but I found it difficult not to be moved by the plight of Collins. I should imagine that anyone sitting at home watching this film with the little ones tucked up in bed upstairs will feel the emotion several times more intensely.
It's March 1928 and Collins is unexpectedly called out to work. She's a telephone supervisor. On roller skates. Stay with me. It's 1928. They probably did those kinds of things back then. Anyway she returns from her shift to find her son 9-year-old son Walter has vanished.
And so begins a relentless pursuit of the truth behind Walter's disappearance. At every turn there is a development which offers hope to Collins, before ripping it away in the cruellest of ways. At a certain point you find yourself thinking that no woman could possibly have endured this much false hope followed by such crushing disappointment, yet at no point does he lose faith that she will find her son.
The corrupt Los Angeles Police Department are less convinced, and so hatch a plan to convince Collins that her ordeal is over. The plan is simple enough. They just find a boy that looks more or less like Walter, and hand him over. Collins' protests at being re-united with a boy she has never met before (if that is possible) spark a chain of events that would seem even less plausible were we not remembering that all of this is true. Apparently.
Forced incarceration, electro-therapy, fingers in private orifaces. It's all here as Collins feels the full force of the LAPD's determination to exhibit her as a psychiatric case study, and thus continue to revel in the glory of having 'found' Walter. The handling of Collins' transformation from worried mother to cuckoo's nest in-patient could have been handled a little smoother.
Some of the acting is unconvincing, especially Jeffrey Donovan's portrayal of police captain J.J.Jones. We're hearing him give the reasons why he thinks Collins would deny the new boy is hers, but the sane among us are not believing a word. Also, and without giving too much away, the performance of young Eddie Alderson as the boy who unlocks some (but crucially not all) of the secrets of Walter's disappearance is decidedly shaky. Even for a child.
The best performance in the film is probably Jolie's, although points are knocked off for a shower scene which shows us absolutely nothing of interest. A monumental waste of potential I'm sure you'll agree. On a similar theme John Malkovich is slightly under-used as the reverand pastor who helps unravel the LAPD's web of lies, and provides support for Collins during some very dark moments. Yet the most interesting performance in a film is often that of the villain, and the same is true here as Jason Butler Harner has you believing absolutely in the simple-minded madness of the man responsible for Walter's abduction.
I'm not a parent but I found it difficult not to be moved by the plight of Collins. I should imagine that anyone sitting at home watching this film with the little ones tucked up in bed upstairs will feel the emotion several times more intensely.
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
The BRITS 2009
Tonight's BRIT Awards show on ITV has just finished. And Jesus Christ am I glad.
Now I only caught the last 45 minutes, so please forgive me if I have misunderstood. The first 75 minutes could have been a musical triumph. It's just that the section of the show that I had the misfortune to see was anything but.
Imagine waking up from an unscheduled forty winks to find yourself being introduced to possibly the most ill-conceived collaboration since Noel Edmonds met Mr Blobby. That was what lay in store from me when an incrediby badly dressed and quite sinister looking bloke introduced me to The Ting-Tings and Estelle.
'Shut up and let me go' wailed the singer of the talent-defficient former, while the latter marched on stage determined to take the performance on a different course. Yet all attempts to rescue it from ruin were scotched when Estelle gave us 'American Boy'. Frankly these two tracks (such as they are) fitted together like milk-shake and orange juice. The inevitably curdled result was as stomach-churning as it gets.
Eventually the pair arrived at the same page with a well-intentioned but catastrophic version of 'That's Not My Name'. Quite apart from this song's pointless monotony, the clash of styles reminded me of Coventry City's Chocolate Brown away kit from the 1970's which I believe featured yellow markings. We're all starting to feel a bit queasy by now.
Before we wretch it is back to the sinister man (who it turns out stars in the much-loved but utterly abject Gavin and Stacey) alongside Kylie. Now Kylie might be Australian but she qualifies as a national treasure. Yet here she was being made to body-pop, as by now the sinister bloke's fat and equally rubbish mate had joined them on stage. At this point there were calls from my sofa of a return to the days of Fleetwood Mac and Samantha Fox. Anything but the direction we were seemingly heading.
Think it can't get any worse? Guess again, as on comes Gok Wan to present an award (I neither know nor care what it was). Without wishing to be homophobic, Wan should almost certainly be shot. What is more, he should be shot while being made to wear clothes that he does not like. I long for the day when television executives realise that the ability to sneer at how other people look is simply not enough to secure a top presenting gig. Nor is being as camp as is humanly possible without actually bending over The Ting-Tings drum-kit. 'Who looks good naked?" he enquired of us. Not fucking you, you talentless boil on the arse of British culture.
It wasn't long before Wan was joined by that other uber-gay moron Alan Carr. In his defence, and for all his annoyances, Carr does at least possess the endearing ability to say something witty now and again. That said, a highlight of the whole sorry affair came when he remarked that he might wet himself in anticipation of the upcoming performance by The Pet Shop Boys. More of whom later. Had Carr actually made good on his leaky bladder suggestion it might well have been worth sitting through what was to come.
And I'm talking about YOU, Girls Aloud. Inexplicably, these five tedious women picked up the gong for Single Of The Year for 'The Promise'. All of which gave yet more unwarranted air-time to Cheryl Cole, whose march towards blanket coverage on all UK networks gathers yet more pace. Quite what the nation's obsession with this pointless individual is will I suspect remain beyond me until they dig me a hole to rest in. Perhaps people feel sorry for her because Gobshite Ashley did the dirty on her. Maybe they like that she now enjoys the noble duty of promoting the next generation of pop-stars on X Factor. It simply can't be the singing, all of which is deathly dull and mostly done by her mates in any case. And don't get me started on the equally tiresome Sarah Harding.
The Pet Shop Boys were there to pick up the award for lifetime achievement, and as is tradition to close the show with a set of their best music. We all saw that coming. What was less obvious was the reason why Chris Lowe (the one who never speaks, moves, sings or dances) played out the entire performance in a pink wig. It put me in mind of a Coronation Street character from my youth named Phyllis Pearce. Phyllis had a voice which sounded like it was being impaired by a throat-full of sand and mud, aswell as a bizarre but touching devotion to local busy-body and all round pain in the Harding Percy Sugden.
I can't see Lowe having the foresight to pay comic tribute to a soap star of yore, so there must have been more to it. Pink is a colour often associated with cancer charities, and particularly those which affect women. I can only hope that this was some sort of show of solidarity or effort to raise awareness to the cause. If so it is highly commendable and I am willing to forgive him and Neil Tennant for playing a large video of themselves in the background to their entire performance. Were they singing live or not, then? Who knows, but if Tennant can't talk about knocking down chairs in a restaurant without the aid of a pre-recorded soundtrack then perhaps he might like to think about returning his award.
Cole (sorry, we're back on her momentarily) told us that her earlier award had been the 'cherry on the cake'. She was wrong. The aforementioned fruit on the gateaux was the appearance of Killers front-man Brandon Flowers alongside the PSB's. PSB's? Makes them sound a little too much like a bank though it would surprise nobody if either Tennant or Lowe decided to take their careers in that direction. In any event, Flowers' contribution to the set was infinitely more successful than Estelle's earlier Ting-Tings Thing Thing, or at least it would have been had both Tennant and Lowe not looked faintly embarrassed throughout. Joining in was a scantily-clad blonde woman who I am sure I am supposed to recognise but don't, and whose aim was to produce a reasonable stab at the Dusty Springfield role in 'What Have I Done To Deserve This?'.
Which, aptly enough, was exactly what I was asking myself as the credits rolled.
By Stephen Orford
18 February 2009
Now I only caught the last 45 minutes, so please forgive me if I have misunderstood. The first 75 minutes could have been a musical triumph. It's just that the section of the show that I had the misfortune to see was anything but.
Imagine waking up from an unscheduled forty winks to find yourself being introduced to possibly the most ill-conceived collaboration since Noel Edmonds met Mr Blobby. That was what lay in store from me when an incrediby badly dressed and quite sinister looking bloke introduced me to The Ting-Tings and Estelle.
'Shut up and let me go' wailed the singer of the talent-defficient former, while the latter marched on stage determined to take the performance on a different course. Yet all attempts to rescue it from ruin were scotched when Estelle gave us 'American Boy'. Frankly these two tracks (such as they are) fitted together like milk-shake and orange juice. The inevitably curdled result was as stomach-churning as it gets.
Eventually the pair arrived at the same page with a well-intentioned but catastrophic version of 'That's Not My Name'. Quite apart from this song's pointless monotony, the clash of styles reminded me of Coventry City's Chocolate Brown away kit from the 1970's which I believe featured yellow markings. We're all starting to feel a bit queasy by now.
Before we wretch it is back to the sinister man (who it turns out stars in the much-loved but utterly abject Gavin and Stacey) alongside Kylie. Now Kylie might be Australian but she qualifies as a national treasure. Yet here she was being made to body-pop, as by now the sinister bloke's fat and equally rubbish mate had joined them on stage. At this point there were calls from my sofa of a return to the days of Fleetwood Mac and Samantha Fox. Anything but the direction we were seemingly heading.
Think it can't get any worse? Guess again, as on comes Gok Wan to present an award (I neither know nor care what it was). Without wishing to be homophobic, Wan should almost certainly be shot. What is more, he should be shot while being made to wear clothes that he does not like. I long for the day when television executives realise that the ability to sneer at how other people look is simply not enough to secure a top presenting gig. Nor is being as camp as is humanly possible without actually bending over The Ting-Tings drum-kit. 'Who looks good naked?" he enquired of us. Not fucking you, you talentless boil on the arse of British culture.
It wasn't long before Wan was joined by that other uber-gay moron Alan Carr. In his defence, and for all his annoyances, Carr does at least possess the endearing ability to say something witty now and again. That said, a highlight of the whole sorry affair came when he remarked that he might wet himself in anticipation of the upcoming performance by The Pet Shop Boys. More of whom later. Had Carr actually made good on his leaky bladder suggestion it might well have been worth sitting through what was to come.
And I'm talking about YOU, Girls Aloud. Inexplicably, these five tedious women picked up the gong for Single Of The Year for 'The Promise'. All of which gave yet more unwarranted air-time to Cheryl Cole, whose march towards blanket coverage on all UK networks gathers yet more pace. Quite what the nation's obsession with this pointless individual is will I suspect remain beyond me until they dig me a hole to rest in. Perhaps people feel sorry for her because Gobshite Ashley did the dirty on her. Maybe they like that she now enjoys the noble duty of promoting the next generation of pop-stars on X Factor. It simply can't be the singing, all of which is deathly dull and mostly done by her mates in any case. And don't get me started on the equally tiresome Sarah Harding.
The Pet Shop Boys were there to pick up the award for lifetime achievement, and as is tradition to close the show with a set of their best music. We all saw that coming. What was less obvious was the reason why Chris Lowe (the one who never speaks, moves, sings or dances) played out the entire performance in a pink wig. It put me in mind of a Coronation Street character from my youth named Phyllis Pearce. Phyllis had a voice which sounded like it was being impaired by a throat-full of sand and mud, aswell as a bizarre but touching devotion to local busy-body and all round pain in the Harding Percy Sugden.
I can't see Lowe having the foresight to pay comic tribute to a soap star of yore, so there must have been more to it. Pink is a colour often associated with cancer charities, and particularly those which affect women. I can only hope that this was some sort of show of solidarity or effort to raise awareness to the cause. If so it is highly commendable and I am willing to forgive him and Neil Tennant for playing a large video of themselves in the background to their entire performance. Were they singing live or not, then? Who knows, but if Tennant can't talk about knocking down chairs in a restaurant without the aid of a pre-recorded soundtrack then perhaps he might like to think about returning his award.
Cole (sorry, we're back on her momentarily) told us that her earlier award had been the 'cherry on the cake'. She was wrong. The aforementioned fruit on the gateaux was the appearance of Killers front-man Brandon Flowers alongside the PSB's. PSB's? Makes them sound a little too much like a bank though it would surprise nobody if either Tennant or Lowe decided to take their careers in that direction. In any event, Flowers' contribution to the set was infinitely more successful than Estelle's earlier Ting-Tings Thing Thing, or at least it would have been had both Tennant and Lowe not looked faintly embarrassed throughout. Joining in was a scantily-clad blonde woman who I am sure I am supposed to recognise but don't, and whose aim was to produce a reasonable stab at the Dusty Springfield role in 'What Have I Done To Deserve This?'.
Which, aptly enough, was exactly what I was asking myself as the credits rolled.
By Stephen Orford
18 February 2009
Friday, 13 February 2009
Jade
I don't like Big Brother. No. I hate it. In my view it reaches depths of pointlessness previously unknown. What is there to like about a bunch of no-name morons jabbering away about their inconsequential little lives? I have an inconsequential life of my own to jabber on about, thanks all the same.
However, much as I loathe the thing that has become known as BB, and all of it's bastard spawn reality shows, it has rather raised a serious issue in recent months.
You don't have to spend your Friday evenings in front of the television waiting for Davina to tell you who has been evicted to know that one former Big Brother participant, Jade Goody, is suffering from an aggressive form of cervical cancer. Tragically, the prognosis for Jade is extremely grim. From giving her a 40% chance of survival doctors have now had to inform her that her disease has spread to her liver and elsewhere, giving her only a miniscule chance of living to tell the tale.
Yet however much of that tale Jade will be able to relay to us is currently in the process of being captured entirely on film. Despite being stricken with this awful disease, Jade continues to allow and indeed encourage camera crews to follow her every move in her latest reality series. I'm afraid I don't know the name of it. It's not the issue.
The issue is whether or not this is morally correct. Is such a harrowing fight for life suitable viewing for an increasingly voyeuristic public? At what point do we draw the line and say 'no more'? Let this woman deal with her diabolical circumstances in private. She is a 27-year-old woman, about to be struck down less than a third into what would have been her natural life. She is also a mother. A more devastating set of circumstances is difficult to envisage, and yet here we are peering through the window at her in anticipation of well........goodness knows what.
You can't blame Jade. She might be annoying, crass, less than intelligent and a generally undeserved television star. Yet she is equally underserving of such a depressing fate. Her quest to get one final pay day to make sure that her children are looked after when she is gone is arguably the likely response of any young mother placed in that situation. No. The media are to blame for this vulgar peep show. Though Jade does little to discourage them, the television executives and producers should feel shame at even conceiving of the idea to put her plight so brightly in the spotlight.
In short, we should not know anything about this. Jade, may she be blessed by whatever sick power is up there, should not be famous. Famous people sing, dance, act, make people laugh, perform feats of sporting excellence. They do not sit on a sofa giggling inanely and rabbiting on constantly about themselves. Having made the mistake of thrusting Jade into the public eye without good reason, the money-mad television people are simply compounding that error by following the poor girl through what looks to be her final ordeal.
If any good is to come of this sorry episode it could well be in the response of young women who can relate to Jade. If even one young girl decides to go for a potentially life-saving smear test because of seeing Jade on the television then perhaps we should feel thankful. Yet do not let those responsible for her fly on the wall account of battling cancer take any plaudits should that happen. This is not the way forward. We must use the education system and other approaches to broadcasting to get the message across about how important an issue this is. We should not have to witness the apalling demise of a young woman at such close quarters in order to raise awareness and save lives in the future.
For all the negatives in this piece about Jade I should like to point out that I hope with every inch of my being that she defies the odds and wins her fight. Seeing her make a full recovery would inspire me and thrill me in equal measure. At that point she can make all the reality television she likes and good luck to her.
Just don't expect me to watch.
By Stephen Orford
However, much as I loathe the thing that has become known as BB, and all of it's bastard spawn reality shows, it has rather raised a serious issue in recent months.
You don't have to spend your Friday evenings in front of the television waiting for Davina to tell you who has been evicted to know that one former Big Brother participant, Jade Goody, is suffering from an aggressive form of cervical cancer. Tragically, the prognosis for Jade is extremely grim. From giving her a 40% chance of survival doctors have now had to inform her that her disease has spread to her liver and elsewhere, giving her only a miniscule chance of living to tell the tale.
Yet however much of that tale Jade will be able to relay to us is currently in the process of being captured entirely on film. Despite being stricken with this awful disease, Jade continues to allow and indeed encourage camera crews to follow her every move in her latest reality series. I'm afraid I don't know the name of it. It's not the issue.
The issue is whether or not this is morally correct. Is such a harrowing fight for life suitable viewing for an increasingly voyeuristic public? At what point do we draw the line and say 'no more'? Let this woman deal with her diabolical circumstances in private. She is a 27-year-old woman, about to be struck down less than a third into what would have been her natural life. She is also a mother. A more devastating set of circumstances is difficult to envisage, and yet here we are peering through the window at her in anticipation of well........goodness knows what.
You can't blame Jade. She might be annoying, crass, less than intelligent and a generally undeserved television star. Yet she is equally underserving of such a depressing fate. Her quest to get one final pay day to make sure that her children are looked after when she is gone is arguably the likely response of any young mother placed in that situation. No. The media are to blame for this vulgar peep show. Though Jade does little to discourage them, the television executives and producers should feel shame at even conceiving of the idea to put her plight so brightly in the spotlight.
In short, we should not know anything about this. Jade, may she be blessed by whatever sick power is up there, should not be famous. Famous people sing, dance, act, make people laugh, perform feats of sporting excellence. They do not sit on a sofa giggling inanely and rabbiting on constantly about themselves. Having made the mistake of thrusting Jade into the public eye without good reason, the money-mad television people are simply compounding that error by following the poor girl through what looks to be her final ordeal.
If any good is to come of this sorry episode it could well be in the response of young women who can relate to Jade. If even one young girl decides to go for a potentially life-saving smear test because of seeing Jade on the television then perhaps we should feel thankful. Yet do not let those responsible for her fly on the wall account of battling cancer take any plaudits should that happen. This is not the way forward. We must use the education system and other approaches to broadcasting to get the message across about how important an issue this is. We should not have to witness the apalling demise of a young woman at such close quarters in order to raise awareness and save lives in the future.
For all the negatives in this piece about Jade I should like to point out that I hope with every inch of my being that she defies the odds and wins her fight. Seeing her make a full recovery would inspire me and thrill me in equal measure. At that point she can make all the reality television she likes and good luck to her.
Just don't expect me to watch.
By Stephen Orford
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
The Wii Experience
Now some people might say that at 33 I am a little old for computer games. They can go fuck themselves. Alternatively they might like to review their ageist stereotpyical views on what is and is not a fit source of entertainment for the modern adult.
Emma and I bought a Wii about five or six months ago. For those of you still trying to work out how to switch on your Acorn Electron let me explain that the Wii is unlike any of it's predecessors in the gaming market. That is because rather than sitting motionless and getting sore thumbs from some joypad/joystick contraption in an effort to control the game, the Wii demands that you get a bit more active. If you are playing tennis you swing the remote like you would swing a tennis racket. If it's golf you swing it like you would swing a golf club. If it is swinging, you just swing. I haven't got that game yet.
What I do have is an unhealthy addiction to this new, fandangled piece of kit. On your average Saturday morning I can be found in front of the television in a state of rigid concentration, convinced that I am in fact Tiger Woods. It is rare for Tiger Woods to finish outside the top 100 in tournaments that even I had not heard of in the pre-Wii days, yet this does not deter me from my mission. Nor in fact does inexplicably missing a put from less than a metre away because the console has decided that it doesn't like you. Or because the grass on the greens at New England is a little longer than that at St.Andrews so that the ball is more likely to stick and you have to therefore hit it a little harder. But then if you hit it harder it bounces out of the hole like a space hopper launched at a pot-hole from 500 metres.
All very frustrating so I turned to Wii darts. You have shrewdly guessed what is coming next, which is that you use the Wii remote in a throwing motion not dissimilar to that applied to throwing a dart. The main difference appears to be that normally your average dart thrower can be relied upon to release said dart at some point. The Wii dart player can expect to effect four or five dart-throwing motions before the flighty fettler finally agrees to part company with your dart players hand. Timing is everything, which is perhaps why I lost a best of 21 legs match by a score of 11-0, that after losing a best of five-set match by only 3 sets to 2. To suggest that PDC Darts on the Wii is temperemental is a little like suggesting that Justin Lee Collins is annoying. It's kind of a given.
And so to the most befuddling thing about Wii games. They hurt. And yet I play on regardless. Emma is a few degrees warmer than me in the brain department it seems, because she has refrained from participating in games where pulled muscles are the norm such as Wii boxing, whereas I continue regardless. Over seven rounds against such mighty Wii animated opponents as Kevin, Keith and Simon, I managed to all but lose the use of my right arm entirely. The refusal to lie down and die of Kevin and company leads to a breathless and seemingly endless frenzy of right jabs aimed at the general direction of the television set. And all of this performed in the centre of my living room with the passing world able to access a full and unrestricted view of my bizarre antics. It reminds me of when the two girls who live opposite my mother used to dance in the top bedroom window. But we won't go into that.
Sooner or later I will become the greatest Wii golfer/tennis player/boxer/dart player/Asterix at the Olympics player but at what cost? Any more of this manic Wii-ing and I will be admitted to the emergency room before you can say 'Communication with the Wii remote has been suspended, press any button when connection is re-established'.
That means you need to charge the batteries, by the way.
Stephen Orford
11 February 2009
Emma and I bought a Wii about five or six months ago. For those of you still trying to work out how to switch on your Acorn Electron let me explain that the Wii is unlike any of it's predecessors in the gaming market. That is because rather than sitting motionless and getting sore thumbs from some joypad/joystick contraption in an effort to control the game, the Wii demands that you get a bit more active. If you are playing tennis you swing the remote like you would swing a tennis racket. If it's golf you swing it like you would swing a golf club. If it is swinging, you just swing. I haven't got that game yet.
What I do have is an unhealthy addiction to this new, fandangled piece of kit. On your average Saturday morning I can be found in front of the television in a state of rigid concentration, convinced that I am in fact Tiger Woods. It is rare for Tiger Woods to finish outside the top 100 in tournaments that even I had not heard of in the pre-Wii days, yet this does not deter me from my mission. Nor in fact does inexplicably missing a put from less than a metre away because the console has decided that it doesn't like you. Or because the grass on the greens at New England is a little longer than that at St.Andrews so that the ball is more likely to stick and you have to therefore hit it a little harder. But then if you hit it harder it bounces out of the hole like a space hopper launched at a pot-hole from 500 metres.
All very frustrating so I turned to Wii darts. You have shrewdly guessed what is coming next, which is that you use the Wii remote in a throwing motion not dissimilar to that applied to throwing a dart. The main difference appears to be that normally your average dart thrower can be relied upon to release said dart at some point. The Wii dart player can expect to effect four or five dart-throwing motions before the flighty fettler finally agrees to part company with your dart players hand. Timing is everything, which is perhaps why I lost a best of 21 legs match by a score of 11-0, that after losing a best of five-set match by only 3 sets to 2. To suggest that PDC Darts on the Wii is temperemental is a little like suggesting that Justin Lee Collins is annoying. It's kind of a given.
And so to the most befuddling thing about Wii games. They hurt. And yet I play on regardless. Emma is a few degrees warmer than me in the brain department it seems, because she has refrained from participating in games where pulled muscles are the norm such as Wii boxing, whereas I continue regardless. Over seven rounds against such mighty Wii animated opponents as Kevin, Keith and Simon, I managed to all but lose the use of my right arm entirely. The refusal to lie down and die of Kevin and company leads to a breathless and seemingly endless frenzy of right jabs aimed at the general direction of the television set. And all of this performed in the centre of my living room with the passing world able to access a full and unrestricted view of my bizarre antics. It reminds me of when the two girls who live opposite my mother used to dance in the top bedroom window. But we won't go into that.
Sooner or later I will become the greatest Wii golfer/tennis player/boxer/dart player/Asterix at the Olympics player but at what cost? Any more of this manic Wii-ing and I will be admitted to the emergency room before you can say 'Communication with the Wii remote has been suspended, press any button when connection is re-established'.
That means you need to charge the batteries, by the way.
Stephen Orford
11 February 2009
Thursday, 22 January 2009
The Karaoke Experience
Ok, so it is Thursday night. I have just been down to my local for a bit of Karaoke. Is that supposed to have a capital K? Who knows? Who cares?
Anyway, there are some observations which need to be made about this. First of all it is always the same people who sing. Namely me, and about three or four other people under the misguided notion that they can carry a tune any more than they can carry Gary Barlow up the M6 on their backs.
Why is it always ABBA with these people? And if not ABBA then that God Awful Buttercup song from Something About Mary. The worst thing about local Karaoke's is that when I get up and do an incredibly average turn the people there think I can sing. All of which leads to me getting up there four or five times until by the end I have shattered the myth that I can sing and ended up just as bad as everyone else. The awful truth is that I would love to be a good singer, but I'm not. There are many things I would love to be that I am not, and in most cases I just accept it and give up. Why can I not equate that to Karaoke?
The secret to my success at Karaoke would of course be to quit while I am ahead. Uncle Kracker's Follow Me? Yep. easy peasy. Everyone thinks that goes down a storm. Angels? Yep, everyone enjoys that too. My Way? Still OK. The older clientele really appreciate this. I don't know why. If I was old then a song about death would make me feel a tad depressed but they seem to lap it up. Words by Boyzone? Ok, we are wavering now. Can't do the first line of the chorus, never will be able to. Yet every time I enter a licensed premises I convince myself that maybe I can. Finally we get down to Wherever You Will Go by The Calling and it goes completely tits up. Why is it that I can't hear myself when I am singing that song on Karaoke? Play it to me in the car or on my walkman and I can belt it out with the best of them, but take away my backing and I sound like an X Factor freak show who has been hand picked to make the viewers laugh. Like Chico
What worries me the most about all this is that at some point I am going to get drunk enough and placed into a situation where I sing in front of my new work colleagues. Now my old work colleagues thought it was great because I knew my limitations and everyone went home before I got to the shit bit. But with this mad lot they are out until they drop sometimes, and that can only lead to an incredibly strained version of Always by Bon Jovi or James Morrison's Wonderful World. Why haven't any Karaoke people got The Chokin' Kind by Joss? I'm brilliant at that in my living room. Oh, yes. It's different, right?
Anyway this particular blog (I hate that word) is a bit crap. But that is what you get when you write it at 11.30 on a Thursday night having just come in from the Elephant Karaoke at which you got progressively worse with each song. I can only apologise. Work tomorrow and I can only hope that I get through it in one piece.
Until next time, loyal reader.
By Stephen Orford
22 January 2009
Anyway, there are some observations which need to be made about this. First of all it is always the same people who sing. Namely me, and about three or four other people under the misguided notion that they can carry a tune any more than they can carry Gary Barlow up the M6 on their backs.
Why is it always ABBA with these people? And if not ABBA then that God Awful Buttercup song from Something About Mary. The worst thing about local Karaoke's is that when I get up and do an incredibly average turn the people there think I can sing. All of which leads to me getting up there four or five times until by the end I have shattered the myth that I can sing and ended up just as bad as everyone else. The awful truth is that I would love to be a good singer, but I'm not. There are many things I would love to be that I am not, and in most cases I just accept it and give up. Why can I not equate that to Karaoke?
The secret to my success at Karaoke would of course be to quit while I am ahead. Uncle Kracker's Follow Me? Yep. easy peasy. Everyone thinks that goes down a storm. Angels? Yep, everyone enjoys that too. My Way? Still OK. The older clientele really appreciate this. I don't know why. If I was old then a song about death would make me feel a tad depressed but they seem to lap it up. Words by Boyzone? Ok, we are wavering now. Can't do the first line of the chorus, never will be able to. Yet every time I enter a licensed premises I convince myself that maybe I can. Finally we get down to Wherever You Will Go by The Calling and it goes completely tits up. Why is it that I can't hear myself when I am singing that song on Karaoke? Play it to me in the car or on my walkman and I can belt it out with the best of them, but take away my backing and I sound like an X Factor freak show who has been hand picked to make the viewers laugh. Like Chico
What worries me the most about all this is that at some point I am going to get drunk enough and placed into a situation where I sing in front of my new work colleagues. Now my old work colleagues thought it was great because I knew my limitations and everyone went home before I got to the shit bit. But with this mad lot they are out until they drop sometimes, and that can only lead to an incredibly strained version of Always by Bon Jovi or James Morrison's Wonderful World. Why haven't any Karaoke people got The Chokin' Kind by Joss? I'm brilliant at that in my living room. Oh, yes. It's different, right?
Anyway this particular blog (I hate that word) is a bit crap. But that is what you get when you write it at 11.30 on a Thursday night having just come in from the Elephant Karaoke at which you got progressively worse with each song. I can only apologise. Work tomorrow and I can only hope that I get through it in one piece.
Until next time, loyal reader.
By Stephen Orford
22 January 2009
Friday, 7 November 2008
Me And Joss
It's been a while so let me tell you where my inspiration to return to my blog comes from.
On an otherwise idle Friday night I was flicking through the TV channels when I came across one of those appalling list shows on BBC Three. In case anyone has had the good fortune to avoid these abberations of TV slot-filling slop let me elaborate. These shows feature minor celebrities, such as former Steps band members and no-mark comedians, desperate to get their mugs on the box commenting on all manner of things which have made the so-called Top 50 or 100 in their field as compiled by God Knows Who.
Tonight's subject matter was annoying songs. Mercifully I only caught the top 8, but became inspired and irritated in equal measure when the realisation hit me that I LIKE AT LEAST 6 of the top 8 alleged most annoying songs of all time. To give you an idea of the absurdity of the list, it featured Robbie Williams' 'Angels.' I have yet to meet anyone who does not like 'Angels', save for a few lifeless nihilists determined not to approve of anything from the pen and voice of a self-important coke-head sex pest from Stoke-On-Trent. No, not Phil Taylor, the other one.
All of which house-rounding ramblings brings me to my central point. There are, it seems, a whole society of people out there who want you to feel bad about what you like because it does not tally with their idea of 'cool'. I realise that this is all terribly stuffy of me but I'm no longer prepared to feel shame for my musical tastes. Especially since it is shame which is foisted upon me by the sort of Dickwads who downloaded the Crazy Frog's version of Axl F because some gobshite DJ somewhere gave it the seal of 'coolness'.
And so to the Joss of the title of this piece. Joss Stone. Five years ago Joss Stone was hailed by the Fascists Of Cool (FOC's) as the greatest soul singer of a generation. Comparisons with the great Aretha Franklin (what's that? You prefer Rihanna?) came easily as the then teenage star sold copies of her debut album at a rate normally reserved for Mr McDonald and his hugely over-rated hamburgers. Yet the acclaim didn't last, until now we have reached the point where Joss is little short of a pariah in the country of her birth. Her music is now described using quite meaningless words like 'cheesy', and is generally derided by all.
So what makes Joss a target for the FOC's? Apparently it is her accent. Despite her freakishly impressive voice, seemingly limitless talent and simply awesome beauty she is disliked in the UK because she has a rather confused Transatlantic accent. Now I am as firm a believer in keeping hold of one's original accent as the next FOC, but to disown the UK's brightest and most stunningly gorgeous musical talent that I know of is perhaps going too far. Could someone tell me why it is that the similarly afflicted Mark Ronson, a man who has never even attempted to sing a song much less inspire comparisons with soul legends, gets away with his muddled accent?
I fear for Mr Ronson. His time will come. Two, three or maybe four years down the line he is set to be vilified for almost everything he does by the FOC's. Consequently, his current fan base will suffer the awful indignity of having to feel feintly embarrassed that they ever listened to Amy Winhouse's version of 'Valerie'. It is a fate which has befallen not only Joss, but also James Blunt, Daniel Powter, Daniel Bedingfield and Dido to name but a few.
At times Joss does not help herself. Getting out of her face at the Brit Awards before presenting an award was perhaps a less than intellectual decision, while her rendition of God Save The Queen at the recent NFL Wembley clash between the San Diego Chargers and the New Orleans Saints served only to support the argument that she has been Americanised beyond all recognition. Yet none of this should detract from the fact that she IS the best soul singer of her generation. While no-talents like Rihanna continue to enjoy the plaudits despite destroying the concept of soul and R'n'B with their generic, listless wailing, the real gems like Joss are lost to an ignorant public desperate for style over substance.
But do you know what? Having said all of this I am glad. I don't want everyone else to suddenly decide that Joss is the best thing since chocolate. If there is one thing I detest more than the philistines it is bandwagon jumpers, always waiting to express their admiration once the media, press and 'in-crowd' (whoever the fuck they are) decide that it is acceptable to do so. If Joss's album sales in the UK were to truly reflect her brilliance then it would paradoxically indicate that she had gone downhill. Britain's Got Talent, but to celebrate it would be one of the most Un-British acts imaginable. It's little wonder that Joss might consider her British-ness to be something of a negative.
Besides, being the only one who really 'Gets It' has a satisfaction all of it's own. It gives one a sense of originality, and makes it a Hell of a lot easier to get concert tickets too.
Which is good news for any Mark Ronson fans willing to stick by him when the FOC shit hits the fans.
On an otherwise idle Friday night I was flicking through the TV channels when I came across one of those appalling list shows on BBC Three. In case anyone has had the good fortune to avoid these abberations of TV slot-filling slop let me elaborate. These shows feature minor celebrities, such as former Steps band members and no-mark comedians, desperate to get their mugs on the box commenting on all manner of things which have made the so-called Top 50 or 100 in their field as compiled by God Knows Who.
Tonight's subject matter was annoying songs. Mercifully I only caught the top 8, but became inspired and irritated in equal measure when the realisation hit me that I LIKE AT LEAST 6 of the top 8 alleged most annoying songs of all time. To give you an idea of the absurdity of the list, it featured Robbie Williams' 'Angels.' I have yet to meet anyone who does not like 'Angels', save for a few lifeless nihilists determined not to approve of anything from the pen and voice of a self-important coke-head sex pest from Stoke-On-Trent. No, not Phil Taylor, the other one.
All of which house-rounding ramblings brings me to my central point. There are, it seems, a whole society of people out there who want you to feel bad about what you like because it does not tally with their idea of 'cool'. I realise that this is all terribly stuffy of me but I'm no longer prepared to feel shame for my musical tastes. Especially since it is shame which is foisted upon me by the sort of Dickwads who downloaded the Crazy Frog's version of Axl F because some gobshite DJ somewhere gave it the seal of 'coolness'.
And so to the Joss of the title of this piece. Joss Stone. Five years ago Joss Stone was hailed by the Fascists Of Cool (FOC's) as the greatest soul singer of a generation. Comparisons with the great Aretha Franklin (what's that? You prefer Rihanna?) came easily as the then teenage star sold copies of her debut album at a rate normally reserved for Mr McDonald and his hugely over-rated hamburgers. Yet the acclaim didn't last, until now we have reached the point where Joss is little short of a pariah in the country of her birth. Her music is now described using quite meaningless words like 'cheesy', and is generally derided by all.
So what makes Joss a target for the FOC's? Apparently it is her accent. Despite her freakishly impressive voice, seemingly limitless talent and simply awesome beauty she is disliked in the UK because she has a rather confused Transatlantic accent. Now I am as firm a believer in keeping hold of one's original accent as the next FOC, but to disown the UK's brightest and most stunningly gorgeous musical talent that I know of is perhaps going too far. Could someone tell me why it is that the similarly afflicted Mark Ronson, a man who has never even attempted to sing a song much less inspire comparisons with soul legends, gets away with his muddled accent?
I fear for Mr Ronson. His time will come. Two, three or maybe four years down the line he is set to be vilified for almost everything he does by the FOC's. Consequently, his current fan base will suffer the awful indignity of having to feel feintly embarrassed that they ever listened to Amy Winhouse's version of 'Valerie'. It is a fate which has befallen not only Joss, but also James Blunt, Daniel Powter, Daniel Bedingfield and Dido to name but a few.
At times Joss does not help herself. Getting out of her face at the Brit Awards before presenting an award was perhaps a less than intellectual decision, while her rendition of God Save The Queen at the recent NFL Wembley clash between the San Diego Chargers and the New Orleans Saints served only to support the argument that she has been Americanised beyond all recognition. Yet none of this should detract from the fact that she IS the best soul singer of her generation. While no-talents like Rihanna continue to enjoy the plaudits despite destroying the concept of soul and R'n'B with their generic, listless wailing, the real gems like Joss are lost to an ignorant public desperate for style over substance.
But do you know what? Having said all of this I am glad. I don't want everyone else to suddenly decide that Joss is the best thing since chocolate. If there is one thing I detest more than the philistines it is bandwagon jumpers, always waiting to express their admiration once the media, press and 'in-crowd' (whoever the fuck they are) decide that it is acceptable to do so. If Joss's album sales in the UK were to truly reflect her brilliance then it would paradoxically indicate that she had gone downhill. Britain's Got Talent, but to celebrate it would be one of the most Un-British acts imaginable. It's little wonder that Joss might consider her British-ness to be something of a negative.
Besides, being the only one who really 'Gets It' has a satisfaction all of it's own. It gives one a sense of originality, and makes it a Hell of a lot easier to get concert tickets too.
Which is good news for any Mark Ronson fans willing to stick by him when the FOC shit hits the fans.
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
Tales From A Bank Holiday Weekend
The Idiot Nation
On Thursday morning my girlfriend and I made the innocent mistake of trying to park the car in town.
More specifically we were trying to park in the disabled bays in between Tesco and Wetherspoons. The latter does a top fry-up until 12 noon. The problem was that there wasn't much space. It's unlikely that everyone was desperate to get to Wetherspoons for their egg, beans and sausage but whatever their business they were in town in their droves.
There were two cars on the road in front of us. The drivers of both could not find a space, so instead of driving through the one way system and going to look for another place to park they chose to sit in the middle of the road and wait. This left us with nowhere to go, and no choice but to become part of the problem by waiting in behind. Finally the dynamic duo in front gave up and we drove around teh one way system and started to look elsewhere.
Except that when we were on our way back in the other direction we noticed that a woman was arriving back at her car with some shopping;
"I'm not going." she said more than once. Almost triumphantly, as if she had taken some sort of sick pleasure in denying the genuinely disabled a parking space and what is more, extra eggs and tea and toast. Ok, so she's not going, but there was space between her car and the one directly in front, so I asked if she wouldn't mind moving forward to allow us to get in behind her;
"Ok love." she replied politely, having had her fun and at last seeming in co-operative mood. So what does she do? She moves BACKWARDS away from the car in front, so that instead of parking easily in behind we had to reverse park in between her and the car in front. Sometimes it is just the little things that get you, isn't it?
Paul
So Emma and I moved on to Blackpool on Friday night. We'd booked two nights at a place called The Ocean Hotel on the North Shore. On the first of those nights we were in a Wetherspoons (we should probably get some sort of commission) called the Litton Tree minding our own business, just chatting and having a few beverages.
At that point a young man came over and asked (or at least I thought he had) whether or not he could borrow a chair that was sitting unused at our table. Of course I agreed, only to find that in his own drunken and language-defying way he had actually asked if he could join us. We spent the next 30 minutes finding out that;
His name was Paul.
He was in the Army.
He was SAS, in fact.
He was hopeful of making MI5.
Potential MI5 candidates think wheelchair users don't have sex.
He could easily get away with shooting Gary Glitter and was considering it.
His mate used to be a good lad until he lost his legs.
There will be a World War within the next 10 years, and it will be caused by the Russians.
We made our excuses and left.
Soul Suite
If ever you find yourself on a night out in Blackpool then I heartily recommend you visit Soul Suite. It's a bar in the town centre which plays all the best Mowtown, soul and proper R & B music (in other words not Rihanna). Not only does this sort of music make for a better night out in my view, but it also means that you get less of the under-18 population in there. The media has succeeded in persuading young people that soul music is less cool than Gordon Brown, which is just fine as it leaves us oldies to enjoy a bit of quality in an atmosphere that does not resemble a Brewsters Fayre ball pool.
ID
A place in Blackpool I would discourage you from visiting is The Counting House. In fact, I haven't been to the one in St.Helens yet but after the weekend's experience I don't think I'll bother. Emma and I had been there for a meal on Friday afternoon, and they had been quite happy to benefit from our custom, only to refuse Emma service on Saturday night. She was asked for ID.
Now, unless the laws of the land have changed you have to be 18 to legally buy alcohol in a public house. Emma will be 29 a week on Friday, yet was still suspected of being 17 by what she claims was the very same girl who had served her the previous day. When she was around 20, she was asked to prove that she was over 16 when she went to pay for my petrol at a station in Barnsley. If they genuinely believed that she was under 16 then I am worried about what that says about me and my sexual habits.
Good job I didn't tell Paul the SAS man that story.
On Thursday morning my girlfriend and I made the innocent mistake of trying to park the car in town.
More specifically we were trying to park in the disabled bays in between Tesco and Wetherspoons. The latter does a top fry-up until 12 noon. The problem was that there wasn't much space. It's unlikely that everyone was desperate to get to Wetherspoons for their egg, beans and sausage but whatever their business they were in town in their droves.
There were two cars on the road in front of us. The drivers of both could not find a space, so instead of driving through the one way system and going to look for another place to park they chose to sit in the middle of the road and wait. This left us with nowhere to go, and no choice but to become part of the problem by waiting in behind. Finally the dynamic duo in front gave up and we drove around teh one way system and started to look elsewhere.
Except that when we were on our way back in the other direction we noticed that a woman was arriving back at her car with some shopping;
"I'm not going." she said more than once. Almost triumphantly, as if she had taken some sort of sick pleasure in denying the genuinely disabled a parking space and what is more, extra eggs and tea and toast. Ok, so she's not going, but there was space between her car and the one directly in front, so I asked if she wouldn't mind moving forward to allow us to get in behind her;
"Ok love." she replied politely, having had her fun and at last seeming in co-operative mood. So what does she do? She moves BACKWARDS away from the car in front, so that instead of parking easily in behind we had to reverse park in between her and the car in front. Sometimes it is just the little things that get you, isn't it?
Paul
So Emma and I moved on to Blackpool on Friday night. We'd booked two nights at a place called The Ocean Hotel on the North Shore. On the first of those nights we were in a Wetherspoons (we should probably get some sort of commission) called the Litton Tree minding our own business, just chatting and having a few beverages.
At that point a young man came over and asked (or at least I thought he had) whether or not he could borrow a chair that was sitting unused at our table. Of course I agreed, only to find that in his own drunken and language-defying way he had actually asked if he could join us. We spent the next 30 minutes finding out that;
His name was Paul.
He was in the Army.
He was SAS, in fact.
He was hopeful of making MI5.
Potential MI5 candidates think wheelchair users don't have sex.
He could easily get away with shooting Gary Glitter and was considering it.
His mate used to be a good lad until he lost his legs.
There will be a World War within the next 10 years, and it will be caused by the Russians.
We made our excuses and left.
Soul Suite
If ever you find yourself on a night out in Blackpool then I heartily recommend you visit Soul Suite. It's a bar in the town centre which plays all the best Mowtown, soul and proper R & B music (in other words not Rihanna). Not only does this sort of music make for a better night out in my view, but it also means that you get less of the under-18 population in there. The media has succeeded in persuading young people that soul music is less cool than Gordon Brown, which is just fine as it leaves us oldies to enjoy a bit of quality in an atmosphere that does not resemble a Brewsters Fayre ball pool.
ID
A place in Blackpool I would discourage you from visiting is The Counting House. In fact, I haven't been to the one in St.Helens yet but after the weekend's experience I don't think I'll bother. Emma and I had been there for a meal on Friday afternoon, and they had been quite happy to benefit from our custom, only to refuse Emma service on Saturday night. She was asked for ID.
Now, unless the laws of the land have changed you have to be 18 to legally buy alcohol in a public house. Emma will be 29 a week on Friday, yet was still suspected of being 17 by what she claims was the very same girl who had served her the previous day. When she was around 20, she was asked to prove that she was over 16 when she went to pay for my petrol at a station in Barnsley. If they genuinely believed that she was under 16 then I am worried about what that says about me and my sexual habits.
Good job I didn't tell Paul the SAS man that story.
Monday, 18 August 2008
The Do Experience
There's been a lot of this about recently.
Last Saturday I attended my sixth 'do' in the space of three months. By 'do', I mean a party organised by a family member or friend to celebrate whatever happened to be worth celebrating that week. Prior to this period (which in my dotage I shall probably look back on as a Golden Age in my social life as I struggle to find the energy and motivation to go out of my front door) I had not been required to attend this type of function in as long as I can remember.
These things are pretty formulaic to begin with, but there is still an unnerving sameness developing in the detail. Arriving between 8.00 and 8.30 in a doomed attempt to be fashionably late, you roll up to the bar and order a half. Or maybe even a soft drink to start with. This is a family do, and you're absolutely not here to get ratted in the manner which you might do if you are suddenly left alone in Wobbley Bobs at 1.30 on a Sunday morning.
But it never lasts. And here's why. Whichever relative you are here to celebrate with has hired the same DJ who banged out the tunes at the last one. Worse still, he's a karaoke DJ. Over the last few years you have developed an unstoppable if slightly turgid taste for karaoke, and I'm not talking about just listening. You're in it. Up for it. A racing certainty to spend at least some part of your evening grasping the mic, belting out tunes for no other reason than because you can do so adequately at best. And because your mum/sister/cousin/friends/cat/debt collector keeps asking you to 'do that song you do'.
Ok. But I'll have to have a few drinks first. So you hurriedly finish your soft drink and set about the task of getting innebriated enough to get up and prove that you have the drunken wrecks factor. And I have it in great big, man-eating, blood curdling, eye-popping spades. I do a pitiful five or six songs in my entire repertoire, but mercifully my tough audience is restricted to only two or three at the most. I'm not the only one lubing themselves up on a mission to inflict their vocal venom on their unsuspecting nearest and dearest. Besides, if I do five or six songs that would be three more than Jason Donovan did when my girlfriend went to see him at Chicago Rock a few years ago. No, I don't know what she was thinking either.
They're all at it anyway. And one or two have a songbook which far outweighs my own and are not afraid to prove it. A considerable number of them are better than me too. Or should that be less crap? Mostly I step aside and let them get on with it until someone asks me to sing. Not through modesty or a misguided notion of dignity, but because I know fine well that a room full of rotten drunk aunties, uncles, cousins and friends are bound to ask me sooner or later. If I wait I can blame it on them, and maybe people won't groan inwardly while thinking 'oh bloody hell, here comes Uncle Frigging Kracker again' when I begin my wankered warble. Some hope.
In between the first alcoholic drink and the wankered warble, there is always at least one instance of meeting someone you don't remember but who knows you by name. In my case, they often seem to know what I have had for breakfast, and could tell you my top ten favourite books, albums and films. This happened to me twice on Saturday and I am still none the wiser about who I was talking to. Grimly I tried to avoid embarrassment by sticking to the three basic principles of surviving this kind of ordeal;
1. Never address the person by name
2. Keep the conversation in the present. Do not try to reminisce in any way.
3. Keep it brief. Any conversation longer than two sentences must be abbreviated by a sudden desire to urinate.
This plan of action avoided what could otherwise have been a hugely embarrassing episode, which you don't need considering that you are already planning to belt out the greatest hits of Ronan Keating and his mates in four lagers' time. In any case, these long-forgotten souls have an unfair advantage. If they are at an Orford/Carey do and they see a bloke in a wheelchair, they are not going to need to be that ginger guy from CSI to confirm my identity. All of which is enough to make me long for the days when I used to drink heavily with other wheelchair using friends while watching the more ignorant members of the St.Helens public try to work out how one wheelchair user could have multiplied into two, three or even four since last Friday night.
In the end what saves family dos from complete carnage is the mercy thrust upon us by the management. Last orders for this one was as early as 11.00, allowing the majority of us to slope away from the older generation without having to be so rude as to leave early. But where do a group of thirtysomething brothers, sisters and cousins head to try to release the strain of having to tone down behaviour slightly for the benefit of the elders?
Well, another karaoke of course.
By Stephen Orford
18 August 2008
Last Saturday I attended my sixth 'do' in the space of three months. By 'do', I mean a party organised by a family member or friend to celebrate whatever happened to be worth celebrating that week. Prior to this period (which in my dotage I shall probably look back on as a Golden Age in my social life as I struggle to find the energy and motivation to go out of my front door) I had not been required to attend this type of function in as long as I can remember.
These things are pretty formulaic to begin with, but there is still an unnerving sameness developing in the detail. Arriving between 8.00 and 8.30 in a doomed attempt to be fashionably late, you roll up to the bar and order a half. Or maybe even a soft drink to start with. This is a family do, and you're absolutely not here to get ratted in the manner which you might do if you are suddenly left alone in Wobbley Bobs at 1.30 on a Sunday morning.
But it never lasts. And here's why. Whichever relative you are here to celebrate with has hired the same DJ who banged out the tunes at the last one. Worse still, he's a karaoke DJ. Over the last few years you have developed an unstoppable if slightly turgid taste for karaoke, and I'm not talking about just listening. You're in it. Up for it. A racing certainty to spend at least some part of your evening grasping the mic, belting out tunes for no other reason than because you can do so adequately at best. And because your mum/sister/cousin/friends/cat/debt collector keeps asking you to 'do that song you do'.
Ok. But I'll have to have a few drinks first. So you hurriedly finish your soft drink and set about the task of getting innebriated enough to get up and prove that you have the drunken wrecks factor. And I have it in great big, man-eating, blood curdling, eye-popping spades. I do a pitiful five or six songs in my entire repertoire, but mercifully my tough audience is restricted to only two or three at the most. I'm not the only one lubing themselves up on a mission to inflict their vocal venom on their unsuspecting nearest and dearest. Besides, if I do five or six songs that would be three more than Jason Donovan did when my girlfriend went to see him at Chicago Rock a few years ago. No, I don't know what she was thinking either.
They're all at it anyway. And one or two have a songbook which far outweighs my own and are not afraid to prove it. A considerable number of them are better than me too. Or should that be less crap? Mostly I step aside and let them get on with it until someone asks me to sing. Not through modesty or a misguided notion of dignity, but because I know fine well that a room full of rotten drunk aunties, uncles, cousins and friends are bound to ask me sooner or later. If I wait I can blame it on them, and maybe people won't groan inwardly while thinking 'oh bloody hell, here comes Uncle Frigging Kracker again' when I begin my wankered warble. Some hope.
In between the first alcoholic drink and the wankered warble, there is always at least one instance of meeting someone you don't remember but who knows you by name. In my case, they often seem to know what I have had for breakfast, and could tell you my top ten favourite books, albums and films. This happened to me twice on Saturday and I am still none the wiser about who I was talking to. Grimly I tried to avoid embarrassment by sticking to the three basic principles of surviving this kind of ordeal;
1. Never address the person by name
2. Keep the conversation in the present. Do not try to reminisce in any way.
3. Keep it brief. Any conversation longer than two sentences must be abbreviated by a sudden desire to urinate.
This plan of action avoided what could otherwise have been a hugely embarrassing episode, which you don't need considering that you are already planning to belt out the greatest hits of Ronan Keating and his mates in four lagers' time. In any case, these long-forgotten souls have an unfair advantage. If they are at an Orford/Carey do and they see a bloke in a wheelchair, they are not going to need to be that ginger guy from CSI to confirm my identity. All of which is enough to make me long for the days when I used to drink heavily with other wheelchair using friends while watching the more ignorant members of the St.Helens public try to work out how one wheelchair user could have multiplied into two, three or even four since last Friday night.
In the end what saves family dos from complete carnage is the mercy thrust upon us by the management. Last orders for this one was as early as 11.00, allowing the majority of us to slope away from the older generation without having to be so rude as to leave early. But where do a group of thirtysomething brothers, sisters and cousins head to try to release the strain of having to tone down behaviour slightly for the benefit of the elders?
Well, another karaoke of course.
By Stephen Orford
18 August 2008
Monday, 28 July 2008
The Interview Experience Part 2
As I alluded to last week I had to back to see the NPS (National Probation Service) for a second interview for their clerical officer's job.
The timing of this could have been better. It was the morning of July 24, the very same day I was due to travel up to Gretna for my sister's wedding. With an interview in Waterloo at 9.30am and a desire to get to Gretna before the late afternoon traffic rush I was on a tight schedule. It didn't help then that the interview was scheduled to last 45 minutes, nor that in the event it went on for over an hour.
You could look at the duration of the interview as a positive or a negative. Well you could if you are a glass half empty merchant masquerading as a realist. Which I am. On the one hand you could say that I lasted so long because I gave full and interesting answers to the eight questions I was asked about my previous experience in administration. On the other you could suppose that I am a rambling imbecile and that the interview panel will have gone away from my visit with an aching desire to shove cutlery into their eyeballs.
In an amusing, ironic or even quite unfortunate twist it turns out that the two ladies on the interview panel are people that my other half knows quite well. Rather like my hour-long monologue, I get the feeling that this could go for or against me, depending on the nature of the relationship between all parties. I felt it better not to seek too much information on the subject. As far as I am concerned Jan and Liz remain strangers for now.
Just as an aside Burlington House in Waterloo is one of the hottest places in Europe. For the entirity of my interview I was gasping for liquid, a thirst satisfied only by a small glass of water placed on the table inbetween me and my interrogators. By the time I got out I was in grave danger of spontenously combusting, so spent another ten minutes in the reception area drinking large glasses of water poured from an ice-filled jug that lay on the table.
While there I exchanged pleasantries with the next candidate, a middle-aged, quite posh-looking woman who looked a little less than confident. But they're always the dangerous ones aren't they? 'Don't worry' I said, 'It's easy in there'. What was I talking about? I don't know. I am in no position to suppose that it was 'easy in there' and it would be a poke in the eye for my smugness if I was not selected for a role after all. I was trying to reassure this woman, but who on Earth would do that when in reality she is not a nice, middle-aged, quite posh-looking lady, but rather a rival for a job I am particularly desperate for. My actions defy logic.
Agonisingly, interviews are carrying on all of this week, and so I won't know my fate until August 4. In between times I have discovered that I have an August 11 interview at Liverpool JMU to fall back on, but it is not unrealistic to suppose that my surly mood this Monday has something to do with my impatience on the matter.
Aswell as my post-interview alcoholism at my sister's wedding.
The timing of this could have been better. It was the morning of July 24, the very same day I was due to travel up to Gretna for my sister's wedding. With an interview in Waterloo at 9.30am and a desire to get to Gretna before the late afternoon traffic rush I was on a tight schedule. It didn't help then that the interview was scheduled to last 45 minutes, nor that in the event it went on for over an hour.
You could look at the duration of the interview as a positive or a negative. Well you could if you are a glass half empty merchant masquerading as a realist. Which I am. On the one hand you could say that I lasted so long because I gave full and interesting answers to the eight questions I was asked about my previous experience in administration. On the other you could suppose that I am a rambling imbecile and that the interview panel will have gone away from my visit with an aching desire to shove cutlery into their eyeballs.
In an amusing, ironic or even quite unfortunate twist it turns out that the two ladies on the interview panel are people that my other half knows quite well. Rather like my hour-long monologue, I get the feeling that this could go for or against me, depending on the nature of the relationship between all parties. I felt it better not to seek too much information on the subject. As far as I am concerned Jan and Liz remain strangers for now.
Just as an aside Burlington House in Waterloo is one of the hottest places in Europe. For the entirity of my interview I was gasping for liquid, a thirst satisfied only by a small glass of water placed on the table inbetween me and my interrogators. By the time I got out I was in grave danger of spontenously combusting, so spent another ten minutes in the reception area drinking large glasses of water poured from an ice-filled jug that lay on the table.
While there I exchanged pleasantries with the next candidate, a middle-aged, quite posh-looking woman who looked a little less than confident. But they're always the dangerous ones aren't they? 'Don't worry' I said, 'It's easy in there'. What was I talking about? I don't know. I am in no position to suppose that it was 'easy in there' and it would be a poke in the eye for my smugness if I was not selected for a role after all. I was trying to reassure this woman, but who on Earth would do that when in reality she is not a nice, middle-aged, quite posh-looking lady, but rather a rival for a job I am particularly desperate for. My actions defy logic.
Agonisingly, interviews are carrying on all of this week, and so I won't know my fate until August 4. In between times I have discovered that I have an August 11 interview at Liverpool JMU to fall back on, but it is not unrealistic to suppose that my surly mood this Monday has something to do with my impatience on the matter.
Aswell as my post-interview alcoholism at my sister's wedding.
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
The Interview Experience
Yesterday I went for an interview for a job with the NPS (National Probation Service). It was the fourth or fifth interview I have had over the last few months, and it might just be that I'm starting to get better at them.
Not to say that I'm going to get the job (though God knows I need to), but if I don't it will be because someone else has come along with bags of experience and who performed well at their interview. It won't be because I buggered it up like it might have been in the past.
Yet the fact remains that no matter how good I get at interviews I will always hate them. They present you with an entirely false situation, and as such are no good indicator whatsoever of whether a person is suitable for a particular job. I was asked four simple questions about the NPS (living with someone already employed there certainly helped), but most of my answers came as a result of a little internet research. As long as it could read and was good with a mouse you could have trained a chimp to learn what I needed to know.
I don't really have any alternatives to the interview process as it stands, but let's kick a few ideas around anyway. Perhaps they could film candidates carrying out tasks related to the job and broadcast it on Channel Four. When everyone's examination has been viewed you could get the moron population who are hooked on reality television to vote for who they think should get the job. Or else they could bring in some Alan Sugar-esque administrative Big Shit to judge the hopefuls on their clerical skills. One by one he could fire those who failed to cut the yellow stuff leaving the remaining, successful candidate to become his administrative apprentice. They could film that aswell. The idiot masses would be glued to it.
There was a practical side to all of this. I was asked to complete a short data entry test aswell as a little examination of my copy-typing skills. If I fail that I'm in serious trouble. I didn't go to University for three years to get a degree in journalism to fail a tin-pot copy-typing test. The copy was littered with mistakes which the sub-editor in me felt compelled to correct. Now I'm worried that they'll penalise me for not typing the thing out exactly as it was on the paper. Still, if they want a workforce who dutifully copy everything robotically regardless of whether it is grammatically accurate then I guess it is not the job for me.
All of this was done using a headset for instructions. That was the best bit about it. At the end I thought for a second of emulating Ron Atkinson, roughly removing my headphones at the end of the task and chucking them haughtily at the nearest cameraman. We're on Channel Four or BBC2, remember? By the time I post this blog I might actually find out whether I have got through to stage two of the interview process. That's a 45-minute interview aimed at finding out how I would deal with specific scenarios. Badly, I hear you cry.
On the way home I saw a transsexual on the train. Wearing a short skirt, covered in fake tan and enough make-up to transform Anne Widdecombe into Helen of Troy, she(he?) was nevertheless clearly an ex-man. With a voice as deep as the Indian Ocean and clearly visible facial hair, I was left feeling sympathy with her for the botch-up of her surgical transformation. It was about as convincing as Hugh Laurie's American accent.
You hear so many stories about men incandescent with rage having been fooled by sexual partners who turn out to be not quite what they seem. No danger of that with this one. If the voice or the beard didn't give her away, then surely the Adam's Apple would. Of course, I say this having crossed her path in a state of sobriety. Had I been plied with lager at the time I might have taken a different view.
Time to get the drinks in.
Not to say that I'm going to get the job (though God knows I need to), but if I don't it will be because someone else has come along with bags of experience and who performed well at their interview. It won't be because I buggered it up like it might have been in the past.
Yet the fact remains that no matter how good I get at interviews I will always hate them. They present you with an entirely false situation, and as such are no good indicator whatsoever of whether a person is suitable for a particular job. I was asked four simple questions about the NPS (living with someone already employed there certainly helped), but most of my answers came as a result of a little internet research. As long as it could read and was good with a mouse you could have trained a chimp to learn what I needed to know.
I don't really have any alternatives to the interview process as it stands, but let's kick a few ideas around anyway. Perhaps they could film candidates carrying out tasks related to the job and broadcast it on Channel Four. When everyone's examination has been viewed you could get the moron population who are hooked on reality television to vote for who they think should get the job. Or else they could bring in some Alan Sugar-esque administrative Big Shit to judge the hopefuls on their clerical skills. One by one he could fire those who failed to cut the yellow stuff leaving the remaining, successful candidate to become his administrative apprentice. They could film that aswell. The idiot masses would be glued to it.
There was a practical side to all of this. I was asked to complete a short data entry test aswell as a little examination of my copy-typing skills. If I fail that I'm in serious trouble. I didn't go to University for three years to get a degree in journalism to fail a tin-pot copy-typing test. The copy was littered with mistakes which the sub-editor in me felt compelled to correct. Now I'm worried that they'll penalise me for not typing the thing out exactly as it was on the paper. Still, if they want a workforce who dutifully copy everything robotically regardless of whether it is grammatically accurate then I guess it is not the job for me.
All of this was done using a headset for instructions. That was the best bit about it. At the end I thought for a second of emulating Ron Atkinson, roughly removing my headphones at the end of the task and chucking them haughtily at the nearest cameraman. We're on Channel Four or BBC2, remember? By the time I post this blog I might actually find out whether I have got through to stage two of the interview process. That's a 45-minute interview aimed at finding out how I would deal with specific scenarios. Badly, I hear you cry.
On the way home I saw a transsexual on the train. Wearing a short skirt, covered in fake tan and enough make-up to transform Anne Widdecombe into Helen of Troy, she(he?) was nevertheless clearly an ex-man. With a voice as deep as the Indian Ocean and clearly visible facial hair, I was left feeling sympathy with her for the botch-up of her surgical transformation. It was about as convincing as Hugh Laurie's American accent.
You hear so many stories about men incandescent with rage having been fooled by sexual partners who turn out to be not quite what they seem. No danger of that with this one. If the voice or the beard didn't give her away, then surely the Adam's Apple would. Of course, I say this having crossed her path in a state of sobriety. Had I been plied with lager at the time I might have taken a different view.
Time to get the drinks in.
Friday, 11 July 2008
My name is Stephen and I am a social networker
My name is Stephen and I am a social networker. There, I've admitted it so I am half way there.
It seems that nowadays you're nobody if you're not social networking. Everyone's at it, and what's more we are doing it with people with whom we have the most tenuous connections. All of which makes it sound like some kind of sordid method of experiencing casual encounters. The only difference is that nobody out there seems to mind who they encounter, nor even which gender they pick up.
Collecting Facebook or Myspace contacts is the modern equivalent of going everywhere with a pencil and a little black book, and asking everyone you see to volunteer their telephone number. It's impossibly intrusive, yet I have come across very few people who have been unwilling to add me to their list of 'friends'. Except they're not friends. Not really. I have a ludicrous 136 people on my list of friends. Of those I interact regularly with around eight, and have had one or two conversations with two or three more. That leaves around 125 people lurking on my friends list with whom I have had no online interaction. I can foresee precious little prospect of that changing in the near future.
So who are these nameless, increasingly faceless majority? Some are old friends from my student and school days (they are the ones I keep in touch with the most), others are people I have met down the pub. Indeed, I speak to these people far more often in the more civilised environment of the local battle cruiser than I do online. Yet more are people I met while playing basketball (something I no longer do at present). As for the rest, the awful truth is that they are just friends of friends of friends of friends. People I might speak to if I were to cross their path, but whom equally there is every chance of never laying eyes on again.
The depth of pointlessness of Facebook goes further still. Some of my contacts are family and my closest friends. People I have absolutely no need to speak to via the gift of technology when I could just as easily pick up the phone or pop round for a brew. To illustrate the point, the woman with whom I share my home is another of my Facebook friends. Absurd.
Absurd, yes, but far from the most absurd facet of social networking. Thankfully I am yet to be caught in it's grip but there are plenty of people out there (and you know who you are) who indulge in the practise of sending virtual items to their online chums. Fancy a pint? Don't be going down the local in the pissing rain, just whack over a virtual beverage to Dave from down the road. Before you know it he will have returned the favour and sent that same pint to at least 243 people that he never actually speaks to either. I wouldn't want to be left to wash that glass.
Yet for all it's peculiarities Facebook is strangely addictive. Despite myself, I log on at least two or three times a day to find out who has joined the latest 'group' (a collection of individuals who have something in common, for example loathing Cristiano Ronaldo or loving pies) to which I belong. From these groups my list of friends only ever seems to expand, as I trawl through needlessly to add yet more people I will never speak to online.
I'm also incredibly keen to see who is online when I am, or whether anyone has placed a message in my inbox. Then there is something called a Funwall, on which people write the same things over and over, or place the same hardly amusing videos or smug mottos which they have found on the back of a fag packet. Funwalls are nothing but a breeding ground for wannabe Oscar Wildes, or a playground for lazy bog humour or low quality pornography. And yet a day hasn't gone by for weeks without a thorough inspection of my Funwall. It's become a bit like picking my nose. It's a disgusting, pointless habit which benefits nobody but somehow I find myself unable to stop at times when otherwise boredom may set in.
I'm constantly being warned that Facebook may have to shut down owing to some legal wrangle or other. Every time I read the warning I shudder slightly, terrified of losing my futile network of anonymous online comrades. And then I'm reliably informed that people are always scaremongering about the prospect of the site's closure. At which point I breathe again safe in the knowledge that I will still be able to find out who is Hot or Not, who owns me (you what?), or who wrote what on which wall.
My name is Stephen and I am a social networker.
It seems that nowadays you're nobody if you're not social networking. Everyone's at it, and what's more we are doing it with people with whom we have the most tenuous connections. All of which makes it sound like some kind of sordid method of experiencing casual encounters. The only difference is that nobody out there seems to mind who they encounter, nor even which gender they pick up.
Collecting Facebook or Myspace contacts is the modern equivalent of going everywhere with a pencil and a little black book, and asking everyone you see to volunteer their telephone number. It's impossibly intrusive, yet I have come across very few people who have been unwilling to add me to their list of 'friends'. Except they're not friends. Not really. I have a ludicrous 136 people on my list of friends. Of those I interact regularly with around eight, and have had one or two conversations with two or three more. That leaves around 125 people lurking on my friends list with whom I have had no online interaction. I can foresee precious little prospect of that changing in the near future.
So who are these nameless, increasingly faceless majority? Some are old friends from my student and school days (they are the ones I keep in touch with the most), others are people I have met down the pub. Indeed, I speak to these people far more often in the more civilised environment of the local battle cruiser than I do online. Yet more are people I met while playing basketball (something I no longer do at present). As for the rest, the awful truth is that they are just friends of friends of friends of friends. People I might speak to if I were to cross their path, but whom equally there is every chance of never laying eyes on again.
The depth of pointlessness of Facebook goes further still. Some of my contacts are family and my closest friends. People I have absolutely no need to speak to via the gift of technology when I could just as easily pick up the phone or pop round for a brew. To illustrate the point, the woman with whom I share my home is another of my Facebook friends. Absurd.
Absurd, yes, but far from the most absurd facet of social networking. Thankfully I am yet to be caught in it's grip but there are plenty of people out there (and you know who you are) who indulge in the practise of sending virtual items to their online chums. Fancy a pint? Don't be going down the local in the pissing rain, just whack over a virtual beverage to Dave from down the road. Before you know it he will have returned the favour and sent that same pint to at least 243 people that he never actually speaks to either. I wouldn't want to be left to wash that glass.
Yet for all it's peculiarities Facebook is strangely addictive. Despite myself, I log on at least two or three times a day to find out who has joined the latest 'group' (a collection of individuals who have something in common, for example loathing Cristiano Ronaldo or loving pies) to which I belong. From these groups my list of friends only ever seems to expand, as I trawl through needlessly to add yet more people I will never speak to online.
I'm also incredibly keen to see who is online when I am, or whether anyone has placed a message in my inbox. Then there is something called a Funwall, on which people write the same things over and over, or place the same hardly amusing videos or smug mottos which they have found on the back of a fag packet. Funwalls are nothing but a breeding ground for wannabe Oscar Wildes, or a playground for lazy bog humour or low quality pornography. And yet a day hasn't gone by for weeks without a thorough inspection of my Funwall. It's become a bit like picking my nose. It's a disgusting, pointless habit which benefits nobody but somehow I find myself unable to stop at times when otherwise boredom may set in.
I'm constantly being warned that Facebook may have to shut down owing to some legal wrangle or other. Every time I read the warning I shudder slightly, terrified of losing my futile network of anonymous online comrades. And then I'm reliably informed that people are always scaremongering about the prospect of the site's closure. At which point I breathe again safe in the knowledge that I will still be able to find out who is Hot or Not, who owns me (you what?), or who wrote what on which wall.
My name is Stephen and I am a social networker.
Stalked By The Overly Helpful
I shouldn't really be doing this. I'm 32 years old. Conventional wisdom suggests that I should already have a steady job, be married with two children, own a Vauxhall Vectra and a St.Bernard called Cunningham. But I'm not and I don't.
I don't want to make excuses for not conforming to society's tedious values. But I will. The trouble is that when you have a disability, and are therefore entitled to Disability Living Allowance and Income Support, there is precious little incentive to go out to work. It was only when I moved in with my other half, thus losing my entitlement to Income Support that I decided that I really needed to get out among the workforce. Actually, she might have had some input in that decision if I'm recalling it correctly.
It's not all that easy to get a job when you are in your early thirties and have precious little experience in the workplace. That's why I took a 12-month contract at Liverpool Community College. They hinted at interview that they would probably take me on permanently but that turned out to be something of a smoking gun. Despite the fact that the HR department is desperate for someone to do my job, I find myself on the scrapheap once more. Shoving a further turd up my drainpipe is the fact that I am not entitled to Jobseekers Allowance because I have only worked for one year, rather than the two you need to have been paying National Insurance contributions. It's enough to make a bloke vote Lib-Dem. Nearly.
So anyway I've been updating my CV. I got a call from a Scottish man called Russ (or Ross) asking me to visit Starting Point to carry out this update. Why? Why can I not just update my own CV? Why do they have to continue to poke their noses in? Dutifully I turned up and met Sarah, an incredibly helpful woman but who nevertheless made a contribution which was quite unnecessary. She asked all of the usual questions; Are you looking here? (I was looking at her cleavage actually) Have you tried there? What about this? What about that?
What about it? I learned more about how to go about getting a job in 12 months in HR than I would do if I spent every waking hour for the rest of my life at Starting Point. They're just that, a Starting Point, so why do they insist on staying so closely in touch? They're like a holiday romance that has suddenly turned a bit sinister. By Christmas they will no doubt develop slightly psychotic tendencies. I'm relieved that I don't have a rabbit for them to boil.
The best thing about finally getting a permanent job (I have an interview next week) will not be the money, nor the opportunity to get away from this keyboard or daytime television. It will be the fact that I will be able to email Russ (or Ross) or Sarah and tell them that I won't be needing their input any more. Or their cleavage.
I don't want to make excuses for not conforming to society's tedious values. But I will. The trouble is that when you have a disability, and are therefore entitled to Disability Living Allowance and Income Support, there is precious little incentive to go out to work. It was only when I moved in with my other half, thus losing my entitlement to Income Support that I decided that I really needed to get out among the workforce. Actually, she might have had some input in that decision if I'm recalling it correctly.
It's not all that easy to get a job when you are in your early thirties and have precious little experience in the workplace. That's why I took a 12-month contract at Liverpool Community College. They hinted at interview that they would probably take me on permanently but that turned out to be something of a smoking gun. Despite the fact that the HR department is desperate for someone to do my job, I find myself on the scrapheap once more. Shoving a further turd up my drainpipe is the fact that I am not entitled to Jobseekers Allowance because I have only worked for one year, rather than the two you need to have been paying National Insurance contributions. It's enough to make a bloke vote Lib-Dem. Nearly.
So anyway I've been updating my CV. I got a call from a Scottish man called Russ (or Ross) asking me to visit Starting Point to carry out this update. Why? Why can I not just update my own CV? Why do they have to continue to poke their noses in? Dutifully I turned up and met Sarah, an incredibly helpful woman but who nevertheless made a contribution which was quite unnecessary. She asked all of the usual questions; Are you looking here? (I was looking at her cleavage actually) Have you tried there? What about this? What about that?
What about it? I learned more about how to go about getting a job in 12 months in HR than I would do if I spent every waking hour for the rest of my life at Starting Point. They're just that, a Starting Point, so why do they insist on staying so closely in touch? They're like a holiday romance that has suddenly turned a bit sinister. By Christmas they will no doubt develop slightly psychotic tendencies. I'm relieved that I don't have a rabbit for them to boil.
The best thing about finally getting a permanent job (I have an interview next week) will not be the money, nor the opportunity to get away from this keyboard or daytime television. It will be the fact that I will be able to email Russ (or Ross) or Sarah and tell them that I won't be needing their input any more. Or their cleavage.
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