Countdown to Trolley Dollies

I saw the girl from countdown on my train last week. Two. Days. Running. She lives in my town, but I like to think we were meant to meet each other. She looked at me n' all. Her name is Rachel, which is the name of my girlfriend at this current point (I added in the tag-clause "at this current point" because if by unfortunate luck in the future we aren't together and I read this at a later point when we're not together then this is still factually accurate). Lots of people say she's very hot and she is really good at maths. You'd think on a word programme like Countdown they'd scrap all that number bollocks and stick with what they're genuinely good at. Words and letters. Nobody likes a smart-arse.

I've been careful not to appear stalkerish, because as much as she has kudos for replacing Carol Vorderman - every Uncle's favourite mistress of their dreams ("Consonant or vowel *whipnoise*) - she is still technically speaking a human being. A google of her name, a copy and paste into Twitter - PERHAPS Facebook - and that's it. I'm not in the mood for a legal case today. And my girlfriend wouldn't be too happy either.

Meeting people on the train is by in large, the future of socialising. It used to be the case in the 1900's when they had things like trams, prams, lambs and jam. They have those things nowadays too, but they play much less a part of everyday life as they did back then. And they definitely didn't rhyme. It's "marmalade" now. What we're going through is an electronic phase similar to that of puberty. Yeah it's great while it lasts, but when the tower topples and the forest turns white, you're back at square one. And that's where I'll be, with my train conductor's hat on and a pillow up my shirt so I suit the part better. Ultimately the machines fail and we'll have to actually speak to people again, face-to-face, in the same room, sharing that same odorous air that the steam train is giving off. And it's coal. It isn't pleasant. Reminds me of art classes.

It's not so bad. There are trolley dollies and the occasional mars bar and dirty magasine hidden underneath the Custard Creams. If you look beneath the thin net cloth over the top of the trolley you may even see the little gremlin that really pushes the trolley along. It's amazing what the NHS will do when the zimmer-frames run out. If you're able to ignore all of this or embrace it as the future, what you're reading this on will soon be obsolete. Or you could have your scribe engrave it on a stone in your courtyard lobby.

Playground Politikz

Procrastination is an art that requires a lot of patience to master. It’s lucky that there’s enough time available to do this. I’ve said many a time in the past that when you lock yourself away and don’t speak, your true personality comes out more than if you’d run out onto the street and pushed over a granny. Although it can be boring to not do anything all day, it allows your mind to empty and allows reflection. It’s kind of what you should be doing when you go to bed, but you’re too busy sleeping to be doing that.

I was put through to a link today on the interwebbles that listed the top however many countries that count officially as “failed states”. Countries and regions of continents all over the world that do not work financially or morally as part of the system. Countries such as Iran, Congo, Nigeria and other remote bits of the world that have been pushed under the carpet were all there, with a comparatively professional photograph that illustrated the problems they faced. Famine and war and floods and earthquakes and poverty and economic downturns that have lasted longer than your great-grandad cares to remember. Or if he has Alzheimer’s, how much he can remember. It’s very much like a school classroom full of countries all bickering and getting told off by that UN bitch temporary teacher. USA is sat at the back, the dirty chav he is, picking his nose and flicking it at Britain the poodle, the pretentious twat who dares put “Great” before his name. India is sat at the front, studiously getting on with his work and progressing all nice with his maths and literature. She’s no doubt reading Lord of the Flies or some other great work of fiction ruined by the constant need to analyze and discuss themes. And Germany is still sulking over by the radiator gazing out the window, reminiscing about those times when him and his gang very nearly dominated the classroom with nothing more than a marker pen under their noses and an inverted Hindu symbol nicked from R.E.

Nowawawadays, these arguably are countries that would be considered “functioning”. If this ridiculous classroom metaphor were to linger beyond its welcome, they would be the “passing” countries. The A-grades, B-grades and lazy C-grades who bribed their way through. For other countries to “fail” as states therefore seems slightly odd. There is more than enough food and water to feed the poor and starving countries, yet they are still having their dinner money nicked off them by that twat North Korea – the guy with LMS - Little Man Syndrome. He wants to make loads of rockets and fire them at people “for the lolz”, but for the meantime is content with simply going “NYEERRRR!” and firing paper pellets instead. They still bloody hurt.

I realized looking at this website that if the world was just a glorified (or simplified) classroom, what a crap bunch they’d be. No work would get done. Everybody would be trying to score drugs off Afghanistan, who’s still managing to blag that them poppies he nicked from Iraq’s mother’s front garden have some kind of opiate effect to them. The GCSE results would be rubbish and the climate change results through the floor. Or sky high if you want to make a crap pun. So for there to be a website pointing the finger at countries that are “failing” maybe isn’t right, because realistically nobody’s doing that great. No country (except for maybe Switzerland, who have the right idea about holding all the money) are doing overly well, and it’s a tragically depressing sight to behold. Especially when you’re spending a whole day procrastinating over it.

Hobnobs and Broomsticks (without the broomsticks.)

I think it was my father who told me "Leave them f*cking HobNobs alone". If you could see the desk I write this on, you would see the blunt, crumbly disobedience all over my wallet and coaster. If I was at home and they were my dads, I'd be lucky I wasn't writing with the blunt, bleeding stumps that used to be my hands. Luckily these are HobNobs I actually bought myself (granted, with his money). They were on special offer for a quid. I'd like to think he'd be proud I found them that cheap.

Food in the house is running a little low today. It's mainly bread that we're lacking. Even though it's finished, I like to keep the yellow tags for an extra couple of days. Almost as a dairy diary, even though bread isn't technically dairy. Eggs are dairy, but they don't come with yellow tags. Shame. I like to think of those little date tags as a momento to all the sandwiches and raspberry jam toast slices I made. A thanks to the life they have provided and the bread they stopped becoming stale. A race to see if I can eat the loaf before it turns blue and attacks me - like some kind of homicidal yeast smurf.


Or maybe I'm just going a little mental.


It's been hard occupying myself over the last couple of days. I resorted at a point to simply sewing on buttons to my jeans. Not for no purpose at all, that would mean I was mad. It was for some well old braces I've bought. They're rather nice.



Ping.


The things I get up to when I'm at a loose end even baffle me. I sit at the kitchen table with a book I've hardly EVER read. I open it. I put on my glasses. I put down my glasses. I shout "What a crap book". And leave.

I clean because I have nothing else to do. Years spent by my parents trying to get me to tidy what our cleaner once referred to as "Chernobyl on a good day" were wasted. All they needed to do were kill my friends.

I practise handstands that I've never been able to do. I try up against the wall for support, but only end up ripping my Beatles poster down and squirting Carex all over my head. I'm in a sticky, but sterile mess.

I get excited when the doorbell goes or the letterbox squeeks as somebody pushes through yet more local nightclub flyers. Seriously, I don't need twelve of them to read it. It's not a f*cking jigsaw puzzle I have to assemble to understand.

Although that is a GREAT marketing idea.

Andy Walnut

I watched a lovely programme this morning about Andy Warhol, the art man. His life was a bit weird and he often liked to hide away and dress himself up almost like a brand. I really admire this in him. And his art as well I guess.

I should be revising for quite an important Public Affairs exam as part of my university degree. Naturally, this didn't happen today, as I donned my "offensively large" black glasses and instead gave my own little bash at an Andy-Warhol-inspired photoshop painting that I used to love doing back in the day. I rarely find time to draw, paint or do anything like this, so it was a welcome return to days spent on a laptop doing nothing more than essentially colouring in. Oh how times have changed since dot to dot crayon drawings.

Anyway, this is my first go.

My girlfriend doesn't like it. She thinks I need to add more colour, but I argued that it would ruin the style if I did. It's uploaded a little odd, but I'm open to comments and criticism. But not really criticism, or I'll pull your kneecaps off with cheesewire.

So at the end of THAT round...

Everybody's banging out about the General Election and the petty advertising campaign that the Labour and the Tory camps are in. It's annoying and I won't waste my time writing about something which has already been ripped apart by everybody else. It just wouldn't be original, would it.

So let's look at this campaign, because it's interesting. The point scoring system that seems to have been developing between Brown and Cameron is very entertaining. I'm starting to think they've been doing it on purpose. Labour however scored their first "own goal" as many are putting it the other day by bringing Gene Hunt into the equation. Here's the dreaded picture:

Ouch. That's a faux pas. Here's a more entertaining picture of Labour looking all pleased with themselves in front of it:

Astounding.

The Tories immediately ran in on Brown watching Redtube by coming up with their own poster. Basically the same thing. Genius:


Conservative Camp bragged that within four hours this riposte was out. That's poor. I could have changed the words, pressed Ctrl C+V and had that on Facebook within four minutes. I could have even done it with a toilet break, an egg bap and a bit of Jeremy Kyle inbetween. Maybe I could do it all at the same time! But I'd be pushing myself.

While this is all going on, I'm sat here wondering what the Lib Dems are doing? I haven't seen ANY propaga campaigning from their end? I googled, and I found:

Just as I thought. They've been picking their bums. I've found better drawings of Calamity Clegg scribbled down on a Christmas card in crayon. Don't believe me? This is the closest the Guardian came to "Lib Dem" poster campaigning:


Honestly. It's actually annoyed me now. I understand full well the "first past the post" system favours them like a bug in the arse, but you can really put more effort in than that. Your voters aren't twelve.

That said, lower the age of voting and you'll be in for sure. You've got underage drinking, flying reindeer and Santa for tea in this poster. Now that's what I call Manifesto 2010.

Attenborough's Cash-Cow

So it's Sunday and I've spent my whole day sat at a computer using this as a poor excuse for "work". The glasses are on due to eye strain, so I'll use this as my get-out-of-jail-free card. I've actually AFFECTED MY HEALTH doing this essay, Father! Have pity on me!



Casually works.

The rest of the house is actually really cold, apart from the kitchen/conservatory thing which is warm and lovely. It's only the toes that are a bit cold, but that's my own fault for not wearing socks. The television is on in the corner as my grandparents flitter around doing things. As on any Easter Sunday, a David Attenborough nature programme is on. This doesn't surprise me, but I do think about them every time I watch one. What if this is his last? What if there were no more and he cops it after, OR EVEN DURING, recording. Do they continue? Or do these wonderful works of art just stop? The hunt for new and "cool shizz" under the ocean, in the rainforests and in the deserts does not develop anymore, because the only man worthy enough of wearing the leafy crown has kicked the bucket. It's like replacing Jesus: "Ok so you've applied for the job of...Messiah?"

Look, he lets them kiss him!

I have noticed that Scottish guy is starting to do a few more. I know if he took over, I just wouldn't watch them anymore. I'm not a Scotophobe. I just know whatever he says will translate into my head as nothing more than "I'M CASHING IN ON THE SUCCESS OF AN OLD MAN. HERE, HOLD ONTO THE BACKFAT OF THIS CASH-COW I'M RIDING ON! IT GOES STRAIGHT TO THE BANK!"

Sure he can laugh, but can he do his own stunts? The answer is of course, no. And I've never seen the new guy laugh either.

The Gold-Star Puffin School

On a visit home for a weekend I got the opportunity to go and watch my brother drum in the school concert. By pure chance, I've never missed a single one. He thinks it's because I make an effort, but in truth they just correspond nicely. I hope he doesn't mind me talking about him. In fact he'd probably just grin all funny and point it out to my Dad. Who will then mind.

Because the school he used to be at only catered for Einstein's grandchildren, he got moved to a private school. I managed to get through the crap school. I did have to lie about my surname and a bit of German heritage to do that, but I survived. I've made this school seem like a temple, but in comparison to the private place my brother's at now, it's a converted council flat. I'm talking electric gates and personal parking spaces. With names on. It even had big double doors I was impressed I could even open. I enjoyed the power of opening those doors. It was like that bit in Lord of the Rings when Aragorn bursts through the castle gateway all bloodied up and fit with sweat dripping from his brow. I was neither of those, but my hair was quite long at the time, so I swished it a bit as I went through to reception. That felt good.

I noticed very quickly that this place was nothing like the school I was brought up in. The first thing I spotted was a kid playing something really fancy on the piano showing off to his friends. In my school, you do not "show off" by playing the piano. That doesn't get you girls. That gets you floored. In my school, it was all about who had the biggest cereal tattoo. Or who had the shiny Charizard we all f*cking wanted. That's what gets you the kudos points. Not being that kid who looks like the gay one out of Same Difference. In the "viewing gallery", I saw a small child reading gold-star Puffin books. Those gold-star Puffin books are top of the range for kids and you had to be about nine to get them. Hence why they're gold. This kid was definitely not nine. I know looking young, because I look young myself. You could draw a beard on him and giving him a pension, but I know a foetus when I see one. In my school, those books he was reading were so untouched you could smell that "new book smell" from across the lunch room. If you were lucky and pulled the right strings, you could even break the virgin book spine as you opened the first page. That crack was gold dust. Nothing massive, just a little click. Brilliant.

Activities like playing piano and reading were things we were forced to do as kids. And even then it was rare. I remember being gathered in the hall once, along with everybody else in our red jumpers and knobbly knees. We were given nothing nothing more than a sheet of A4 paper. We had a paper plane throwing contest. Looking back on that now, I realize how crap the teaching must have been to resort to that, but honestly it was alright most of the time. I thought with all my strength and might I could launch it and it would soar. Like NASA puts brute force into launching shuttles into space. I was naive, and a rubbish shot, so it ended up in the back of Tara Norris' head. I didn't win, but I got a "special award" for the amusement. In all honesty, I had two years earlier stolen her bobble hat and hidden it in the gym cupboard. I thought I had such a sneaky way out suggesting "Ooh, why don't you look in with the basketballs, they might be in there?", because they'd think I'd used my initiative and not actually nicked it. They clocked me. They clocked me so good.

What had happened at my brother's new school was that they'd looked at all these fun activities and put a big ole' red pen through em. They were probably right, but as pointless as they were they still understood that kids were kids. I'd actually found myself in an overly expensive nursery for wankers. These children were actually being nursed to be wankers. I really hope my brother doesn't turn out as one of those. He's not touching a piano or a gold-star Puffin book. I'd rather him be illiterate. He's doing a good job so far, because he's still learning drums. And that's cool. And he's good as well. He'll survive the machine.