Happy New Year!

I actually had an enjoyable New Year this year. It was a night noticeably devoid of stress, disappointment and endless walking about. We made a decision just to stay in the local pub, allowing ourselves the luxury of being able to walk home in 10 minutes after it was all done, rather than the torturous and sobering two hour wait at a bus stop and further two hour journey home on a nightbus.

People hype New Year's Eve up to the point that it inevitably ends up being a bitter disappointment. Unless you've got the whole thing planned out you end up wandering about, getting stuck between locations and watching the clock tick by into the early hours of the morning.

New Year in central London is quite frankly a disgrace. An experience I never intend on repeating ever again. Two years ago we went down, along with thousands of other people, to Waterloo Bridge to watch the fireworks from the Southbank. All was well and good until the bridge got so full that the police barricaded us on and kettled us in for about two hours. The fireworks lasted roughly ten minutes and then it was a free-for-all trying to get out. Central London slid into depravity and anarchy. Broken glass and paper covering the streets. People fighting with police. Yobs sitting on top of portable-urinals chanting "Oi oi oi!". Bottles flying though the air, smashing on the pavement all around us. It felt like we were trying to escape a crowd leaving a football match where both sides had lost. Quite contrary to the happy, inclusive and celebratory spirit that should characterise our first steps into the new year, it felt more like judgement day. An utter disgrace for our capital city.

On so many occasions the evening has descended into sheer farce. How many times have people looked up to realise that twelve o'clock has been and gone without so much as a whistle? Or how many times have you all stood in a room, agitatedly watching the clock in preparation, vowing not to miss it like last year, ceremoniously joining hands in a circle and beginning the countdown -10, 9, 8, 7..... before someone says while authoritatively holding their finger up in the air, "No wait, hang on a minute ..... 9, 8, 7, 6..... no, sorry... 7, 6, 5?" Get it right!

And then just as you think you've got it worked out you hear drifting in from the adjacent flat - "Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind?" a whole 5 seconds early. "Ah bollocks!" We all spring into action, violently shaking each others hands up and down while we attempt to join in with a song that no one actually knows the words of, to a tune only a handful of the group can remember.

Why hasn't anyone ever got the right time? Next year I'm going to stand right on the Meridian Line, just so I can be damn sure.

We Beseech You, Someone Please Tell Us the Time!

It’s 12 O’clock, right? The clocks have gone back – that’s the good one, isn’t it?

I mean I’ve got that right haven’t I?

Even though we’ve been discussing the clock change for over a week, it still hits us like a sucker-punch as we scramble out of bed and stare at the hands of the clock with confusion.

Twice yearly we all go through the same tired and agonisingly misunderstood process. Why is it that after all our years on this world we are still unable to grasp, internalise or compute this relatively simple concept – the changing of time by one little hour. It seems that even people who undertake fairly complex tasks in their daily lives are crippled by the mathematical problem of working out the time.

If the clocks go back, is that good or bad? Does that mean we get one more hour in bed or one less? What does your watch say now? Have I got the right time? If it was 8 yesterday it means it would be 7 today, so that’s an extra hour, right?

We anticipate the clock change with the same level of dread as the Y2K bug. Is the world going to end on Sunday?

Today in the modern age our confusion is compounded – we seem stuck on the question of whether technology will make the change for us. Will it be painless or not? We’ve been conditioned to think that things will be taken care of, automatically and without fuss. But this isn’t the case; we live with a false sense of security. Just because the computer on your desk politely informs you that daylight savings means it has taken the liberty of changing your clock for you, we assume that it will be the case for everything. But noooooooooo! My alarm clock at the side of the bed hasn’t got a clue what’s going on, and frankly neither do I. What the hell should I do? I stare at my analogue watch trying to pick up a sense of whether it has changed by an hour or not on instinct alone, but no inner feeling guides me. I know for sure the clock on the wall won’t have changed on it’s own - just as surely as I know it won’t be changed for another week, and send me into a state of confusion every time I look at it, until I manage to find the time to actually get off the sofa and change it. And so through a complex method of mathematics I deduce the correct time and manage to set my life straight.

The thing is after we’ve gathered our wits, set our clocks and found our bearings; once we’ve adjusted the time and straightened ourselves down, we take on an attitude of smug intolerance towards anyone so stupid enough to have forgotten. Anyone who turns up an hour early for work, or for their film at the cinema, or for school, panting and sweating from the exertion of trying to get there on time, is told that they’re an hour early with a level of contempt normally reserved for criminals. We enjoy watching them flap about in panic, safe in the secret knowledge that has clearly passed them by, before slowly and calmly informing them, “You couldn’t have possibly made the mistake of not realising the clocks have gone back, surely? That would be ridiculous.”

With each passing encounter we become even more intolerant, amazed that anyone could be so stupid, forgetting with every passing minute our own bleary-eyed puzzlement.

What hypocrites!

Daytime television

Watching day time television is like having your brain slowly drip out of your ear. This is thought to be caused by Noel Edmunds face. A plausible notion I think. I can't stand his face and that's all there is to it. In fact the whole program is a joke. It’s a circus – a pathetic farce. If you actually were to choose to join a cult, would you really choose Noel Edmunds as your leader. That stupid and smug attempt at mystique is only in reality likely to attract the feeblest of minds. Every single show is as meaningless as the last, but nobody ever seems to notice. Worship the boxes. What does the banker say? Bow to the banker. "It’s a very generous offer Mr. Banker, but I’m afraid no deal!" APPLAUSE!! CHEERS!!! Whoop!!

SIT DOWN!!

Then you've got Jeremy Kyle - he's like the Gordon Ramsey of therapy. First he's all "WHY DON'T YOU GROW UP AND GROW SOME MATE...... BE A MAN!", and then he starts playing mind games on them with "actually you know what I really respect you". His programme is like a septic pond filled with drowning flies. Tune into ‘Jezza’ to watch ‘My mum is having an affair with my brother! It’s got to stop or I will leave the family!’

I flick through the channels with apoplectic fury, thumping my thumbs onto the remote as it flicks through one smug show after another. Why am I doing this to myself? The Wright Stuff - just take that smirk off your face for crying out loud, what are you smiling at?! Even Countdown which was once a cornerstone of daytime television is now just an endless ticking which only reminds you as you lie horizontally on the sofa that your life is slipping away in ever more dramatic increments. Oh and don't even get me started on Loose Women - a bunch of middle-aged women discussing their latest toy-boys and sharing "edgy" jokes with a male guest. "Am I right ladies?"

And then you have the adverts which are even worse. “I dislocated my right shoulder in an accident at work”. I don't care, go on Jeremy Kyle. Every single advert is for insurance or lawyers or some sort of service that you just don't need. Everyone's trying to lure you into giving them money. The worst thing I've seen is probably Quick Quid. A cheery voice comes on the screen and says "Do you need a couple of quid to tide you over till the end of the month? No worries, I'll lend you a fiver mate", then just as you're saying to yourself "oh thanks very much", they come back with "just a typical 2360% apr". If you take that loan you're likely to be paying it back for the rest of your life. Or 'Cash Your Gold' which acts as if they've only just discovered that gold is worth something - "Just send us all your priceless heirlooms and we'll give you a few extra quid to spend on cigarettes and scratch cards, you'd like that wouldn't you?"

The fact is if you succumb to the box during the day you're likely to lose a good portion of it only to emerge lethargic, depressed and full of regret. Think of all the things you could be doing out in the sun, like playing with a frisbee or taking a walk. You could go for a cycle ride or have a game of football or play tennis or....... um...... oh I don't know, something else. Do I have to give you all the answers? To be honest I'm a little tired out from watching Judge Judy all morning so leave me alone will you. Coach Trip is starting now so that should fill some time.

The art of persuasion

Academics, politicians, philosophers and psychologists - they’re always talking about motivation in terms of the carrot or the stick. What methods have, and should be adopted so to best motivate, persuade and induce behaviour. Jeremy Bentham reasoned that all human action is motivated by one of two things; the pursuit of pleasure and the avoidance of pain.

The carrot or the stick.

On the one hand the carrot, to entice with the promise or expectation of reward. On the other the stick, to punish, coerce and force.

But stop for a second.

Is it just me, or are the leaders of the world missing a trick here. Missing the very obvious solution that’s sitting right in front of their noses. I sit amused and astonished that no one else has noticed what I see so clearly. What must surely by definition be the most motivational tool known to man – carrot sticks!!

Surely this revelation could be harnessed to make the most persuasive salad in the world. With this culinary secret you could motivate men to do anything.

Who knows what international dispute, diplomatic crisis or war could have been averted by a carefully and lovingly prepared plate of crudités. Or which workforce might have been better driven and inspired by a selection of carefully shaped snacks. Or further still what army may have achieved victory had their leaders been privy to such secrets. Had Dione Lucas, who cooked for Hitler on numerous occasions, made a chance discovery by accidentally cutting a carrot lengthways in 1942, we may all be speaking German now.

And what, you may ask, of dips? A pertinent question for sure. Who is actually investing in this I hear you cry? Which of our great universities are actually conducting research into this field? I’ve always found myself fairly persuaded by houmous, but what of taramasalata? This I find decidedly unconvincing. It tastes like a fish shat in a bowl.

Why our forebears, great men in their own right, lacked the inventiveness and perspicacity to realise a simple carrot’s full diplomatic, motivational and inspirational potential, I do not know. But we cannot blame them for their flaws.

Now I know what you’re thinking. If you’ve made this breakthrough why isn’t something being done about it? Why aren’t the right people taking action right now? Well I have already taken initial steps by posting some samples through the door of No. 10 for approval.

I’m still waiting for a reply which is strangely slow in coming, but I’m not deterred. To be honest they’re probably a little embarrassed. But I’m patient and as soon as they can swallow their pride, I’ll be humbly ready to accept my knighthood.

The Customer is Always Wrong

For anyone who has worked in a customer service role, this should be a mantra to live by. Forget the sycophantic smile. Forget the extra mile. These people don't deserve it. Without question, the customer is almost always wrong.

The customer will try to tell you that your website isn't working. Don't worry, it is. The customer will tell you that the film times are different to those advertised. Don't listen, they're not. They will tell you that you are wrong, and they are right.

THEY ARE MISTAKEN! Tell them to go away!

They complain because they couldn't find the building.
"It took me 20 minutes to work out how to get to this building! I hope you realise that!"
"I'm sorry madam I didn't, let me have them move it for you. Next time why don't you tell us where you're going to be, and we'll come to you."

They will moan because their son Cosmo is intolerant to corn and you do not supply a popcorn substitute. Advise they take their weakling child away somewhere.

They will approach you expecting some sort of extra-special service tailored specifically to them.
"I've already bought tickets online but I still need to collect them. Do I have to queue up in this queue with everyone else?"
"No of course not sir, let me show you to the VIP enclosure."

They will baffle you with questions which are neither pertinent to the current situation, nor to reality.
"I'm not me, and this isn't the film I bought tickets for, where do I queue then?"
"I don't have any ID, but as you can see from this photo of me a year ago, I'm wearing the same shoe laces as I was then, so why don't you just let me in?"

The worst thing is when you do actually put that extra effort in to help a customer out, it invariably backfires giving you more grief or making you feel stupid. You go so far out of your way to try to accommodate them in their pointless little request, and when you offer them a half-way solution, they change their mind completely.

The problem is that these people force you to contemplate your own situation. What are you doing in this job anyway? Don't they know you're an artist! And I don't think working in a cinema is going to turn out to be the stepping stone into the film industry that you were hoping for.

The best policy to employ in future would be to meet them with an unwavering stare, take your feet off the desk if you can really be bothered, hold your breath and work your way through to the other side of their asinine requests with as much grace and patience as you can spare.

Unless they're nice of course! Then at least smile.

Born to kvetch

Oh we do love a good moan don't we, and nothing gets the British going more than the weather, because let's face it, we deserve better. We complain about it for months on end as we make our way through the drizzle and trudge to work in wind, rain, snow and fog. In winter we complain that it's too cold. In summer we complain that it's too hot. In spring it gets all fresh and clear and we all know that's just not natural so we complain about that too if we know what's good for us.

We devoutly check the weather forecast and eagerly await the new front predicted by the man on the tele. As it approaches we prepare our summer clothes, and at the slightest hint of daylight we don shorts and sandals, and stubbornly wade through the slightly warmer drizzle than before.

And then it hits! The heat wave! There's always a heat WAVE! It comes swimming over us, crashing down over our heads and oppressing us to the ground.

And so is born a feeling of entitlement, because why should we do anything else when the weather is like this? How can people expect us to work when it's this hot? They must be bloody mental.

The fact is we complain because we like to. It's therapeutic and keeps us on our toes. The way I like the weather is just hot enough so that I can complain that it's too hot. Just hot enough that it makes you go "Phroooarr it's bloody hot isn't it". So you can enjoy the warmth, but also feel just on the verge of discomfort. Otherwise you're just not getting your money's worth.

But then, like that, it's suddenly gone again. All we had was a couple of days. From 30 degrees yesterday it's now 18 degrees today. Where's our bloody heat gone? It's typical isn't it. I hadn't finished. I was complaining about that!

Life in the fast lane!

Now I know I'm not the only one among us who's convinced that the self-service machines at supermarkets are deliberately designed to make us look utterly incompetent in front of everyone else waiting. The gruelling test of patience involved is designed to only allow those with an iron will and determination to actually leave the shop with food. But my experience recently probably deserves special mention, because, well, it happened to me. Let me recount, picture the scene...

I stand already irritated in a queue which stretches back half a mile down the frozen food aisle and seems to slow to a crawl each time the shoppers pass by Spam Fritters or Mr. Brain’s Pork Faggots, peering across with the same morbid and perverse curiosity as they would at a grotesque accident on the motorway. There are just two checkouts open despite the queue of 50 people, and while most of the staff stand around talking, they leave Shane, Asda’s self-service conductor and great orchestrator, presiding over the sophisticated network of self-service facilitation terminals, trying to shepherd each one of the trembling luddites and technophobes to one of the few vacant machines.

When I eventually near the front it becomes clear that the queue is being held up because they no longer supply plastic bags (a government initiative to cut waste), and the people at the front of the queue are shouting 'well ow am I sposed to get my shoppin 'ome then?" I actually support this because nothing annoys me more than seeing someone load up 50 plastic bags with one item each. Shane offers to sell them at 5p a go and proceeds to wave a bag in front of the machine in an attempt to add it onto the bill. The machine complains with it's usual "assistance is required" and he starts waving his supervisor card around like a desperate man, entering validation codes and telling the machine to shut up. They're calling it a 'Bag for life', but let's face it, it's not a fucking puppy.

But great, things can move on. WE HAVE BAGS. A minor victory.

Then it's my turn. But as soon as I go to work I get bombarded by a barrage of error messages knocking me back, exhausting me with it’s pained noncompliance and utter lack of cooperation. As I desperately try to scan items across its glass window it seizes up in a twisted spasm, pleading in a pained voice "Urggghhhhhhhhh...... unexpected item in the bagging area". What now? I half expect it to say “HA, is that the best you’ve got you dumb bastard!? You lose! GAME OVER!”

It's a frenetic race to get things bagged as quickly as you can before it seizes up again with yet another error and you have to wait for the poor sod to finish with the other 5 machines he's trying to nurse back to health so he can come and attend to yours.

‘Approval needed!’. We wait as the guy makes his way over for the fourth time by this point to give clearance for a packet of tunes. They do state on the packet that you mustn’t exceed 12 packets in one day, but it does make you wonder how many verdicts of accidental death have been recorded from an excessive amount of throat sweets.

When it comes to putting a reduced price hot sausage through, the item won't scan and the number on the front, which incidently is about a hundred characters long, turns out to be one number too many to actually fit into the box provided on the screen. So as I stand confounded trying to make it fit I'm eventually forced to concede and call for yet more assistance. The thing is by this time the guy's actually getting annoyed AT ME!! Then he repeats the torturous process himself, slowly punching a number code into the computer, before he reaches the same conclusion as I did.

"There are too many numbers"
"I know"
"Yeah that's weird"
"Yeah I know."
"I'll try it again"
 "No why don't you just put it through as a carrot?"
"Nah mate, I cant do that"

and so he feverishly goes about re-checking the number.

IT'S A SAUSAGE!!! FOR 10p!!!!!!!!! JUST GIVE IT TO ME!!!!!

Despite the fact that we only nipped down the shop for a few things and my tour around the store only took about 10 minutes, it seems to take an eternity to work through the remaining items in the basket. An infuriating feat which tests all my faculties of patience, wit and speed, and as I finally manage to wrench myself free from it's grasp, swearing under my breath, the machine bids me a courteous farewell with "Thank you for using the fast lane".

You're having a laugh!! Next time it would be quicker and easier to try and roll the items out the shop past security with my nose.

Election time

So then, did everyone break the restraints of apathy yesterday to fulfil their civic duty? I think most people did. With all that's going on, this is a time when everyone should stand up and take notice. I tried to follow the campaigns from the start, but the longer it went on, with all the bullshit and forced sincerity, the faster I slipped back into indifference.

Still, it's vital to exercise our right to vote. Especially seeing as during the last general election I would have voted if it weren't for the fact that when I turned up at the polling station I was told that I wasn't even registered in that city and so had to walk home having made no democratic difference at all. So this time around I made absolutely sure that I was registered and knew exactly where I was going, even though I was still no closer to making a decision right up to the time of walking into the booth.

But they don't half make it hard do they? I mean I left school years ago now, and to walk back through those school gates and be put back through the rigours of a primary school education, being told to put the right coloured piece of paper through the slot on the right coloured box. I mean the mind reels. I was never too good at that even as a kid. It was fine though, I worked it out in the end. 


But who to vote for? We've all had enough of Brown and Labour and I can't abide that putty-faced fool David Cameron or the idea of a Tory government. So I thought Lib Dem was a fairly sound choice, but as the campaigning went on I began to get more and more irritated with Clegg's fervent sincerity and the way he stared down the camera delivering his rehearsed lines like someone in an audition. Perhaps if he repeated the word 'change' enough and stared straight into our eyes, maybe he could hypnotise us into voting Lib Dem. Sorry, but I don't play that shit. And besides could we really have a prime minister who looks like a manager from PC World?

So, still undecided right up until the last minute, the only thing I knew for sure was that I couldn't stand the BNP getting any votes at all, and so with that in mind I just put a big cross next to them and walked straight out. That ought to do it.

Peak Hours

Bringing People Together

Sitting on the tube is a solemn affair, and that’s the way Londoners like it. But I have seen another way. Normally, anyone not avoiding eye contact or just quietly reading quite frankly has some very serious answering to do. Those are the rules. The rules state that you must ignore the person wedged up against you in the corner like a conjoined twin. The rules state you must ignore the armpit resting obliviously just inches from your face, lest you snap back into reality and realise how ridiculous the whole escapade is.

But I tell you what, it’s weird what can bring people together.

As I sat on the tube this morning and perused the faces of those on-board, nothing was clearer than the passenger's loyal adherence to the rule of disassociation. They looked bored and empty. People kept their eyes down. One Chinese girl sat idly cutting her fingernails and flicking them to the floor in front of her, while the man sitting opposite her openly flouted the rules by acknowledging her existence and peered back with obvious disdain. Forgetting myself I momentarily caught the eye of another passenger, but as we both realised what we were doing, our eyes scurried away like frightened creatures. Such mutual intimidation.

But as the passengers sat there whole-heartedly trying to convince themselves of their solipsistic existence, the formal silence was broken by an erupting roar, and as I looked across, a boy of about 17 vomited a green liquid onto the floor in front of him like a fountain. The fibrous liquid floated about in the middle of the carriage as the boy jumped off the tube, only to carry on throwing up on the platform outside, with everyone onboard watching through the window.

In my opinion this should have been heralded as a momentous moment in the social history of London, but alas it will never be reported by the papers nor announced by politicians. The sole indication of its occurrence lies here, in these words, in this blog. For what had previously existed as a disunited carriage of people, at once became imbued with a warming sense of camaraderie and team spirit. Eyes that had previously only met with challenging contempt, could no longer contain the outbreak of wry smiles. One by one each of the sombre passengers slowly looked up and began to grin. AT EACH OTHER!!!  I mean I felt like saying “wait just one moment, what the hell is going on?”, but even I am not cynical enough not to embrace such a moment of togetherness. People were actually interacting with one another. A feat previously only an injured fox could accomplish.

As the train began to roll away and gather speed, the puddle of liquid began to slide and crawl down the long gangway of the train. Suddenly everyone was lifting their feet, squealing and anticipating the next movement of this free floating liquid on the train floor. They were laughing. And with that the spiritless morning commuters were animated into life. The sick became a shared distraction which brought a slightly perverse and grotesque joy, and the thrill grew as it continued along the gangway to eventually puddle around the shoe of a woman who hadn't spotted it coming. A shimmer of their old deviant selves was revealed as they each watched with satisfaction as the puddle continued to grow.

Sadly one passenger didn't feel the shared excitement and hurriedly tried to jump off the train before the doors could close. Scared of a little sick. I wasn't worried. Let him go. It is those like him, people who are unable to recognise such a profound event as this, that evolution will eventually with time expunge and the city will in time excreate. For that is the natural order. Unable to stand the test of the city; may they kneel relegated amid the ranks of lesser men.

But for us, the willing, we will allow such moments to bring us together and become stronger people. To allow such moments to spread a little joy in the otherwise mundane motions of our daily lives.

I learnt a valuable lesson today. I learnt a little something about human nature and acquired a little trick to hide up my sleeve. I know that the next time I’m in a difficult or awkward social situation, I've got just the thing that will bring everyone together and make things alright.

I’ll throw up in the middle of the room, then just sit back and say “It’s alright my people, there's no longer reason to feel disunited and apart. We can come together as one........ and look how it puddles around that stupid woman's foot".

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