The doctor will see you now

I can be your hero

2007-10-09T13:44:00.000+01:00

I haven't been watching Heroes, but I gather it's about a bunch of people who "thought they were like everyone else...until they realized they have incredible abilities" (or so Wikipedia tells me). Apparently the first season shows the various people discovering their super powers, such as being able to heal themselves quickly, stop time, predict the future, fly, and so on and so forth. The next couple of seasons go on to show the new super people with their super powers doing, I presume, super things and getting themselves into all sorts of super situations. So far, so fictional, right?

Well, today I'm going to bust that fiction wide open (no, I have no idea what that means either), as I reveal to you a mysterious modern miracle and proof that human beings can have super powers.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...

...myself.

That's right. I have a super power. Well, I'm not so sure of the "super" part of it, but I certainly have a power.

What could it be? Is it super hearing powers? Or maybe x-ray vision? Perhaps I have the ability to run vast distances without tiring? Or is mine the power to make the best carrot and ginger soup in all the land?

No, no, no and yes, but that's not my super power.

No, ladies and gents. My super power is this: I can switch off fluorescent lights with only the power of my mind.

It's true.

Weird, but true.

Completely useless, but true.

Totally uncontrolled, but, nevertheless, true.

And I lied about the "with the power of my mind" part, but the rest is true.

I don't know how long I've had this "power", but I only really began to notice it a few years ago. I'd be walking down the street of an evening, perhaps on my way t'pub or maybe going home, and suddenly the street light I was walking under would switch off. Or I'd be walking across a car park, looking for my car, and the light above would flicker... and go out.

Strangely, this doesn't happen to every fluorescent light; just some of them. And it doesn't seem to happen indoors; rather, it tends to apply only to street lights and the kind of strip lighting you get in underground car parks or passageways. You know... the kind of places where you really don't want the lights to go out. But it's happened regularly enough for me to think that it's not some random or chance event, but rather it is connected to me.

At first, when I noticed this random pattern (but a pattern all the same), of lights going out as I walked underneath them, I decided to put it to the test. There was one particular street light in one of the university car parks that always, without fail, went out as I walked underneath or past it. I thought "perhaps there is some loose connection or something in the ground nearby that causes the light to go out when I step on it?" (You can see why I'm not an electrician.) So one evening, I got a friend to walk ahead to test the theory. The friend was about my height and build, so the pressure on the ground around the light would be the same and lo, as the friend walked towards the light - nothing happened.

I walked on to join them and... the light went out as I approached it.

Lately, I've noticed one of the lights in the gym car park seems to do the same thing. As I drive in, I can see the light and it's fine. A strong, steady beam emitting from it. No problems. I can even park my car near it, and nothing happens. Until I get out of the car, that it. Then the light flickers... and goes out. I've watched others do the same - park their car in the same spot and when they get out, nothing happens. Then I walk over. Light goes out.

Hmm...

Is it possible for humans to emit some sort of... frequency?... that could affect the light bulb? Or is this special power something that has been reserved for me and me alone, and I should give up my job and spend the rest of my life learning to control it and using it for good (or evil)? If so, can I wear this costume?

What should I do? And, more importantly, what should I call my super self?

How to avoid getting dumped

2007-09-27T14:53:00.000+01:00

It's quite simple really - you make sure you dump them before they dump you. Sounds trivial, sounds trite, but it feels GREAT!

I started "dating" (for want of a better word) eleven years ago, and I have only been dumped once. And, before some smart arse says it, this is not because I've only had one boyfriend, nor is it because I have the attention span of a magpie flitting from one shiny relationship to another. And, contrary to popular belief, it's not because I'm the World's Best Girlfriend and no one ever wants to dump me either. Although, I'm not far off winning that title, heheh.

Rather it's because whenever a relationship has turned sour for me, I've gotten the frick out of there. Oh yes, I'm a regular ol' heartbreaker, me.

Admittedly, I won't just run at the first time of trouble. I will stick around for a while, to see if the relationship can be salvaged, because I belive that people are far too quick to give up on love nowdays, and would rather Get The Frick Out (GTFO) than actually put in a bit of work. But, if it becomes obvious to me that it's over, then I'm gone.

And, as a result, I've only ever been dumped once, and that's because I didn't see it coming and Mr. McBastard got in there before me. Not that I'm bitter

So, how do you know when the relationship is over? How do you know that it's time to do a swift one and run for the hills? I think a handful of C++ statements can tell us the answer to these dilemmas:

if (good times > bad times) {

happy days ;
}

if (good times == bad times) {
work on it;
}

if (bad times > good times) {
GTFO;
}

Simple, no? For the uninitiated, this translates as:

If the good times outweigh the bad times, then all is well.
If there are as many good times as bad times, then you need to work on it to make it better.
If the bad times outweigh the good times, then Get The Frick Out.

And that, my lovelies, is the secret to my success.

Too many people bitch and moan about their relationships and their partners. Hell, I've done it myself on more than one occasion. And most of the time, this is not a problem. It's normal to have a little complain every now and then about your other half. There's nothing wrong with having a bit of a bitching session on the phone to your friend about how he never puts the toilet seat down or about how she never washes up after dinner, or whatever. You bitch about it, you make sweeping generalisations about the uselessness of the opposite sex, you feel better about it all and you move on. All's good.

It becomes problematic, however, when you're ALWAYS bitching about your other half. And it doesn't matter what you're saying about them - whether they're trivial little matters such as hanging up wet towels before they get stinky or big issues about how they never want to have children and you do. If you're constantly bitching about your other half, and you never have anything good to say about them, then you've got problems. And you need to sort that out.

If you're constantly being negative about the person who's bed you're sharing; if you always feel like second best; if you have nothing to talk about with them anymore; if spending time in one another's company is slightly less appealing than having your fingernails pulled off one-by-one and your eyes gouged out with a spoon, then you've got problems.

If your other half makes you feel worthless; if you find yourself nagging them all the time; if you think you can't trust them; or if you just wake up some day and look at them and can't think of a single reason why you like them, nor why you ever thought you loved them in the first place, then you've got problems.

And you need to GTFO.

That's not to say you should expect perfection in every relationship. Nobody's perfect. Not even you. There has to be some element of compromise for a relationship to work. It continually amazes me that there are so many people out there who don't realise this. Relationships are about give and take. You need both for the relationship to survive. You have to be prepared to be give in every now and then; to acquiesce to the other person needs, wants or desires, and not be a bossy boots. And, likewise, you need to take from the relationship too; to stand your ground and defend your own needs, wants and desires, and not be a doormat. There's a delicate balance that, once struck, makes for a beautiful relationship.

But, at the end of the day, if you're unhappy more often than you are happy in your relationship, then you need to GTFO. Remember that you're far, far better off being on your own than being in a relationship that makes you unhappy. More importantly, remember that there is plenty more flesh on the streets.

Having said that, before you go, make at least one attempt to talk about it. Make an attempt to sit down, without alcohol if possible becuase all that does is cloud the issues and raise the tempers, and talk about what's bothering you. Don't be argumentative, don't try to place blame. Simply tell your other half how you're feeling and try to work out a way of resolving that issue. Of course, if your other half won't make the time to sit down with you, or tells you you're talking shite, then that's a big bloody sign right there, isn't it?

The one thing I've learned from every relationship I've been in is that, if you're not prepared to put the work in, then it's not going to last. Equally, I've also learned to stand my ground, and not to put up with anything that makes me unhappy. Ok, that's two things I've learned.

I don't regret a single relationship I've ever had, even the bad ones, because I've learned something from all of them. I've finally reached the stage where I know what I want from a relationship; I know what I'm willing to put up with, I know what I'm NOT willing to put up with, and I know when I'm lucky to have found the right person for me.

And God said unto me...

2007-09-26T14:52:00.000+01:00

And God said unto me "Rejoice! For the Flying V that has caused thee to wet thyself with desire when walking past music shops is now within thy grubby grasp!"

And, lo, the heavens did part and the angels did sing and mine browser did point to eBay where the most divine and holy sight did strike mine eyes:

It appeared to me in all its shiny glory, and I did place a bid and cross mine fingers that nobody else would cock this up for me.

And as the clock did tick down the remaining hours until the auction ended, I prayed to mine everlasting and holy God of Power Chords that this guitar would be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine.

6 hours and 42 minutes to go...

Theft with the intent to decorate

2007-09-25T14:49:00.000+01:00

If you don't already know about Craigslist, then I strongly recommend you check it out. It is one of the very few sites that I return to day after day, as it contains, in my humble opinion, some of the best examples of modern day literacy and wit on this here Interwebnets. It gives me hope for the brains of mankind in this downward spiralling era of txt spk and general idiocy.

The link above will take you to The Best of Craigslist, which is updated monthly, and which contains gems such as the following:

An open letter to the person(s) who stole my porch light.

On the evening of Thursday, August 16th, right around bedtime, I thought I heard a bit of commotion out in front of my apartment. This is not unusual, as my neighbors sometimes blow off steam on weeknights by throwing parties, the theme of which seems to be "Scream and Throw Beer Cans In The Yard Until 5am."

So I thought nothing of it until I noticed over the weekend that one of the two chandeliers on my porch that I had been using as a porch light had gone missing. Putting two and two together, I now know what happened, and am trying to put together an accurate mental picture of you, the person who took them.

I like my stuff, and I like keeping it whenever possible. That said, I understand some thefts. If you are, persay, addicted to something, and you steal something from me because you need to buy that something and stealing is the only way to make that happen, then I get that. I still wish you wouldn't do it, but I get it. Or if you need to feed yourself or your family or your dog and and you need to steal something to do it, then I get that, too. Those are crimes of necessity, however that necessity came about. But that's not the case here. Not even close.

As I'm sure you noticed when you got home/sobered up/looked more closely, the chandelier you stole was not a nice one. I got them at a thrift store for a dollar, did a shitty job of painting them white (it's kind of peeling), and was forced to rewire it myself. If memory serves, the one you took was even missing a bulb. So they have no real value. Nobody in their right mind would give you any money for them, and there are many more valuable things laying out in garbage cans or on dark porches all over my street. You stole my porch light to use it. You stole it to decorate.

If you were casually walking down my street at night (as I doubt you came in from out of town or state to pull this 'heist'), then chances are, you live around here. Chances are equally good that you could very well afford to purchase your own chandelier instead of stealing mine. Or, maybe you're just trying it out for a bit, and I'll one day find it reinstalled on my porch after you sadly discover that it just doesn't look right in the bathroom, or really pull together the entryway like you'd hoped it might.

This is fair warning you to you, then, that I'm keeping my eyes open. I made the damned thing, and I know what it looks like. If I see it on your own porch, I'm taking it back. If i see it in your dining room through a window, you and I are going to have an unpleasant conversation (unlike car thieves or bank robbers, I'm not terribly intimidated by 'chandelier thieves'). Or maybe I'll just take something of yours and use it at my place. Tit for tat.

"Theft With Intent To Decorate" is something so unnecesarry, so achingly annoying (and, let's face it, so Victorian Village) that I wish I could run into you someday, just so you could see the face I'd make at you. It's the look on your grandmother's face as you trip her on purpose. It's the look on your parents face when you tell them you were dropping out of college to focus on your "real spiritual development as a person". It's like a whole host of angels coming down and singing "What The Fuck?" all at once. I'm making the face right now, actually.

So Bravo!, thief of the night. You have my shitty chandelier. As you bask in it's glow, I hope you feel good about the kind of person you turned out to be.. And if I might suggest it, perhaps remember that it was rewired by me, a less than skilled electrician. So from now on I'll be sitting out nights on my porch, with my one remaining chandelier, hoping that it's partner is out there somewhere, burning your god-damned house down.

Sincerely yours,

M

--

Genius. Pure and simple. I only wish I could write as well as that guy.

Don't believe the hype

2007-09-24T18:52:00.000+01:00

Last week, as I was driving home one day, I heard a news report on the radio about a boy who had drowned in a pond in Wigan, which is not too far away from where I live. The boy, Jordon Lyon, drowned in May of this year, but there was an inquest last week which, which is why it was mentioned in the news.

Now I know that, in this day and age, it's hardly surprising when a news reporter sensationalises a story, particularly if it involves a tragedy such as a young boy drowning. But I was, quite frankly, fucking outraged when I heard the reports on this particular story.

It seems that Jordon Lyon and his sister, Bethany, were fishing for tadpoles in a large pond in Wigan when Bethany got into trouble and Jordon jumped into the pond to try to help her. He managed to hold Bethany up out of the water when two anglers who were passing by ran over and were able to fish Bethany out. They couldn't get to Jordon. The police were called, and this is where I get really annoyed, the news report states that the two police community support officers (PCSO's) who arrived "stood by and watched whilst Jordon drowned".

Jordon's stepfather then arrived at the scene with a friend, and both dived in to try to rescue Jordon. A policeman then arrived on the scene, and also jumped in. He managed to find Jordon, but by then the boy was dead. [Sources: BBC News, The Times Online, The Guardian]

As this story broke, the radio show was inundated with outraged people damning the police and asking how could two people just stand by and watch as a boy drowned in a six-feet-deep pond in front of them? And, to be honest, I wondered myself what the hell was going on.

And then I found out a bit more about the story.

First of all, the term "pond" is slightly misleading. It's actually more of a small lake, as you can see from the photo below. The lake is relatively wide and is about six feet deep. The water is dark and murky, and fairly impossible to see through to the bottom.

Aside from this misleading term, the rest of the reports on the matter deliberately left out key facts in order to sensationalise the story. When the two PCSO's arrived on the scene, Jordon had already gone underwater, and could not be seen. This fact has been confirmed by the two anglers who had managed to fish Bethany out of the water. The PCSO's did not stand by idly, twiddling their thumbs. They did what they were trained to do - they radioed for help.

The Greater Manchester Police have defended the PCSO's actions saying they weren't trained to deal with this sort of situation, and that they did exactly the right thing, by radioing for help and waiting. This has lead to further outrage, with people condeming the PCSO's for not diving into the lake, and the police for defending their actions. There have been comments stating that Jordon's stepfather and friend were not trained in water rescue, and yet they still dived in, and that anyone witnessing a child drowning would try everything in their power to save that child, regardless of training.

And of course, these comments have been reported and bandied about by the media, further fuelling this misinformed debate. Now, I am a trained lifeguard. I trained for five years, got all my certificates, and worked for two years as a lifeguard in my local swimming pool. Two of my brothers worked as lifeguards on the beach, which is no Baywatch, let me tell you. If someone starts drowning in a swimming pool, it's scary, but at least you know they're in a confined space. The water is clear, warm and not very deep. I used to pull about four kids an hour out of the water, and, thankfully, have only had to administer mouth-to-mouth once on a little girl who went under and stopped breathing before I could get to her. She was ok in the end, but I'll never forget what it was like seeing her floating about a foot under the water, unconscious, her eyes open and her lips turning blue.

That was in a swimming pool. When someone drowns in open water, be it on a beach, at a lake or in a river, it becomes a hell of a lot more serious. There are so many things to consider - the open water, with currents, which means that if a person goes under, by the time you get to the spot where you saw them go under, there's absolutely no guarantee that they'll still be there. Then there's the cold, dark, murky water which makes it almost impossible to see anything, let alone locate a drowning person who will have sank to the bottom by now.

But the most important thing that we were taught when lifesaving was "Safety First". As in, your own safety. If you see someone drowning, you have to evaluate whether you're going to be able to save that person, and not put yourself in danger. There's no point in attempting to save someone and putting yourself in danger in the process - you'll just end up with two people dead instead of one. That might sound harsh, but that's the reality. If you're walking along a beach and you see someone drowning who's twice the size of you and they're a mile out in the water, then it's more useful for you to call for help than to try to rescue that person. If you swim out to them, and you're already knackered (remembering how cold water tires your muscles so much more than warm water), you're putting both yourself and the drowning person in further danger. You can never underestimate the strength of a panicking person, and it can be physcially exhasting just trying to restrain them and calm them down. You then have to swim a mile back to shore, dragging someone who's twice the size of you and probably still kicking and struggling.

So the lesson that was hammered into us from day one was not to risk your own life to try to save another's.

The fact of this case is that, when the two PCSO's arrived on the scene, they were presented with a cold, murky lake in which there was no sign of the drowning boy. Neither PCSO was trained in how to search for a submerged drowning victim (remember how you learned to pick bricks up from the bottom of the pool? Try doing that in open water... I've done it in the sea, and it's nigh on impossible even with years of training), and so they did what they had been trained for - the radioed for help. It's not clear whether the PCSO's were even able to swim - it's not a requirement for the job - and so they, in my humble opinion, did the best thing they could have in that situation. Even when fully trained, water resuce is a dangerous job, and it certainly should not be attempted by people who don't know what they're doing. True, Jordon's stepfather dived in when he wasn't trained, but that was the natural reaction of a parent when faced with a situation in which their child is in danger. Parents would walk barefoot across broken glass to save their children - that does not mean we should expect others to do the same.

Bizarrely, in March of this year, a firefighter was told that he might be sued for saving a drowning woman from a river in Scotland. The man jumped into the river and feared for his own life, as the freezing water threatened to sweep him away. However, he managed to grab the woman and pull her to safety, only to be told that he had breached safety rules during the rescue, and was incident was being investigated internally by Tayside Fire and Rescue. [Source: The Times Online]

It is terribly sad that a boy died, however, I don't believe that the PCSO's could have saved him, even if they had jumped into the lake. Nobody has yet asked the question why two children were fishing for tadpoles, unaccompanied and unsupervised, in a six-foot-deep lake, but I'm sure that will be the focus of the newspaper and radio reports after the PCSO's get fired.

In the meantime, how about we take something productive out of this like... oh, I don't know... teaching kids about the dangers of water and hwo to swim and perhaps what to do when they get into difficulty? No? Ok... isn't it time for another terrorist threat? Or perhaps a weather disaster? Who hasn't had a tsunami recently? We need some death to sell tomorrow's papers, damnit! What's that... secret nuclear testing in Iraq caused an upset in the weather and that triggered Hurricane Katrina?! Goddamn!!

Dontcha just lurve the media?

This is just...brilliant

2007-09-23T14:48:00.000+01:00

This is quite possibly the best, and most random, ad I've ever seen...

...ever.

Whoever made it deserves a lollipop.

Fuckit. Two lollipops.

Testing the limits

2007-08-30T23:50:00.000+01:00

Everyone has their limits.

No matter how careless or reckless or feckless you like to think you are, you have limits. Everyone has a price and everyone has that one thing that they Just. Won't. Do.

And nowhere is this more evident than in relationships. Interestingly, there are limits both at the beginning and the end of the relationship. At the beginning, when you start seeing somebody for the first time, you test these limits to see if the person is a match.

It starts off innocently enough - you might start enquiring about the books they read or the films they watch or the music they listen to or even the type of car they drive or the job they do. And, consciously or not, you set your limits.

Ok, he's a Star Trek fan, but he doesn't own an actual Trekkie uniform or a pair of Spock ears, so he can live. Hmm.... she reads Harry Potter, but she doesn't queue up around the block to get the latest book nor has she tattooed that stupid lightening bolt onto her head, so that's ok. Crap... he has a Phil Collins album but, wait! It's only because Phil used to be in Genesis, so that's kind of cool, so I'll still go for a drink with him tonight. Yikes... is that her Mini parked outside? Wait, you know, it's a classic car and she keeps it in mint condition, so it's ok in a retro kind of way. WTF? He's an accountant? Um... well.... eh..... it means that..... um.... he'll never be out of a job...? (really pushing those limits here)...

If all goes well, the focus of the testing will eventually shift to making the beast with two backs. Again, you can test the waters by sussing out their ability to kiss. As before, you will have set your limits which will determine whether the kisser gets to go any further. If your date suddenly lunges at you, mouth wide open, tongue already churning like a sloppy washing machine, chances are you won't want to get jiggy with them either later that night or indeed any time in the future even if they were the last person on earth and you were just gagging for the ride, thank you very much. Some people may not be great kissers but not entirely horrible either and you might be willing to flex those limits and give them a chance to see if they have any other talents that may make up for it. After all, maybe you could teach them to be a better kisser?

So, assuming they don't kiss you as though they're attempting to imitate a washing machine or a vaccuum cleaner or some other household gadget, you (hopefully) find yourself in bed with them doing the bold thing. Again, your limits will determine when this happens - it may be the same night, it may be three nights later, it may be three months later. Some people set their limits according to whatever tripe is being spewed at them from magazines or television programmes or know-it-all friends ("Don't sleep with him on the first date, you slut!!" or "It's been two weeks and you haven't shagged him yet?? What's wrong with you, you frigid cow?!" and so on and so forth ad nauseum), and other people set their limits according to when it feels right for them.

Anyhoo, at some point or another you will find yourself in the sack. And limits come in to play big time here. Some people are afraid to test the limits, and so they hold back for fear of offending or upsetting or giving the wrong message.

If I suggest we swing from the chandelier, he might think I'm some sort of nympho slut so instead I'll just lie here like a sack of spuds and make the odd moan like I'm enjoying it and he'll still respect me in the morning, right? Right?!?

Others will push it (the limit!) as far as they can (oooer missus!) to see what they can get away with.

I'll start by licking her ear and stroking her arm and move onto licking my way down and sucking lightly at her neck as I push my finger in there and oh, she didn't like that, ok, so I'll just move back up here, mmm.... boobs, wonder what would happen if I pinched them? Whoops, ok not a fan of that, maybe if I suggest tying her up, oooh, she seems to like that, and now I'll spank her ass and pull her hair and I wonder what she'd think if I told her I fancied a threesome with her sister... Ouch! She just kneed me in the balls!

And on it goes. More often than not, you'll spend the first delicious few days/weeks/months/years testing and teasing and discovering each other's limits and, hopefully, you'll find a happy medium just on the edge of your limits - pushing them ever so slightly to keep it interesting, but not so much that you feel uncomfortable.

But what happens if your limits change? What happens if your intended no longer does it for you? What if you start becoming a bit curious about that threesome, maybe not with your sister, but with some hot friend of his, but your man won't even consider the idea? What if it's something a lot tamer like maybe trying a bit of dressing up or role playing in the bedroom, but your lady thinks you're some sort of freak for even thinking about it?

Or it could go the other way, which is probably a much more common situation. Some day you wake up and your limits have become a lot narrower. Those little things that your partner does that you used to find endearing, or at least tolerable, start to really grate on your nerves.

The way he blows his nose and inspects the tissue afterwards... The way she corrects you in front of friends... The way he scruches up his face when trying to make that corner pocket on the pool table... The way she cooks spagetti so it's always slightly soggy and NEVER holds the sauce properly...

You may try to reset your limits; tell yourself that you're just being silly or over-sensitive or just having a bad day. But, eventually, you snap. You decide that you can't put up with this crap anymore and how can they not know how damn annoying they're being when they tap that frickin' pen over and over again when I'm trying to watch Who Wants to be a Millionaire?!

And so you dump their sorry ass.

And you spend a bit of time getting drunk and flirting with strangers and re-evaluating your limits (boundaries/values/whatevs) in your head.

And then one night you meet someone in a bar and you start chatting about your favourite films and he says his is "Apocalypse Now" and you say "Me too!" and he says "Have you seen the Redux version?" and you say "Yeah! I loved it so much I bought it on DVD!" and then you both say "Charlie don't surf!" and you smile and he offers to buy you a drink and you start over again.

Dear Mr. Driver

2007-07-26T15:57:00.000+01:00

Dear Mr. Driver,

You are probably already aware of this, being the all-knowing knobjockey that you are, but I thought I'd state it here again just for kicks:

Tailgating me will NOT make me go any faster. Ever. As a matter of fact, just to annoy you, I'll probably slow down and start tapping my brakes randomly in the hope that I'll see your head explode with frustration in my rearviewmirror.

Yes, I know you drive a much bigger car than me. Well done. I'm sure your wife/girlfriend/bum chum is only delighted that you've compensated for your tiny penis and general lack of ability in the bedroom by buying a car that resembles a small tank. I, however, don't have a penis and thus I don't feel the need to drive a big car, nor do I feel the need to prove to all those anonymous people on the motorway that I can drive at 100 miles per hour for I am KING OF THE ROAD! RAWRRR!!!

You see, I actually believe in fuel efficiency and whatnot, and that's why I drive at a steady 65mph most of the time. Which is also the reason why I drive in the slow lane whenever possible. But, ocasionally, there are cars or trucks out there that are actually driving slower than me. I know! Crazy, isn't it! Must be a granny driver or something. Anyway, on ocassions like these I actually have to overtake these vehicles, and so I have to pull into the middle lane. But fear not, King of the Road, for there is a third lane that you can use to pass me out and leave me quaking in your dust and petrol fumes. This is not a race track. You do not get points for driving on top of me. Use your common sense, have some manners and use the fast lane.

Oh, and whilst you're passing me out in that third lane, don't flash your fucking lights at me. I know I'm driving slower than you. And I know that it's majorly inconvenient for you to have to overtake me. But you know what? I don't give a fucking rats ass, and if you flash your lights at me, I'll flip the bird right back atcha.

Now, there have also been moments when both the slow lane AND the middle lane are chock full of cars that are driving slower than me! Yeah, I know! Must be a fucking Sunday, right?

Anyhoo, this means that I have to pull into the fast lane whilst I pass these dinosaurs out. Yet again, if you've been thundering up the fast lane for three minutes now, you should have seen me pull into your lane to overtake. So, you know what, you really should know that, as soon as I've overtaken I'll pull back out of your way. Driving so close to me that all I can see in my rearview mirror is the front grill of your stupid-looking SUV is neither intimidating nor is going to make me put the pedal to the metal. You're just going to have to wait, aren't ya? And, like I said before, if you start flashing your lights or any of that other nonsense, I'll slow right down so you'll be stuck behind me forever. Have a little patience, and you'll be on your way before you can say "Back the fuck off buddy!"

And, finally, if you're on a slip road either coming on or off the motorway, driving on my ass is one of the worst things you can do. Slip roads are not meant to be driven at 90mph, mostly because they tend to be quite bendy and, even though I know you THINK you're God, you're actually not, and you, just like me, have no idea what's around that corner. Remember this morning when you were up on my ass all the way round that bend, trying to make me go fast than the 50mph I was already doing? And remember when I saw that big oil patch and slowed down to 40mph because the road was already wet? And remember when we went 'round the corner and saw that woman who's car was embedded in the ditch because she'd obviously just skidded in the oil? And remember how we had to swerve to avoid her car? Well, my fucktacular friend, if you'd been in front doing your 90mph stunt, you would have whalloped straight into that car, and probably into that woman, probably killing both of you instantly. So really, I saved your life this morning. You're welcome.

I won't do it next time.

Kindest regards,
The girl with her middle finger extended in the car behind you.

Kate Moss needs a wash

2007-07-18T15:59:00.000+01:00

I'm not having a good week.

So far, my laptop has suffered from a hard disk failure and my desktop computer at home seems to be going through a mid-life crisis and will only show me a GRUB command line when I switch it on. To those of you who don't speak computer, that basically means "A Big Pain in the Ass".

*sigh*

Added to which, I've just been roped into working on a big legal project at work which I have been trying to avoid like the plague for the past few months. But they finally caught me. And that makes me sad.

But what's really annoying me this week is this: jeans. Specifically, skinny jeans. Like these:

I went shopping for jeans last Friday. I went to the Manchester Shopping Mecca (a.k.a. The Trafford Center) with the sole intention of purchasing a new pair of jeans. I was willing to spend a bit of money, for I have finally come to the realisation that there is a BIG difference between buying a cheap pair of jeans that just... don't... seem... to fit... right, and spending a bit more money on good quality jeans that fit perfectly.

The Trafford Center is disgustingly incredible. It's what ancient Rome would have looked like if Las Vegas puked all over it. And threw some palm trees in for good luck. It's all marble pillars and neon signs and just incredibly, beautifully, headache-inducingly tacky. I love it. But I can only go there about three times a year or otherwise my credit card starts sobbing. As does my boyfriend. And my feet.

Anyhoo, I started at one end of the mall and systematically worked my way through each shop, looking for a pair of jeans. And I discovered that apparantly we're only allowed wear skinny jeans now, for clothing manufacturers have decided that any other type of jean is just crap, and we have to do what the clothing manufacturers tell us because it's the law.

Every bloody shop I went in to just had row after row of these stupid skinny jeans. Oh sure, each row varied slightly - here's one with high waisted jeans (who wears these? Seriously?), here's one with ultra-low rise jeans, here's one with jeans made of velcro or something that looks slightly wet so you look like you're wearing leather trousers but guess what? You're not! But all the jeans were skinny - not a boot cut in sight.

Now, I don't like skinny jeans. At all. Partly because, unless you're borderline anorexic, skinny jeans make you look fat. They're one of the most unforgiving items of clothing I've ever seen, and unfortunately, I've seen a lot of unforgiving clothes. They just make people look unbalanced, like they've got huge bodies and little chicken legs. Unless, of course, you're anorexic in which case you simply look like a beanpole.

But more than this, I hate skinny jeans because anyone who wears them looks like they're trying to imitate that skanky crack whore Kate Moss. Kate Moss has ruined fashion for me. Everything she wears immediately turns into "This Season's Must Have!!!" and suddenly the streets are lined with clone after clone, dressed in skinny jeans and vest, with manky hair, bad eyeliner and a junkie boyfriend hanging out of their shoulder.

Why is this woman being hailed as a fashion icon when, as a matter of fact, all she does is wear a variation of the same bloody thing every day?

Anyhoo, I've ranted about this before so I'm not going to do it again. Suffice to say that Kate Moss has ruined so many items of clothing. Want to wear a waistcoat? Can't - you'll just look like a Kate Moss wannabe. Want to wear a minidress? Can't - you'll just look like a Kate Moss wannabe. Want to wear wellies at a festival? Can't - you'll just look like a Kate Moss wannabe.

And other such annoyances.

So, back to the original story which was... oh yes, jeans. As I may have mentioned, I don't like skinny jeans. I much prefer bootcut jeans. They suit every body shape, they feel good, they look good and they look even better with heels. What's not to like? But I literally could not believe my eyes on Friday night. Every single shop I went to seemed to sell only skinny jeans. Topshop used to have a great range of jeans called Moto, but these now only come in the skinny variety. I went to Levi's, but the only jeans they had that weren't skinny were those weird engineered things that look like you're wearing them backwards and that really aren't comfortable.

I even went to Miss Sixty. I clung tightly onto my wallet to try to stop my credit card from shrieking like an idiot and proceeded to try on pair after pair of jeans that cost upwards of £150. And I was prepared to buy them if they looked nice! Honest! And I have a major, MAJOR problem with paying that much money for ANY item of clothing, let alone a pair of jeans. But I was willing to do it, if they had nice jeans.

Luckily for me they didn't. Even their so-called bootcut jeans were suspiciously skinny-like, making my legs look all weird and shrunken (I don't know why but skinny jeans make my legs look short, even though they're actually fairly long). I was beginning to think I'd have to just buy a tracksuit and live in that instead.

And then I remembered that last bastion of good jeans - the Gap. Now, most clothes at the Gap are way too preppy for me, and as such I never shop there. But I remember buying a fantastic pair of jeans there a few years ago, which I still wear and love and which seem to get better with age, and so I thought I'd give it a try. I walked through the door (thankfully absent was the perky sales clerk who just really, really wants to help you - that shit don't go down in Manchester), and made my way to the jeans section. My heart sank. Right in front of me, flipping the bird and sticking it's tongue out at me was a big pile of skinny jeans.

I fell to my knees, raised my fist and my face skywards and shouted "Nooooooooooooooooooo! Not you too! Not the Gap!!!"

Actually, come to think of it, what I did instead was turn on my heel and made to march out, disgusted. And then I saw them. Tucked away in the corner. Bootcut jeans. Proper actual bootcut jeans! And there was much rejoicing!

I tried them on and they were perfect! I'm in love with them. I was tempted to buy ten pairs right there and then, but then regained my composure and pranced up to the till with my treasure. And as soon as I get paid on Monday I'm going to go back and buy another pair.

Gap - I should never have doubted you. I heart you.

And thus ended another successful adventure.

Whatever happened to live and let live?

2007-07-05T10:59:00.000+01:00

[begin rant]

Velvet Revolver have just released a new album, Libertad, which I *ahem* managed to get my mitts on last night. Before, um... 'receiving' said album, I looked up a couple of reviews online to see what the general vibe was about the music. It's been three years since their incredible debut, Contraband, and I was interested to see what people thought of their new offering. I'd head so many rumours - that Pharrell Williams (of N.E.R.D.) was going to be producing it, that Slash had walked out of the studio saying "I thought this was a fucking rock band, I ain't playing fucking disco", etc., etc. - that I didn't really know what to expect.

For the most part the reviews were good - really good - but one stuck out in my mind as being particularly stupid ignorant amusing. Some guy something along the lines of "It just sounds like Stone Temple Pilots and Guns 'N' Roses" and then proceeded to call anyone who liked the album a "fag".

*sigh*

I get so tired of this shit. People taking the piss out of other people for listening to certain types of music or certain bands or whatevs. What is the problem here? Why do you care if all I want to listen to is shouty-shouty music? Or country? Does that make me less of a person? If you prick me, WILL I NOT STILL BLEED?!?!

Heheh.

I had a similar blood-vessel-about-to-burst-in-my-head experience a couple of weeks ago when I heard about people throwing bottles of piss at My Chemical Romance when they headlined at Download.

Now, I know I've just confessed to recently becoming a fan of MCR, but this mini-rant emerged back at the start of last month before I'd listened to much of their stuff. In fact, MCR were really only brought to my attention when I saw footage of all those silly people throwing bottles at them on stage. And they're not the first band that this has happened to.

Personally, I just don't see the point. Do you really think that any band are going to stand on stage in front of, oh let's give a conservative estimate of 30,000 people, and pay any attention to the hundred or so that are throwing bottles at them? Or will they look at the remaining 29,900 people who are singing along and jumping up and down to the songs and continue to play for them instead?

Hmm... it's a toughie!

But more than that, at the time that My Chemical Romance were on the main stage, Korn and Suicidal Tendencies were playing on the other two stages. Why were those hundred or so morons throwing bottles at MCR when they could have been watching either of these two other bands? Why would you waste your time throwing missiles at an "emo fag" band when you could have been watching some "proper metal" band on another stage just a few feet away? Or when you could have gone to the bar and had a drink? Or when you could have gone back to the campsite and cranked up Slayer at full blast and started headbutting your friends or whatever it is you do for fun?

I don't get it.

I don't understand this mentality of "if it's not what I like, then it's shit". My ex-husband used to do that a lot. "If it's not Canadian, it's crap" was his motto. Which is fine, you know, as long as you keep it to yourself. But he would constantly ridicule people from other nations, including his best friend's girlfriend who was Greek, and including me, Irish, because of our "funny customs", etc. Why would you bother? All it results in is a lot of pissed off people and, in this case, divorce. Because this was a major factor in us breaking up. That and the fact that he's a cheating, lying, lazy bastard, may he rot in hell forever.

Why can't people just live and let live? Who cares if I listen to what you consider to be crappy music? If I'm not forcing you to listen to it, and I'm not preventing you from listening to something more to your liking, then what's the frickin' problem?

People annoy me at times.

Oh, and before I forget, to the person who wrote that Velvet Revolver just sounds like Stone Temple Pilots and Guns 'N' Roses mixed together - what the fuck were you expecting?! It's the lead singer of STP and three of the members of GNR!!! What did you think they'd sound like?!
Also, for the record, Libertad rocks!

[end rant]

I have the emo

2007-07-04T11:01:00.000+01:00

A couple of days ago, I found myself painting my toenails and fingernails black whilst nodding my head to My Chemical Romance.

I stopped for a moment.

I looked in the mirror.

I was wearing a black vest under a black hoodie, with dark blue (almost black) jeans and a scruffy pair of converse. I had recently dyed my hair so it was looking quite dark. Earlier I was bored and had painted eyeliner on for something to do. My skin was paler and more corpse-like than usual from being cooped up indoors for so long.

The panic building slightly within, I did a quick stock take of my feelings, man.

Apathetic - check.
Disheartened - check.
Grumpy - check.
Dejected - check.
Spirits at an all time low - check.

Oh dear gods. There's no doubt about it.

I have the 'emo'.

But, wait a minute; isn't the 'emo' only for kids? I'm an adult. I'm not angry with the world. I have a good job. I live in a nice apartment. I recycle and I buy flowers for my living room. I have plenty of friends and my parents definately DO love me enough.

Plus, I don't have one of those silly haircuts.

So what's going on? What's with the general feeling of malaise that's been hanging over me for the past couple of weeks? Why am I suddenly listening to Green Day, Funeral for a Friend and AFI and the like and thinking they write bloody good songs? With an emphasis on the bloody. Why have I become so anti-social? Why does the thought of interacting with people fill me with dread and a slight loathing? Why do I feel an affinity with the teenage boy from Little Miss Sunshine who hasn't spoken in nine months? Why is it that the only thing I want to do right now is crawl under my duvet and shut the world out?

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!

*ahem*

Could it be the simple fact that I haven't seen sunshine in about five weeks? Could it be the fact that it's been raining non-stop for about thirteen days now and I'm at the stage where I'm actually sodden on the inside? Could it be the pervading smell of damp coming from everywhere? Could this be what's making me feel like curling up into the foetal position on crying myself softly to a never-ending sleep?

Probably.

I used to scoff at the idea of Seasonal Affective Disorder. I used to think it was a clever little marketing ploy that some man with a neat little ponytail thought up of in a boardroom somewhere. He even shrunk it down to a snappy and appropriate T.L.A. (that's Three Letter Acronym for all you non-cynics). Why? So he could flog us extra bright lamps which promise to cure the depression.

And then I realised that I'm always much, much happier when the sun comes out and that, in the depths of winter, I spend most of my time walking around in a daze wishing I was a bear so I could hibernate until the sun comes out again. I'm not even too bothered by warmth, as such. I just want to see that big fireball in the sky, beaming down at me and sending me sunny-love-vibes and then I feel all good again. And now, looking outside at the grey sky with the rain pelting against my window, I'm convinced I suffer from S.A.D.

So here's an idea.

You know all those emo kids that live in sunny places like California and France and, oh, I don't know, Cuba? You know the ones. They look something like this:

I propose we start up some sort of S.A.D. <--> Emo exchange programme where we send teenagers from hot and sunny countries to rain old England where the weather and generally shite climate will match their mood perfectly. People will EXPECT them to be emo over here. It's the law. And, in exchange for this wonderful opportunity to indulge your inner whinger, us adults affected by S.A.D. will take your place in said hot and sunny country to soak up the rays and get a tan and generally feel much better about themselves.

Doesn't that sound good?

So, if you've got an emo teenager or cousin or brother or sister, pop him/her in an envelope and post it to me and we can start putting the wheels of this happy clappy No-More-SAD-Emo's™ exchange programme into motion.

I thank you.

Another Kate Moss rant

2007-05-02T11:08:00.000+01:00

I've been a bad blogger. I haven't been blogging very much at all recently.

Now, despite what you may think, I'm not doing this to fuck with your head. I'm not like those insecure men you read about who surreptitiously place nicotine patches on your back while you sleep so that you develop a craving whenever he's not around and associate that craving with being around him and thus start to think that you're addicted to him and consequently he must be The One. What? That's never happened to you?

Oh.

Anyway, I've actually been spending most of my time travelling to meetings and client sites (the oil refinery at Grimbsy the week before last, Belfast and London last week, off to Edinburgh today and then back to the refinery at Grimsby for tomorrow and Thursday - glamourous, eh?) which makes it somewhat difficult to whip out the laptop for a weekly dose of celebrity bashing. And, in between all this work, I've been crippled with writer's block.

The good news is that the 'block has finally been kicked to the curb. Thank you to all who sent suggestions and good wishes. The combination of your positive vibes, a serious hangover, too many cups of coffee and copious amounts of reading has kickstarted my brain, and last night I wrote with a zeal I haven't felt in quite some time. I doff my hat to all of you, and to Mr. Coffee of course.

Now, despite the fact that I've been up to my eyes with work recently, I've noticed that I'm being bombarded with images and hype about one particular person everywhere I turn, and I honestly cannot see what all the fuss is about. So, let's put it to the vote.

Ladies and gents, I give you:

Kate Moss

For those of you who don't know who she is (and, seriously, what rock have you been living under for the past twenty years or so?), Kate is a British model, famous for all the wrong reasons it would seem. In the early 90's, she was the icon of heroin chic. At a skinny 5'6", she was lauded as the anti-supermodel - the exact opposite of the supermodels of the time, such as Cindy Crawford and Claudia Schiffer. More recently, Kate's been hitting the headlines for being captured on camera snorting cocaine, and for hanging off the arm of the talentless super-minger, otherwise known as Pete Doherty. After losing most of her modelling contracts in the wake of the publication of the coke pictures, Kate has made an admittedly spectacular comeback, and this week launched a range of clothes she designed all by herself for Topshop, one of the leading trendy shops in the UK. [Source 1, Source 2]

Which is why she's currently being splashed all over our TV screens and magazine and newspaper pages.

Personally, I haven't bought any of Kate's Topshop stuff, nor have I tried to. In fact, other than what I've seen in the newspapers, I don't actually know anything about "The Collection", because I really don't give a rat's ass. How and ever, what does bother me is the fucking maelstrom of publicity that has fashion victims whipped into a frenzy in anticipation of getting their grubby mitts on some of these clothes. I know I'm not the most stylish person in the world, and my my fashion sense could be described as "lazy" at best, but I do like to flick through the glossy mags every now and then, and I have to say that I really don't see how or why Kate has been labelled as a fashion icon, or "the most stylish woman on the planet". I don't think the girl is even particularly good looking, and I certainly wouldn't wear clothes designed by someone who dates a man like this:

The man is wearing a vest held together with a safety pin, for cryin' out loud! And you just know he smells.... Ugh! Mind you, she's not much better - is that a gold lamé waistcoat?

Anyhoo, of course us non-fashion victims will get the last laugh because not only are the sheep paying upwards of £40 on eBay for a sold-out Kate Moss designed-vest that cost £12 in Topshop, but by this weekend, those who actually managed to get their hands on some of the clothes will all step out wearing their new garb, looking like little Kate Moss clones. Anyone in England who walks into a bar on Friday or Saturday night is going to be greeted with the sight of probably half the women all wearing the exact same clothes. Morons!

So, if you're still reading this (and I do apologise for that mini-rant - I had to get it off my chest!), what do you think? Take a look at these pics, and tell me whether you think she deserves the "fashion icon" lable she's been given?

Weapons of mass delusion

2007-04-04T11:13:00.000+01:00

It's that time again.

It's the middle of the week, when I'm up to my reddened, sleep-deprived eyeballs in work, with deadlines looming over me like like big, angry school-yard bullies. My frazzled mind does its best to cope in these stressful sitautions - around about midday on Wednesday it just shuts down, refuses to do any more work, and instead gives its full attemtion to contemplating life, the universe, and everything.

Today's topic for contemplation is global warming.

This has been niggling away at the back of my mind for weeks now, but it finally managed to push its way through the various other thought bubbles (including what to wear for dinner with the outlaws on Friday night, those three research papers I promised to get started on before my boss returns from Brazil tomorrow, and just how, exactly, they get the figs into the fig rolls) to the front yesterday morning whilst I was driving to work.

In fact, I think it was around about the time that a huge 18-wheeler in the lane beside me decided to overtake the slow-moving flat-bed truck in front of it, and, not bothering to look properly and thus not seeing my little Yaris beside him, hauled his truck into my lane, forcing me to swerve into the fast lane beside me and nearly killing us all in the process. Amidst all the angry horn-blowing and lights-flashing of the other truck drivers, who had been watching the whole process with disbelief, I got to thinking about how much I fucking hate truck drivers, and trucks in general, and how I'm damn sure they can't be good for the environment, and why the hell are there so many of them on the roads all the time anyway?!?

I was still rather annoyed by the whole thing when I got home last night.

Driving to work this morning, giving evils to all the truck drivers around me, I started to think about the wider issues involved here, and wondered what my stance on the environment and the global warming debate is. And I realised it's this:

I don't believe in global warming.

Now, before you start photoshopping photographs of my face on to George W. Bush's body, or vice versa, let me clarify.

I believe in global warming in so much as I believe the earth is getting warmer. I just don't believe that human beings are the cause of this.

I don't believe CO2 levels are rising dangerously. I don't believe in this Carbon Footprint rubbish. I do believe that if we don't stop polluting our environment we will destroy this planet and make it uninhabitable, but only from the point of view that I don't think any of us want to live on top of a stinking pile of rubbish, with nary a tree in sight. I don't, however, believe the planet is going to heat up to the extent that it becomes some sort of Mad Max-like desert wasteland. Neither do I believe that great ice storms will ravage the planet, á la The Day After Tomorrow.

I just don't buy it.

Amongst various other TV programmes about global warming and climate change, I've also watched An Inconvenient Truth and it's a pretty interesting, thought provoking and often frightening film. To call it a documentary is stretching the definition of the word a little too far for my liking. Rather, it is a sensationalist, sentimentalist and ultimately scare-mongering piece of pseudo-science wrapped up in some scientific-looking graphics and delivered by an ex-politician (and we all know how truthful politicians are) who is not, in any way, shape or form, a scientist or a respected/published authority on climate change.

Gore's predicitions for climate change in the future are so over the top, they're laughable. He directly contradicts hard facts developed by scientists. You know, the people who actually spend years researching this kind of stuff, and who actually are respected authorities in this area?

I recently watched a very interesting documentary on Channel 4, called The Great Global Warming Swindle, which held a lot more sway for me.

In my opinion, this is a much more accurate documentary on the state of the planet, and on how it might be affected by global warming in the future, because it corresponds with what I see around me on a day to day basis.

Again, it is my own opinion that carbon admissions are not nearly as high as they were even less than 20 years ago. I know this, because I can see it when I look out my window. I remember sitting in the back seat of my parents' car as we drove through Rathmines, in Dublin city, about 18 years ago or so, and gazing in amazement and disgust at the thick blanket of smog lurking over the buildings around us. I remember day trips to the city when I was a teenager and coming home with a visible layer of grime on my skin from the exhaust fumes being belched out by cars, buses and trucks.

And now?

Well, in my experience, the air in Dublin is not significantly dirtier than that in my own (clean) hometown by the beach. The layer of smog seems to have disappeared. And this is true of many other cities I've visited over the past twenty years.

Annoying pro-Gore sheep-type-person: But Claire, isn't is true that there are more cars on the road nowdays? Thus, there must be more CO2 being pumped into the air? Ipso facto. Nyeh.

Well, being honest, I don't actually know if there are more cars on the road nowdays, but I know that any car I've been in for the past seven years or so has run on unleaded petrol. And I imagine this is probably true in many other countries. I remember the first time I drove through Los Angeles, back in 2000, and there was a disgusting haze of sickly yellow-grey smog hanging over the city. I drove through LA again in 2005 and the skies were a hell of a lot clearer.

Annoying pro-Gore sheep-type-person: Well, why would Al Gore bother making this movie if it wasn't true? Why would the government be so concerned with global warming? Why would they tell us lies? Why? Huh? Whyyyyyyy?!?

Why, indeed. I have no answer to this. Some think it's a political thing. Some think it's Al Gore's revenge on Bush. Some think it's the government's way of deflecting attention from the unbelieveable fuck-up that is the invasion of Iraq. Could be any of these things. Could be all of them. Could be none of 'em. But just because the government (minus Bush, but who listens to him anyway?) tells us this is what's going on doesn't make it true.

But, aside from my own feelings and observations on carbon admissions, as pointed out in the documentary above, rises and falls in the Earth's climate are part of Earth's natural cycle and have been ocurring for millenia. In the 14th century, Europe was in the grip of the Little Ice Age, during which time the Thames River in London froze solid. That's cold. Going back further, to the 10th century, there was the Medieval Warm Period, during which time there were vineyards in Northern England. Before this, 10,000 years ago, was the Holocene Maximum, when temperatures were significantly higher than they are today. This period lasted for 4,000 years.

The evidence of it is all around us. On a recent trip down south, I visited Sidmouth beach in Devon which has some beautiful steep red cliffs. Surprised by the rich red colour of the rock, I found a tourist information plaque which said that the deep red colour are a result of the desert environment that existed in this area 250 million years ago when these rocks were formed. Before that, England's climate used to be tropical.

So, yes, I believe that the Earth is warming up - the winters here are certainly milder than I remember, and summer is positively balmy - but I also believe that this is part of a natural cycle and is neither a result of nor under the control of human beings.

I really do think that too many people are proclaiming Gore and his movie as the foremost authority on global warming, without actually stopping to think where he got his information from, or to ask why he's based his predictions on the results of just one or two studies. Some of his points are valid, sure, but he is guilty of sensationalising them and of grossly over-exaggerating the likelihood of a global rise in temperature.

The use of the animated polar bear was just a kick in the crotch.

Despite the fact that I refuse to drink the Kool-Aid, I do believe people need to take action to combat the ongoing pollution and destruction of our environment. As I wrote in a previous blog, I try to recycle as much household waste as I can. Although I can't take public transport to work (because I work in the middel of nowhere), I did swap my petrol-guzzling behemoth of a car for a smaller, more fuel-efficient one. I try to use the car as little as possible, and instead take public transport or walk to my destination when I can. I switch off my electrical appliances at the socket when I'm not using them, to make sure they don't waste energy by being on standby. I do my best to buy local produce, but that's more to support local farms rather than any anxiety about the number of air miles my grub has travelled. My electricity, gas, petrol and food bills are lower now than they ever have been.

But, I've said it before, and I'll say it again - it's not easy being green. It's bloody expensive to be environmentally friendly. Energy-saving lightbulbs cost around 24-times as much as a normal lightbulb. I know the engery-saving bulbs have a longer life-span than normal lightbulbs, but I doubt it's 24-times longer.

I laughed the other day when a green wheelie-bin was delievered to my apartment "For garden waste only". Um... great in theory, but... eh... I don't actually have a garden. Now I've got a big green lump of useless plastic sitting outside my house, and nothing in it. At the same time, my local council still doesn't provide recycling facilities for plastic (probably the highest percentage of household waste) or cardboard.

Meanwhile, Richard Branson offers $25 million to the first person who can develop a viable way of reducing global warming - an issue which may or may not be within the control of human beings in the first place. Maybe I'm wrong, and I'm not saying that Branson's heart isn't in the right place, but wouldn't it be better to put that $25 million into, oh let's say, the healthcare system? Maybe use it to buy medicines for Thrid World countries who can't afford to buy the drugs that we get for free? Maybe it would be better spent educating our children about how to look after this planet so that future generations won't have to live on a rubbish heap? Maybe it could be put towards developing better renewable energy sources to cure us of our oil dependency?

So, what do you think? Do you believe humans are responsible for global warming? Do you think it's something we can control? Or, like me, do you think that if every person makes a small effort to be environmentally friendly in their own lives, it will have a much bigger impact on the health of our planet, and is more likely to work than any miracle cure for global warming?

California Dreamin'

2007-03-27T11:24:00.000+01:00

Every now and then I get a real yearning to go back to California.

Unusually, this doesn't happen when I'd expect it, i.e. when it's cold and windy and wet outside. Rather, it happens as soon as I catch the first glimpse of summer; when the air warms by that single essential degree marking the difference between spring and summer; when the smell of flowers hangs heavy in the air; when I feel the sun warming the stones under my feet and the bones under my skin; this is when I long to be back in California.

A cloudless sky and an endless horizon ahead of me as I drive home; the outline of the city against a backdrop of hazy mountains; sunshine glinting off a beat-up Ford pickup ahead of me on the motorway; these are the things that remind me of California.

It literally wrenches my heart. The longing to be in California grips me and leaves me breathless, aching, unsatisfied.

I have only ever been to California three times, but each single time was such an incredible experience that I have never forgotten it. The first time I visited was in 2000, and, bless me father for have sinned, it's been a year and a half since my last visit. Far, far too long.

In my three visits to California, I have driven the Pacific Coast Highway from just south of Portland, OR, to just north of Tijuana, Mexico. I have driven through incredible redwood forests and along roads clinging to the sides of mountains, as the surf pounded the rocks hundreds of feet below. I distinctly remember my first glimpse of the Pacific ocean in Oregon - grey and vicious and angry. I disctinctly remember the first time I swam in the Pacific in San Diego - clear and blue and warm. And very salty, as I discovered when I was dragged under by a massive wave.

I have cruised along beach boulevards, with the top down on my car, honking the horn at the glistening muscle men and gazing upwards at the clear blue sky through the almost-touching, impossibly tall palm trees. I have made the road trip from San Francisco to San Diego three times, and each time is more wonderful than the last. I have driven through Baja Mexico, from Tijuana to Ensenada and beyond. From poverty to paradise and back to poverty again.

There are some moments of my three trips that are etched indelibly in my memory. Driving through the desert for days on end, with nothing but Pink Floyd playing on the only station my broken radio could pick up. Since then, every time I hear Dark Side of the Moon I get a shiver down my spine.

I remember my big gay weekend in San Francisco, celebrating the successful open houses of our photographer and artist friends by getting pissed on Mojito's in a trendy bar on Castro Street and going to a Gay Glo show. Buff naked men in neon paint - nice!

I remember making plans to set up camp in a pink glittery tent at Burning Man the following summer... Unfortunately those plans were never realised.

I remember sitting in a beer garden near the Golden Gate Bridge, drinking pitchers of Bud with hairy bikers and gazing up at the stars. Watching Podge & Rodge on DVD in an apartment overlooking the bay.

Driving through wine country, with vineyard after vineyard rolling out all around us, windows rolled down, hand surfing in the warm breeze.

Hanging out in La Jolla, giggling at the seals and eating giant freshly-baked cookies from the local café. Drinking Hang Ten beer with the surfers who brewed it in their bar near the beach whilst eating BBQ shark and fish tacos and saying "Dude!" a lot. Walking in on a bizarre speed dating session in an Irish bar in the Gas Lamps, San Diego, where all the women looked like Cindy Crawford and all the men looked like George Costanza.

I remember Ozzfest in the desert. The dry, baking heat that you only get in the Californian desert. The weird, yet undefinable differences between American and European music festivals. Trying to avoid staring at the tattooed gang members down from LA for the day, as they walked around in their uniform of baggy blue jeans, white wifebeater vest and numerous bullet holes and scars. Doling out suncream to sunburnt teenagers because seemingly I'm the only person in America who brings suncream to a festival in the desert in California. Watching the dust bowl develop and envelope the mosh pit whilst Rob Zombie pounded the stage in front of us. Ten bucks for a beer... some things never change.

Drinking beers and watching the wannabes at the Rainbow Bar & Grill on Sunset Strip, the birthplace of my kind of music! Waking up in my hotel, opening the curtains and feeling my stomach flip with excitement and my hangover rapidly disappear as I see the Hollywood sign right in front of me. Getting lost whilst driving around southern LA, taking a wrong turn and ending up in a bad neighbourhood. Burning rubber as we sped out of there, laughing with relief and near hysteria, stopping only to pick up a case of cold beers as we raced toward the beach.

Sipping coffee on a patio café in the morning. Soaking up the sunshine at the beach in the afternoon as we spot the Irish students on their summer visa. Hot, sultry nights shooting pool at the local bar and sitting on the steps outside the apartment, sipping beers and watching the world go by.

California has everything I want. Mountains. Sea. Sunshine. The laid back attitude. The hopefulness that anyone can be someone if you just work hard enough.

I need to go back!

So, if anyone has two round-trip flights from Manchester to Los Angeles that they're not using, let me know...

In the meantime, I'm hoping this longing will wear off soon, because I can't get to California until next year at the earliest. It's due to rain tomorrow, so if that doesn't shift it my trip to the oil refinery north of Grimsby on Friday will surely do it!

I'll give you something to scream about

2007-03-22T10:26:00.000Z

My office is in the middle of the countryside.

Ballygobackwards.

In the county of Middleoffrickin'nowhere.

Green fields full of cows and sheep surround my office. Daisies. Birds twittering in trees. That kind of stuff.

My office is an old converted schoolhouse. Sounds quaint, but it ain't.

Next door is the new school.

A primary school.

Full of primary kids.

It's break time.

For some reason, today the kids have decided that they're going to spend the entire break time running around screaming.

No, not screaming.

Screeching.

They've been screeching for almost fifteen minutes now.

It sounds like there's a mass slaughter going on next door.

It feels like there's a massive sledgehammer pulverising the insides of my brain.

I looked out the window to see if the teachers are running around, trying to get the kids to stop screeching.

They're not.

They're huddled in the corner, surreptitiously sharing a fag, trying not to let the kids see them.

I can't work under these conditions...

...

...

If the kids don't stop screaming, I'll give them something to scream about.

*Update*

The lambs have been silenced....

I've got a brand new combine harvester

2007-03-21T10:28:00.000Z

And by "combine harvester" I mean, of course, computer.

Oh, how the geek in me rejoiced when I saw a brand spanking shiny new computer in my office this morning!

There it was, all sleek and black, sitting nonchalantly on my desk, smoking a cigarette and rolling dice with the desk lamp. It glanced up in my direction, giving me a "What the fuck do you want?" look, but I saw the quick little quiver of anticipation run down it's smooth outer casing. It was waiting, nay, begging for me to switch it on so it could impress me with its sexy moves and ultra-fast processor.

I sat down, inhaling the scent of new. I reached over, my finger hovering just above the power button, and paused. I wanted to remember this moment. The moment my life changed for the better.

"C'mon," my new computer chided me. "Press the damn button already!"

Unable to wait any longer, I rudely pushed the button in, and just like that, I had popped my new computer's cherry. And, just like my own cherry-popping, this computer gave me everything I had ever imagined, and more. Gorgeous new Windows Vista (borrowing very heavily from Mac OSX - I don't care what the developers say to the contrary) loaded up in seconds. It's full of little features but, rather than being really, really, really frickin annoying like some Microsoft features I can think of...

...these features are actually quite cool. There's the funky big clock in the corner, the sexy semi-opaque windows (yes, I know I just called a computer programme "sexy", but damnit, it is!) and this brilliant little button that slants all the windows and allows you to toggle between them!

Alt+Tab begone!

But enough about Windows. My new computer is faster than a speeding bullet. The programmes open almost before I've even clicked on the icon. This computer can do everything. It sounds better, it looks better, and it shuts down within seconds. It even made me a cup of coffee at 11:00!

It was all I could do not to salivate over the keyboard as the pre-historic company email programme, which has been known to take three whole minutes to open (and that's a long time when you're sitting there, watching it), loaded up in ten seconds.

I don't know what's inside this computer, but whatever it is it purrs like a panther.

As I drooled and stroked and personalised my new machine, I heard a wheezy groan from the corner of my office. Turning around, my past stared rudely into my face in the shape of my ex-computer. There it was, glaring at me with all manner of accusations in its eyes, like a jilted bride, still wearing the rags of her dirty old wedding gown, as she walks in to see you with your hand up the dress of the prettier, younger, skinnier bridesmaid.

"What?" I said.

My ex-computer just stared at me.

"I... I... It's not what you think! It's not you... it's just... that... I needed something... faster! I'm sorry!"

My voice rang hollow in my ears.

My ex-computer said nothing, but in that single moment of rejection, I saw the last gleam of life die in its eyes. The guilt threatened to tear me apart. We'd been together for over a year. We'd been through good times and bad, through difficult projects and through whimsical brainstorming sessions. It was with this machine that I first discovered MySpace... So many memories.

Then my new computer purred again.

And, just like that, the guilt vanished. The ex-computer was forgotten.

Fuck it, I almost threw the bloody thing through the window yesterday anyway.

Out with the old and in with the new! From now on, it's onwards and upwards! And twirling! Always twirling!

I heart my new computer!

The ugly side of skinny

2007-03-12T10:38:00.000Z

Last September, I posted a blog about the ban on super-skinny models at Madrid Fashion Week. Any models with a BMI of under 18 were not allowed to work for fear that they would promote a "wrong" or unhealthy body image to young girls.

Six months later, the size zero debate, as it's been labelled, is still in full swing. Albeit, with a twist. Recently, it seems that celebrities are falling over themselves in an effort to show how unhealthy the size zero obsession has become – from Victoria Beckham (queen of the super-skinnies) banning size zero models from her fashion show, to ex-pop star and ex-model Louise Redknapp recently filming a documentary called "The Truth About Size Zero".

Victoria Beckham

I watched Louise's documentary last week on TV and it aroused two surprising reactions from me. Firstly, it made me want to lose weight which, I gather, was not the intended reaction. And secondly, it made me want to throw my shoe at the TV for glamourising the whole process. More about both of these issues in a sec.

The background to the documentary is that Louise used to be pop star and then became a model, once voted "Sexiest Woman of the Decade" by FHM magazine. She is a US size 4 (UK size 8). In an effort to show how dangerous the size zero obsession is, she decided to make a documentary in which she would attempt to drop two dress sizes, from a US 4 to a US 0, in four weeks.

At the beginning of the documentary, she had the obligatory health check so the doctor could say that she was in perfect health and to urge her not to undertake this crash diet. But, because Louise really feels so strongly about this issue, she ignored the doctor's warnings and went for it.

Over the next four weeks, we watched Louise eating lots of salads, working out like a maniac, getting a bit grumpy and tired, and eventually achieving her goal and slinking into a size zero dress. Then she threw the dress in the bin and went out for a slap up meal with her mates.

Was that the truth about size zero? Bollocks.

Watching that programme made me want to lose weight. I'm going on holiday in two months' time, so thoughts of diet and exercise and bikinis are foremost in my mind. I found myself watching this programme and making notes of what Louise was eating to help her lose weight quickly. And that's not because I'm messed up in the head or have low self-esteem or a poor body image. It's because Louise made it look so easy. Ok, so she couldn't have a big plate of pasta for dinner with her husband and child. Instead, she had what looked like a really bloody tasty salad. And it made me think "Shit, I could eat salad for a month if it meant I dropped two dress sizes!" And I'm not the only one who felt the same way. Listening to the radio on my way into work the next day, the station was flooded with calls from girls saying the same thing – "if Louise showed she could drop from a 4 to a 0 in four weeks, then surely I could drop from a 10 to a 6 in the same amount of time?"

Rather than showing how dangerous this kind of crash dieting is, Louise merely demonstrated that it is ultimately achievable.

And that was the overwhelming message that I came away with – that if you starve yourself and exercise like a demon for a month, you can easily drop two dress sizes. Sure, you might not sleep well and you might argue with your nearest and dearest a bit because you're hungry, but it's only for a month! And then you'll be fine! And skinny!

There were other major problems with the documentary also. Louise had "before" and "after" photos taken to show the difference in her size (and there was a big difference, which was surprising considering she was a petite size 4 to begin with). During the "after" photoshoot the photographer commented that Louise was looking fantastic. Then he must have quickly remembered that this was a documentary about the dangers of starving yourself to become a size zero and said "But how do you feel?" to which she replied "Awful" as she beamed at the camera. No further remark was made about the photographer's comment.

During the documentary Louise also trained at Barry's Bootcamp and had personal sessions with big Barry himself – the man responsible for sculpting the skinny bodies of people such as Teri Hatcher and Katie Holmes. This bit shocked me because when Louise told him she wanted to become a size zero, he looked her up and down and said "Ok, let's do it." He didn't even bat an eyelid. He didn't once look at this beautiful slim, healthy girl and ask "But why do you want to be a size zero?" To him, it was just business. And at the end – during her last workout session with Barry when she looked like she was ready to drop dead from exhaustion, he congratulated her and told her she looked fantastic. What kind of fucked up message is that to send out to people?

But what really, really annoyed me about this programme is that at the end, Louise said that she spent two months carefully reintroducing normal food back into her diet (the doc told her that if she suddenly started eating normally again, it would really mess up her body) and that now she's "loving her curves" once again.

Now, in my opinion, the following women have curvy figures:

All are beautiful women, with perfectly proportioned, curvy figures.

This is what Louise Redknapp looks like:

I'm sorry, but I don't see any curves. She's got a gorgeous, slim figure. But she's not curvy.

Now, the problem I have with people calling a woman with a slim, size 4 four figure "curvy" is that it doesn't portray a very positive image for those of us who are more like the four ladies above. I'm a US size 10, and I have curves. But, if a size 4 is considered curvy, then what does that make me? Fat?

What about women who are bigger than me? What about someone who, for example, is a size 12 (i.e., Marilyn Monroe)? Would she be considered fat by today's standards? Sadly, within the fashion and film industry, the answer is probably "yes".

The problem with Louise's documentary, and the reason that it seems to have had absolutely the wrong effect on women who feel that they should lose weight is that Louise only made vague hints at the bad side of crash dieting to become size zero. She didn't even touch on the ugly side.

There was a very similar documentary shown at the beginning of February in which a journalist, Dawn Porter, who is a UK size 12, which is a US size 8, did the same thing – starved herself and exercised constantly - to try to drop to a size zero in eight weeks.

Dawn Porter in Hollywood

Dawn did everything that Louise did – medical checkup, ridiculously low-calorie diet, Barry's Bootcamp, etc. – but Dawn showed the really ugly side of crash dieting. This programme was made in a similar vein to Morgan Spurlock's Super Size Me, which showed him puking out his car window after wolfing down two Big Macs. Similarily, whilst in LA Dawn heard that a lot of models and skinny girls were drinking some concoction made of water, maple syrup and cayenne pepper. Dawn got some of this, knocked it back and proceeded to dry heave and retch as her stomach tried to reject the vile liquid.

Dawn also tried to get to the root of the problem, to find out why size zero is increasingly touted as the ideal size for women. She delivers doughnuts to Nicole Richie's house, and tries to deliver a piece of cake to Victoria Beckham's Madrid mansion. She wheels a designer dress-wearing skeleton into the offices of one of the top modelling agencies and tries to get an interview with Dawn Riva, head of the British Fashion Council to find out why the UK hasn't banned unhealthy models.

I think the most memorable part of Dawn's documentary was when she went for Christmas dinner at home, about halfway through her diet. This is her diary entry from that day:

"Woke up about 8am, the house stank of food. Aunty was preparing half a pig and toast for breakfast. I shoved past and got some melon out of the fruit bowl. I had to sort my attitude out - I didn't want to be so moody and horrible but I just couldn't help it.

We opened presents and I worked hard to ignore all the smoked salmon and champagne that was floating around. I hated every second of it.

At lunch time I had a small slice of turkey and some steamed veg. It was rubbish. When everyone else made their way through cheese, pudding, coffee, chocolate, I sat in front of the telly on my own feeling like life was pointless. I was so down, I just wanted Christmas to be over.

I have hated the last few weeks. Everyone is so bloody happy and I feel the worst of my life. From my view point every body is being hysterical and needs to calm down."

Watching Dawn eat a sliver of turkey and a measly portion of veg (which she didn't even finish) whilst every one else's plates were heaped with delicious food showed how utterly ridiculous this whole diet was.

Dawn and her skeleton

What's more interesting is that Dawn admitted that as she started losing weight, she quickly became obsessed with it. In fact, she was thrilled with the amount of weight that she was losing, with the fact that her stomach was flat, and she was excited about losing more weight. There were some days where she ate less than 250 calories in the day. Pretty soon, all she could think about was food.

At the end of the programme, Dawn didn't make it to a size zero. I think she slimmed down to a size 2. Again, I think this showed the dangers of the whole size zero culture, more so than Louise's documentary. This showed that, despite starving herself and exercising like crazy and being sick and irrational and depressed, etc. for eight weeks, she still didn't lose those last few pounds. It was like her body's way of saying "STOP! FOR GOD'S SAKE PLEASE STOP!" It definitely had a bigger impact on my mindset and made me determined to stick to a healthy eating plan (which I am doing) and exercising regularly (which I am doing) rather than obsessively, and that I don't actually need to lose weight, but only need to tone up to be confident in my bikini.

What's interesting is that during her diet, Dawn went on a date with a guy that she had dated a few times before. Previously, they'd always had a great time, but this time she couldn't relax, she talked about food obsessively and was on edge for the whole date. Afterwards, her date said that she'd been awful company, really aggressive and a completely different person from when they'd dated previously.

I think a lot of men don't understand why women seem to be on an eternal quest to be slim. They think "But men don't like skinny women? Why bother?" But that's not why we do it. During her diet, Dawn said that men didn't find her sexy, but women kept telling her she looked fantastic. And that's what kept her going.

As we discussed in my previous blog, women are bombarded with images of "beauty" from all angles – in advertisements, in magazines, on television, etc. And all these images of beauty come in the shape of slim, toned women. Celebrities get slammed for being too skinny, but god help them if they put on weight. Tyra Banks got slammed for putting on weight after she gave up modelling, despite the fact that she still looks gorgeous. And we've all heard about or seen that rant about how she may have put on weight but she's happy with her body and she loves her mama, etc. And I say "Kudos to you, Tyra!"

But…

And there's always a but…

But, Tyra spent about five minutes talking about how the newspapers claimed that she'd put on 40 pounds when she'd only actually put on about ten. So, despite the fact that she seemed to be giving the two fingers to the media and their dodgy photo angles, she was still sending out the "I didn't put on that much weight! I'm not that fat!" message.

Not only that, but I was watching the first episode of season 7 (I think) of America's Next Top Model the other day in which they were choosing the ten or thirteen or however many models for the remainder of the show. There was one girl, I can't remember her name, who was painfully thin. Her hipbones and ribs were practically poking through her skin. Even the judges grilled her (no pun intended) about whether or not she was anorexic. She said she was trying to bulk up but was finding it difficult. The judges said that she didn't look healthy, and that no agency would book her because she was too thin. However, she still made it through the next two rounds.

What message does that send out?

The whole Hollywood culture of size zero is still shrouded in mystery, with suddenly-skinny celebs swearing that they're "naturally lanky" and that's how they dropped three stone in three weeks. Still nobody's talking about the fact that half the people in Hollywood are munching on Clenbuterol, a medication made for horses with breathing problems. The pill kills your appetite and melts away fat whilst retaining muscle. Some people have reported weight loss of 10 to 15 pounds in two weeks. The side effects, however, are that it can bloody well kill you. It raises your blood pressure and heart rate, putting you at major risk of heart attack.

All in all, I don't see the size zero problem disappearing (oh, puntastic!) any time soon. On the one hand, we're being told that size zero automatically equals unhealthy, but there are plenty of healthy women out there who are naturally a size zero. That can't be doing their self esteem any favours. At the same time, the fact that designer dresses only go up to a UK size 10, which is a US size 6, sends out the message that anyone bigger than this doesn't deserve to wear nice clothes.

Personally, I've stopped buying magazines like Heat which shriek about how skinny Nicole Richie is, whilst at the same time doing a five page spread on the latest celeb to gain three pounds (complete with arrows pointing out the wobbly bits). Magazines like that do nothing to reinforce a positive body image, and in fact just end up confusing you. I've stopped watching those "DANGER! DANGER!!! CELEBS WHO ARE ABOUT TO DIE!!!" programmes on E! I make sure to eat healthily and exercise regularly and it seems to be working for me. I'm just glad I don't live in LA.

Feel the fear and do it anyway?

2007-03-06T11:45:00.000Z

I have always been interested in why people do the things they do. I don't mean why people sneeze when they look at the sun, or why they hate Jessica Simpson and yet continue to buy magazines with her mug on the front of it, thus ensuring her "celebrity" for another week at least. Rather, I'm interested in why people do the things they're not supposed to do.

I work as a human factors consultant, and most of my projects involve examining why people routinely ignore or violate procedures. Sometimes it's because the procedures are rubbish, or the system is badly designed. Sometimes it's due to the "it seemed like a good idea at the time" syndrome. And very occasionally it comes down to the fact that people are just plain mean, stupid or bad.

For my undergraduate degree I studied Sociology and English Lit. I absolutely loved Sociology. So much so, that I'm considering studying it again part-time purely out of interest. There were three classes that have always stuck in my mind: Sociology of Religion, Urban Sociology, and Sociology of Crime. I eventually wrote my dissertation on the demise of religion in Ireland, but my favourite class, without a doubt, was Sociology of Crime.

For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by crime. I'm not so interested in the gory details, as to why people commit crime - what drives them to do it? - and what society can and is doing to prevent it. Crime, or rather the prevention of it, runs in my family - my father was a detective (he's retired now) and one of my brothers is now a policeman with an Garda Síochána. My uncle, Dad's brother, is a policeman with the Met. I grew up hearing sanitised stories of "baddies". As I grew older, the stories became grittier. I remember when Dad qualified as a forensics detective and brought home his suitcase of goodies, including everything from liquid latex for getting impressions of footprints and whatnot, to swabs for collecting saliva, to that special tape they use for lifting fingerprints (it smells of pineapple!).

I also remember the day Dad brought home a slim, rectangular case and placed it on top of the dresser in the kitchen, out of reach of the kiddies. We badgered him for ages about what was in the case - "what's in the case Dad? Can we have a look Dad? Please Dad? Is it more fingerprint stuff? C'mon Dad? What's in the case? What's in the caaaaaaaaaaassssssse?"

Eventually, we wore him down, and he opened the case just to shut us up:

It worked.

That was also the day that it finally hit home how dangerous my Dad's job was.

But I digress.

In my Sociology of Crime class, we examined the different reasons why people commit crimes. We looked the preconceptions that people have about crime - that criminals come from predominantly poor backgrounds, broken homes, ethnic minorities, etc., and at how the rise in white-collar crime affected these preconceptions. We discussed how fearmongering affects our perception of crime - are the streets really as dangerous as we're led to believe? And we looked at how criminals are punished - does rehabilitation work or is it better to just lock them up and throw away the key?

Really interesting stuff.

Anyhoo, I can't remember if it was part of this class or another, but on the reading list for one of them was "Discipline and Punish" by the brilliant Michel Foucault - an incredible (and deliciously graphic) book, well worth a read if you can. It was in this book that I first read about the Panopticon.

The Panopticon is a prison designed by an English philosopher called Jeremy Bentham, which places a guard tower in the middle of a circular room of rows of prisoner cells. The basic principle behind it is that from the central tower, the guard can see all of the prisoners at any time. However, the prisoners can't see the guard at any time from their cells, and so they never know if or when they are being watched. As a result, prisoners become paranoid and they discipline themselves. Prisoners are also isolated from one another to maximise the psychological effect. Whilst the Panopticon design itself has never been used, it has influenced the design of a number of other prisons worldwide.

What fascinates me about this prison design is that it uses the concept of fear and paranoia to regulate the prisoners. This method of regulation is prevalent throughout all our lives. Think about it - how many times have you been driving late at night and you come to a cross roads controlled by a traffic light. The light facing you is red. You can clearly see that there's no other traffic around, yet you still sit there and wait for the light to turn green? Why?

For most people, the fear of getting caught is what stops us from breaking that red light. The idea of Sod's (a.k.a. Murphy's) Law is what keeps us on the straight and narrow - "knowing my luck, the one time I break a red light is the one time I'll get caught".

I always wait for the green light, because anytime I've tried to give the two fingers to Sod, I've gotten caught. For example, when I was studying for my PhD I spent a lot of time in Germany, particularly in Bielefeld. One night, having had dinner at a collegue's house, I was waiting for the tram home when I decided not to buy a ticket. I'd been on the tram so many times before and I'd never had my ticket checked, that I figured "Why would they check it now?"

Ten minutes later, two big burly ticket inspectors, carrying fecking machine guns, boarded the tram and started asking for tickets. I nearly puked. When they got to me, I feigned ignorance and did my best "me no speaka da german" tourist impression. They were having none of it. There's nothing like having two huge Arian men towering over you, shouting at you in harsh German and demanding your passport, to put the fear of God and all things lawful in you.

A €70 fine and a stern talking to later, I vowed never again to get on a tram or train or other method of transport without a ticket.

Just like in the Panopticon, fear and paranoia are routinely used in our everyday society to control the masses. Sometimes it's useful and to be encouraged, particularly when it works - for example, increased police presence on the streets at weekends to discourage drunken brawlers, and visible and frequent police checkpoints on the roads in the run up to Christmas to deter drink drivers. But sometimes it seems more insidious - for example, the fearmongering perpetuated by the media and beamed into our homes every night in the form of the evening news.

I'm not sure how useful this kind of fear is to society as a whole. It pretends to encourage vigilance, but I'm worried that all it does is perpetuate suspicion and paranoia. I'm sure you've heard about Jean Charles de Menezes who was shot dead at Stockwell underground station in London in July 2005. Apparantly police had been surveilling the block of flats in which de Menezes lived, and mistook him for a suicide bomber. Initial reports of the shooting claimed that de Menezes had been wearing a backpack and bulky clothing, possibily concealing a bomb, and had been acting suspiciously. Photographs of his dead body were released showing him wearing a tight fitting denim jacket - no backpack in sight. de Menezes was shot seven times in the head and once in the shoulder at close range.

It was about two weeks after the July 7th bombings in London which killed 52 people, and one day after police foiled another bomb attack in London. The police who shot him apparantly thought they were "protecting London from what could have been another terrorist attack". Were they right to take that chance? What if he had been a terrorist? Even if he had been, are seven bullets to the head and one to the shoulder an acceptable method of prevention?

Looking at this from a sociological perspective, how has this affected society? Has it put fear in the hearts of actual terrorists? I'm not sure. In my opinion, what this has done is increase the level of mistrust the public has towards the police, and fueled the hatred of those few extremist groups. Of course, had it been proved that de Menezes was a terrorist, the police involved would have been heralded as heroes. Society is such a fickle bastard.

On a vaguely related tangent, one interesting psychological study which demonstrated the effects of fear and paranoia amongst prisoners was the Stanford Prison Experiment, conducted in 1971 at Stanford University. Twenty undergraduate students were hired to play the roles of guards and prisoners in a mock prison built in the basement of the psychology department.

The students were randomly assigned as guards or prisoners, and the experiment was supposed to run for two weeks. It had to be cut short after six days as "prisoners and guards rapidly adapted to their assigned roles, stepping beyond the boundaries of what had been predicted and leading to genuinely dangerous and psychologically damaging situations. One-third of guards were judged to have exhibited "genuine" sadistic tendencies, while many prisoners were emotionally traumatized and two had to be removed from the experiment early" (source). There is a video of the experiment, which has been broken into five sections. I'd recommend watching them - they're really frightening, but also incredibly interesting.

The experiments have been widely criticised as unethical, unscientific and unrealistic. Having only ever been in a prison cell once (when my Dad locked me in "for a joke"), I can't really comment as to realistic or otherwise the experiements were. I know somebody who works as a prison guard, and from what he's told me of prison life, the feelings of disorientation, denial, alienation, paranoia, definace, solidarity, etc. of the prisoners seems to have been fairly accurate.

What does this teach us about prison as a form of rehabilitation for criminals? There's a lollipop for anyone who can answer that.

In the meantime, I continue to live in fear of German ticket inspectors.

I heart Manchester

2007-02-23T11:49:00.000Z

It was an ordinary Wednesday, much like any other. It was about 3pm and the sky was overcast and grey. The sun struggled though in patches, warming the air to a mild 11°C, and there was a light breeze stirring the few remaining leaves on the ground, enticing them to dance a delicate green and brown waltz.

I lazily swirled the remains of my vanilla latte around in the bottom of my cup whilst gazing out the window of the coffee shop. Dreamily, I raised the cup to my lips to knock back the rest of the caffeine I so badly needed when suddenly it hit me.

Like a tonne of bricks.

Like a grand piano falling out of the sky or an anvil landing on an unsuspecting coyote, it hit me.

Could it be?

How could this have happened?

How could I have fallen in love with this place?

The realisation made my blood run cold and stopped my heart for a second or two. I shuddered, involuntarily, as though a serial killer had just danced a jig on my grave. I looked up and saw my mother and father watching me, bemused, so I quickly pulled it together, making excuses about a sudden draft of cold air. We finished our coffees and made ready to leave. I snuck a quick glance out the window again, to check if I was mistaken. But as the city winked back at me, in all her shiny modern glory, I knew it was true.

I heart Manchester.

When I moved over here, almost a year and a half ago, I was determined not to like this place. As far as I was concerned, I was going to work here for a couple of years, get some experience and then get the flock outta here and back to Ireland. I told myself that Manchester had nothing to offer me. That it was cold and wet, that the people talked funny and dressed like Liam Gallagher. They ate pies and mushy peas, and drank lager like it was going out of fashion.

But, having spent the last four days escorting my Mum and Dad around the city and its surroundings, I've realised that I'm actually rather fond of the place. In fact, right now I can't think of anywhere else in the UK that I'd rather live. And that frightens the life out of me for, you see, I don't want to live in England. I don't want to settle down here and have a family here and grow old here and die here and be buried here. I want to go home!

But if Manchester insists on being so damn brilliant, well, I may have to reconsider.

Lessons in marketing: Love is like a good shampoo

2007-02-12T11:55:00.000Z

As always, those horrible people who work in advertising (you know the types - they have ponytails and wear red-rimmed glasses and funky suspenders on their trousers, and they have silly names like "Chad") have blown Valentine's day completely out of the water, and, two days before the actual event, we're already over it. Bombarded from every angle with love hearts and cheap pink champagne and sickly looking roses, we've grown weary and cynical, denouncing the day as just another advertising orgy and vowing not to take any part in it...

...Until 11:30pm Tuesday night, when we'll frantically dash to the corner shop and wrestle with some 87 year old hag for the last crappy card and out-of-date box of chocs so we have something to show for ourselves on Wednesday morning.

Anyhoo, as is my wont, I've been thinking a bit about love and relationships and, the other day in the shower (simmer down, perverts), it hit me - relationships are like shampoo. Think about it. There are hundreds of brands out there, all promising different things - shiny hair, silky hair, strong hair, frizz-free hair, voluminous hair, healthy hair, straight hair, curly hair - and you can pick and choose your shampoo according to what you currently want or need. Some shampoos are more expensive than others, but that doesn't necessarily mean they're better. Some shampoos come in really pretty packaging that make you want to reach out and touch them, but then when you open the bottle, you realise it's just another bog-standard soapy mess. In contrast, some shampoos look plain on the outside, but when you open the bottle you fall in love with the smell and then discover that they make your hair look like a shampoo advert.

Shampoos, like partners, start out by making fantastic promises for your hair, some verging on the ridiculous. And, usually, they work for a while but then they either stop working or the novelty wears off and you get bored and decide you want to change. Sometimes it's the smell that starts to get on your nerves, or maybe it doesn't deliver on the promise of making your hair look amazing. Sometimes it gets too expensive, and you realise that you simply can't afford to keep this habit. In worst cases, it causes an allergic reaction and you end up scratching for weeks afterwards (but I must point out that that hasn't happened to me, personally, honest!).

Although it sometimes seems like a lot of work, trawling through these different brands of shampoo trying to find the one that suits you, when you do find that special bottle that delivers on its promises and smells nice and makes your hair look gorgeous, it's always worth it. There's an awful lot to be said for having a good hair day.

So, this got me thinking even more (it was a very cerebral weeked) about love and relationships, and it made me wonder if relationships are merely another (albeit more sophisticated) form of brand loyalty? Just like when you find that special shampoo and stick to it for the rest of your life, isn't it also true that when you finally find that relationship that works for you and smells nice and makes your hair look good, that you'll want to stick to it? And that you'll do pretty much anything to keep it forever?

Brand loyalty is a bit of a sly concept. It is the ultimate goal of any marketing (sorry Mairéad, I mean "morkeshing") company - to keep the customers coming back time and time again. My faourite source of information on t'Internets, Wikipedia, has this to say about the concept:

In marketing, brand loyalty consists of a consumer's commitment to repurchase the brand and can be demonstrated by repeated buying of a product or service or other positive behaviors such as word of mouth advocacy. True brand loyalty implies that the consumer is willing, at least on occasion, to put aside their own desires in the interest of the brand.

Brand loyalty is more than simple repurchasing, however. Customers may repurchase a brand due to situational constraints, a lack of viable alternatives, or out of convenience. Such loyalty is referred to as "spurious loyalty". True brand loyalty exists when customers have a high relative attitude toward the brand which is then exhibited through repurchase behavior. This type of loyalty can be a great asset to the firm: customers are willing to pay higher prices, they may cost less to serve, and can bring new customers to the firm. For example if Joe has brand loyalty to Company A he will purchase Company A's products even if Company B's are cheaper and/or of a higher quality.

If we look at that a bit closer, we can see that it pretty much sums up relationships. Sometimes in a relationship, you have to put aside your own desires and compromise in order to make things work. Sometimes you end up in a relationship because of situational constraints, lack of alternatives or out of convenience, although, similar to brand loyalty, this "spurious loyalty" usually won't last. True and lasting relationships, like brand loyalty, exist when both partners respect the relationship and are willing to go to those extra lengths to keep each other happy. The brand delivers on its promises and the consumer faithfully makes that purchase every day.

Personally, up until recently, I haven't exhibited much brand loyalty when it came to shampoo. I'd get bored quite quickly, and flit from one shampoo to the next. However, the reason that I had the "Eureka" moment in the shower the other day is because I realised that I've been using the same shampoo - TRESemmé - for a couple of years now, and I'm still really happy with it. If anything, the more I use that shampoo, the better it makes my hair look and feel. In fact, I'm so happy with my brand, I've started acquiring the various brand accoutréments that go with the shampoo and conditioners - the heat-defence spray for when I use straighteners, the ultra-amazing hairdryer that uses negative ions (or something, I don't remember) to stop my hair from drying out, etc., etc.

Damnit, if TRESemmé made a car, I'd probably drive it.

Now that's brand loyalty!

If I was a rich girl

2007-02-09T11:55:00.000Z

Tonight's Euromillion lottery jackpot is 66 million pounds. That's almost 100 million euro. That's almost 130 million US dollars. That's over 150 million Canadian dollars. That's over 160 million Australian dollars. That's 15,658 million Japanese Yen.

That's a lot of money.

And, it's not a roll-over which means that even if nobody gets all of the numbers drawn tonight, the prize will roll down to the next winning ticket. Someone tonight is winning £66 million.

But I don't play the lottery...

...until now! Damn right I bought a ticket! 66 million squid! Woo hoo!

I bought my tickets on Tuesday (and don't worry; I didn't go mad and spend all my savings on tickets. I just bought four) and since then I've been having the "what would you do if you won?" conversation with practically everyone. I mean, 66 million is a lot of money. I'm not one of those people who goes around saying "Oh, no, I wouldn't like to win that much. That's too much money! No, I'd be happy with just a million."

Wankers.

A million will buy you diddly squat nowdays. Well, relatively speaking, of course.

No, I want the full whack. But, what to do with it all?

I think I'd take the first six million and just be silly. I'd buy myself a big ol' house back home near my parents in Ireland, and another one near Exeter, my favourite part of the UK. That's probably about 2 million gone (house prices are crazy over here), including the cost of furnishing both houses, etc. I'd also treat myself to a swanky villa in the south of France and another one in Italy, and maybe (i.e., definately) a ski chalet in Whistler. That's probably about 1.5 million, again including buying all the gear required (bikinis and skis). The next thing I'd do is buy myself a decent car. I quite fancy that Toyota Prius because it looks alright, and it's environmentally friendly. Just 'cause I'm rich doesn't mean I can't be globally aware ;)

After that, I think I'd take some time off and bring my family and close friends away on a much needed and deserved holiday. It would have to be someplace secret because you can't win that amount of money and live a normal life. Remember what happened that Irish woman who won €150 million back in 2005? No? Well, after she picked up her massive cheque, she and her family had to go into hiding as there had been kidnapping threats made against her son, and other assorted madness.

Obviously, whoever wins tonight will be subject to intense media and other unwanted attention.

So, eventually, when it's safe to return, there's still the question of the remaining £60 million. Obviously I'd give my parents a big wad of cash to pay their mortgage and basically ensure they want for nothing for the rest of their lives. Similarily, the rest of my family would get a nice little nest egg. And my closest friends would not be left wanting. Let's say that's another ten million taken care of.

That's £50 million left.

Next, I'd like to give a large amount of my winnings to charity. But, again, who do you donate it to? I'd probably give a million each to the charities that I already donate monthly to, namely, Médecins Sans Frontiers and the RSPCA. I'd give a million each to the NSPCC, and To Russia With Love charities. I'd also like to donate money to the campaign to raise awareness of AIDS in Africa and the campaign to build schools for girls in Afghanistan, amongst others. There are so many charities out there that it's difficult to know where to send your money, regardless of how much money you have. So, when I can donate money, I donate it to charities that I know make an actual difference.

That would probably leave me with about £35-£40 million, depending on how charitable I felt. And all of that would go into the bank until I could figure out what to do with it. I'd like to use some of it towards helping raise awareness of global climate change, but I'd have to do a bit more research into that to see how best the money could be spent.

So... with my £35 million or so sitting in the bank, the burning question is: do I go back to work?

I had a long discussion with Mairead about this on the phone last night (that's how seriously I take my blogs! *ahem*). The thing is that I would definately have to keep working in some capacity or other. I mean, I'm only 28 years old. I've got a lot of life ahead of me. And, sure, I'd like to take some time out to go travelling and visit all those places I've never been to before (like Cornwall, for example). But I could only do that for so long before I'd probably get bored.

And then there's the other factor: I actually like my job. Sure, I'm not overly thrilled about my current job location, but the actual work itself... I really enjoy it! And I think I'd like to continue doing it. I've worked damn hard to get where I am today, and I slaved over a hot PhD for three years, and I'm a bit reluctant to just throw that all away because I no longer need the pay cheque.

Unfortunately for me, I don't yet have enough experience to go and work for a larger/better/different company, regardless of how much money I might have. And I certainly don't have enough experience to set up my own company. So... it looks like I'd have to stay where I am for another year or so. But, as Mairead cunningly pointed out last night, on those mornings when it's dark and cold and wet outside and I really, really, really don't want to go into work but I have to in order to earn money to pay the bills... if I was £35 odd million richer, would I still go into work on those days?

I don't know if I would.

---

It remains to be seen. The draw is in an hour and a half. If I can put down the champagne for a moment later on, I'll update this and let you know how it goes. I'm not expecting to win anything at all, but you never know!

---

Topic: What would you spend the money on if you won £66 million?

---

*Update* I didn't win. Boo! Hiss! Same again next week?

Confessions of a one-handed typist

2007-02-07T12:03:00.000Z

We're all guilty of it.

Schadenfreude, that is.

"Satisfaction or pleasure felt at someone else's misfortune" according to dictionary.com.

Even the kindest, most warm-heartest, most love-to-pet-fluffy-puppies-on-the-head-whilst-simultaneously-kissing-babies-and-giving-money-to-charity do-gooders amongst us can't help but smirk just a little bit when we see the prick in the Mercedes get done for speeding.

It's human nature to have a little giggle, isn't it?

And there's no shortage of schadenfreude in my life.

This morning, my colleague, the new girl (NG for short), came into my office, bolted the door and said "Oh God! I need to talk to you!"

My interest piqued by the urgency and distress in her voice, I swivelled around in my chair and asked what was up. Thence flowed forth a litany of grief to which I nodded my head sagely and uttered condolences, for her aggrevations were all too familiar to me.

Some of you know that, when I started in my current job just under a year and a half ago, I was very unhappy. It was the usual problem - the combination of bad pay, a high workload and an incompetent boss. Happily, my situation has now changed. I'm still in the same job, and the pay is only slightly better, whilst the workload and moronic boss remain the same. But I recently went through a somewhat introspective stage and I sat down and had a good hard think about it all and emerged feeling more positive and happier about the whole thing. I realised that it is entirely up to me to make the best of this situation, to learn as much as I can, and then to move on to bigger and better things. And once you've gotten your head around that, it makes it a hell of a lot easier to get up in the morning, let me tell you.

Anyhoo, NG had been to her first client meeting with the boss yesterday and by the time she got home last night she was wondering if she had actually gone mad. Her litany of complaints ranged from the boss treating her like a secretary in front of the clients to him telling her she should be out scouting for new business by herself but then telling her she's not capable of working on her own and that she needs to be part of the team.

She ended on a Mugatu note - "I feel like I'm taking crazy pills! Is it just me or is he completely unreasonable?!"

Unfortunately, it was all too familiar to me, for you see this time last year, I was asking the exact same question. I knew that the way he was acting was unreasonable (piling on the work until I thought I was going to have a nervous breakdown; calling me on weekends to ask where files were; calling me at midnight on Sunday night to tell me I had to travel to a meeting at 6:30am Monday morning; making sexist jokes about me in front of clients; treating me like a secretary in front of clients; butting into conversations with clients just so he could try to prove he was smarter than me, and so on ad naseum), and yet, at the same time, I began to wonder if it was just me who was being naive or stupid or overexpectant.

The problem with dealing with people who have no organisational, management or people skills is that, if they come across as utterly confident in themselves, and refuse to change despite the many subtle and later blatent hints you give them, eventually you start to think that maybe the problem lies with you. Maybe you're being intolerant?

So, I sat NG down and explained to her that the problem is not with her. That the problem is indeed with the boss. After all, he's A Boss, isn't he? And we all know what they're like...

I also explained that, after a while, your bullshit-filter becomes more fine-tuned and you learn to disregard the 99% of crap that comes out of a boss' mouth, and to digest and analyse the important 1% that comprises actual useful information.

"Unfortunately," I told her, "it takes time, but you will eventually get to the stage where you don't feel like stabbing him in the neck with a pencil every time he opens his mouth. It's a slow process, but at least you're not alone. I didn't have anyone to talk to about this last year, so count your blessings! I feel your pain and I'm available for a bitching session any time!"

As I sent her on her way, I couldn't help but feel a little smidgen of satisfaction. It's nice to know that NG feels the same way I did this time last year because it means that I wasn't imagining it or making a mountain out of a molehill. This time last year, I felt so alone and frustrated because I had no one to talk to about this. I was the only girl working for the company, and the other guys had been here too long and were too attuned to the boss to be able to comiserate. Sure, I could talk about it with my beau, my friends and my family, but I always got the feeling they thought I was blowing things out of proportion a bit because some of the things my boss did or said were so outlandish. So, I felt like I was going stir crazy.

Now that I've seen the light at the end of the tunnel, I know that NG will be fine in the long run, but there's a little part of me that still enjoys seeing her frustration because it makes mine a little more valid.

Does that make me a bad person?

If my boss is reading this, then of course none of this is true. It's all made up. And exaggerated, grossly, for entertainment and comedic effect. It might be best if you forget you ever read this.

I apologise in retrospect for any typos in this blog. I'm typing this with one hand because last night I sliced my middle finger on my left hand whilst I was chopping vegetables for dinner. So much for trying to be healthy. The damn thing bled all night and, in fact, I think it's still bleeding now. Actually, I feel kinda woozy...

Once more 'round the block

2007-01-31T12:04:00.000Z

My middle name should be Procrastinator. I'm "working" from home today but I have about as much motivation as a dead goldfish floating in putrid, month-old water. Nice image, eh?

Anyhoo, whilst waiting for the plumber to fix my washing machine, I decided to have a go at writing some daft haikus. Here's what I've got so far...

--

Washing machine dead
Plumber says not his problem
Clothes remain unwashed.

--

Postman here early
More bills for my perusal
Should have gone to work.

--

Report lies unwritten
Motivation is awol
What's on the TV?

--

Kitchen is in ruins
Plastic piping everywhere
No water for tea.

--

Plumber says "finished!"
I'm gasping for a coffee
I push him aside.

--

Caffeine hits my brain
Inspiration is still lost
I give up on work.

--

Hmmm....

I still don't feel like doing anything. And now the plumber's gone so I can't even blame the noise disturbance for my lack of action anymore.

Suppose I should at least open Word...

Philistine or Pedant?

2007-01-23T14:50:00.000Z

I'd like to preface this blog by saying that I adore art. I don't know a whole lot about it, but I adore it. I love visiting galleries and museums and spending the day wandering amongst artwork, regardless of whether it's three hundred years old or three years old. I've had the immense pleasure of standing in front of original works by Botticelli and Caravaggio, as well as Blake and Lowry. However, I've recently discovered a slight internal problem that may well ruin my enjoyment of art forever.

Let me explain...

In March 2006, I had the good fortune to be invited to spend a few days in Florence with Mairead, her parents and her aunt. I didn't need to be asked twice. I'd always wanted to visit Italy and I'd heard that Firenze is one of the most beautiful cities in Italia, as well as being the bithplace of the Italian Renaissance and the hometown of the art-loving Medici family. Well, I'd be a fool to turn that down, wouldn't I?

Oh yeah, and I'd also get to spend five days with my best friend doing what we do best - drinking coffee, sipping wine, sitting in the sun and commenting on the talent walking past. It's a good life!

Anyhoo, Mairead and I arranged to meet in Pisa on the Friday night, which we did. Exhausted after our respective full day's work, flights, travel to the hotel, etc., we got ourselves checked in and set out to find someplace that could offer us a nice glass of Italian vino. Wandering around the streets near the hotel, we turned a corner and were faced with the leaning tower in all its magnificent glory.

Most of the time, when you see pictures of the tower, it looks something like this:

i.e., surrounded by tourists all yabbering away and making silly poses in front of the tower. However, due to the fact that it was around about midnight, the Campo dei Miracoli was completely deserted, allowing us to drink in the sight of this beautiful marble structure in peace. It was a beautiful night and the white tower and incredible Baptistry beside it looked almost painted onto the clear, navy blue sky behind. When we got back to the hotel (with a couple of bottles of red), we realised that we had a perfect view of the tower from the balcony in Mairead's room. As we sat and drank our wine and chatted, every now and then we would wander over to the balcony and just stare at the magnificent view. It was hypnotic.

Anyhoo, that's not the point of this story.

So, the next day we hopped on the train and made our merry (if slightly hungover) way to Firenze. Mairead's dad met us off the train, hustled us along to the hotel to drop off our bags and then rushed us over to the Uffizi where Mairead's mum and aunt were waiting for us, tickets in hand, to go explore one of the most incredible art museums in the world. The Uffizi houses a stunning collection of artwork and sculptures that would take days to investigate thoroughly. However, and now we're getting closer to the point of the story, as we wandered through the rooms, being bombarded from all sides by incredible works of art, we found ourselves becoming more and more blasé about what we were seeing. Our conversation rapidly degenerated from: "Wow! Look at this one! God, that's incredible! Look at the detail!" and: "Bloody hell! That must have taken years to finish!" to: "Oh, look.... another painting of the Madonna and child. Nice." and: "Hmmm...... sensing a slight obsession with religion here...." eventually, two hours later, to: "What's in there? More religious crap? Ah, let's skip it."

I mean, there's only so much of this you can take in at any one time:

Nice paintings, but after about two hundred of 'em, you get a bit overloaded.

Eventually, we got to the good stuff, but even then, we were beyond redemption. About three hours after entering the museum, we arrived in the Botticelli room, and saw the absolutely astounding Birth of Venus:

To say I was awestruck in the presence of this painting would be an understatement. I mean, the thing is huge! It would be difficult to not be impressed by it. And Venus is absolutely beautiful, as you can see. But... then I noticed that... well, Botticelli is a bit rubbish at painting feet. If you look at the feet of the two angels on the left, they look a bit weird. And Venus herself looks as if she's been a victim of Chinese foot binding. As for the wave-effect on the water - seriously, I could do better than that.

With my eyes closed.

And my arms hacked off.

And no lips with which to steady the paintbrush.

But, then, maybe I was just still pissed off about the billions of religious paintings I'd just had to wade through. So, we continued on. I'm happy to say that by the time we reached Botticelli's Primavera, he'd gotten much better at painting toes, which is strange because Venus was actually painted after Primavera.

Anyway...

We carried on throughout the rest of the musem, including an exhibition on the life and works of Leonardo da Vinci (more on this in a moment), and by the time we left, many, many hours later, we had been rendered pretty much speechless by the sheer talent we had witnessed inside. To think these were painted hundreds of years ago... wow! Luckily, a couple of glasses of wine later and speech had returned full force, although slightly slurred.

The next day, we made our way along to the Accademia to see Michelangelo's David:

Breathtaking. Absolutely stunning, from every angle. The fact that the statue is 17 feet tall makes it impressive by itself, but the attention to detail is what makes it for me. Not only can you see every rippling muscle in this beautiful example of the male form, but Michelangelo even carved out cuticles on the hands of the statue. Incredible.

And then we noticed.... aren't his hands and feet a bit.... out of proportion? In fact, is it just me or is his head kind of huge*?

Goddamnit.

Why were we suddenly noticing these things? Why were we suddenly looking at beautiful pieces of art created hundreds of years ago by world class masters, and only able to see the flaws? Personally, I blame Leonardo da Vinci. You see, in the Uffizi, we had visited a special exhibition entitled "The Mind of Leonardo - The Universal Genius at Work" in which there were presentations about the rules of geometry and proportion that Leonardo applied to all of his art. He explained how all of nature conforms, naturally, to these rules, and how they can be applied to create absolutely perfect works of art. Take, for example, the famous Vitruvian Man:

Leondardo's drawing displays the exact proportions of the average or ideal man. Whilst there is no such thing as universal proportions for the human body ("We're all individuals!"), I really like this idea of logically and systematically creating the perfect being. I like to think of myself as a logical person (most of the time), and so this idea sits well with me. Unfortunately, I think a result of this is that I've become very pedantic when viewing art. I've become a major fan of perspective and proportion, and I find it difficult to enjoy art that doesn't employ these two rules.

Picasso wrecks my head.

So, when viewing the statue of David, with his disproportionate hands, feet and head, I couldn't help but wonder am I being a complete philistine, standing here in front of one of the most superb works of art in the world and pointing out its flaws, or am I merely being pedantic in my persuit of beauty and thus unable to accept anything less than perfection?

Will I ever be able to fully enjoy art again**?!?

...

[End]

* I've since found out that: "The proportions (of the statue of David) are not quite true to the human form; the head and upper body are somewhat larger than the proportions of the lower body. While some have suggested that this is of the mannerist style, the most commonly accepted explanation is that the statue was originally intended to be placed on a church façade or high pedestal, and that the proportions would appear correct when the statue was viewed from some distance below." -- source: Wikipedia

** Claire has since gone on to enjoy many lovely works of art, most of which have not been proportionally correct, so one must presume that the answer to this question is: "Yes."

Woe is me - A self-pitying, melodramatic Wednesday whinge

2007-01-17T14:58:00.000Z

I'm ill.

My head has been stuffed with cotton wool, lead and helium, which is an interesting, yet wholly undesireable feeling.

My eyes are still full of hot sand.

My throat has had the insides scraped out and rubbed vigorously with salt & vinegar resulting in an altogether very unsexy croaky voice.

My neck and shoulders have been encased in concrete, restricting every movement I make and weighing me down so that I feel that little bit closer to hell with every minute that ticks by.

Hi Satan!

My lower back throbs with a dull yet persistant ache that makes me want to strap a hot water bottle on there and curl up into the feotal position until it's time to die.

My limbs feel like they've just run ten marathons back to back whilst scrubbing red wine stains out of a white shirt using an old fashioned washboard, soap that won't lather and very hard and cold water.

My body temperature swings unpredictably between unbearably hot and shivering cold, meaning that I'm constantly either ripping off jumpers or frantically trying to wrap them around me again to retain some semblance of warmth.

I'm tired, yet I can't sleep.

So I'm at work.

"Shouldn't you be at home?" I hear you say.

"Yes," I reply. "Yes I should. I was at home all day yesterday and I should have stayed there again today."

So, why didn't I?

Because I got bored, that's why. That's how ill I actually am. I got bored. I couldn't go outside because the weather was too cold and shitty. So I stayed inside all day. Our Internets isn't working because of some problem with the line. I hate daytime TV. I finished reading The Historian (fantastic book - Mozz, give it another go, seriously) and need some time to digest that one before I can pick up any other. I've watched all the DVDs in the house. I've read all the newspapers and magazines. By 8pm last night, I was climbing the walls. And then I got bored of doing that! I'm restless and I can't concentrate long enough on any one thing to relieve the boredom.

Today, when I woke up, I found out that we don't even have TV anymore because a rather horrible hail storm last night has done something funny to our connection. No Internets and no TV make Claire go crazy.

So, instead of staying at home and developing a nice case of cabin fever, I decided to go to work. Might as well get paid for being bored shitless, right?

*sniffle*

*cough*

Should have brought my duvet...

Another day, another dollar

2007-01-09T14:59:00.000Z

Claire awoke with a start after what seemed like only minutes of sleep. She looked around the room which was barely lit by a shaft of grey winter light filtering through a chink in the heavy curtains. Outside the rain battered the window and the wind howled mercilessly, slamming a nearby door against a wall - the cause of last night's insomnia. Where...? Ah yes, the hotel. Still in Sheffield then.

She reached out and silenced the alarm that had woken her, and rubbed her gritty eyes that felt as though they had been filled with hot sand. Time to get up? Maybe just five more minutes of rest. Last night's late dinner still lying heavily in the pit of her stomach, she lay back against the once-luxurious but now almost threadbare sheets and closed her tired eyes, praying for sleep to swallow her whole and deliver her into a blissful slumber that would last for days. She couldn't remember the last time she had been this tired.

The alarm started screeching again, signalling the end of the five-minute snooze period. With an exasperated sigh, she silenced the alarm again and flicked the switch on the wall by the bed, flooding the room with harsh, unnatural light. A searing pain filled her head, as though someone had just rammed a picaxe through her eyeballs. "I hate mornings," she thought to herself as she threw back the covers and shuffled out of bed with all the grace of a lame donkey.

The shower ran cold for approximately seven minutes. Just as she had given up, about to resign herself to a day of smelling like last night's cigarette smoke, the water began to gain a little warmth - not enough to be theraputic but enough to make standing underneath it for ten minutes bearable. As she half-heartedly rubbed shampoo into her hair, she pondered what today's training session would bring. The eighteen students has so far been significantly more unresponsive than expected.

She rinsed the shampoo from her hair, and added a generous dollop of conditioner, massaging it in as she contemplated. Was it because of language difficulties? Cultural differences? There were only about four native English speakers in the group. Maybe they didn't understand Jamie's lectures? Maybe they'd be more communicative on this second day of the course, now that they knew what to expect. She hoped so. The long drawn out silence after that dreaded query - "Any questions?" - was beginning to grate on her nerves.

Whatever happened, she hoped today would go a little faster than yesterday, which had seemed to drag on for three years. She rinsed the conditioner from her hair, and switched off the stream of lukewarm water. She towelled off, dressed, fixed her hair and makeup and made a final check in the mirror. "Another day, another dollar," she told her reflection, as she picked up her umbrella.. "Maybe I'll suggest a warmer climate for next year's course."

---

So, yes, I'm still in Sheffield. And, yes, that is an accurate reflection of my experience of waking up in hell this morning, after approximately two hours' sleep. It's not so much that I'm in Sheffield that's making me slightly less than enthusiastic. Rather, it's that I'm in Sheffield in a sort of crummy hotel, with horrible, rainy, windy, cold weather outside, attending and helping out with a course that, whilst interesting, is a lot of hard work - back to back lectures from 9am 'till 5pm - and then drawn-out dinners that go on well into the night, leaving me exhausted yet unable to sleep as my body attempts to digest.

*whinge whinge whinge*

I know, I know. It could be a lot worse. I could be working in a coal mine, hundreds of feet below ground, relying on a canary to tell me when to get the fuck out because I'm about to suffocate. I could be working in a paddy field, spending day after day with damp feet, bent over as I harvest rice and get paid a pittance for the privilage of doing so.

Goddamnit, I could be an accountant!

It's not so bad. At least me and the new girl are getting to spend some time together - she's cool. We also have a lady visiting us from Brazil who is super fantastic and very witty.

And, best of all, there's only one and a half days to go...

However, watching this continuously does make it more bearable!

This year I have mostly been injecting caffeine

2007-01-03T15:03:00.000Z

Hello. My name is Claire and I am a fresly brewed coffeholic. I don't even know if that's a real word but it sounds damn good to me.

Over Christmas I decided that I'm (temporarily, at least) done with alcohol. In the dying months of 2006 I've suffered some mind-cripplingly god-awful rather-rip-out-my-own-intestines-and-hang-myself-with-them-than-go-through-that-again horrible hangovers. The kind of hangovers that see you hugging the cool porcelain into the wee hours, begging for someone to kill you just to end the misery. The kind of hangovers that make Rent Boy's heroin comedown look like a teddy bear's picnic.

"Well," I hear you say. "What do you expect after a three-day whiskey & wine bender? Tut, tut, blackie. For shame. For shame."

But that's the thing, you see. I haven't been going on three-day whiskey & wine benders. I haven't been drinking 'till the cows come home and I've forgotten my own name. These gut-wrenching hangovers haven't been the result of sitting in fields with hippies drinking White Lightening and poitín whilst looking for clouds shaped like sheep.

No, I'm nowhere near that cool.

I now get a three-day hangover after just a couple of glasses of wine. In fact, I'm convinced that the severity and length of my hangover is directly proportional to the number of glasses of wine I've had the night before.

1 glass of wine = mild headache and general feeling of crappiness for 1 day afterwards.
2 glasses of wine = dwarves drilling in my head and stomach churning for 2 days afterwards.
3 glasses of wine = orcs pounding on my head with a sledgehammer whilst I pray to God on the big white telephone for 3 days afterwards.
4 glasses of wine = Goodnight Vienna.

Ok, maybe I've exaggerated a bit, but you get the general picture.

I'm broken.

I don't know how it's happened, but I think I've broken something inside. And this fear of hangover is what's kept me relatively sober this Christmas. Sure, I've enjoyed a couple of glasses of vino and maybe a Bailey's or two with friends and family, but in the two weeks of holidays there are only two nights where my memory of getting to bed is a little fuzzy.

So what did I do with myself on those other nights out when I couldn't face alcohol?

I drank coffee.

Lots and lots of coffee.

As a result, I haven't slept properly in two weeks. I am seriously sleep deprived. But it's worth it because I have come to the conclusion that I LOVE COFFEE. I love it with all my squishy red blood-pumping apparatus. I love the smell of it. I love the taste of it. I love how it looks in my cup or in a glass. I love the different varieties. I love cappucinos and lattes and mochas and americanos (but not espressos - I'm not a savage). But mostly I love how coffee makes me feel. I love the rush. The caffeine high. The rare hour of clarity immediately after I've taken that first hit of the day. The abundance of ideas that suddenly come charging forward begging for my attention. The urge to write or paint or run or sing - anything to make use of this manic energy before it disappears and I'm left with the jitters.

After two weeks of drinking coffee almost exclusively, I'm hooked. And like any proper junkie, I need to get some proper gear to feed my habit. Whilst flicking through a catalogue (at twenty pages per second), I came across this and nearly creamed myself:

It's not particularly expensive and it's probably not the best one out there, but this is the machine of my dreams. It's got a ten-cup capacity, a fastbrew option that brews the coffee in eight minutes, it's got a six-espresso-cup capacity, it's got a milk frother thingie, and it's shiny and black and got chrome bits... Sorry, I need a moment.

*sigh*

I want it.

And I'm going to get it. If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to get that dream machine!

You see, I don't currently own any coffee making apparatus. Other than a kettle, a cup and a spoon, of course. Which means that I am reduced to drinking instant shite unless I can get myself to a café. And, from Monday to Friday, between the hours of about 8am and 7pm, I cannot get myself to a café because, you see, I work in the middle of nowehere:

I work somewhere behind those trees. See? Middle of nowhere. There are no cafés nearby. Certainly no Starbucks (I hate the corporate empire which is slowly but surely taking over the world - they now have Starbucks in Ireland for Christ's sake, the last defence has been broken - but, oh, how I love their coffee!). And so I am reduced to bringing instant coffee with me to work. And we hates it my preciousssss.

This is what I drink at work:

Crappucino.

"Now with delicious Suchard topping!"

What the hell is "Suchard"? It doesn't even look like chocolate, let alone taste like chocolate!

Still, beggars can't be choosers. So, when I get into work in the morning, I pour myself a nice crappucino and pretend it tastes like coffee:

But I long for a dream machine like the one above. I long for real coffee that's been percolated properly with water that's hot but not boiling. I long for steamed, frothy milk, not powdered, sickly-sweet muck. I long to be able to do this with my coffee:

How nice do those coffees look? Tasty! Pretty! Warm! All the things I like! I want those!

The new girl brought a cafetière into work whilst I was away over Christmas. I saw it on her desk this morning. I'm waiting for her to brew some of the good stuff so I can blag a cup. But I fear she may do it in secret for she knows how much I love real coffee and knows that I'll just drink all of hers and leave her with the nasty bitter grinds at the end and then she'll never get rid of me!!! Arrrgghhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ok, I've officially got the jitters. And the paranoia. Time to go drink some water.

The perfect hot whiskey

2006-12-14T15:05:00.000Z

Around this time of year I always get the sniffles. Something to do with the sudden drop in temperature combined with the fact that I finally get to relax after working my butt off since summer. Anyhoo, today, on the horrendous drive home from Edinburgh (we were parked on the motorway for over an hour whilst the police, firemen, paramedics, etc. tried to clear the road of a multiple vehicle accident, which was spread across all of the lanes, bringing rush hour traffic to an absolute standstill. We drove past the wreckage of the cars & motorbike - it was truly frightening), I realised that I was sniffling, had a sore throat, etc.

So, after thanking every god in heaven that it wasn't us in that accident, and after praying to every god I could think of that the people involved would be ok, I decided that I could do with a hot whiskey. A hot double-whiskey, in fact. It'll take a couple of them to erase the picture of those upside-down, cut open and burnt out metal husks from my mind.

Anyway, just as my Mum is the queen of the Irish coffees, my Dad is the king of the hot whiskeys, and he kindly taught me how to make them a few years ago. It's such a simple recipe, but you'd be amazed at how many people get it wrong. And, since I'm all liquored up and full of the spirit of Christmas, I thought I'd share it with you so you can try it out over the holidays, maybe in lieu of that disgusting eggnog, and certainly to help ward off any impending sniffles.

Firstly, you'll need to assemble the ingredients:

1 bottle whiskey
1 lemon
1 jar cloves
1 bag of brown (demerara) sugar

And the appliances needed:

1 kettle to boil water
1 glass from which to quaff the good stuff

As can be seen from this pic, I had to resort to Jack Daniels as they only had 12 year old Jameson in the supermarket this evening, and I wouldn't even dare to destroy that by turning it into a hot whiskey.

Anyhoo, step one, cut the lemon into chunky slices:

Step two, insert cloves into the lemon segments in a pretty fashion, as such:

Step three, pour a double measure of whiskey into the glass. I would usually use a coffee glass, but I don't have any here, so this horrible glass had to suffice:

Step four, boil the kettle of water, and add as desired to the whiskey. Then stir in a teaspoonful of brown sugar:

Step five, stir!

Step six, pop in the lemon, give it another stir, allow to "brew" for about a minute and enjoy!

Step seven, repeat until you fall over or go numb.

I'm feeling better already

Broken toe, shattered illusions

2006-10-18T15:09:00.000+01:00

I used to think I was invincible.

No, really, wait a minute. I honestly did. Right up until I broke my toe on Sunday afternoon, by stubbing it against the bed, of all things.

Why did I think I'm invincible? Well, mostly because I've been knocked down three times, been pushed down stairs, fallen downstairs, been impaled on an iron gate, and had various other injuries and I've never once been hospitalised or even broken a bone.

Until Sunday, that is. When I broke my toe by stubbing it against the damn bed. How embarassing.

I've had a serious run of good luck, when it comes to injuries. Growing up with three brothers and a dodgy (at best) sense of balance, I'm really a walking recipe for disaster.

I can remember most of my injuries. They started quite young...

(The Pre-teenage years)

- Fell off my roller-skates onto a gravel footpath and scraped the shit out of the right side of my face. The kids at school called me Freddie Kruger for a week. Bastards.

- Chipped the front of my tooth whilst walking home from karate practice. I've still got the chip there now. Luckily, it didn't expose the nerve. Put me off karate for years.

- Got punched square in the nose by one of my brothers. Ran all over the supermarket looking for my mum, dripping blood everywhere, whilst some poor shelf-stacker ran after me with a box of tissues, trying to clean me up.

- Got clipped by a car when crossing the road. Walked away with just bruises and two very scared parents.

- Got knocked off my bike on my way to piano lessons. Cut my hands and bruised my elbows and knees, but otherwise ok.

(The Teenage years)

- Got pushed down the stairs by one of my brothers (it was like a scene from The Omen. He stood at the top of the stairs, watching me drag my heavy schoolbag up, waiting for me to reach the top. On the second last step from the top, he simply looked at me, then thrust his hand out, hitting me in the chest, and I fell, backwards, down the entire stairs, almost through the glass window at the bottom. Freak!).

- Got knocked off my bike at around 50mph, whilst tearing down a very long, very steep hill near my house. My next door neighbour was on his bike at the bottom of the hill, and pulled out right in front of me. We skidded across a four-road intersection, me on the bottom with him and two bikes on top of me. I pretty much (temporarily) destroyed the left-hand side of my face and body - the skin was kinda ripped off in place. Major bruising. Black eye, which swelled shut. I have no memory of the actual accident, or the two hours afterwards. I had to take a week off school, and couldn't leave the house because I looked like I'd had the shit beat out of me. My neighbour cut his elbow. Poor guy.

- Got hit in the eye with a sweeping brush. This was at school, not long after the bike accident above. One of the girls in my class was messing around, swinging a sweeping brush in the air. She caught my, right below my left eye. Yes, the same eye that had been swollen shut in the above accident. It immediately blackened, shut again, and she also burst a blood vessel which meant that for the following month, I had a red streak going from my iris to the corner of my eye. Very creepy.

(The College Years)

- I got impaled on an iron spike as I climbed over a gate in the university grounds. Well, when I say I got impaled, I didn't actually. What happened was that Mozz and I were climbing over the gate, on the way back from the pub. I had my favourite jumper (orange with a horizontal yellow stripe across the middle - loved it!) tied around my waist, and as I climbed over the gate, and made to drop down the other side, I couldn't help but notice that my feet were still dangling about four feet from the ground. I wriggled around, but still nothing. I was hanging there. I managed to untie my jumper and fell down, and then realised that the spike had perfectly impaled my jumper, creating a hole about half a foot in diameter right through the middle, on both sides. My jumper was destroyed. I got nothing more than a twisted ankle.

- During rag week (not sure if you have this in the States or Canada, but Google it if not), myself and my boyf were on our way to the Rag Ball, which was a big fancy dress dealie. We were dressed as some sort of devil-type-thingies. Think long flowing black capes, white face paint, fake blood, etc. Along the way, I tripped and fell and bashed my head again a low wall up the road from where we lived. My lip split open and started gushing blood. I, being quite drunk, kind of went into shock and started crying. What's worse is that I wanted to go home, but everyone else said "No way! That looks so cool! It fits in with the costume!" Bastards. Anyway, I went home, looked in the mirror and nearly fainted. My face and neck were streaked with blood, and my dress was soaked in the stuff. I looked like I had just gorged myself on a sacrifical virgin or something. I've still got a scar on my lip now.

(My more recent idiocy)

- Quite possibly the scariest of the injuries that I remember was when I was on hols on the Canary Islands with Mozz. I was walking down the ceramic-tiled stairs when my dusty flip-flop lost it's grip and I fell... all the way down the ceramic stairs. (I'd like to point out that I was stone-cold sober at the time). What's frightening was that I landed in a heap at the bottom and I couldn't move. I'd hand the wind knocked out of me, but even when my breath came back, I couldn't move. For a couple of minutes, I contemplated life as a quadriplegic, paralyzed from the neck down. Eventually, I got movement back, but I had seriously hurt my lower back, judging from the fact that my ass almost immediately went black with bruising. I was sore for a while after, but eventually recovered fully. Still pulled too ;) Heheheh.

So, that's a lot of little knocks and bruises, but I never once broke a bone. So, like I said, I thought I was invincible. Or that maybe I had some sort of a guardian angel. Not that I believe in angels. But something was looking out for me, right?

Until he decided to go on his fag break around 3pm on Sunday afternoon, and I stubbed my toe and broke it.

It's downhill from here. I'm going home to wrap myself in bubble-wrap, just in case.

Dead dogs and Friday the 13th

2006-10-13T15:15:00.000+01:00

Yes, by now we've all established that it's Friday the 13th. Unlucky for some. Including the poor dead dog lying across the motorway on my way to work this morning. As I drove past, I swear it was looking me right in the eye. Creepy.

Anyhoo, most people associate Friday the 13th with horror films and whatnot, so I thought I'd write a random blog about all the horrible things that I like.

1. Horror films - I've already written about this one. If it's got kids or religion (or religious kids, or anti-christs) in it, it's guaranteed to scare the bejaysus out of me.

Even when it's completely predictable - when you see the nubile young chick wearing nowt but a wet nightie climbing up the stairs to the attic, in the dark, with only a candle that flickers dangerously, threating to snuff it, with the music building in the background, creating tension and atmosphere, even when we know the serial killer with the hooks for hands is in the attic, and there's thunder and lightening outside... even then, when he strikes, even when I've known all along that it's going to happen, I'll still jump about three feet in the air.

My overactive imagination runs riot during these kinds of flicks.

Also, psychological thrillers give me a good scare ;)

2. Stephen King - The master of horror. When I was a kiddie, I read most of his stuff. Avidly. My parents were worried that I'd turn into some kind of nutjob (they're so proud of me now!). I didn't read all of his works, however, and so I'm currently discovering some little gems that had, up until now, escaped my attention.

At the moment I'm reading The Talisman, which is incredible, and I'm finding it difficult to put it down. Even now, I wish I was reading it. Well, even now I wish I was at home pulling my toenails off with tweezers and dipping my feet in salt water. Anything other than work.

My favourite King books would have to be It, The Dark Half, The Stand, Thinner, Pet Semetary and The Dark Tower series (except for the last book).

3. German Shepherds - Also known as Alsations. I think these are beautiful dogs. I know they'd probably savage you as soon as look at you, but I love them and I want one. No, two! I'd call one Germy and one Sheppy. Of course, I'd have to train it properly and teach it that children do not, in fact, taste like chicken. But I'd be willing to do that. And I think having to walk the damn thing twenty miles a day would keep me fit.

Unfortunately, the dead dog I saw this morning on the motorway was a German Shepherd, so I was quite upset as his glassy dead eyes penetrated my soul and told me I was next if I didn't put my fog lights on. Poor Germy.

4. Heavy metal music - The louder the better, in my opinion. I love going to gigs where the music is so loud it feels like someone's thumping your lungs with a jackhammer. Loud, dirty, sexy, sweaty, grinding music. All hail the power chord.

But, I don't like any of that weirdo death metal stuff. I'm not a freak, damnit.

5. Bikers - Possibly connected to the above point (duh), I have a certain fondness for bikers. Not so much that I actually want to spend any intimate time with them, but I kind of admire their hard drinkin', hard ridin', don't-feel-a-need-to-wash-daily, aren't-i-the-coolest-fucking-thing-you've-ever-seen, look-at-the-length-of-my-beard-for-jeebus'-sake! kind of attitude.

Remember that film with Cher when she had the kid with the messed up face, and she hung out with a biker gang all the time? Can't remember the name of the film... Anyhoo, that's the kind of gang I'd like to hang out with. Wild, but caring. Alcoholics, but sensitive. Ha!

Sometimes I wish I owned a bike. I dream about giving the two fingers to "the establishment" and "the man" and "my job", and tearing up the highway, wind blowing in my hair, bottle of Jack Daniels in my pocket. But then I remember how much I enjoy being clean, and so I know it wouldn't work.

6. Biker bars - Consequently, I like biker bars, because they're an innovative combination of the above two horrible loves of mine. Loud music and dirty bikers. Usually comes with an impressive array of 'cycles out the front, upon which I can gaze and admire. Batteries not included.

I went to a great biker bar in San Francisco once. I remember sitting in the beer garden out the back, surrounded by bikers and ladies with huge fake boobs, pitchers of beer and plates of nachos, looking up at the stars and thinking "I'm in heaven!"

Ah, happy days.

7. Dead baby jokes - I still find these hilarious. Some of my favourites:

Q: What's funnier than a dead baby?
A: A dead baby in a clown costume!

Q: How do you know when a baby is a dead baby?
A: The dog plays with it more.

Q: What's worse than finding 7 dead babies in 1 trash can?
A: Finding 1 dead baby in 7 trash cans.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahah!

I know, I know. I'm going to hell.

Irrational fears and personal discomfort

2006-09-28T14:44:00.000+01:00

Hello. My name is Claire, and I am an arachnophobe. I have lived with this condition all my life but it has never interefered with or hampered my day-to-day actions.

Until now.

You see, there's a huge spider in the bathroom and I really need to pee.

As Father Dougal once said: "Ted! Ted! I'm in tremendous pain, Ted!" (If you're not Irish or British then you won't have gotten that one - too bad!)

For as long as I can remember I've been afraid of spiders. And not just spiders, but all sorts of creepy crawlies and stuff. And whilst not necessarily afraid of winged bugs, I'm not a huge fan either and will do my utmost to avoid them.

My skin is crawling at the thought of the huge spider currently residing in the bathroom at work. A mere 20 feet away, I might add. This spider is so big that he could probably scuttle across here to my office in two seconds flat.

That's one of the problems I have with spiders - the fact that they scuttle everywhere. One minute they're there, sitting in the bathtub, waving up at you, and the next minute they're gone. Where did they go? Who knows?

When I see spiders, I don't tend to scream (unless they're enormous or about to jump on my face). Rather, I tend to freeze to the spot. Which is pretty fucking stupid because instead of running away to my happy place with rainbows and flowers and puppies, I'm rooted to the spot staring at the big hairy spider, unable to breathe, whilst my mind screams like a lunatic.
For people who don't have this fear of spiders, it's really difficult to comprehend how horrible it is. I know it's irrational, I know it's abnormal and I know it's probably more scared of me than I am of it. But, all the same, I'm going to have to wait until I go home to pee, 'cause I ain't going into that bathroom.

From Wikipedia (with my comments in brackets) -

Arachnophobia is a specific phobia, an abnormal fear of spiders. With an estimated half of all women, and a quarter of all men in the United States, it is among the most common of phobias. The reactions of arachnophobics often seem irrational to others (and sometimes to the sufferers themselves). People with arachnophobia tend to feel uneasy in any area they believe could harbor spiders or that has visible signs of their presence, such as webs. If they see a spider they may not enter the general vicinity until they have overcome the panic attack that is often associated with their phobia. They may feel humiliated if such episodes happen in the presence of peers or family members.

(Very true. I hate going into places that have cobwebs hanging about, and it is embarrassing asking people would they mind removing the huge spider so I can go into the room, hence my current state of misery. What's worse is that I can't even be in the room when the spider is being removed, and the remover has to show me his/her empty hands afterwards so I can be sure they got rid of it. I know, I know, I have trust issues.)

The fear of spiders can be treated by any of the general techniques suggested for specific phobias.

(See, I have a problem with this. I don't want to be cured of my fear because whenever you see people who'd been hypnotized into thinking they're no longer afraid of spiders, you always see them picking up tarantulas or something afterwards, and I DON'T WANT TO DO THAT!!!!!)

Arachnophobia is, in many cases, the result of a traumatizing encounter with spiders in one's early childhood, though the experience may not be remembered.

(I'm not aware of any trauma - as far as I know I've just always hated the little buggers.)

An evolutionary reason for the phobias, such as arachnophobia, claustrophobia, fear of snakes or mice, etc. remains unresolved. One view, especially held in evolutionary psychology, is that sufferers might gain some survival edge, by avoiding the dangers. Spiders, for instance, being relatively small, don't fit the usual criteria for a threat in the animal kingdom where size is a key factor, but most species are venomous, and some are lethal. Arachnophobes will spare no effort to make sure that their whereabouts are spider-free, hence reducing sharply the risk of being bitten.

(See? We're SMARTER than you spider-loving freaks! You'll all die Steve Irwin-type deaths, with posionous red-backs hanging from your little fingers, whilst us arachnophobes laugh from our hiding places in the next room!)

The alternative view is that the dangers, such as from spiders, are overrated and not sufficient to influence evolution. Instead, inheriting phobias would have restrictive and debilitating effects upon survival, rather than being an aid. For example, there are no deadly spiders native to central and northern Europe that could exert an evolutionary pressure, yet that is where the strongest fear for spiders began, suggesting cultural learning. In contrast, many non-European cultures generally do not fear spiders, and for some communities such as in Papua New Guinea and South America, spiders are included in traditional foods.

(Yeah, well.... shut up. Spiders = bad, ok?)

In the meantime, I remain sitting here in my office, scared rigid, checking the door every five minutes to make sure the little bastard hasn't followed me in here (can spiders smell fear?), and desperately, desperately needing to pee.

I wouldn't change a thing

2006-09-20T14:40:00.000+01:00

Last night I was watching Stephen Fry's two-part documentary entitled "The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive", which explores the reality of living with bipolar disorder. It was a fascinating programme in which Stephen, a long-time sufferer of the disorder, met celebrities and members of the public and invited them to speak very frankly about their disorder and about the impact it has had on their lives.

One part of the programme struck me as being particularly poignant. During each interview, Stephen asked the person "Do you regret having this disorder? Do you wish you had been born without it?" And, with the exception of one lady who suffered very badly from it, the people all said "No. I don't regret it." Not even the guy who had a total nervous breakdown and started having hallucinations in which the Devil was trying to get him; not even he regretted having this disorder.

This got me thinking: aren't human beings amazing? Isn't it astounding what humans can put up with and what they can get through? I know that's a bit cheesy (I have visions of Bill Hicks saying: "I'm tired of this back-slapping "Isn't humanity neat?" bullshit. We're a virus with shoes, okay? That's all we are.") but it's true!

Anyway, even though I'm still relatively young (compared to some of you old farts) in my lifetime I've seen people struggle through some extraordinary stuff including deaths, huge upheavals in their personal lives, etc. And yet, when you ask most people, or at least the people I know, if they regret any of it, or, would they do things differently if they could go back in time, I think the overall answer would be "no".

Not to equate my trivial personal problems with bipolar disorder or depression (although my problems weren't trivial to me and so still count!), but I've had some shitty times in the past, and yet I don't regret a single one of them. I suppose the biggest upheaval I've had was my marriage and subsequent divorce. Without going into too much detail, the man turned out to be a bit of an asshole, and, after (unwittingly) letting him systematically destroy my self-confidence and turn me against my friends, my family, even my country, I then found out that he was cheating on me for a couple of months while I was back in Ireland waiting to get my visa to move to his damn country. So, I dumped him.

Over the next year I slid into what I realise now was a pretty dark depression. I was deeply ashamed that I had married this idiot and that I had allowed him to walk all over me. I was ashamed of the hurt that I had caused my family and friends. I was even, perversely, ashamed that I hadn't been able to make the marriage work. I had made my bed but I was unable to lie in it. I felt like a complete failure.

I moved back home and got a job and, unfortunately, started drinking heavily in an attempt to regain some of the confidence that he had knocked out of me. It took a long time for me to get my divorce because for some fucked up reason, he didn't want to give me one. I had to resort to threatening to take half his inheritance (his dad was quite wealthy and, had I followed through on my threat I wouldn't have to work for the rest of my life - but I'm no gold-digger, so a threat was all it was) in order to get him to go to his bloody lawyer.

However, despite all the pain and hurt that it caused, I don't regret it. I don't regret meeting him, marrying him or divorcing him. The experience of that made me who I am today, and I think I'm alright! I might be a little bitter and cynical around the edges, but overall I think I've come up trumps.

I do regret the pain that I've caused my family and my close friends. Especially since they did their best to warn about this guy, but I chose to ignore them. I regret the fact that I had to tell my dad what happened and had to watch as his heart visibly broke in front of me. I regret my mum being so upset with me that she couldn't speak to me for a couple of weeks afterwards.
But, if I had to do it all again, I would. If I hadn't gone through that, I wouldn't be the person that I am now. I'd probably still be a doormat, letting people walk all over me. There's no way I would have had the confidence to go back to university and do a PhD.

So I can understand to some degree when these people with bipolar disorder say that they don't regret having it. After all, it's a fundamental part of who they are.

Buenos días!

2006-09-07T14:38:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow I'm jetting off to sunny Spain for my holidays. This time tomorrow, I'll be lying under the hot Spanish sun, drink in one hand, book in the other, maybe some music playing in the background. If it gets too hot, I might take a dip in the villa's private pool, or I might walk down to the beach and go for a swim there. I'll have to see how I feel at the time.

Now, as you know or have probably guessed, I'm not a girlie-girl, and I don't get up at 6am to spend three hours blow-drying my hair into submission every morning. I'm pretty much a wash'n'go kind of person. But I do like to take some pride in my personal appearance, and thus I've had to spend almost a week getting ready for this damn holiday! Let me explain...

Monday - had to wax my bits. I will be spending most of my time in a bikini and, really, nobody wants to go on holiday with this:

So, the bits had to be waxed (which was, incidentally, excruciatingly painful, despite consuming a large glass of Pinot Grigio beforehand) and trimmed and moisturised and so on.

Tuesday - had to exfoliate and moisturise all over in preparation for Wednesday.

Wednesday - the first application of fake tan. Now, because I'm Irish, I'm ridiculously pale. To the point where strangers in cafés and on the street often poke me in the eye to see if I am actually still alive. If I went to the beach sans fake tan, airplanes would crash into each other because the pilots would be blinded by the glare from the sun on my bare, Irish skin. Because I'm such a humanitarian, and to avoid worldwide catastrophe, I apply fake tan.

For years, fake tan has been crap. It's been orange and streaky and smelly and horrible. But, the scientists who couldn't get jobs in real labs curing cancer and whatnot, and who, instead, have to work for the cosmetics overlords developing fake tan and the like, have finally gotten it right. There is no reason in this big and beautiful world why fake tan can't look natural. There is no reason in the world that anybody should be this orange:

Now, I admit that I've gotten it wrong on a couple of occasions before. My tan has gone streaky or hasn't turned out quite like I imagined it would (I was hoping for bronze goddess but instead got jaundice sufferer). The one time I had my tan done professionally, the girl fucked it up royally, and I just looked dirty, as Mozz can attest to. And not in a good way. Incidentally, this was at the same place where I had my bits waxed three days previously, and they royally fucked that up too, making it very painful for me to get it done from now on. I don't go there anymore :-/

Anyhoo, where was I? Oh yes. This time, I've done the waxing and the tanning myself and I have to say they both look pretty good. So...

Thursday - second application of fake tan. Because I'm so damn pale, one application makes me look somewhat human, but it takes two or three applications to make me look like I have a tan.

Friday - check all the hairy bits to make sure they're still hair free and apply final application of tan. I'll also deep condition my hair tonight to protect it from the sun, salt and chlorine during the week.

A consideration that all blondes must make is whether or not to get your hair done before you go away. In my case, it's usually not necessary. My hair is light enough naturally that a bit of sun tends to bleach it enough to avoid a trip to the hairdressers for a few months afterwards. But, if you do decide to get the colour topped up, then you need to get it done about a week before your holiday. Otherwise, you run the risk of the chlorine in the swimming pool reacting with the colour in your hair and turning it green. And remember girls, a dodgy tan plus a dodgy 'do plus copious amounts of chlorine equals...

And that's just not attractive.

However, all these things have now been done and I am holiday ready! My suitcase checklist has been completed:

- bikini (x2)
- books (x6)
- camera
- suncream

Here's hoping I can get through the rest of the day without having to actually do any work, but still looking busy enough so that the boss will feel guilty and let me go home at 3pm!

Hasta la vista, amigos!

Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me (With a bloody kitchen knife)

2006-09-06T14:34:00.000+01:00

I love horror.

Regardless of the medium, horror never ceases to fascinate me. Like gawking at the rotting corpse of some unlucky animal, lying by the side of a dusty road with its guts squished across the asphalt, I can't help but be drawn to horror. My morbid curiosity gets the better of me, and I stare, transfixed, at the screen, the page or the canvas.

I'm addicted to the sense of my flesh crawling, as I imagine unspeakable events unfolding before me. My spine turns to ice. My scalp tingles. My heart quickens. My mind starts shrieking...

You know that quote: "Ever wake up screaming only to realise you weren't asleep"? I think that's one of the most evocative, horrific quotes imaginable. That quote verges on the edge of madness. That's the point when the human mind collapses into insanity. When you wake up screaming only to realise you were never asleep, that's when you know there's no going back.

And that, to me, is the epitome of good horror. Something so awful that madness would be a welcome release.

I much prefer psychological horror, rather than slasher- or blood'n'guts'n'gore-type horror. I prefer the stuff that makes you think. The stuff that really gets under your skin. The stuff that in broad daylight seems ludicrous but at night time, when you're lying in your bed listening to the wind and the rain outside, and your brain is working overtime.... that's the stuff I like.

---

My love affair with the macabre started when I was quite young. I remember watching my first horror film. I can't remember what it was called, but it was about a man who falls into a coma and then dies. However, the doctors resuscitate him and bring him back to life. But, he's different. He goes home to his wife and family, but she notices that he's not the same. It's like something inside him, some fundamental human trait, was lost when he died, and was never recovered when he was resuscitated.

I remember watching that movie when I was about nine or ten years old. My parents and my brothers had all gone to bed, and I had stayed up watching some documentary on TV. I was flicking through the channels, and saw the opening credits of this movie. It looked interesting, so I started watching. Two hours later, I crawled into bed, scared shitless. And I was hooked.

I graduated onto reading Stephen King. I think the first Stephen King book I read was "It", quickly followed by "The Stand" and "Pet Sematary". I remember reading "The Dark Half" on a ferry to France when I was 16 and nearly vomiting at the idea of having an undeveloped twin in your brain. It's such a ridiculous idea, but King's mastery is in making the ridiculous absolutely sublime.

With King, my obsession with all things dreadful and horrific was sealed. I started actively seeking out more horrible, frightening and ghastly books, devouring them at an almost fanatical rate. I'm sure my parents were slightly worried with the level of my fanaticism. But, I wasn't dressing like a Goth or a zombie, so I suppose they weren't too concerned. I would make bi-weekly trips to the local library, scouring the shelves for some nightmarish book to read, quizzing the librarians about the collection, begging them to buy in more books.

Even on holiday, I wouldn't and couldn't escape. I remember going on a family holiday to Co. Kerry. We were staying in a beautiful house in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by breathtaking views of the mountains and the coast. But the highlight of my holiday was coming across a battered old copy of Poltergeist on a dusty bookshelf. I grabbed the book and retreated to my room where I stayed up all night reading it. I have always had an overactive imagination, and sitting in a huge bedroom in a strange house in the middle of the countryside, with the wind howling around us outside, my mind boggled at the horror of that story. Once scene in particular stands out in my memory - when one of the ghostbusters goes into the bathroom and looks in the mirror and starts pulling chunks of flesh off his face. I still get goosebumps when I think of that.

Of course, I've since seen the movie Poltergeist and, whilst it's not as good as I had imagined, it's still pretty scary. In fact, I watched it again a couple of weeks ago and was amazed that it still has the same effect on me as it did the first time I saw it, many many years ago.

As far as movies go, anything with children or religion in it is pretty much guaranteed to give me the creeps. The Exorcist, which combines the two, is one of my favourite (can something that scares that much you be considered a favourite?) movies. Interestingly, The Exorcist was banned in Ireland for over twenty years. It was made in 1973, but was only released in Ireland in 1999. I remember going to see it in a cinema in Cork and, despite the fact that everyone else was laughing (nervously) at the outdated special effects, it still chilled me to the bone. That scene where the kid crawls backwards down the stairs...

*shudder*

The Omen is another favourite of mine. I went to see the remake that was released on the sixth of June this year and, even though it wasn't as good as the original (the acting was a bit wooden), the story still gives me the willies.

I think that classic horror films, such as The Exorcist and The Omen and Poltergeist tend to be more frightening than modern-day horrors in spite of the outdated special effects. When there was no such thing as computer generated animation, films relied more on the actual story. The plot was central to the film. The directors used music and lighting to build the tension and create an atmosphere.

Take, for example, two popular slasher movies: Psycho, which was released in 1960, and Scream, which was released in 1996. For all its special effects and gore, Scream still seems, to me at least, to be more of a comedy than a horror film. Psycho, on the other hand, still scares me, even though it was filmed in black and white with little or no special effects. Of course, Wes Craven whilst undoubtedly talented is nothing compared to the genius that is Alfred Hitchcock.
Some more modern horror films have really appealed to me. I went to see the American remake of The Ring, and that gave me nightmares for three weeks afterwards. No exaggeration. I think part of the reason that it scared me so much was that I watched it in the cinema with approximately 200 other people. There's something about 200 people screaming in unison that will put fear into even the most stoic heart. I saw the Japanese original soon afterwards, but it was more comical than horrific. Having said that, I've also seen Dark Water (the original Japanese version) by the same director, Hideo Nakata, and it's bloody scary! Again, it's got the kid connection.

I really enjoyed The Others. It's not so much a horror as a psychological thriller, but still a very interesting story (even if it is a little predictable) and very well made.

The Blair Witch Project had a profound effect on me too. I was living in Canada when it was released, and I remember this sort of underground hype that was slowly building up about this film. There were rumours that it was true etc., and online interviews with "local" townspeople and sheriffs, and even the families and friends of the "victims". Part of you was thinking "yeah right, it's all a big publicity stunt for the movie", but part of you was thinking "but what if...?" It was so well marketed that it was believable. Again, it was a very simple concept, with no special effects whatsoever and it worked. The last scene, of the guy standing in the corner of the room.... still chills my blood.

One film that I saw recently that I really didn't enjoy was The Hills Have Eyes. This is everything a horror film should not be. It was vile and disgusting, and really disturbing. I suppose that's also the mark of a good horror - preying on your darkest fears - but this was done in such an offensive way that it made me feel physically ill. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. I had to watch three episodes of Father Ted afterwards, just so I could go to bed in peace. Come to think of it, Father Ted would probably be considered a horror to some people ;)

I also enjoy the macabre in paintings. I recently mentioned an exhibition that I went to in the Tate in London entitled "Gothic Nightmares: Fuseli, Blake and the Romantic Imagination". This exhibition was based around Henry Fuseli's painting "The Nightmare". "Ever since it was first exhibited to the public in 1782, this picture has been an icon of horror. Showing a woman supine in her boudoir, oppressed by a foul imp while a ferocious-looking horse glares on, the painting draws on folklore and popular culture, medicine, concepts of imagination, and classical art, to create a new kind of highly charged horror image." (source: London Town)

The exhibition also displayed some of Blake's more sinister engravings, and, as a fan of Blake's work, I was immensely excited and fascinated to be able to stand in front of the work of this macabre genius.

---

I've noticed recently that horror seems to affect me more profoundly than it ever did before. In the past, I would watch a horror film or read a book and, whilst it would give me the shivers, I was usually able to shake it off quite quickly and carry on. Nowadays, however, it seems to stay with me for longer. I think about it more. I marvel at the depraved mind that came up with the idea behind it and wonder what it would be like if it were me in that situation. Maybe it's because I'm more aware of my own mortality? Maybe my imagination has gone into overdrive? Maybe it's because I've been reading too much Stephen King? Or maybe I'm just sick in the head.

All these things that I've learned

2006-09-05T14:32:00.000+01:00

Here are some things that I have learned since the weekend. They're not necessarily rules to live by, but they certainly make the ride a little smoother ;)

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The worst thing you can say to a goth is that they have a nice tan.

Tattoos sneaking out of shirt collars or cuffs are incredibly sexy. They make me want to explore.
Whiskey does not cure colds, but it's still fun trying it out.

If I buy a return ticket for the tram on a Saturday night, I will inevitably lose track of time and end up getting a taxi home.

No matter how many times I pack, unpack and repack my suitcase for my holidays, I'm still convinced I've forgotten something.

There is immense pleasure in buying a book because it was cheap and would pass the time, rather than because you thought it was any good, and then finding yourself unable to put it down and finishing it in a day.

Nothing ever happens in Lost, and yet I keep tuning in week after week because they always end it on a cliffhanger. How can you have a cliffhanger when nothing has happened for the entire episode?

Horror films only really creep me out when they have children as central characters. There's something about a kid saying "Mommy?" in that sing-song voice that makes my blood run cold.

The sooner they bring in a smoking ban in England, the better.

Some of the best modern poetry I've ever read has been written on the walls of trams and hanging in airports. I read one in Inverness airport on Monday, called "Contraband". It's excellent. Can't remember the author though. Does anyone else know it?

Although it's been this way for most of my adult life, I'm still continually pissed off by the fact that during the week I struggle to get out of bed at 7am every morning to get ready for work, but come the weekend, I'm wide awake by 6:30 with no hope of getting back to sleep.

Rock Idol, or Supernova, or whatever its called, is still ridiculously bad, but I've got a major crush on the Australian boy since he took his top off the other night. I've come to the conclusion that I am often very shallow when it comes to looks. The older I get, the shallower I get.

Drinking three very strong coffees in quick succession is fine as long as its done before 11am. Anytime after 11am, and I won't sleep properly for two days.

The smaller the plane the smoother the flight.

The standard inflight service (complimentary drinks, complimentary snacks, competent and friendly cabin crew, pilots that actually know how to land a plane, etc.) that you used to get for free on board most flights now costs approximately £400.

---

Hell is entirely relative

2006-08-15T14:28:00.000+01:00

The other day, I overheard someone tell someone else to "Go to hell!" And, instead of quivering in fear, the other person (or the damnee, as we shall call him) merely laughed. "Ha ha!" he exclaimed. "Suits me! That's where all the cool people go!" But he's wrong because, you see, hell is relative.

There seem to be two schools of thinking on what hell is all about. The traditional idea of hell, as preferred by bible bashers and Catholic priests the world over, is a place made of fire and brimstone; a place of eternal agony and torment for murderers and people who don't eat their vegetables.

In some versions of the story, the place is guarded by a three-headed dog called Cerberus. In other versions, the place is ruled by Satan, images of whom range from the sublime to the ridiculous.

The one common theme throught the various versions of the religious hell is that, once damned, you will spend eternity being flogged with a cat o' nine tails and being forced to commit unholy acts, such as work as a telephone operator, or ungodly chores, such as washing Hitler's underwear after curry night. And guess what? Every night is curry night in hell! Muhahaha!

The other more modern and trendy school of thought on hell is that hell is where all the cool people go. This really annoys me. Hell is not a biker bar with unlimited free booze and a fantastic jukebox, where you can still smoke and shoot pool, and which is full of cool people like Jimi Hendrix and Bill Hicks.

You see, the whole concept of hell is that it's supposed to inflict pain and suffering on the person who's been damned, and we all know that one man's heaven is another man's hell. Therefore, hell is relative. Ipso facto.

From dictionary.com:

hell ( P ) Pronunciation Key (hel) n.

1. a. often Hell. The abode of condemned souls and devils in some religions; the place of eternal punishment for the wicked after death, presided over by Satan.
b. A state of separation from God; exclusion from God's presence.

2. The abode of the dead, identified with the Hebrew Sheol and the Greek Hades; the underworld.

3. a. A situation or place of evil, misery, discord, or destruction: War is hell (William Tecumseh Sherman).
b. Torment; anguish: went through hell on the job.

Hell is the absolute worst case you can imagine. And then some. So, to picture your own personal hell, here's what you need to do: (1) Think of the worst place in the world. The one place where you would give anything not to be right now. (2) Think of all the people you'd be more than happy never to see ever again. (3) Think of the one activity that you would sell your left kidney never to have to do ever again.

Now, imagine being in that place, with those people, doing that activity, FOREVER.

Congratulations. Now you know what hell will be like when you go there.

For me, hell would be sitting in my office, with my boss constantly interrupting me, trying to edit the typeface on a huge report that I've been working on for months, but he keeps making changes to the report, and I have to keep going back over it to update the font. He's constantly making crap and/or sexist jokes, and asking me inane questions about reports that I completed months ago, and then getting pissed off when I don't know the answer straight away. For eons and eons and eons.

So, yeah, I'm pretty much already there. I knew I shouldn't have laughed at Denis Leary's Jesus joke.

So, remember kids, the next time someone tells you to go to hell, don't flash the smug grin and make some lame joke about how you'd be more than happy to go and drink tequila with Bill. Because hell, for you, is more likely to be a New Kids on the Block reunion concert. In Milton Keynes. And, trust me, you really don't want to go there.

Heaving on a jet plane - Part III

2006-08-02T14:26:00.000+01:00

The pilot eventually shut up, and we only had to sit on the tarmac for another ten minutes or so before he started driving over towards the runway. Of course, because we were so late taking off, we had missed our scheduled take-off window, and had to sit there watching all the other planes take off for sunnier climes before we were allowed go.

Finally, hurtling down the runway at over 100 miles an hour, I began to relax. I picked up my book and started reading. The sound of the wind rushing past drowned out the sounds of quiet chatter from the other passengers, and I snuggled down into my seat, delighting in the fact that for the next forty minutes or so, I could read uninterrupted.

And then the trolley dollies started making their announcements.

"Please remain seated... blah...."

"We will shortly begin our snack service.... blah blah....."

"We have a range of duty free..... blah blah blah....."

Of course, all announcements are made in some Eastern European accent which, I'm sorry to say, is difficult to understand at the best of time, let alone when it's at ear splitting volume. I've noticed that PA systems on airplanes have only two volumes - the barely audible mutter and the ear-bleed-inducing piercing screech. And the trolley dollies always seem to use the latter.

I always find it quite funny when you see these trolley dollies, on the short-haul flights, trying to flog as much booze/tea/coffee/sandwiches/snacks/duty-free as possible in thirty minutes. As soon as the plane is in the air, they're up out of their seats, getting their trollies ready. Then they whip up the aisles asking "Any drinks or snacks? Any drinks or snacks?" but not actually watching the passengers to see their reactions. I don't know how many times I've thought "Oh, I could murder a cup of tea and a Twix" and then tried, in vain, to get the dollies attention before they speed walk past my row. I've only ever managed to catch the guy's attention once. I've since given up.

Incidentally, the 'hot' drink selection only has two options also - it's always either luke warm or scalding. Anyway, if they do deign to look at you, as soon as they've handed you the cup, they're on their way back down the aisle, clearing up as "We're now ready for landing." So you have to neck back the scalding cup of tea whilst the trolley dolly stands beside you, tapping her foot with impatience, waiting for you to hand her your empty cup. But, wait! Before we land we'd like to offer you a chance to purchase some of our fantastic duty-free perfumes or booze, or maybe you'd like a scratch card? There's plenty of time for that! Ever heard a north-Dublin trolley dolly trying to sell J-Lo's new perfume? No? It's worth taking a trip on Ryanair for that alone.

Let's hope her salary isn't commission based.

But I digress.

The pilot, in fairness to him, made up some of the lost time and the flight only took about 40 minutes in total. Before long, we were beginning our descent into Southampton. The descent was surprisingly smooth, considering the massive thunder and lightening storms around the whole of Southampton. So I was really, really surprised when the pilot then whalloped the plane down onto the tarmac. I'm sure it must have been his first time landing a plane. There's no other excuse for such recklessness. I could have done it better myself, and I'm a girl! All around us, people gasped and gripped their arms rests with white knuckles, and I'm not ashamed to say I was doing the same. That was one of the worst landings I've experienced in a while.
Is it just me, or have airlines decided not to bother training their pilots how land airplanes anymore?

Anyhoo, two days later, I'm back at the airport for my return flight. I got to the airport about two hours early, but figured I'd connect to the wireless network and waste some time on Myspace, have a beer, etc. Southampton airport is pretty small, and once you've checked in, the only place to go to is the departures lounge. There's not a whole lot else to do there.
So, I went through security with no problems (*gasp!* I know! But I never have any problems in S'ton! Weird, innit? Hmm...) and looked around for the wireless 'hot spot'. And there it was, upstairs, right below the huge glass skylights with the sun beaming down through them. Somebody really didn't think that through when designing the place.

"Let's see.... where could we put the computer corner? Oh, I know! Let's put it over here in direct sunlight so none of the nerds can see their laptop screens! What a great idea! And when they go to sit down, they'll scorch their cord-covered arses on the really hot metal seats! Hahahah, fuckin' nerds....!"

On second thoughts, perhaps they knew exactly what they were doing.

Anyway, before I got my computer all hooked up, I decided to get a beer as it was really hot that day, and the old air conditioning wasn't really up to much. I went upstairs to the restaurant-type place, and queued for about five minutes. When I got to the counter, I ordered my beer, which came to £3.80. I handed the lady my company credit card (natch) to pay for it, and she then informed me that there's a £4 minimum when paying with plastic. Why? There just is. But I'm only 20p under. Sorry, ma'am, no can do.

So I had to hold up the entire rest of the sweating, hungry, cranky queue whilst I searched for something to add to my beer to bring the total up to, or beyond, £4. Didn't feel like eating anything (remember kids, eating is cheating!), but eventually I found a bottle of water, paid for my drinks, and scurried away before anyone tried to poke me in the eye with a fork. Having thought about it, perhaps I should have just ordered another beer. Damnit brain!

The plane was only delayed by half an hour this time. My taxi driver only got lost twice on the way from the airport to my house. He insisted that he knew all these shortcuts, and I didn't complain as the taxi was paid for by the company. But I did get a bit pissed off when he, yet again, I told him to go straight on, but he insisted on taking a right as "it's waaaaaay quicker than going straight on". Then we'd get to a junction and he'd turn around, eyeball me impatiently and say "Well, where do I go now?" I swear, I was beginning to think the whole trip was one big Candid Camera set-up.

And, do you know what the best part of all of this is? Can you guess? Yep, I get to do it all over again next week! Woo hoo!

Ok, that's out of my system now. Regularly scheduled programming will resume tomorrow.

Heaving on a jet plane - Part II

2006-08-01T14:25:00.000+01:00

Having survived the ritual humiliation of getting felt up by the butch female security guard, I now had to face the gut-wrenching wait for the muppets to announce which gate my flight would be leaving from. I hate this part because they usually only post up the gate number about 20 minutes before the plane is scheduled to leave, and then everyone rushes down to the gate and you end up standing there for ages and every time I swear to myself that I'm not going to do it, that this time I'm not going to run down there like a lunatic, and then every time I panic and think "If I don't run to Gate 11 this very minute, the plane will take off without me." Of course, it never does.

And then you spend the next forty minutes trying to surreptitiously shuffle closer and closer to the desk where they check your tickets so that you'll be the first on the plane as if it was some sort of prize; as if spending half an hour longer sitting in that cramped metal tube waiting for the rest of the morons to board was some sort of goal that leads to inner enlightenment once achieved.

Anyway, they announced the gate, and I dutifully trundled along with my fellow passengers. Luckily there weren't too many taking this flight, so there were plenty of seats to spare. The flight wasn't due to board for another five minutes or so, so I took a seat. And waited. And I waited a bit more. I took out my book and started distractedly flicking through it, thinking there's no point in getting stuck into it, as we'll be boarding any time soon.

Aaaaaaaaaany minute now.

Oooh! There's the trolley dolly, I mean, air hostess. We must be boarding soon.

Then I looked out the window and noticed that there was no airplane. And my heart sank. I understand that if you're going to pay budget prices for your flights then you have to expect budget services. But I am shit sick of waiting for the damn plane to show up. This seems to happen every time I fly on a low budget airline. And it's not as if the tickets are that cheap either! I was only flying to Southampton, but it still cost me (well, the company) almost £150. I'm tired of budget airlines thinking they can treat passengers like cattle just because we refuse to pay astronomical prices for the privilege of being given an actual seat number with a bigger airline. If your don't have the fleet numbers to be able to provide airplanes at the allotted time, then change your fucking timetable. If you only have three airplanes, and you're offering ten flights a day between London and Paris, then you really need to rethink your business plan.
Anyway, the trolley dolly announced that they were still waiting for the plane (duh) as it had been late taking off from its previous destination, and there would be a 15-minute delay (yeah right) and that they apologise sincerely for any inconvenience this might cause (uh huh, sure).

Then my boss arrived. I prayed to all the gods I could think of that, just this one time, they would grant me super-chameleon powers so I could blend in with the awful upholstery of the chair I was sitting on, so that he wouldn't see me and he'd walk on by. The gods did not look favourably upon me (I don't blame them, really. I'm not a very nice person). He came over and sat right beside me and, whilst trying to block out his noise, I stared daggers at the trolley dolly in a vain attempt to let her know that this is all her fault and, come judgment day, she'll be first against the wall.

The plane eventually arrived, only forty minutes after we were supposed to actually depart, which was about five minutes before we were due to land in Southampton, had everything gone to plan. We had to wait another twenty minutes or so for the arriving passengers to get off the plane, then for the pilot to have his regulation cup of tea, then for the throwers, I mean, 'baggage handlers' to load the luggage onto the plane, and then we were allowed to board.

When we were all settled and seat-buckled in, the pilot made an announcement over the PA, apologising for the delay but saying that it was due to a technical fault before they took off in Southampton. He then proceeded to describe said fault, in almost excruciating detail, which I find completely unnecessary. Again, this is something I find completely irrational in the wake of 9/11. Before the terrorist attacks in the USA, pilots would never discuss this kind of stuff.

They'd never tell you that the reason they were late taking off is because they had no power on the plane when they were on the ground in Southampton because they couldn't find a power cable to go into the ground and therefore couldn't switch the engines on, and when someone eventually found the power cable, they then realised that they had an electrical fault with some of the equipment in the cockpit and they had to wait for someone to find an engineer to take a look at it, and then when the engineer arrived he had to go off again to find some part to fix the problem. And all this had made them late taking off.

No, the pilot would never have told you that. He would have said that some passenger was too pissed to board, so they'd chucked him off and had to wait to find his bags in the cargo hold before they could depart. That's a nice, comfortable, safe lie.

This era of FTMFI (that's 'far too much fucking information' for those of you who don't deal in acronyms) is starting to carry over into other industries too. A few weeks ago, I was on the train to London and we had to stop for half an hour whilst the driver explained in minute detail why he couldn't continue on the track because someone had thrown something onto it, and then explained all the possible accident scenarios that could have happened, had he not stopped in time in front of this obstruction.

And I know why they do it too. They're just trying to pass the buck. They're ensuring that people know it's not their fault that the plane/train/whatever is late departing. They're doing all they can. In fact, if they could, they'd just pile everyone into their own car and drive us to our destination; that's how nice the pilot/driver is. But, you know, company regulations, blah blah blah. So, instead, here's a whole lot of technical info which proves that I'm not making this up and the situation really is out of my hands.

But, all that does is make me wonder, well, even if they do find a power cable and plug the plane in so he can start the engines, what happens when we take off? Is the cable long enough to make it to Southampton? How can they make power cables that long? What happens if it snaps? Or comes out of the ground? Is the pilot planning on freewheeling it all the way to the other end of the country? Those are not things I want to think about on an airplane. Neither do I want to start thinking about the 'real' electrical problems they're having in the cockpit (i.e., that the co-pilot has spilt her coffee all over the dials and they're currently arguing about the best way to remove it), and how that might possibly affect the functioning of the plane.

Too much information. We don't need it. Stop telling us that kind of stuff.

Heaving on a jet plane - Part I

2006-07-30T14:21:00.000+01:00

I hate airports with a passion. Because I live in foreign places, and because of my job, I travel quite a bit, and it seems like I'm in Manchester airport every other week. And I'm really beginning to loathe the place. The sooner they build some sort of teleportation device, the better, as far as I'm concerned. But that's another story.

Lately, my airport experiences have been unfavourable, to say the least. It's probably something to do with the fact that, now, I almost always expect the worst when I'm flying anywhere, but I think it's also something to do with the fact that airports are run by muppets. Complete and utter muppets.

It's funny (that's 'funny hysterical-verging-on-madness' rather than 'funny ha ha') because I'm not afraid of flying whatsoever. In my job, I know a little bit more about airplanes and how they work (and sometimes don't work) than the average person. I know what noises to listen out for during the flight, and how to tell if everything's going ok or if there might be a slight problem, etc. In this age of hyper-sensitivity regarding all things big and shiny and metal hurtling through the air at speeds upwards of 500mph, I'm quite comfortable with flying. It's definitely my preferred mode of transport, unless the alternative is a swanky BMW with a cooler full of beer. I love seeing the land spread out before me, marvelling at how tiny all the houses and fields are, watching the sun glinting off car windshields miles below, and then soaring above the cotton wool clouds, feeling as though the laws of physics and gravity do not apply. I love flying. It's the bits beforehand and afterwards that bother me.

Last week, I had to fly to Southampton for a couple of days work, and it was, without doubt, one of the worst trips I've ever been on. Things got off to a funky start in the taxi to Manchester airport. I hopped into the regulation Black Cab, and gave my destination to the driver. Before I could even sit down, he slammed his foot on the accelerator, throwing me backwards into my seat, and sped off towards the airport. At the first set of lights I was still adjusting myself, desperately trying to buckle my seatbelt and willing my heart rate to slow down, when the driver decided that some hardcore dance music was needed to liven up the trip, and turned the stereo up full blast. As both my eardrums simultaneously started to bleed, I tried to shout at the driver to please turn the music down, but, of course, he couldn't/wouldn't hear me, and so I had to endure "duf-duf-duf-duf" for the rest of the very long 20 minute journey.

We eventually got to the airport, and I practically fell out of the cab. My ears had that weird ringing/cotton wool sensation that makes you feel like you're really, really stoned. I wandered into the airport in a daze, and checked in for my flight. I have always found checking in for my flight in Manchester to be a doddle. I think they do it on purpose - make check-in as easy as physically possible in order to lull you into a false sense of security before you have to face the complete mindfuck that is running the security gauntlet before you can get to your gate.

The security area in Manchester airport must have been designed by an alcoholic with the DT's and not enough cash to buy chewing gum, let alone his next bottle of moonshine, and who wanted to inflict the same amount of pain and confusion on anyone able to afford to get this far in the airport. If you're travelling to anywhere in the UK, Channel Islands or Ireland, they have a separate 'fast channel' through which you can get your boarding card and passport checked and then you can go through to a separate X-ray machine, and basically you skip the huge queues of Mancs heading off to Torremolinos, or wherever. But, if the airport isn't particularly busy, then you all go through the same security machines. In theory, this is a good idea, and it usually works.

Anyhoo, so, I went off down this corridor, expecting to get through to the departure lounge fairly quickly, so I could get my caffeine fix smartish. I arrived at the end of the corridor only to find out that there was, unusually, a really long queue. This is because the muppet in charge of checking the passports, etc., was... well, he was being a muppet. He was pretty much going through everybody's passport, page-by-page, double checking the photographs, etc.

As an aside: I know 9/11 was an awful, awful event. I watched it live on TV. I saw the second plane hitting the WTC in real time, and it scared the shit out of me. I can't even begin to imagine how the people who were directly involved or who lost family members or friends must feel. But I have to say that airport security has gone to the point where it's ridiculous. And, what's worse is that it's not even consistent. One day, you might get strip searched even though you're only flying to Dublin. The next day, you could be flying to LA and they won't even glance at your luggage as it goes through the X-ray machine. That really annoys me.

Anyway, so there was this huge queue, and I looked over at the queue for the people flying to other destinations, and there were only about five people in it. So I thought what most normal people would think, which was "Why am I standing here waiting for Kermit the Frog to check my passport when I could get through security there in about 30 seconds?" We were all being directed to the same X-ray machines, so I didn't think it would be a problem. I went over to the other queue, waited behind the five people for my turn, got to the top of the queue and handed the lady my boarding card and passport. She looks at it and says "Oh no, you have to queue over there".

I said "But, that queue is really long, and we're all going through the same machines, so could you not just check my details here".

"No. You have to queue up over there."

"But I'm only going to Southampton. It's not like I'm flying to foreign places."

"No. Over there."

The woman had a head for slaps. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever for her to make me wait in the really long queue. There was no one behind me, so it's not like I was holding up other passengers. All she had to do was check my boarding card and passport, and she could have let me go through. But, because she's a bitch, and because it would require a small amount of thinking, she refused. I can't stand people who do this kind of thing. It reminds me of going into KFC or some other such fast food place once. I ordered a burger and fries. The girl asked me what drink I wanted. I told her I didn't want a drink. But... why not? She couldn't understand this. I said I don't like fizzy drinks, therefore I don't want one. But it only costs 1p more to get the drink. I don't care, I don't want a drink, I just want the burger and fries. At this point, the girl's head exploded. Moron. Life doesn't run according to the script! Get used to it! USE YOUR BRAIN!!!

*and breathe*

Anyhoo, so I queued for ages and Kermit eventually checked my details and let me through. Then the fun started. I put my bags through the X-ray machine, and then stepped through the metal detector. As per usual, the detector didn't beep because I had nothing metal in my pockets and, oh yeah, because I'm not a terrorist. But, every time I go through the metal detector in Manchester airport, they always call me over for a random search. I like to think it's because I'm so damn hot that the women can't wait to run their hands up and down my body, but in reality I know it's because I always look guilty and/or like I'm hiding something. I kid you not - every single time I go through security there, I get searched. Anyway, this 'lady' calls me over (I'm using quotes there because she was rough! I felt kind of dirty afterwards) and starts to feel me up. She spent a long time feeling my bra to check I didn't have a grenade or something hiding in there. She had me there for about two minutes and I swear I had bruises afterwards.

*shudder*

She eventually let me go, and I grabbed my bags and ran all the way to Starbucks for the precious rocket fuel, and finally began to relax. Then I remembered that my boss would be along soon, and I got all stressed out again. I swear I'm going to have a stomach ulcer before my contract is up in October.

While my guitar gently weeps

2006-07-25T12:18:00.000+01:00

Isn't it amazing how music has evolved over the centuries. From Beethoven to Boyzone, from Elvis to Evanescence, from Mozart to Metallica, when I think about it, it makes me marvel at the ingenuity of the human mind.

However, it's so easy to become blasé about music. I listen to music for a couple of hours a day - when I get up in the morning, in the car, at work, at the gym - but I don't often take the time to actually listen to the songs. Usually, when I'm listening to music, I'm engaged in some other activity, and the songs become part of the background noise.

In almost every aspect of life, you are bombarded with music - sometimes good, sometimes bad, and sometimes plain shite. There are catchy jingles on the radio and tv selling you everything from hemorrhoid cream to bread. TV shows and movies are rated as much by their soundtrack as they are for the acting, directing or aesthetic appeal. Live gigs have become big business and going to summer festivals has become almost a rite of passage in modern society. All in all, it's quite easy to just let the tunes wash over you.

But every now and then, I'll hear a song that quite literally stops me in my tracks. Sometimes it'll be a new song on the radio, that I've never heard before, but sometimes it's a song that I've heard dozens of times before, but never really paid attention to.

And I think it's incredible that music can have this kind of reaction. That music has the power to inspire such emotions in a person. Music can cause you to feel joy, hope, confusion, depsair, hurt, longing, lust, nostaliga, heartbreak, and so much more.

Anyhoo, on Saturday I was on the train down to London, and was listening to myPod, as usual. The tunes were pretty good, as I have great taste in music (:-D), and then Black by Pearl Jam came on, and it made me catch my breath. I've been a Pearl Jam fan for many years, and I've heard this song countless times before. I always thought it was good, but on Saturday, as I sat on the train watching England whizzing by, with myPod turned up loud, it had a heart-wrenching effect on me.

I think the combination of a very mellow and yet dramatic tune, Eddie Vedder's mournful voice, lyrics that are utterly despairing and the haunting piano just made me feel hollow inside. Towards the end of the song, the last verse, his voice becomes so anguished and wretched that it made me want to howl and weep in sympathy with his pain.

I'd forgotten that music can cause this kind of reaction; that it can be this powerful and moving.
From now on, I'm resolving to spend more time actually listening to music, rather than letting it fade into the background. And I'm dedicating this blog to Mr. Eddie Vedder for reminding me of this simple pleasure.

Won't you be my neighbour?

2006-07-13T12:15:00.000+01:00

Neighbours are a funny thing, I think. Funny weird, that is. Not funny ha ha. Not usually.

For most of my adult life I've lived in apartments (some fabulous, some not so fabulous) and it's always struck me as bizarre that on the other side of a relatively thin piece of plywood or cardboard or rice paper or whatever it is that they make apartments out of these days, is a person whom I've only ever met in the elevator and have never spoken to beyond the odd grunted salute. Whilst I'm lying in bed reading my book, this stranger could be lying inches away from my head, and could be getting up to all sorts of tricks, from kinky sex to cannibalism.

When you think about it, it really is quite strange how, in a single apartment complex you can have literally hundreds of people living side-by-side and yet they know nothing about one another. The last place I lived in in Dublin was like that. It was quite a fancy complex of about five or six four-storey buildings, with about 20 apartments in each building. I lived in one of the penthouse apartments (ooh! posh!) and I think I only ever exchanged greetings with one person in my building for the entire six months that I lived there. And that was only because we just happened to step into the lift at the same time. In fact, I know there were people in that building (yes, stuck-up-lady from number 419, I'm looking at you!) who used to deliberately wait to make sure no one else was leaving their apartment for the elevator at the same time, so that they wouldn't have to make small talk with a stranger. How bizarre is that? Why are people so afraid to make contact with one another nowadays?

Anyway, at the moment I'm living in the upstairs apartment of a nice little duplex about twenty minutes from Manchester city centre. My downstairs neighbour should be The Neighbour From Hell for many reasons, some of which include the fact that he's a complete alcoholic and has a very tempestuous relationship with his ex-wife. I've only been living above him for two months now, but he's a constant source of soap-operatic antics that will keep me amused for many a time, I hope.

One day last week, I left my apartment in the morning and found him fast asleep on his doorstep. He'd obviously been so pissed when hed gotten home the night before that he couldn't even get into his own apartment. I checked to see if he was breathing, but didn't try to wake him up as I was in a bit of a rush to get to work and just didn't need to deal with that first thing in the morning. However, Norman the Mormon (my car) was parked right next to his door, and his head was resting about an inch from Norman's front bumper. The guy didnt budge even when I slammed the door, started the engine, revved it a bit and drove off. He was out cold. Nutter.

Every now and then, his ex-wife calls over with the kids and they have the most spectacular rows. They'll be screaming insults at one another, calling each other every name under the sun, slamming doors etc. They're very considerate though - it often spills out on to the street so that all the neighbours can watch. Hilarious. Thank god for soundproofed apartments, is all I say.
But he's by no means the worst neighbour I've ever had the unfortunate luck to live next to or above. He doesn't watch TV at ear-splitting volume, doesn't play his Dire Straits album at full blast well into the night, doesn't throw garbage into the back garden until it rots in the sun, etc.
Even the smallest thing can turn a good neighbour into a bad neighbour. I lived in a terraced house once and the girl next door had the most beautiful singing voice. She liked to sing aby herself quite a bit, and it really was a pleasure to listen to her. Sometimes. At 3am, it's not quite so magical. And no amount of banging on the wall would shut her up.

I like to think of myself as a good, considerate neighbour. Although that wasn't always the case. In my first year at Uni, a bunch of us were sharing a ground floor apartment in a duplex in a student village. The students who lived above us were noisy buggers always dragging chairs across the ground when we were trying to watch Friends or Podge & Rodge. So we used to phone them, pretend to be the owners of the building and tell them they were having a spot check in the morning to make sure the place was clean. All night long, we'd hear them vacuuming and cleaning like mad trying to get the place in shape, whilst we sniggered downstairs. Childish, I know, but you take your pleasure where you can. And they never copped on it was us either. Dumbasses.

But that's neither here nor there. The point of this blog was merely to say how strange it is in this day and age to live literally side by side with someone else, often for years and years, and never even know their name. Or have a decent conversation with them. I think human beings are possibly the only creature on earth that could have this amount of unfounded fear? loathing? for another of their own species. At least dogs sniff each other's arses when they meet for the first time. They don't scurry away, afraid that the other dog might realise how lonely and vulnerable they really are.

People make me laugh.

In a weird way.

Not in a ha ha way.

Random thoughts make for a rather pointless blog

2006-07-12T12:13:00.000+01:00

There's a saying that goes along the lines of "Life is what happens while you're waiting for it to start". Sometimes, I wonder if my life is just slipping by whilst I'm looking in the other direction, trying to figure out what it's all about.

Human beings have this fundamental belief that we are all in control of our own lives. And to a certain degree this is true - we can decide what actions to take in particular situations and how to handle events that we find ourselves in. I don't really believe in the idea of fate or destiny - that our lives are predetermined by some higher power.

But, every now and then, I seem to 'wake up' from the daily grind and wonder "How the hell did I get here?" I wonder how I ended up in this particular situation, with this person, in this country, with this job and having to deal with this boss. I don't remember signing up for this, so how did it happen.

I wonder if someday I'll 'wake up' and I'll be 50 with three kids and a house and a car and stuff, and wonder "When did this all happen?" Is it just me who feels like this? That sometimes life is like a dream and that, whilst I'm the one making the decisions and taking the actions, there's something else out there that's guiding it all along? Some higher form of... something... that's whispering in my ear "marry that man, buy this car, live in that area, take this job, call your child this name". Some might call that "advertising" and maybe they're right.

I met a couple in their 60's at the weekend, and they'd been married for about 30 years or so. They seemed like a very happy couple and very contented with their lives. But the woman confided to me at one point that inside she still feels like she's about 20. I know what she means. I'm only 28 (! nearly 30!) but inside I still feel as confused about life as I was when I was 16.
It seems like life has become so much more complicated and busy that we all get too bogged down in the minute details, and never take the time to look at the bigger picture. I think life was so much simpler when I was younger. When I was 16, I was able to look forward to life. I could sit back and think about "what I want to be when I grow up". The possibilities seemed endless.
Nowadays, there's so much crap that people have to worry about. Are my family ok? Do my friends all get along with one another? Is this person that I'm sharing my bed with the person that I want to spend my life with? Were the clothes on my back made in a sweatshop? Were animals tortured to test the mascara that I'm wearing. Will the food that I eat choke the planet with exhaust fumes from the delivery trucks? Is my job really advancing my career? Will my boss give me that pay raise next month? What's my credit rating like? Will I be able to get a mortgage? Will I ever be in a position to buy a property? Where will I buy it? If I move to California, will I miss my family and friends? If I don't go to the gym today, will I put on weight? If my car gets a puncture, can I afford to get it repaired? Will I be able to pay my bills this month? And so on and so forth.

We get so bogged down in the minute details of everyday life, that life just slips by. We find ourselves in situations that we had never envisaged when we were younger. If someone had told me, aged 16, that this is where I'd be and this is what I'd be doing, I would have laughed in their faces. A big nervous disbelieving laugh.

I remember a previous summer job that I had, and there were a couple of people who worked there full time, and they used to live from week to week. All they ever seemed to think about was "get through this week, and then it's the weekend". And they never seemed to be able to see beyond the next weekend. I remember being horrified and thinking I'd rather hang myself than fall into that trap. And yet, here I am. Maybe not living from week to week, but not far off it. It's so hard to think in terms of the future. Where will I be in 5 years? Who fucking knows. I can hardly think in terms of where I'll be in five weeks.

Life seems so transient now. People have become so demanding. We want everything now. Instant gratification. But... what happens after that? Do we ever really think through the ramifications of our actions? Or what we want to do with our lives?

I have a couple of secret ambitions - huge, epic goals that I've always wanted to achieve. But they seem so ridiculous in this day and age. People used to dedicate their lives to a single cause before, be it climbing Mount Everest or finding a cure for cancer or whatever. Do people actually do that any more? Or has this new celebrity/wealth/status/instant gratification culture destroyed our interest in anything more than the here and now?

I don't know what the point of this blog is. Random thoughts, I guess. Just trying to sort my head out. Am I the only one who thinks about this kind of stuff?

In anticipation of a hangover

2006-06-27T12:05:00.000+01:00

There are some days when you finish work and you feel that all is right with the world. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, your boss didn't annoy you too much and you've just been paid.
And there are other days when you finish work and you just think, "I need a drink." Today is one of these days.

Luckily for me, one of my beer monsters, I mean, friends, is in town tonight, and is ready for action! And so, without further ado, I'd like to dedicate this blog to tomorrow's hangover.
I love those nights when you go out, usually "just for one", and you know in your heart that you're not going to be doing any work tomorrow. In fact, if you make it into work tomorrow, it'll be a frickin' miracle. You won't be capable of much more than drinking a pint of lucozade and eating a few bites of a bacon sandwich, whilst trying to piece together the last few hours of last night.

Your head will pound, your stomach will roll, your muscles will ache and your arms will be covered in those tiny little bruises that look like someone's been stabbing you with a pencil all night long. So much pain, so much agony. Is it really worth it?

Of course it is! And here's why!

The first beer of the night. He Who Provides The Beer places that first glass of heaven on the bar in front of you, and all you have to do is give him some metal discs in return. You lift up the cold glass, feeling the reassuring weight of the amber nectar inside, and return to your seat. You don't take a sip straight away, no. Instead, you gaze upon its glory for a little while, marvelling in the neverending stream of tiny bubbles that race their way to the top. You watch the slow lazy trickle of condensation on the outside of the glass. You shiver in anticipation of that first sip.
You lift the glass to your lips and drink. The bubbles burst on your tongue and then the cold liquid hits the back of your mouth and slides down your throat, all the way to your stomach. You delight in the instant sensation of the cold elixir moving down your throat, immediately followed by the heat of the alcohol, warming your torso and slowly spreading to encompass your entire body.

You take another sip. You accidentally gulp too much liquid and the bubbles fizz up your nose, not unpleasantly, tickling you from the inside. With each succeeding mouthful, you become more and more convinced that, truly, this is the drink of gods.

Whilst the converstation flows around you, the warm feeling spreads to your brain, wrapping it in cotton wool, and you become convinced of the goodness inherent in everything and everyone around you. All your problems start to melt away and everything seems bathed in a fuzzy amber glow.

You decide to order another beer. It would be rude to leave now! It would be an affront to the gods, the givers of life and beer! He Who Provides The Beer smiles at you with approval as you order a second drink from the holy grail. He places the second glass of frosty nirvana on the bar in front of you, you exchange metal, and return to your table holding the glass aloft. You stare at the glass again, and your body tingles in anticipation...

That is why one beer is never enough. That is why hangovers are worth it. That is why beer will never go out of fashion.

Hangover, I salute you!

Food, glorious food

2006-06-26T12:11:00.000+01:00

In preparation for the bikini season, The Maori® has decided to put me on a strict diet & exercise regime for a couple of weeks, starting tomorrow. Thus, today will be my last opportunity to indulge in food that actually tastes of something other than bland, and all the other nice things in life, like alcohol and coffee.

Food is a touchy subject these days. There's such a glut of information about calories, carbs, grams of fat, salt content, sugar content, preservatives, additives, vitamins, nutrients, minerals, protein, GI level, slow-release energy and so on and so forth. None of it complementary, and all of it utterly, utterly boring.

I'm completely fed up with these food bores, who drone on and on about the negative calories in a piece of lettuce. The world is becoming food obsessed - you're either too fat or too thin and either way, you need help. And it's not just the ladies who are obsessed with waistlines and calorie-counting. The boys are at it too!

The other day, the beau announced, with great surprise, that ham and cheese pizza was, in fact, loaded with saturated fat.

The beau: This thing has about 20g of saturated fat in it!
Me: Eh.... your point being?
The beau: Well, I had no idea there was that much fat.
Me: Oh, you thought pizza was a health food, did you? Recommended by doctors?

If it tastes nice, of course it's bad for you. What about these bastards who are suing McDonalds because eating three fast food meals a day has made them fat. What the hell is that about? Are you serious? Really, why hasn't someone taken these people out yet. Shit, I'd even pay for the hit. Here's ten quid, go tell those people to stop eating burgers all fucking day long, and then shoot them. Shoot them in their big fat heads. Please and thanks.

If you need to lose weight, then don't bitch and moan about it whilst stuffing that sixteenth slice of choclate cake into your maw. Go to the gym. Swap your McChicken sandwich meal for some fruit and veg. Get your ass up off the sofa and stop being so fucking lazy!!

It's not easy being green

2006-06-19T12:58:00.000+01:00

So, I recently admitted that I enjoy being a consumer, that I love these new 24-hour mega-super-markets, and that I'd rather peel off all my skin and roll around in salt than purchase the goods in my local corner shop. Supermarkets are better for one simple reason: choice of products.

But, rather than being allowed to wallow contentedly in the fact that I can eat foods from all over the world; rather than being allowed to marvel with my fellow consumers at the ever shrinking nature of our spinning space-planet; gasp at the wonders of modern technology that allow us to purchase apples from New Zealand and bananas from South Africa; and cosy up in some sort of feelgood "we're all one global village" cotton-wool world; rather than being allowed to do all this, I'm being made to feel guilty. Why? Because I'm not buying local, and thus I am effectively strangling the very same world that I thought was marvellous just a few moments ago.

When did everyone suddenly become so obsessed with the number of air miles their food has travelled before it reaches their plate? I don't really care if my food has travelled to the moon and back four times before I wolf it down. I agree that, in theory, it's a good and moral stand to take, but I have a few issues with it.

The problem that I have with buying local produce is that I live in England, and local produce means cabbage, asparagus and potatoes. Now, I agree that locally grown food can be delicious, if you like that sort of thing. But I don't. I prefer foods that actually taste of something, like chillis, pineapples and mangoes. It's hardly my fault that they don't grow locally, so I have to buy the foods that are imported from Mars or wherever. Why should I punish my taste buds just because I live in a climate where the food I want to eat couldn't, and wouldn't grow, even if you held a gun to its... eh.... roots?

I do actually try to shop locally when I can. When I did my grocery shopping last week, I bought all British fruit and veg (with about three exceptions), so I felt quite proud of myself and I'm sure the checkout clone girl was thinking what a hip and PC young woman I was.

I'm feeling a similar sort of pressure with the car that I drive. When my car was born, the words "fuel" and "efficiency" would never have been uttered in the same sentence, and, thus, my car is a petrol-guzzling behemoth. I would drive a hybrid car if I could afford to buy one, but I can't so I don't. I would car pool with the people at work, insteading of driving to work by myself each day, except I work with just three other people, each of whom lives in the opposite direction from me. I would cycle to work, except I live 35 miles away. I would get public transport except I work in the middle of fucking nowhere and the nearest train station and bus stop are an hour's walk from the office (no exaggeration - I did get the train to work one day. Never again).

I have similar problems with recycling. I used to recycle pretty much everything when I lived in Ireland. I even had a compost bin! But in England, all I'm allowed to recycle is paper (magazines and newspapers), tin cans (beverage cans only, please!), and glass bottles or jars. I can't recycle cardboard and I can't recycle plastic bags, which is just ridiculous. If I did want to recycle these items, I'd have to drive to a specialised centre which is over 50 miles away from where I live, so I'd still be killing the planet with my pollution-belching monster car.

I just can't win.

I want to buy local produce, but I can't get the foods I want to eat locally. I want to buy Fairtrade produce when I can't get it locally, but it costs almost 50% more than "normal" (unfairtrade?) food, and I can't afford that. I want to buy a hybrid or fuel efficient or planet-loving car, but they're also too expensive for my budget. I want to recycle, but the country doesn't have the facilities for me to do so.

So, in summary, I have three things to say:

1. Kermit the Frog said it best when he said: "It's not easy being green".

2. Denis Leary also hit the nail on the head when he said: "I didn't break the planet, it was this way when I found it".

3. I've tried to be a good person. I've tried to look after the planet. I've tried to do the right thing. But, at the end of the day, I figure I'll be long dead before the world becomes some sort of Mad Max-type desert planet.

So, screw the air miles. Screw the pollution. Screw the dolphins getting caught in the tuna nets. Anyone for a spot of tiger hunting?

I am consumer, hear me roar

2006-06-16T12:55:00.000+01:00

These days, it's not cool to be a consumer. Or, at least, it's not cool to admit to wanting to be a consumer. Nobody doubts the fact that, every now and then, you have to go out and purchase goods and services in order to, you know, survive. But you're not supposed to enjoy it.

Well, I do.

In fact, I love it.

For me, heaven is not a half-pipe. It's wandering up and down the aisles of my local supermarket, breathing in the tantalising aroma of freshly baked bread, breaking out in pleasurable goosebumps in the freezer aisles, marvelling at the colourful array of fruit and vegetables from all over the world, and feeling overwhelmed at the sheer choice of salad dressings.

I know that nowadays we're supposed to support our corner shops, but, to be honest, the corner shop is overpriced and kind of rubbish. They only ever stock one type of bread - the stale, cardboard-type. The fruit and veg always have suspicious looking bruises on them, and look about two days overripe and maggoty. The breakfast cereal boxes have that faded look about them that you know means they've been sitting there for about a hundred and twenty years.

Also, the person behind the counter is usually separated from the rest of the world by an inch-thick plate of bullet-proof glass. And that just doesn't entice me into wanting to buy anything. Call me paranoid, but, if the owners of the shop feel it's necessary to place their employees behind a sheet of reinforced glass, then I don't really want to take my life in my hands by perusing their goods with a pocket full of change. I mean, if they do get robbed, and the guy with the gun can't get through the glass, well, he's not going to want to waste his trip, is he? He'll want some form of recompense, and I don't want to be on the wrong side of the bullet-proof glass when he decides he's not leaving the place empty handed.

The only things corner shops are good for are the types of things you run out of in the middle of the night, and really can't wait 'till morning to get, i.e., cigarettes, alcohol and milk (for making White Russians). Then, and only then, will I go to the corner shop. And then, it's only if I can't find a 24-hour supermarket nearby.

No, I like my supermarkets big, white, clean, air-conditioned and soulless. I like the fact that, no matter which Tescos, Sainsburys or Asda I go into, I know exactly where everything is, as they all have the same layout. And, if for some reason I can't find what I'm looking for, then there are always plenty of clones, I mean, employees about to ask.

I like the fact that, when I go to pay for my groceries, the clone, I mean, checkout person always gives me a big smile, asks if I'd like any help packing my purchases, and says please and thank you as though their life depended on it. Sure, in their minds they're probably thinking of numerous ways to kill themselves if they have to sit at that checkout for one more day, but I dont care. They're not separated from me by a wall of glass that resembles a sneeze guard, and I find that reassuring.

At night, when I'm trying to sleep, I go to my happy place, and it sounds like this: "Beep..... beep......... beep......... clean up in aisle four ..... beep".

Sadistically surly in Scotland

2006-06-14T12:50:00.000+01:00

Greetings from Glasgow. I'm sitting here in my hotel, overlooking the sunny city, and I should be feeling overjoyed at the fact that I'm not only out of the office, but also about 400 miles away from my boss. I should be reading some guide book or other to find out where the hottest haggis spots are. But, instead, I'm fuming (more so than usual) because three things happened today that really pissed me off (more so than usual). And I feel as though I should share these bubbles of bile with you, my dearest friends and readers, before they burst.

Betcha feel lucky now, eh?

The first little pustule of pus on my otherwise glorious day came in the form of a courtesy phone call from my mobile phone provider. I got this call at about 11:30 this morning as I was struggling out the door of the office, laden down with briefcase, laptop, maps, keys, etc., about to get into my car for the 250 mile journey to Glasgow, which I wasn't really looking forward to anyway. As I'm trying to pile all this crap into my car, the phone rings, and it displays "Withheld number" on the screen. Now, whenever my beau calls me from work, it shows up as a withheld number, so I thought it might have been him phoning to tell me something important about the car (our poor car is on its last legs, and the beau was a bit worried about me hauling it up to Scotland and back).

Anyway, I answered the phone, expecting to hear the beau telling me (again) about how to check the oil, or how to drive on the motorway (I'm a girl, you see, girls dont know how to drive on motorways because we're silly and only like boys and shopping, hee hee!). Instead, this is what I hear:

"Hiiiiiiyaaaaaaaa! My name is Mark, and I'm calling from your mobile phone company. This is just a courtesy call to check how youre getting on with your phone."

I replied with: "I'm sorry. I dont really have time to take this call right now." Very polite, non?

And he says: "Oh, right. So you dont have time to take the call, but you still answered the fucking phone? Hmmm..."

And then HE hangs up on ME!!! What the fuck is that all about?!? I could practically see the sarcasm dripping out of the earpiece of the phone. What a little prick!!!!!! Grrrr! I'm still fucking fuming over that (as if you couldn't tell).

I've had this phone for about eight months now, and, at the start I was having real problems with being sent unsolicited text messages from companies that would charge me £1.50 each time I received the text, even though I never signed up for it. And when I contacted my provider, I went round and round in circles trying to get it fixed. They fobbed me off from one person to the next, and it took me months to get it sorted out and get my money back.

The one bloody time they ring me and I tell them its inconvenient I not only get sworn at, but he hangs up on me too. That's customer service for ya! I hope that little prick gets run over by a truck on his way home.

I'm so fed up of these unsolicited phone calls. Every evening, we get a call on the landline for a "Mr. Walker". It's always from the same company, who are obviously based in Bombay or somewhere, judging by the accents of the people who phone us. I've tried being polite with them, explaining that there is no Mr. Walker living in my house; I've tried being firm; the beau has been downright rude to them. And still they call back. I've asked them to remove our phone number from their database, and all they did was get some guy with a Chinese accent to phone back the next evening. Boy, were we fooled! We almost untied Mr. Walker and let him out of the closet to take the call before we realized what was going on. Phew! That was a close one!

We've also been getting a load of phone calls from people trying to flog us house insurance, double glazing, car insurance, etc. Cold calling is illegal in Ireland. Why cant they make it illegal in England? NOBODY wants it, so why doesn't the government do something about it? I know they say you can ask the companies to remove your name & number from their databases, but, as my little rant above proves, that doesn't work. And in many cases, they just pass you on to different departments and generally fuck with you so much that you end up hanging up on them before they remove your number. And then they call you back the next day...

But I digress.

The second thing that pissed me off is, again, something that happens all the time, but that really got on my nerves today. As I mentioned, I had an approximately 250 mile drive to Scotland today motorway all the way. I set off from the office at about 11:30, so the traffic wasn't too bad all the way. However, there was the usual abundance of trucks on the road. At one point, on a three-lane-wide section of motorway, there was a truck in the far left lane and one overtaking it in the middle lane. Naturally, I moved into the right-hand lane, as I was traveling faster than both of them. Next thing, this dickhead comes right up behind me, and proceeds to sit on my ass. Thing is, I'm already doing about 15 over the speed limit, so its not as if I was driving slow. It was plainly obvious that I was overtaking the two trucks to the left of me. There was still a truck in the middle lane, so I couldn't pull over and the let the man with the obviously tiny penis pass me out. What's a girl to do?

Well, I had to wait for the truck in the middle lane to move back into the left-hand lane, and then I, reluctantly, pulled over to let the dickhead pass me out. What annoys me is that this whole episode took less than 20 seconds. The wanker in the car behind me was trying to intimidate me and bully me into pulling over, even though it wasn't safe to do so, just so he could pass me out and prove himself better than me. Why couldn't he just wait the 20 seconds for the other truck to pull over? I'm convinced the main reason he did this was because he could see that I'm a girl, and because I drive a fairly old car, and he couldn't stand the fact that I was in front of him.

Why do people do this, though? Why drive right up behind someone to bully or intimidate them into pulling over? I mean, if they're driving at 20mph in the fast lane, fair enough, you have a point. But if they're going 85mph, and they're obviously passing someone else out, why can't you just wait a couple of seconds? And it's always men who do it, too. I've only ever seen a woman do it once (and no, it wasn't me). Maybe it's because women don't have the balls to do it, figuratively and literally, or maybe it's because we don't feel the need to prove ourselves to be speed demons.

On a related side-note, I saw an incredible sight the other day on my way to work. I drive a 70-mile round trip on the M6, the busiest motorway in England, every day on my way to and from work. Last Tuesday, I was driving along at a nice 75mph, when a guy on a motorbike went flying past me. He must have been doing at least 90mph. We were on a straight bit of road, so I could see him for about a minute and a half in total. During that time, he cut across at least seven cars, on the inside and the outside, and each time, as the person in the car tried not to swerve into the other lanes to avoid him, and as they tried not to have a heart attack out of fright, this moron turned around and gave them the two-fingered salute! What the hell?!

I like to think that, some day, one of these people will pass me out, and, as I turn the corner, I'll see them embedded under the wheels of a truck. I've seen it once before, and the guy totally deserved it. Harsh, maybe, but these people - the ones that sit on your ass and bully you into driving faster or pulling over, and the guys on motorbikes who think the motorways were built exclusively for them - these are the ones that cause accidents, and are the real dangers on the roads.

Anyway, the last gripe I have, for today at least, goes back to an issue I've discussed here before road signs.

*sigh*

I dont think I'll ever get used to navigating around this bloody island. Having driven 250 miles and successfully negotiated my way into Glasgow city centre, I suddenly realized that Glasgow streets do not have any street names. At least, they're not anywhere I could see them. I had very specific instructions follow the signs to the city centre, take the exit for the A801 (or whatever, I don't remember exactly now), then take the left for Haggis Street, turn right for Bagpipe Road and the hotel is on the left. I made those names up, by the way, before any Scots condemn me to the third circle of hell, where the crappy motorists and the employees of the Bombay call centre live.

Anyhoo, I was driving along, looking for these street signs, and I couldn't fucking see a single one! I drove around for about half an hour, trying to figure out where the hell I was. I looked up and down, looked on the sides of buildings, lampposts, railings, anywhere for a street sign. Nada. I pulled over a couple of times to consult me map, but, not knowing what bloody street I was on, the map was pretty useless. I couldn't even phone the hotel and ask them for directions, as I didn't have a clue where I was. Ridiculous.

Eventually, I figured that if I just drive into the city centre, I'm sure to see a sign for the university and I knew the hotel was near there.

Just as I have given up all hope of ever finding the hotel, I spotted it. And then I spotted the teeny tiny street signs, at the top of the lampposts. They were obviously designed by pixies for very tall people, because they were so small and so high up.

Anyway, I'm here now, so I'll shut up.

Tipping is not a small fishing village in China - Part III

2006-06-09T12:46:00.000+01:00

Of course, there are some occasions when you shouldn't tip. I remember a particular weekend in Calgary, Alberta, where I was staying with my (now ex-)husband, and two friends from the ski resort. On Saturday night, we went to a popular restaurant downtown. It wasn't a chain restaurant, but they do also have one in Toronto. I can't remember the name of it, but it specialises in BBQ food. The place in Toronto is fabulous and the food is amazing, so we figured the one in Calgary should be about the same. How wrong we were.

First up, although we had booked a table for four, and even though the restaurant was only about two thirds full, we were left standing by the door for ten minutes before someone saw fit to seat us at our table.

The table they put us at only had place settings for two people. As we obviously had been sat in the invisible vortex where the waitresses couldn't see us and didn't want to come closer anyway for fear of getting sucked into a black hole (and possibly deposited in... oh, I dont know.... Wigan - a fate worse than death), I had to go and take two sets of cutlery, napkins, glasses, etc. from an empty table nearby.

Eventually, one waitress donned her special specs that allowed her to see the invisible table, and, in spite of the dangerous vortex, decided to grace us with her presence, although you could tell by the grim look on her face that she wasn't happy about it. By the time she came over to tell us the specials, we were clutching our stomachs with hunger. We told her we were ready to order. She took the food order from the couple, then from my ex, and, just as I opened my mouth to speak, she started walking away. Apparently she'd decided that I wasnt eating that night.

My ex called her back over, and she, grudgingly, took my order. I've never met the girl in my life, so I don't know what I'd done to offend her, but when I asked for a glass of water as well, she looked at me with murder in her eyes.

Our food arrived after about half an hour and it was average at best. The waitress didn't clear our table for about another fifteen minutes after we'd finished eating, and we had to wait about twenty minutes for the bill. As I said at the start, the restaurant wasn't that busy, so I can only presume that she'd since lost her bottle and the vortex was proving too scary for her.

When our bill arrived, everyone reached into their pockets, out of habit, to leave the standard tip. But I told them that I refused to tip that cow. The service was abysmal, she was rude to the point of being offensive and the food wasn't up to much either. However, I knew that if we didn't leave a tip, she'd just think that it was because were horrible people, or stingy or something. So we left her a dollar. Enough to let her know that we do understand the concept of tipping, but little enough to let her know what we thought of her waitressing "skills".

Another occasion where you shouldn't tip is when the staff are presumptuous. Once of my brothers told me that he recently went for a business lunch in some trendy restaurant in Dublin. It was in the financial part of the city, and thus was full of wankers in suits. The clientele wasn't much better (boom boom!). Anyhoo, he said the food was excellent and, while the waiters were a bit snooty, they were efficient so he couldn't complain. The bill came to €230, and, as none of the four guys at the table had any small notes, they ended up putting €300 on the table. They sat there, waiting for the waiter to bring back their change so they could leave a tip and go. And they waited. And they waited.

Eventually, one of them nabbed a waiter and asked for the change. He looked at him in astonishment and said, in his snooty voice, "I presumed the €70 was the tip". Needless to say, the boys got their money back and walked out without leaving any tip.

So, having spent three blogs waffling on about it, here are my tips (way hey!) to anyone who's interested or confused about the whole thing:

- If your waitress has been working her butt off for you, leave a generous tip to show your appreciation. It doesnt have to 20% but I think that 15% is a good compromise. If you can afford to eat out, then you can afford to leave a decent tip.

- Don't count out the tip to the last penny. It makes you look like a stingy twat. Round it up to the nearest dollar at least.

- If your waitress has a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp and is rude to you, then dont feel obliged to leave a tip. Sure, she's on minimum wage, but she can't expect to make any money by being rude to people.

Tipping is not a small fishing village in China - Part II

2006-06-08T12:42:00.000+01:00

The next place I worked in was much better. It was the "Starbird Steak and Grill House" which was in Panorama Ski Resort, right up at the top of the Rockies, on the border between British Columbia and Alberta. Now this was a nice place. I worked there for the ski season 1999/2000 and had a fantastic time. Some of my fondest memories of Canada are from that time. I was living with a great bunch of people, down in the town of Invermere.

For many of us, it was our first Christmas away from home, so we had an Orphan Christmas Feast on Christmas Day which was amazing (lots of great food, unlimited alcohol and drunken Twister). We had a wicked New Years Eve party up on the mountain, which started about midday and went on until about 7am. We watched the tv coverage of the new millennium being rung in all across the globe, and everyone joined in in the Dublin celebrations (I was the only Irish person on the resort, so a bit of a novelty). Then we stole a load of champagne from the guests "Traditional NYE Feast" and drank it on the slopes whilst shooting fireworks at each other.

My going away party was one of the best I've ever been too. About a hundred and fifty people piled into our house and we partied until the Mounties were called (apparently there were naked people running around in the snow outside, frightening the elderly neighbours), and then we partied some more.

Precious memories!

Anyway, getting back to the waitressing thing. In this place, we were properly trained in waitressing, bar tending, making fancy coffees, dealing with dickhead chefs, etc. We had two lovely lady restaurant managers, Fiona and I forget the other girls name. While they were strict at work, about once a week after work they'd bring us to the pub next door and buy us shots all night - nice girls! The other waitresses were great craic. Howard, the head chef, used to try to make the girls cry, but was nice to me cause I'm Irish. Our bartender was a lunatic snowboarder who was always coming in to work with black eyes and broken limbs, but was one of the best bartenders I've ever known.

Anyway...

One day, four guys from New York came in after lunch and were seated in my area. I went over and told them about the specials, etc., and they said "Honey, we're not that interested in the food. Just bring us four steak sandwiches and a wine list." Initially, I thought they were going to be assholes, but I figured they were from New York so if I Irish it up a bit, I'd get by. I brought over the wine list and they proceeded to quiz me on it.

Now, we had to take a brief wine course as part of our training, so I knew a little bit, but it became pretty evident that I didn't actually know that much about the wine. Nonetheless, I threw in the occasional "begosh" and "begorrah" and the guys were putty in my hands! They stayed for five hours, and got through about ten bottles of fairly expensive wine, plus numerous beers. I think the bill at the end came to about $400, and they left me an $80 tip. Now, don't get me wrong, I worked my butt of for those four hours. I made sure they didn't once run out of food, wine or witty Irish banter for the entire time, so I earned my tip, but I still have to say that was pretty sweet!

As we were the only restaurant in the resort that served breakfast from 06:00 (meaning I had to get up at 5am every day, which was nice), most of the resort staff ate in our joint. And, even though these were people that we lived, skied and played with, and even though we knew how badly they were paid (i.e., as badly as us), they still tipped us every day. Admittedly, it wasnt 20%, but the thought still counts.

Of course, it wasn't all hearts and flowers. I remember a certain group of people from a country that shall remain nameless (*cough* I'm living in it right now *cough*). Sorry, I swallowed a fly. Anyway, this group of people had obviously been told that you tip 10% no more, no less. After every damn meal, they would count out the tip, to the last penny. So, on a bill that came to $72.30, they would leave exactly $7.23 as a tip. That's almost offensive, because you know they're tipping because they feel they have to, not because they felt that the service was worth it. Why be so stingy? Why not just leave eight dollars? Tight bastards.

Next door to our restaurant was a bar, where the guests and staff used to drink, and where one of my housemates, Christine, used to work. Chris used to give me a lift home most evenings, so I'd usually stop by for a beer after work whilst waiting for her. One evening, when I had finished, I went next door for a drink and couldn't help but notice that Chris was absolutely fuming. When I asked what was wrong, she told me the following:

A group of five Canadian guys rolled into the bar about 3pm that afternoon, having spent the day snowboarding. For the next six hours or so, they ordered beers and nachos, which Chris promptly served with a smile and bum-wiggle (she was gorgeous, and a bit of a flirt). She made sure they never had an empty pitcher on their table, laughed at their crappy crude jokes, etc. all day long. Now, on the 1st January 2000, BC brought in a smoking ban in public places, which included bars. So customers had to go outside for a smoke, which these boys did all afternoon. They never once complained about it. Whenever they wanted a cigarette, they would go outside and stand under the heated gas lamps, smoke to their hearts content, and then come back inside to their table, where Chris would top up their beers and flash them another flirty smile. All was good in that little bar.

When they finally asked for the bill, it had come to something like $300. Chris reckoned she'd get a pretty good tip from it, as she'd worked damn hard all afternoon. The guys charged the bill to one of their rooms, and, instead of filling in the little box where you can add your tip, they wrote: "No smoking, no tip". They were punishing Christine for a law that their own government brought it, and yet they hadnt complained about it once all afternoon.

Dickheads.

And morons...

...Because, you see, they left their room number on the bill, when they charged it to the room. So we went and found out who they were, and what rooms the rest of them were staying in. For the remainder of the week, whenever they tried to book a table in our restaurant they were told that we had no tables available. If they came into the bar, they got the worst service possible - always served last, beers slammed down on the table in front of them with as much spillage as possible, and I'm not even going to speculate on the sour cream on their nachos...

Tipping is not a small fishing village in China - Part I

2006-06-07T12:39:00.000+01:00

When I lived in Canada, way back at the turn of the century, I worked as a waitress for a couple of months. I had never waitressed before, so it was a new experience for me. I quickly got the hang of it, and I like to think I was quite a good waitress too (I knew how to "Irish it up" for extra tips).

The first place I worked in was a complete dump. It was on Lakeshore Blvd. in Toronto, and it had some really crap French name which I've since erased from my memory in an attempt to deny any involvement with the place. It was the kind of place that only served beer 'n' wings, and had at least one fist fight in the parking lot per night. You know, a classy joint. Anyway, I applied for a job because it was right across the road from where I lived, I was desperate for a job, and I didnt exactly have a... um... "legal" visa, so couldn't really get a proper job, as such.

On my first day, I met my "trainer" - a woman with the fattest ass I've ever seen on a relatively slim chick. Her name was probably Darlene or something, I don't really remember. She didn't bother learning mine, so I paid her the same courtesy. You can see we were off to a good start.

Darlene informed me that, as I had never worked in a bar before or waitressed before, I would have to do three days training before I could work by myself. During this time, all of my tips would be handed over to her as she'd really be doing double the work (mine as well as hers) while I watched and learned. Now, most of you are probably thinking "Why didnt you tell her, at this early point, to shove her job up her gargantuan arse, and walk out of there?" Let me remind you, I was desperate for a job. Also, I figured "How much money could I earn in tips in three days, when I've never done this before? Probably not much, so, fuckit, Ill do it."

And so, Darlene proceeded to sit on said enormous arse, smoking and drinking beer, for the next two days, whilst she ordered me around the bar. I worked my damn ass off. I remember one time she called me into the kitchen (which was, I might add, fucking disgustingly dirty. I wouldn't even drink water out of the taps in there) and bollocked me out of it for having spent ten minutes discussing books with one of the regulars sat at the bar. I protested "But, you told me to make conversation with the regulars!" and she replied with "Yeah, but none of that smart shit!" I swear to god, had I opened a book in front of her I would have heard the classic "Looks like we got ourselves a reader!"

In two days, I made about $100 in tips.

And that bitch took every penny of it.

So, on the third day, I told her that I didn't think she should take my tips that day, as I'd been working twice as hard as she had, and I felt that I deserved my tips. She said that them's the rules, and if I didn't like it, I could ring the boss (whom I swear is a member of the Canadian Mafia) and complain to him. So I told her that I'd do just that, and not only would I complain to him, but I'd tell him to stick his job where the sun don't shine. With that, I handed her my apron, got my coat and walked out. She followed me outside yelling that I couldn't just walk out after two days, and that I wouldn't get paid for it, etc., etc. I just kept on walking, never looked back.

Dinnertime Dilemma

2006-06-05T12:37:00.000+01:00

Last Tuesday, I was working in Southampton, and went out for dinner by myself that evening, having successfully ditched the boss. I found a lovely little restaurant down a side street - trendy enough to make me feel "with it", but not so trendy that the other diners would cotton on to the fact that I have no idea what "it" is.

I was seated and perused the wine list, pretending that I knew what I was looking at. My beau is the one with the wine knowledge (he used to work in the wine trade), and I always think we're like the two guys from "Sideways". Whenever we order wine, he sloshes and sniffs and samples and speculates about the bouquet and chocolate or berry notes. I take a big slug and announce: "I dunno. It tastes good to me."

Anyway, I ordered a glass of white to go with the pan-fried garlic chicken (hey, I was working so I knew I wasn't going to get lucky that night anyway!) and vegetables. The wine was nicely chilled and complemented the food beautifully. The food itself was fit for a king.

Now, when I had set out earlier in the night, I didn't bring any cash with me. I rarely carry cash anymore, as everything can be paid for with plastic nowadays. And, as I was on a businnes trip, I knew I'd be using my little flexible business friend to pay for the meal. And I knew there'd be one of two opportunities for me to pay a tip using my credit card - either the waiter would bring me a credit card slip with a little box for me to add the tip, or he'd bring me one of those electronic gizmos that let's me add the tip before putting in my pin.

There was neither.

The waiter brought the bill, but there was only a box for me to sign my name. Nothing about adding a tip.

I started to panic.

I had no cash. Nothing. Not a penny.

What if the waiter realises that I haven't left a tip before I get out of the restaurant, and blocks my way, demanding that I pay the value of the tip by washing dishes or something? What if he realises just after I slip out of the restaurant, and follows me down the street shouting derogatory comments about my financial situation? What if he........... oh god, here he comes.

The waiter picked up my signed bill with a graceful smile, and swept away from the table. I grabbed my coat and turned around, ready to bolt out of the restaurant. I ran straight into the waiter, who was hovering nearby. Shit! He glanced at the table, suspiciously sans tip, then gives me the filthiest look a strange man has ever given me.

I thought: "I've got three choices here - either I go bright red, and mutter an apology and slink out of the restauarant, thereby confirming his opinion that I'm a penny-pinching git, or I act as though the meal was disgusting and the service was crap and that I wouldn't spit on him if he was on fire and that I certainly would not leave him a tip, or I act as though I have left a tip making him wonder if he didn't see it, or if it had fallen down the side of the table or something".

I did the latter. I gave him the cheesiest smile I posess, thanked him profusely for the dinner again, and sashayed out of the restaurant.

And I chuckled all the way back to the hotel at the baffled look on his face, and the thought of him on his knees searching all around the table for the non-existent tip.

I'm going to hell for that one.

In new music we trust? (Or, radio killed the really good bands)

2006-05-19T12:31:00.000+01:00

I love music. I listen to music all day long, every single day. Radio in the morning while I'm getting dressed; cassette tapes in the car (CDs weren't invented when my car was born); Internet radio at work; side two of the tape on the way home in the car; iPod in the gym; CD at night when I'm reading in bed.

I'm a slave to music.

In fact, sometimes I like to pretend that the music is actually the soundtrack to the movie that is my life. And I'll change the songs on myPod according to my mood and/or current situation, as one would expect in the movie. For example, if I'm feeling particularly down, I'll put on some really lonesome tunes, and imagine the camera panning out from my face as I stare disconsolately out the window, the rain lashing down outside, and the sound of a blues guitar wailing the background.

Yes, I am sad; no, my real life isn't fulfilling enough; yes, I have an over-active imagination; and, yes, I have far too much free time on my hands. Thanks for asking.

However, I've started to notice that new music is crap. And not in the good way. I like plenty of crap music, for example, Good Charlotte (they're hilarious, and they look so ridiculous that I'm convinced they're just doing it for a laugh!) and Fall Out Boy (I love the fact that they're fugly, pot bellied little things, with lamb chops on the sides of their heads, and they write great lyrics - "loaded god complex/cock it and pull it"). But I don't see why people feel justified in ridiculing my taste in music, while at the same time, jumping on the Arctic Monkeys/Dirty Pretty Things bandwagon.

Don't they realise that the only reason these bands are "famous" is because the likes of Radio 1 hypes them up so much?

Let's take a couple of prime examples - Coldplay and Franz Ferdinand. Remember when Coldplay used to be good? I know, it was a LONG time ago, but just try to remember.... The first album? Something about Parachutes..? No? Well, it was a really good album! But then it got played so much on radio that it became painful to listen to. Then, the band started believing the hype written about them (I read something about Chris Martin saying they were going to be the next U2... Why anyone would actively seek to become the next U2 is beyond me.), and now they're just another bunch of pretentious posers with shite songs that all sound the same.

Same thing with Franz Ferdinand. Their first couple of songs were quite good. But, again, they were overplayed and talked up to the point that when I did actually see them live, they seemed to expect the audience to prostrate themselves in glorious wonder before them as they wowed us with their Scottish accents and funny straight-legged trousers.

The Arctic Monkeys make me laugh. And not in a good way. In a cynical, bitter, "You think you're great, but you'll not last the year, you one-album-wonderless maggots" kind of way. They released one song (which was actually quite good) and next thing they're nominated for about ten Brit Awards, knocking Kaiser Chiefs off the charts. What's that all about? According to Radio 1, they're the best thing since sliced bread, and yet their last single sounded like somebody gently placed an out-of-tune guitar against an amp, turned it all the way up to 11, and then stood about five feet back, shouting nonsense into a microphone. What rubbish! That's one band seriously in danger of disappearing up their own arses in a vain attempt to find the sun that supposedly shines out of there.

And now all this hype about Dirty Pretty Things, who are only famous 'cause one of them used to be in The Libertines with Pete Doherty who used to shag Kate Moss and is now addicted to heroin and is in court every day, but keeps getting off 'cause he promises to be good. Or something.

As for Gnarles Barkley.... Now, I love Zane Lowe. I think he's done wonders for new music in this country, and I'd have his babies tomorrow if he asked me to. But, god help me, if I ever see him in the street I'll break out the pimp hand and give him a taste of my knuckles for introducing that bloody "Crazy" song. Of course, I'll offer to kiss him better afterwards...
Then you've got people like James Blunt; "singer/songwriters" who get overplayed so much that they pretty much destroy any hopes of real talent (such as Paddy Casey or Josh Ritter) making a breakthrough into the charts.

*sigh*

It makes me sad that my gorgeous baby niece will grow up in a world where lyrics and sound doesn't matter half as much as who the lead singer is dating, and what drugs he's currently trying to snort up his nostrils. Where radio DJs have the power to make or break a band, depending on the amount of airplay he's willing to give them (for a price, of course).

When it comes to new music, I think the Kaiser Chiefs said it best when they said "Every day I love you less and less".

<--------------------- END RANT -------------------->

"And that was the latest effort from blackie, who's slipped a further five places in this week's chart. Next up, Beyonce, with another song that sounds exactly like all her other ones! Time now is ten past eight..."

Cereal offenders

2006-05-05T12:29:00.000+01:00

Sometimes I wonder if the Truman show could really be real, and if I am actually, unwittingly, starring in my own reality TV show called "The Blackie Show", and if everyone and everything around me is just one big act.

Then my boss yells at me to get back to work, and the fantasy of hitting him with a brick and strolling confidently away because I know they won't put the star of the show in prison evaporates as fast as the water from my milky tea.

Anyway, part of the reason that I wonder about this is because sometimes I kind of feel as if there are lots of people watching me. Other times, I think someone's having a bloody laugh at my expense. I think they're deliberately provoking me, in very subtle ways, to see what kind of reaction I'll give. It's sort of like some sick kid's science experiment, and I'm the guinea pig.

Take for example, breakfast cereals. Someone out there is having a competition to see how bland they can possibly make breakfast cereals before I explode. And, let me tell you, they're coming damn close.

Now, I eat breakfast because I'm a good girl, and that's what all the magazines and tv shows tell me to do. "Eat breakfast and you'll be happier, smarter, thinner, live longer", etc. I also eat it because I'm always bloody starving in the morning. Thing is, I don't have time to eat fancy breakfasts. I don't have time to peel and prepare bowls of fruit. I don't have time to boil eggs and make soldiers out of toast. I don't have time to grill bacon or tomatoes and arrange them on plates with cups of freshly brewed half-caf-skinny-lattes. I certainly don't have the time (or the funds) to go to Starbucks every morning and buy a proper coffee and a muffin. So, the only choice left to me, really, is breakfast cereal.

My first memories of breakfast cereal are of my mother trying to shove lumpy porridge down my throat before kicking me out the door to school. I still, to this very day, feel physically ill at the mere sight or smell of porridge. Since then, I've pretty much stuck to the Kellogg's-type cereals.

Every now and then, I try to be good and eat healthy cereals. Bran Flakes. All Bran. Weetabix. Not all at once, of course. God, I'd spend all day "powdering my nose" if that was the case. But, you know, I tried to do the right thing. And then I remembered that those cereals, unless you drown them in sugar, taste like cardboard. So I stopped eating them.

Then I decided to indulge my inner brat, and I bought things like Frosties, Coco Pops and Ricicles. I'd wolf down a bowl and then tootle off to work, with my teeth feeling like each one was wearing a sugar jacket, and then they all fell out (metaphorically) so I stopped eating those.

Next, I went for muesli. And quickly stopped that.

Rice krispies - I was starving about half an hour after I'd finished. They really are little puffs of air!

Special K - the grown up breakfast. Expensive, and completely not worth it. The first mouthful is alright, and after that it all tastes like newspaper.

Shredded Wheat - holy jesus on a pogo stick, could they make a cereal more disgusting? Obviously the reason it's shredded is that it contained some highly confidential information (such as that fact that it tastes like shit) and somebody somewhere didn't want that info to be leaked to the press. That's one cereal that should remain in the bin.

The list goes on....

And then I had an epiphany. Crunchy Nut Cornflakes - my last bastion of hope in an endless aisle of breakfast hell. And it was a miracle! I ate the first bowl and practically had an out of body experience from sheer pleasure. Honey! Nuts! Brown sugar! Is there anything more delectable on this planet? I don't think so!

Of course, in the ads for Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, they say something like "so good you have to have it twice" or some such drivel. And it's true! They're so sodding tasty that you have to have another bowl. Pretty soon, you're eating four bowls a day, and that's with you holding yourself back!

And then it happens. One day, out of nowhere, you get up, pour yourself a bowl of heaven and you think "I dont think I can do it. I dont think I can stomach another bowl of this delicious cereal". For, you see, the old saying is true - all good things must come to an end. After about three days, Crunchy Nut Cornflakes have become bland. The horror! The horror!

And so I'm back to square one. I've returned to the one breakfast that I can rely on. The breakfast of champions - instant coffee and a banana. If I was a smoker, there'd probably be a few ciggies thrown in there too, for good measure.

My head hasn't exploded yet..... not yet....

P.S. If the producers of The Blackie Show are reading this, I need some new batteries for the TV remote. Thanks.

The tale of the culture thief

2006-05-04T12:20:00.000+01:00

So, when I got to Scally-land, we went out for a few drinks, as one is wont to do, particularly when that one is me. And, lo and behold, I met a culture thief in the very first pub I went to. One of those people who illegally assumes the identity of another's culture just because he has neither the wit nor the intelligence to find out about his own heritage.

Anyhoo, I'm in the pub and this bloke overhears me speaking. He ambles over and, in the broadest Scouser accent imaginable, proceeds to tell me that he's Irish. 'Course you are, love. You and half of the United States of America.

I have a couple of points I'd like to make about this:

Point number 1:

If you were born in Ireland, then you are Irish. If you were born in Liverpool, you're English. And if you were born in the United States, then you're American. It may not be pretty or interesting, but it's the truth.

I really hate these people who, once they figure out I'm Irish, proceed to bore me to death about how they're also Irish 'cause their father's cousin's friend's dog is called Patrick and 'cause their sister's boyfriend's uncle's brother's co-worker's daughter once visited the Emerald Isle, and showed them all the photos.

Having a t-shirt saying "Sláinte" or "Póg Mo Thóin" does not make you Irish. It makes you a idiot.

Drinking green beer all day on Paddy's day till you puke green pavement pizza does not make you Irish. It makes you an alcoholic. Which, incidentally, does not make you Irish either.

Point number 2:

If you're so desparate to fit in somewhere that you've started telling people you're Irish in the vain hope that they might think you're a bit of craic and start hanging out with you, then at least get your bloody facts straight.

This guy in Liverpool at the weekend started telling me all about what his name meant. Now, his name was something like "Bob O'Reilly" (I can't remember exactly for I was a little inebriated and also had the rage). In old-time Ireland the "O" in a surname meant "son of". Therefore, Bob O'Reill would mean "Bob, son of Reilly".

This muppet in the pub, however, insisted on telling me that his name meant "son of, proud of".

The conversation went a little like this:

Muppet man: "I'm Irish too, you know".
Me (suitably unimpressed): "Oh yeah? How's that?"
Muppet man: "Well, my name's Bob O'Reilly".
Me: "Uh huh, but you have a Scouse accent."
Muppet man: "Yeah, well I was born in Liverpool, but I'm Irish cause my grandmother was Irish. My name means 'son of proud of'".
Me: "Eh....what?"
Muppet man: "Well, in Ireland, the 'O' means 'son of'. 'Proud of', you know?"
Me: "Actually, it just means son of, as in 'Bob, son of Reilly'"
Muppet man: "No. It means 'son of, proud of', as in 'proud of my son'. I know, 'cause I'm Irish."
Me: "Eh... I was born in Ireland, you numbnuts. I speak the language. It means 'son of', nothing to do with being proud of anyone".
Muppet man: "No, my name means 'son of, proud of', I'm tellin' ya".
Me: "So your name is 'Bob son of proud of'"?
Muppet man (proudly): "Yep".
Me: "You fucking muppet".

Point number 3:

People who steal another culture's traditions in a bid to make themselves cooler are as bad, if not worse, as the muppet man above.

Take, for example, the skinny white guy with the Maori tattoos, or the 'bohemian' ginger guy with those horrible things in his ears that stretch the lobe, as is seen in some African cultures. Those tattoos or that jewellery means nothing to these guys. They have no idea of the significance or power of these images in their native culture. Therefore, they have no right to wear them, and they especially have no right to reduce them to the status of a handbag or a pretty pair of shoes, i.e., just another "must have" fashion item.

Why not just be proud of your OWN heritage and culture?

Driving Miss Crazy

2006-05-01T12:17:00.000+01:00

A friend was over from Ireland at the weekend to see her man, who lives in Scally-land (that's Liverpool for all you people fortunate enough not to live in this country). And I got invited along to play gooseberry, which suits me fine because in his house, playing gooseberry means I get unlimited wine and access to his extensive DVD collection whilst they canoodle on the sofa. Hey, I have no shame.

So, anyways, I thought, great, a chance to hang out with my mate and her man, and so I set off at 2pm on Saturday afternoon for the half hour drive.

Six hours later, I finally arrived at his house.

What went wrong? Did I drive through a Bermuda-type triangle near Warrington? Did aliens abduct me, perform strange (yet sort of exciting) experiments on my nether regions before spitting me back onto this godforsaken planet? Did I just drive REALLY SLOWLY in the granny lane all the way? Nope, nope, and nope again. I got lost. That's what happened.

Now, I know all the guys reading this are snorting and thinking "But, of course you got lost, for you are female and everyone knows that girls are shite at directions, navigation and driving in general". But youre wrong! I'm really good at driving! I'm quite nifty at navigating. I'm a whiz at reading maps! I've driven across most of Canada and the United States without getting lost once, goddamnit!

And yet, I cannot understand driving in England. I get lost ALL THE TIME! Even on routes I drive every bloody day. At first, I'll admit, I thought it was me. I thought that listening to Radio 1 every morning had finally caused my few remaining brain cells to leak out my ears, rendering me vegetable-like and unable to negotiate getting from Point A to Point B, even though its a straight road between the two.

But then, I realised, that it wasn't me (of course! Ptsh! As if!). I realised that it's actually England. Or, more precisely, England's road signs. Let me demonstrate with a recent example of a journey of mine.

Not long ago, I was going from somewhere to somewhere. I can't remember exactly where, so we'll call the two places Point A and Point B. I was travelling from Point A; destination Point B. I set out, and saw a road sign, pointing straight ahead for Point B, Point C and Point D. Great! Ill follow that sign.

Couple of miles down the road, another road sign, pointing straight ahead for Points B, C and D. Fantastic. We're sucking diesel now, boys and girls!

Next thing, I get to a T junction. Theres a sign. Arrow pointing left for Point C, arrow pointing right for Point D. No sign of B. Nowhere. Nada. Zip. Not being a native to this country, I had no idea whether B was nearer to C or D. So, basically, I was fucked.

As luck would have it, I turned left (one of my life philosophies has always been "If in doubt, choose C", and it's always worked for me), and a bit further down the road, I saw another sign for Point B, so I was ok. But, what on earth is up with those road signs? Is it some sort of sick joke that the British government has come up with to piss off foreign people so much that they'll leave the country, never to return? I think it might be. And I think it might just work!

Course, I was relating this same tale to my beau, who is English, and he just rolled his eyes, made some sort of piffling sound and intimated that I shouldnt be allowed to drive anywhere by myself because I'm just a girl and girls are stooopid.

Then he got lost the other day driving into Manchester..

It doesnt happen very often, but every now and then I'm reminded that life is just and sweet ;)

Digital devolution

2006-04-27T12:11:00.000+01:00

So, I'm a bit of a geek, and, as such, I'm quite a fan of most modern technology. But I have to admit that I'm baffled by the recent urge people seem to have to "digitally remaster" every goddamn thing.

Take, for example, Star Wars. The three original Star Wars movies were bloody fantastic. Great plots, great special effects (considering when they were made), great characters, sexy actors (Harrison Ford in THOSE leather trousers - yum!), the films had everything. So, how delighted was I when they released them on DVD! Very delighted, that's how much, especially since my video player had packed it in and went to electronic heaven.

But... then I started to notice that... the films weren't quite the same as they used to be. There was all this newfangled digital imagery going on. And it just didn't work. Jabba looks ridiculous now, as do most of the other freaky characters in those scenes. I mean, before, we knew they were puppets and people dressed up in foam costumes, but they were still believable. Now, they just look crap.

Same goes for digitally remastered music. Record companies have started taking these old tunes, and whacking them through a computer in a bid to make them sound "better". But, by doing so, they remove all those wonderful old scratchy sounds which are as much as part of the music as the lyrics or the tune. I'm thinking of CDs I heard recently by people like Billie Holliday and Louis Armstrong (the cheaps ones you get for three quid in Tescos - I refuse to pay more than a fiver for music).

The only time I've ever agreed with digitally remastering is on the Led Zeppelin DVD featuring the 1970 gig at the Royal Albert Hall and the 1975 gig at Earl's Court. Basically, they found a whole load of old footage, cleaned it up and stuck it on this DVD, and the result is just awesome. There were bits of the film reel that had actually disintigrated or been damaged beyond repair, but instead of trying to generate graphics, they just stuck in a couple of stills instead. The result is a fantastic, continuous concert, with some rare footage and some great shots of the band.

Other than this, I think digital remastering needs to stop. I'm a dedicated follower of the "If it ain't broke, don't fucking break it" school of thought. I understand the need to put old music and movies on new media formats such as CDs and DVDs, but why can't they just transfer it across as is?

Anyhoo, aside from that, I think that the digital revolution has triggered a devolution in the human species. The easier life gets, the more stupid we become. I used to be able to remember loads of phone numbers and do long division in my head. But now that I've got a mobile phone, I can only remember my home number in Ireland, and I can barely add two numbers together without the use of a calculator.

I almost wish that whole Y2K fiasco had become a reality. That would have been fun. People actually having to get up off their arse to switch on the radio, or change TV channels. People going outside for walks instead of sitting inside playing computer games. Proper home cooked meals, instead of microwaved crap. People actually having real conversations instead of IM'ing strangers all over the world.

Then again, if it had happened, you wouldn't be reading this blog, so I suppose it's not all bad.

Clash of the titles - Geeks V Nerds

2006-04-26T12:08:00.000+01:00

The other day, someone (jokingly, I hope) referred to me as a nerd. And I was really, REALLY offended. And not for the reasons you may think (i.e., that being called names is nasty), but because I've always considered myself a bit of a geek, which is oh so much better than being a nerd.

In my opinion, being a geek means that you're smart, but not in a "better-than-you" way. Geeks are useful to have around, because they know how to fix things, but they're still fun to hang out with. They're a bit unusual, and have, at best, an eclectic taste in music, but are still, you know, normal. The word "geek" conjures up images of kids with long hair and black clothes, who would be cool if only they had a bit more confidence.

I consider myself a bit of a geek, because I do I do have a fondness for figuring out how to fix things (TV, stereo, DVD player, computer), and I'm bloody good at things like website design and computer programming. But I don't do them for fun. I do them when essential or when I can make money out of it. And therein lies the difference between nerds and geeks.

The word "nerd" conjures up images of a ginger kid with glasses and a crap haircut, chinos, white socks with black shoes, plaid shirt buttoned up to the top and tucked into the waistband of said chinos, calculator and pens in his breast pocket (in a pocket protector, of course), and a constant runny nose.

Nerds are also good at things like fixing computers and programming, but they do it for FUN! They ENJOY it! They do things like buy loads of cables and network their computers together so that they can play multiplayer Doom all night long, in a dark room, illuminated only by the sickly glow from their many, many monitors. They're usually quite smart, but they think that this elevates themselves above others, when, in fact, it really doesn't.

The dictionary of slang defines nerd as "An intelligent, obsessive and often socially inept person, typically thought of as boring or dull. The expression is often associated with technically minded computer users." How true.

So, in summary, geeks are cool, in a kooky sort of way. Think of people like Dana Skully in The X-Files, or Johnny Depp. You know they're awfully intelligent, but you still want to be their friend (plus they're hot). Nerds, on the other hand, should be rounded up and shot because they're smelly know-it-alls - think of people like Comic Book Guy in the Simpsons, and Bill Gates.

But that's just what I think.

Sign of the times

2006-04-20T16:27:00.000+01:00

Usually, I spend my hour and a half morning bus commute engrossed in some book or other, trying in vain to ignore the other plebs on the bus, whilst holding a scented handkerchief over my nose in an attempt to block out the nauseating smells of modern humanity. I suppose it's my own fault for spending all my money on scented handkerchiefs instead of a car.

However, now and again I look up and gaze out the filth-encrusted window at this most beloved shitty-city, and ponder upon the objects that meet my gaze.

And I've noticed that, we are indeed a society of thicks. Below I present my exhibits, observed in England and Ireland over the past few months.

Exhibit A

-----------------

On the Dublin Bus regulatory signage displayed on all buses: "Dublin Bus Bye-Laws".

Now, I'm pretty sure that should be spelt 'By-Laws'. That's how it is spelt in every other country I've been to, and in fact, in this, our very own country too, by people who actually give a damn.

Exhibit B

-----------------

On a sign in a pharmacy window: "Form-ily known as".

That's not even spelt phonetically, for Christ's sake!

Exhibit C

-----------------

On a factory sign: "Shoe's! Shoe's! Shoe's!"

Sweet Jeebus, are they serious?

Now, I understand that the people who commission these signs probably don't care too much, or don't even realise that these shoddy signs make their company look foolish in the eyes of sophisticates like myself. But, it saddens me to think that the people who make the signs care so little about their work that they have no idea how dismal their spelling and grammar is. I mean, if you're going to start up a company that makes signs for other companies, wouldn't you at least ensure that the monkeys you hired to work for you can spell?!? That they have at least a tenuous grasp of grammar?!?!?! I would, but perhaps that's because I've been cursed with a conscience.

I thought text speak was going to be the downfall of society. This whole business of dropping vowels simply so you can cram more shit about the pizza-faced boy you snogged last night into your text to Trayyyyceeeeee. And I feared for the future of our society and our children and our English exams. But, it seems that my worst nightmare has already come true, and the thicks are already taking over.

As an English graduate, I'm horribly offended by this visual sodomy.

But that's nothing compared to the "witty" church signs I've seen ALL OVER THE DAMN PLACE! Back to my exhibits:

Exhibit D

-----------------

"C h c h - What's missing? r u?"

Goddamn you!

Exhibit E

-----------------

"Feeling down in the mouth? Come in for a faith lift!"

I hope you burn in hell.

Exhibit F

-----------------

"Jesus the carpenter is looking for joiners"

Grrrrrrrrr!

What the hell is this all about? Church isn't "witty"! Church isn't "hip", or "with it"! Church doesn't even know what "it" is, for cryin' out loud! Churches are not groovy, fun places for the kids to hang out instead of doing their homework. So why are they trying to pretend they are? I can just imagine the local vicar looking up at the sign, rubbing his hands together and thinking "That'll convince the heathen bastards to come to mass!"

Silly buggers.

'Course, my favourite sign is the one that said "Long-haired freaky people need not apply". Damn right!

I blame The Spice Girls, 'Heat', and Nicole Richie

2006-04-12T16:21:00.000+01:00

What do I blame them for? My current confusion with life.

Why do I blame them? Well, let me tell you!

1. The Spice Girls:

I think I was about 17 when I first heard "Wannabe" and, even though it was absoute crap, it sort of inspired me too. It was the summer before university, and suddenly all the tv shows, newspapers, radio stations and magazines were full of "Girl Power"! Yeah! And, me being the naive, shy little idiot that I was back then (I'm much more sophisticated, learned and cynical now), I bought it. Not the single. I mean that I bought into the whole Girl Power thing.

I thought "Here are these five great, fun, fearless, sexy women, who do what they want, when they want! Hey! I could do that too, if I dressed like a slut!" Well, I didn't dress like a slut, but I did become a lot more confident in myself and my abilities, and thought that if the Spice Girls can rule the world, then so can I, damnit! And, I don't think I'm incorrect in saying that many girls felt the same.

So what went wrong? Well, look at them now. Posh Spice - the most miserable looking bitch on the planet. Someone give her a pie before her elbow pokes your eye out! It seems that the thinner she gets, the bigger her pout and sunglasses get. Silly cow.

Look at Geri, a.k.a. Ginger Spice - I'm fat, I'm skinny, I do yoga, I don't. I eat pies, I throw up. I'm Robbie's girlfriend. No, I'm his fag hag. I got pregnant by some bloke and now Posh is my friend again 'cause she looks even skinnier beside me. I've got a face like I'm chewing a wasp. I'm ginger (need I say more?)

And the rest of them, whatever their names are... So, what does Girl Power get you? Zip! Diddly squat! Nada! Maybe a few more pounds in the bank, and a few less on the hips, but ultimately, it gives you the impression that being a woman sucks.

2. Heat magazine:

The glossy pages! The make-up and hair tips! The "celebs without their makup" photos! The fact if you lose a few pounds you're suddenly in the "eat or die!!!" category, and yet they still can't give poor Michelle McManus a break, and keep urging her to "just lose those few love handles, pet. Put down the pie. There's a good girl."

So... are we supposed to be fat or thin? What is the ideal, the 'norm'? Charlotte Church? But then you always print photographs of her with a bit of a tummy, and make snide remarks. Kelly Brook? But she's got enormous boobs, and the rest of her is just a bit too skinny. She's like Dolly Parton, only taller.

Why print shock-horror skinny celeb pics one week, and then a diet plan the next? WHY, HEAT MAGAZINE? WHY??!?!

I'm confused...

3. Nicole Richie:

I blame Nicole because, despite the fact that she looks like she's going to snap in half any minute now, part of me still admires her for her damn willpower! I'm convinced she's got anti-eating mantras sellotaped to the inside of her ridiculously over-sized glasses. She makes starvation glamourous. She makes me feel that, if only I tried a bit harder I too could be celeb-thin and have fabulous clothes and be in a Jimmy Choo ad campaign. I mean, they've hardly hired her for her figure or looks, so it must be because of her profesionalism - she's lost weight like a pro.

And, I hate her because she keeps insisting on lying to us about eating sandwiches and chips and things. Don't lie, Nicole! Lies make Baby Jesus cry!

oOo

All in all, between the Spice Girls, Heat magazine and Nicole Richie, I don't know what I should be doing with myself. Should I be ambitious and fearless? If I do, will I end up miserable like Posh & Geri? Should I be skinny or fat? How can I tell which is which these days? Should I starve myself like Nicole in order to get what I want? If I do, won't I... I dunno.... die? In about 5 years? From malnutrition?

Hmm.... Perhaps I should stop plugging into the mass media, and go read some Dickens or something...