In the run-up to the Royal Wedding today I was subject to a wave of indifference that was more tidal than royal. But I’d also been mildly irritated to hear or read so much lazily clichéd criticism of the event. So, with no intention of doing much else this morning, I sat and watched the wedding, tweeted some inoffensive comments throughout (incorporated within this post) and found myself “enjoying” it.
Sometimes, it’s too easy to be cynical. I don’t mind so-called Republicans calling for the abolition of the monarchy (although, I’m sure a President would be equally useful/useless, costly and subject to hostility.) But I had to respond when some sanctimonious (and self-described “conservative”) twats on Twitter used the opportunity to say how nice it was that people could gather in London peacefully, unlike the TUC march and the UK-Uncut protesters. Ignorance is the chicken feed of Self-righteousness, someone once said (me, I reckon.)
Anyway, the wedding. I came downstairs after a nice lie-in to be immediately confronted by the nation’s favourite couple. Or so they think. The Beckhams. They had no one to talk to (thankfully for everyone else) and apparently Posh is pregnant again. Is that right? I couldn’t see. And if she’d swallowed a frozen pea, then even that would’ve shown.
Strange how people turned up at Westminster Abbey so early, hours before they needed to. Was it “unreserved seating”? Fucking Ticketmaster are wankers, aren’t they? I was hoping that the Archbishop of Canterbury would open the service by paraphrasing John Lennon: “Those of you in the cheap seats rattle your jewellery and those in the expensive seats get your servants to do it for you.” Now, he was an untidy-looking specimen, wasn’t he, Dr Rowan Williams. Fucking hair all over the place, like a 1970’s porno full of GILFs. Mrs Bastard was indignant about his unkemptness and said to me, “You’d think he’d have done some grooming beforehand.”
He’s the Archbishop of Canterbury. I’m sure he had.
I thought maybe Rowan Atkinson, not Williams, was going to marry the royal couple when I saw him on screen. As it was, he just stood in the congregation, fiddled awkwardly with a sweet in his tweed jacket pocket and sang “Hallelujah” in his Mr Bean voice.
Apart from these celebs, all the recent Prime Ministers who weren’t Labour were invited. There was some controversy about Samantha Cameron not wearing a hat, but there’s no need when David is such a fucking big helmet. As usual, he boasted about how he’d been outside talking to the people, as if he deserves a medal for soiling himself from such close contact with the proles. It made sense to see him and Professor Snape with short hair (George Osborne) in attendance, when the commentator pointed out that the wedding had a Nietzsche theme. Then I realised that she’d said nature. But given that the Middletons were staying in the Goering Hotel, maybe I heard right first time. Furthermore, the chosen wedding date of April 29th is the same as Hitler’s marriage to Eva Braun. That only lasted one day of course. I’m sure Katie Middleton’s marriage will be longer, while Katie Price’s tend to be shorter.
Things got interesting as the royals started heading to church. Harry resisted the obvious urge to do a moonie out of the car window and neither he nor William noticed they’d gone on a circuitous route, typical of a London cab. Mrs Middleton only just stopped herself from using the opportunity to pop inside the Abbey gift shop as she was dropped off right outside it. Camilla wisely kept her window wound up this time. And the rest of the royals booked themselves some mini-buses and all piled in so as to avoid the confused looks of the crowd who wouldn’t have known who half of them were if they’d seen them individually. I think we need to bring back Spitting Image.
Wills and Harry went into the Abbey and immediately suffered a hat-hair moment, but at least next to the Archbishop this didn’t really matter. Talking of untidy, did you see that the Queen just dropped her blanket onto the floor of the car when she got out? Messy cow. I won’t be too hard on her though, as she and the Middletons all contributed a sizeable amount of their own money towards the wedding. I think it’s only right that parents stick a couple of hundred quid behind the bar.
And then Kate turned up. Sadly some people would have missed seeing her dress, because judging by the screams I’d say that they were being crushed to death in the crowds outside. Apparently, the dress was a Burton one, which has made me think I should get my suits from there from now on.
She looked fantastic. I went upstairs to the toilet at this point.
I actually went for a poo, because it was now the boring religious bit and I’d been holding it in. When I came back, the service was nearly over I thought, because Kate and Wills seemed to be reading a couple of menus. I supposed they were looking at what was going to be on the buffet later that day, but they were in fact A3 sized orders of service. There were a couple of random nuns sat right next to them, “Church Hymn-Nazis” who check that you’re singing rather than miming. (Must have been Nietzsche before; I knew it.)
Then came the slow journey back to Buckingham Palace. I’m glad that Kate didn’t have a Paula Radcliffe moment. However, the horses left a tonne of plop along The Mall. I thought it was a clever decision to then let the crowds onto the road once the procession had finished. That way it saved picking up all that poo. I’ll be checking Ebay tomorrow to see if anyone’s selling any royal wedding souvenirs scraped off of their shoes.
Friday, 29 April 2011
Friday, 15 April 2011
Supermarket Bastards
If you really want to know where the bastards are, then obviously head for your local English Defence League committee meeting, City bankers’ wine-tasting brunch or night-club frequented by Z-list celebs who would sell a kidney to get on page 10 of Heat magazine. That’s if you want a concentration of society’s arse-waste. For sheer numbers, though, I recommend a supermarket. Not Waitrose or Morrisons’s, because you’ll end up with a polarisation of bastards. For a healthy, comprehensive range of common garden shitheads, spend a Saturday afternoon at Tesco or Sainsbury’s.
For some reason, when I go to a supermarket, I always end up parked at a 25 degree angle to the car next to me, which almost impossibly manages to ensure that 3 of its 4 over-sized tyres are touching a white line. But who’s to say that this car isn’t in fact straight and the rest of the car park is crooked? It’s relative, isn’t it? In the same way, disability is a matter for interpretation. Who am I to argue with someone who has been refused a disabled badge, because “being a selfish cunt” doesn’t come under the disability act? I don’t argue when these people park in a disabled space. Not unless they catch me pulling their windscreen wipers outwards or flobbing at their side window on days when I am blessed with a build-up of superfluous phlegm.
I eagerly await the day when trolleys are fitted with parking sensors. Such a device, completely unnecessary for anyone other than those drivers who are retards by choice, would bring harmony to the supermarket. As it is, a shopper’s invisible blinkers slip into place automatically the moment that person’s hands grip a trolley and the sort of belligerency you’d encounter on the roads of south-east England is thus transferred to the supermarket aisles.
The barriers you walk between on the way in, which most people think are there to detect stolen items, actually emit high-frequency sonar waves designed to fuck up your spatial awareness. Handicapped by this assault on your brain and encumbered by your invisible blinkers and general piss-off attitude, you the shopper are now a helpless slave to bastardness for the next 45 minutes.
When you’re not looking to take a layer of skin off someone’s ankles with your trolley, you are parking it at a right-angle to the shelves, blocking the entire aisle while you wander back to fruit and veg for something you’ve forgotten. With typical English self-righteousness, someone will tut loudly and give your trolley a slight push. The brave might even drop something small and expensive into it. That’s as far as I’d go, seeing as there are no windscreen wipers and a grolly in this situation would be a little beyond the pale.
When these bastards are not leaving a trolley in your way, they manage to plant their bodies in such a position. If I leave more than an arm’s length between myself and the shelf full of products that I am surveying then I expect someone to move into that gap and completely deprive me of both my view and ability to pick up what I want. The only place in the supermarket that this doesn’t happen is in front of the Pot Noodles, because anyone buying these tends to do so at speed. Personally, I like to browse and give myself time to decide between the two flavours that only moderately taste like the inside of a rubbish truck.
I worked part-time in one of those now obsolete small branches of Tesco in Palmers Green for a year when I was younger. The store manager conformed lock, stock and barrel to the archetypal nasal-voiced, petty autocrat you’d expect to find wielding small amounts of power in retail. He told us to call him Mr J, because he was Polish and he didn’t think we’d cope with anything more complicated. His full name was Janus and I suspect that the J stood for Justin. He’d wander round the 5 aisles telling us in his oily voice to “face up tinned meat, yeah.” A thoroughbred bastard. I hope he has syphilis now.
My days treading the aisles, facing up tinned meat and other products, were days of missed opportunities. There are so many things you’d hope to be asked by customers, but never were:
Customer: Have I passed the pasta yet?
Supermarket assistant: I don’t know; when did you eat it?
Customer: Can you direct me to mince?
Supermarket assistant: Certainly. Walk this way, ducky.
I think the policy they now have of walking you to where you want to go was fine in 5-aisle supermarkets like the one in Palmers Green, but now when you ask the whereabouts of frozen chips and some slow fucker escorts you 30 aisles to the east wing of the supermarket, you want to grab them by their tasteful brown and orange nylon lapels and shout in their face, “Just-fuck-ing-point!”
In the old days, of course, supermarkets weren’t monopolising the entire range of retail products. You certainly wouldn’t dream of doing your Christmas shopping in Palmers Green Tesco; not when you had “Boots” across the road for the obligatory boxed sets of Old Spice and lavender bath products. Nowadays, the concept of “all under one roof” means “we sell a limited range of cheap, lowest common denominator products so you don’t need to bother going elsewhere.”
Or am I being cynical? Perhaps, in fact, Tesco is aiding the cultural and literary education of society with its wide selection of Danielle Steel novels, Mills and Boon and witty coffee table compendiums. Fucking hell, I hate those coffee table books. Presents bought by the unimaginative for the undiscerning. Should anyone ever buy me one of those twee and corny coffee table books, I am likely to marinade it in anthrax, reduce it to a fine pulp using a Molineux blender and feed it directly into that person’s stomach using an endoscopy tube that has been left overnight on the floor of a Piccadilly public lavatory.
You have to hand it to them in regard to clothes, though. When my generation was growing up, the idea of wearing supermarket clothes was as much of a social anathema as having sticky plaster on your NHS specs, riding a bike with stabilisers after you’ve reached 14 or not finding Jim Davison’s brand of casual racism and misogyny hilarious. It was an inspired move for Asda to brand their fashion as being by “George” and for Tesco to use “Florence and Fred.” Who would have thought that applying the name of 1970’s kids’ TV characters would create such immediate kudos? Maybe the inspiration came from the fact that the clothes are all made by children earning the same amount of pocket money per week that I was given in 1976.
Good old Tesco, supporting the global economy! And hopefully, one day selling everything everyone ever needs. I was hoping that the move into car insurance would lead to the provision of car parts, because the manufacturing companies pretty much fist us mercilessly with their prices. I’d gladly wander along to aisle 453 for Ford Parts in my local supermarket if it meant paying less, although I might balk at the idea of “Tesco Value” brake pads and discs – guaranteed to bring your car to a halt on most occasions.
To paraphrase Mr J. Anus, we have to “face up” to the fact that Tesco are indeed taking over. In Hertfordshire, they are the second biggest employer after the NHS. Given the government cuts, they might soon become the biggest. We might find ourselves going to Tesco for routine operations. From an entrepreneurial viewpoint, removing an appendix or an in-growing toenail would help support sausage production at the Deli counter. But perhaps the most useful medical care Tesco could provide would be psychiatric, because one of these days it won’t just be windscreen wipers…
For some reason, when I go to a supermarket, I always end up parked at a 25 degree angle to the car next to me, which almost impossibly manages to ensure that 3 of its 4 over-sized tyres are touching a white line. But who’s to say that this car isn’t in fact straight and the rest of the car park is crooked? It’s relative, isn’t it? In the same way, disability is a matter for interpretation. Who am I to argue with someone who has been refused a disabled badge, because “being a selfish cunt” doesn’t come under the disability act? I don’t argue when these people park in a disabled space. Not unless they catch me pulling their windscreen wipers outwards or flobbing at their side window on days when I am blessed with a build-up of superfluous phlegm.
I eagerly await the day when trolleys are fitted with parking sensors. Such a device, completely unnecessary for anyone other than those drivers who are retards by choice, would bring harmony to the supermarket. As it is, a shopper’s invisible blinkers slip into place automatically the moment that person’s hands grip a trolley and the sort of belligerency you’d encounter on the roads of south-east England is thus transferred to the supermarket aisles.
The barriers you walk between on the way in, which most people think are there to detect stolen items, actually emit high-frequency sonar waves designed to fuck up your spatial awareness. Handicapped by this assault on your brain and encumbered by your invisible blinkers and general piss-off attitude, you the shopper are now a helpless slave to bastardness for the next 45 minutes.
When you’re not looking to take a layer of skin off someone’s ankles with your trolley, you are parking it at a right-angle to the shelves, blocking the entire aisle while you wander back to fruit and veg for something you’ve forgotten. With typical English self-righteousness, someone will tut loudly and give your trolley a slight push. The brave might even drop something small and expensive into it. That’s as far as I’d go, seeing as there are no windscreen wipers and a grolly in this situation would be a little beyond the pale.
When these bastards are not leaving a trolley in your way, they manage to plant their bodies in such a position. If I leave more than an arm’s length between myself and the shelf full of products that I am surveying then I expect someone to move into that gap and completely deprive me of both my view and ability to pick up what I want. The only place in the supermarket that this doesn’t happen is in front of the Pot Noodles, because anyone buying these tends to do so at speed. Personally, I like to browse and give myself time to decide between the two flavours that only moderately taste like the inside of a rubbish truck.
I worked part-time in one of those now obsolete small branches of Tesco in Palmers Green for a year when I was younger. The store manager conformed lock, stock and barrel to the archetypal nasal-voiced, petty autocrat you’d expect to find wielding small amounts of power in retail. He told us to call him Mr J, because he was Polish and he didn’t think we’d cope with anything more complicated. His full name was Janus and I suspect that the J stood for Justin. He’d wander round the 5 aisles telling us in his oily voice to “face up tinned meat, yeah.” A thoroughbred bastard. I hope he has syphilis now.
My days treading the aisles, facing up tinned meat and other products, were days of missed opportunities. There are so many things you’d hope to be asked by customers, but never were:
Customer: Have I passed the pasta yet?
Supermarket assistant: I don’t know; when did you eat it?
Customer: Can you direct me to mince?
Supermarket assistant: Certainly. Walk this way, ducky.
I think the policy they now have of walking you to where you want to go was fine in 5-aisle supermarkets like the one in Palmers Green, but now when you ask the whereabouts of frozen chips and some slow fucker escorts you 30 aisles to the east wing of the supermarket, you want to grab them by their tasteful brown and orange nylon lapels and shout in their face, “Just-fuck-ing-point!”
In the old days, of course, supermarkets weren’t monopolising the entire range of retail products. You certainly wouldn’t dream of doing your Christmas shopping in Palmers Green Tesco; not when you had “Boots” across the road for the obligatory boxed sets of Old Spice and lavender bath products. Nowadays, the concept of “all under one roof” means “we sell a limited range of cheap, lowest common denominator products so you don’t need to bother going elsewhere.”
Or am I being cynical? Perhaps, in fact, Tesco is aiding the cultural and literary education of society with its wide selection of Danielle Steel novels, Mills and Boon and witty coffee table compendiums. Fucking hell, I hate those coffee table books. Presents bought by the unimaginative for the undiscerning. Should anyone ever buy me one of those twee and corny coffee table books, I am likely to marinade it in anthrax, reduce it to a fine pulp using a Molineux blender and feed it directly into that person’s stomach using an endoscopy tube that has been left overnight on the floor of a Piccadilly public lavatory.
You have to hand it to them in regard to clothes, though. When my generation was growing up, the idea of wearing supermarket clothes was as much of a social anathema as having sticky plaster on your NHS specs, riding a bike with stabilisers after you’ve reached 14 or not finding Jim Davison’s brand of casual racism and misogyny hilarious. It was an inspired move for Asda to brand their fashion as being by “George” and for Tesco to use “Florence and Fred.” Who would have thought that applying the name of 1970’s kids’ TV characters would create such immediate kudos? Maybe the inspiration came from the fact that the clothes are all made by children earning the same amount of pocket money per week that I was given in 1976.
Good old Tesco, supporting the global economy! And hopefully, one day selling everything everyone ever needs. I was hoping that the move into car insurance would lead to the provision of car parts, because the manufacturing companies pretty much fist us mercilessly with their prices. I’d gladly wander along to aisle 453 for Ford Parts in my local supermarket if it meant paying less, although I might balk at the idea of “Tesco Value” brake pads and discs – guaranteed to bring your car to a halt on most occasions.
To paraphrase Mr J. Anus, we have to “face up” to the fact that Tesco are indeed taking over. In Hertfordshire, they are the second biggest employer after the NHS. Given the government cuts, they might soon become the biggest. We might find ourselves going to Tesco for routine operations. From an entrepreneurial viewpoint, removing an appendix or an in-growing toenail would help support sausage production at the Deli counter. But perhaps the most useful medical care Tesco could provide would be psychiatric, because one of these days it won’t just be windscreen wipers…
Saturday, 2 April 2011
A week in a life of watching mostly bollocks on the bastard telly
Watching telly is like picking your nose. On a few occasions it’s necessary, sometimes enjoyable, but mostly just a habit that deserves strong reproach. We all moan about most of it. The appeal of having Twitter on my iphone is that I have something comfortably less mindless to do than watch whatever’s on telly – that is, tweeting about what’s on telly.
I’ll put the news on each morning, but fuck knows why. For starters, nothing new usually happens overnight (except the occasional celebrity death, to which I find myself indifferent) and I can’t even hear the TV anyway over the noise of my Coco Pops being assaulted by cold milk, because I don’t want to turn it up too loud in case I wake the kids. Secondly, the choice seems to be between BBC Breakfast News, which is essentially a magazine programme presented by and targeted at the more bland and twee Middle class/aged/England demographic, and SKY news presented by Eammon Holmes who has all the charm of dog shit on toast. Given that I usually wake up these days feeling like I’ve been sat on all night by Eammon Holmes, I ignore the TV (without thinking to turn it off) and read the Independent App on my phone.
Daytime TV deserves a blog of its own and fortunately for most of the year I am at work and so avoid the human abattoir that is the Jeremy Kyle show. Lucky for me, we have SKY+, so Mrs Bastard is able to record the lunchtime soap “Doctors” and I am tortured with this ridiculously puerile pantomime once we’re both home in the evening. I love it. The scriptwriters are unintentional comedy geniuses, and have assembled their lines of cliché-ridden dialogue with meticulous care. I suspect they bought a load of old Crossroads scripts from the 70’s, cut them up and rearranged them. It’s clearly an art form in the same way that defecating on canvas is an art form. I strongly recommend that you watch it.
After this, my daughter will watch a recording of that week’s Glee episode, which somehow I end up watching about three times. I’m not sure why it’s originally shown after 9pm, except perhaps to protect younger children from the effects of watching something so saccharine-coated that they could contract diabetes just by sitting through one episode. While she insists on watching Glee, I go and stir two jars of English mustard into the bolognaise that will form part of her dinner.
For some reason, no one in my house will ever turn the TV off. It’s stuck on like a clagnet on an arse hair. Irritates me senselessly. And it always seems to be left on unwatched when The One Show is on. This is where the BBC manages to screw with your mind by confronting you with a presenter like Alex Jones who is both nice looking and yet so utterly devoid of any personality, that the question of whether you fancy her or not can cause a crisis of dignity. Only when she interviewed the dead-eyed fame-whore Katie Price, did I decide that relatively speaking “I would.” But watching The One Show on a Friday when she is joined by Chris Evans is like contracting pubic lice and genital thrush simultaneously.
Late evening, with the children in bed, I regain at least 50% control of the telly and look forward to settling down with a glass of wine (see other blogs) to watch something less likely to make me want to hold my head against a hot stove and stab my testicles with a wedge of out-of-date cheddar. I have decided not to drink mid-week, so that means no wine on a Wednesday, but Thursday feels close enough to the end of the week to stay up late and finish a bottle during Question Time. This is when Twitter goes into overload. Usually it is over the now ubiquitous appearance of one social pariah or another, someone like Kelvin McKenzie, Baroness Warsi or a similarly objectionable, sensationalist bigot like the loathsome panto dame David Starkey.
Come the weekend, an evening’s viewing degenerates into farce. We might all scoff at the concept of watching not-very-famous celebrities doing what they are NOT not-very-famous for, on ice or otherwise, for weeks on end and then text in our votes for who is the shittest of the shit; but we still watch it. Well, I don’t, but like the inexorable arse-clagnet, its just there, hanging about and difficult to get rid off.
The pitiful standard of such entertainment helps to elevate everything around it, so much so that any old shit can pull in 10 million viewers if Ant and Dec or Harry Hill are plonked on stage to front it. Even Paddy McGuiness’s Take Me Out has assumed the mantel of Blind Date for making light entertainment out of corny flirting between the egocentric and the shallow. Personally, my preferred method of flirting is to stop myself from gobbing in someone’s face when I tell them to piss off, which is why I have so far held back from applying to this show. Come Dine with Me is far more appealing, as it successfully manages to distil around one dinner table a town’s most scathing bastard or bitch, most drunken opinionated lush, most socially retarded middle-aged man and one averagely bland straight (wo)man to act as a foil. Now that’s good telly! I might apply. I’m sure they’d enjoy a course of English mustard with bolognaise, followed by stale cheddar and mutilated testes on crackers.
I’ll put the news on each morning, but fuck knows why. For starters, nothing new usually happens overnight (except the occasional celebrity death, to which I find myself indifferent) and I can’t even hear the TV anyway over the noise of my Coco Pops being assaulted by cold milk, because I don’t want to turn it up too loud in case I wake the kids. Secondly, the choice seems to be between BBC Breakfast News, which is essentially a magazine programme presented by and targeted at the more bland and twee Middle class/aged/England demographic, and SKY news presented by Eammon Holmes who has all the charm of dog shit on toast. Given that I usually wake up these days feeling like I’ve been sat on all night by Eammon Holmes, I ignore the TV (without thinking to turn it off) and read the Independent App on my phone.
Daytime TV deserves a blog of its own and fortunately for most of the year I am at work and so avoid the human abattoir that is the Jeremy Kyle show. Lucky for me, we have SKY+, so Mrs Bastard is able to record the lunchtime soap “Doctors” and I am tortured with this ridiculously puerile pantomime once we’re both home in the evening. I love it. The scriptwriters are unintentional comedy geniuses, and have assembled their lines of cliché-ridden dialogue with meticulous care. I suspect they bought a load of old Crossroads scripts from the 70’s, cut them up and rearranged them. It’s clearly an art form in the same way that defecating on canvas is an art form. I strongly recommend that you watch it.
After this, my daughter will watch a recording of that week’s Glee episode, which somehow I end up watching about three times. I’m not sure why it’s originally shown after 9pm, except perhaps to protect younger children from the effects of watching something so saccharine-coated that they could contract diabetes just by sitting through one episode. While she insists on watching Glee, I go and stir two jars of English mustard into the bolognaise that will form part of her dinner.
For some reason, no one in my house will ever turn the TV off. It’s stuck on like a clagnet on an arse hair. Irritates me senselessly. And it always seems to be left on unwatched when The One Show is on. This is where the BBC manages to screw with your mind by confronting you with a presenter like Alex Jones who is both nice looking and yet so utterly devoid of any personality, that the question of whether you fancy her or not can cause a crisis of dignity. Only when she interviewed the dead-eyed fame-whore Katie Price, did I decide that relatively speaking “I would.” But watching The One Show on a Friday when she is joined by Chris Evans is like contracting pubic lice and genital thrush simultaneously.
Late evening, with the children in bed, I regain at least 50% control of the telly and look forward to settling down with a glass of wine (see other blogs) to watch something less likely to make me want to hold my head against a hot stove and stab my testicles with a wedge of out-of-date cheddar. I have decided not to drink mid-week, so that means no wine on a Wednesday, but Thursday feels close enough to the end of the week to stay up late and finish a bottle during Question Time. This is when Twitter goes into overload. Usually it is over the now ubiquitous appearance of one social pariah or another, someone like Kelvin McKenzie, Baroness Warsi or a similarly objectionable, sensationalist bigot like the loathsome panto dame David Starkey.
Come the weekend, an evening’s viewing degenerates into farce. We might all scoff at the concept of watching not-very-famous celebrities doing what they are NOT not-very-famous for, on ice or otherwise, for weeks on end and then text in our votes for who is the shittest of the shit; but we still watch it. Well, I don’t, but like the inexorable arse-clagnet, its just there, hanging about and difficult to get rid off.
The pitiful standard of such entertainment helps to elevate everything around it, so much so that any old shit can pull in 10 million viewers if Ant and Dec or Harry Hill are plonked on stage to front it. Even Paddy McGuiness’s Take Me Out has assumed the mantel of Blind Date for making light entertainment out of corny flirting between the egocentric and the shallow. Personally, my preferred method of flirting is to stop myself from gobbing in someone’s face when I tell them to piss off, which is why I have so far held back from applying to this show. Come Dine with Me is far more appealing, as it successfully manages to distil around one dinner table a town’s most scathing bastard or bitch, most drunken opinionated lush, most socially retarded middle-aged man and one averagely bland straight (wo)man to act as a foil. Now that’s good telly! I might apply. I’m sure they’d enjoy a course of English mustard with bolognaise, followed by stale cheddar and mutilated testes on crackers.
Saturday, 12 March 2011
More about being a Middle-Class Bastard now
So, there I am last night, sitting in Alban Arena, the Mecca of light entertainment for St Albans and it’s leafy satellite villages, nursing an aching jaw for one hour 40 minutes, because when I’m not laughing out loud I am at least subject to the alien sensation of a unwavering broad smile; and the reason for this is that I have gone “out out” to see Micky Flanagan’s stand-up show.
If you don’t know him, Micky Flanagan is a 40-something, working-class Londoner now coping with all the foibles of the middle-class world in which he resides (a consequence of marriage and higher education) and this forms the basis for his observational humour. In other words, the cleverly humorous bastard has made my intended blog today almost fucking redundant. The best I can do now is fill in the gaps with the bits he left out and present them to you with humility from a darkened corner of the immense shadow that this man has cast.
I am sure many thousands of us middle-aged, middle-class men from working-class backgrounds exist. We bought Nick Hornby’s books and will one day be called upon as historical eyewitnesses to the gentrification of football and the feminisation and domestication of the British male. We’ve grimly held on to as many of the manly attitudes of our roots as our new middle-class lifestyle has failed to strip away. But for the most part, all that’s left is nostalgia, a tendency to want to fight people and a toleration of smokers and tinned fruit.
My children, now growing up in a semi in St Albans and going to a comprehensive (but nonetheless middle-class) school, are experiencing a childhood that will sadly deny them future justification for colouring their stories of youth with the same half-embarrassed, self-deprecating cynicism that I will lace this blog with. They have never trodden barefoot on pavements littered with dog shit, miles from home on summer evenings. They have been trained from an early age in post-toilet hygiene, rather than going through childhood in the belief that shaking the piss off your hands counted as washing them. And they will never have to rise to the challenge of surviving a whole day in a park playground with more health and safety risks than a ball-pit full of broken glass in a Tripoli leisure centre.
Playgrounds are defining images of many people’s childhoods. Back in the 70s and 80s playgrounds looked like playgrounds, but nowadays, near where I live, playgrounds look like woods. Everything is made of timber to blend in with the surroundings and thus avoid spoiling the ambience of the park with garish bright colours. And rather than building these child-friendly mini-assault courses on some good old-fashioned flesh-ripping, bone-breaking concrete, they use this artificial softened springy duvet-like sponge and STILL parents follow their kids round the playground with anxious outspread arms in case they fall. Fuck me, what would they have made of the medieval-designed, threat to life and limb that was a Witch’s Hat? These parents (and yes, I am one of them) would piss their pants with terror to see little Oliver or Jemima (NOT my kids names) graze their knees from carpet burn falling half a foot from a car-tyre swing onto the sponge-floor. (Sometimes its woodchip. Where I’m from the only place you’d find woodchip was in the wallpaper and the hamster’s cage.) Whereas, my mum was happy to wait for us to get home after dark and splash Dettol on our gaping wounds before picking the larger stones out of our flesh with her fingernails.
Another thing my children never experience is a complete void of ideas when they have to buy birthday or Christmas presents for a parent. Because these days, parents have “interests”. We like music and films and books and football and clothes and just about anything you can pick up from the supermarket for under a tenner. But I was never spoilt for ideas. I never knew what the fuck my mum and dad would want. Parents didn’t have “interests” in the 70s. What did they DO? Well, my mum smoked and cooked and did housework, so invariably she’d get something to aid her in these pastimes, including ashtrays, lighters and one time a drying-up rack to put next to the sink for the plates and cutlery. I got that from Argos. All on my own. I was very proud of myself. Dad liked smoking and betting on horses, so he got the same as mum but without any kitchen utensils. When we were old enough we might go into a bookies and buy him a six-horse accumulator.
To be fair, both my parents read a lot of books, but for some reason we never bought books. (Libraries gave them away for free and reminded you of that fact with 5-year overdue letters.) Being working-class didn’t mean you never read books. We weren’t fucking chavs. We might have watched a lot more ITV than what today’s middle-class parents would allow their kids (because it’s the TV channel equivalent of The Sun… which we also used to read, or at least look at.) I was a big fan of Enid Blyton, from “Noddy” when I was very young to “The Secret Seven” and “Famous Five” when I was older. I tried reading the “Famous Five” once to my own kids, but had to stop when Julian or Dick or someone started to talk about a boy at their school that they’d nicknamed “Sooty” because his skin was so black.
The casual racism of the average 1970’s working-class household tends to be swept under the carpet when people nowadays look back at that time. You’d never see “Love Thy Neighbour” on UK Gold, but even re-runs of “The Sweeney” have lines cut that I clearly remember, particularly one about a certain crook called Lee-Roy Brown. A rite of passage for us children of that time was the first time we turned round to our Dad and said, “That’s a bit racist,” after he’d told a joke about corner-shops or “blacks” (to use a milder word than most you might hear.) As a succeeding generation you have to take a higher moral ground and challenge your parents. But then your own children will do it to you. I get accused by mine of being homophobic just for suggesting that Louis Walsh might have more than a professional interest in some of the boy bands that come on X Factor. I’m only saying.
Sometimes I wonder if I am denying my children some of the joys of life that I fondly recall from my own youth. I feel that I should turf them out of the house today, without their phones or shoes on their feet (because the sun’s out) and then go to the corner shop to buy spaghetti bolognaise in a tin for dinner. We could even have it on toast.
If you don’t know him, Micky Flanagan is a 40-something, working-class Londoner now coping with all the foibles of the middle-class world in which he resides (a consequence of marriage and higher education) and this forms the basis for his observational humour. In other words, the cleverly humorous bastard has made my intended blog today almost fucking redundant. The best I can do now is fill in the gaps with the bits he left out and present them to you with humility from a darkened corner of the immense shadow that this man has cast.
I am sure many thousands of us middle-aged, middle-class men from working-class backgrounds exist. We bought Nick Hornby’s books and will one day be called upon as historical eyewitnesses to the gentrification of football and the feminisation and domestication of the British male. We’ve grimly held on to as many of the manly attitudes of our roots as our new middle-class lifestyle has failed to strip away. But for the most part, all that’s left is nostalgia, a tendency to want to fight people and a toleration of smokers and tinned fruit.
My children, now growing up in a semi in St Albans and going to a comprehensive (but nonetheless middle-class) school, are experiencing a childhood that will sadly deny them future justification for colouring their stories of youth with the same half-embarrassed, self-deprecating cynicism that I will lace this blog with. They have never trodden barefoot on pavements littered with dog shit, miles from home on summer evenings. They have been trained from an early age in post-toilet hygiene, rather than going through childhood in the belief that shaking the piss off your hands counted as washing them. And they will never have to rise to the challenge of surviving a whole day in a park playground with more health and safety risks than a ball-pit full of broken glass in a Tripoli leisure centre.
Playgrounds are defining images of many people’s childhoods. Back in the 70s and 80s playgrounds looked like playgrounds, but nowadays, near where I live, playgrounds look like woods. Everything is made of timber to blend in with the surroundings and thus avoid spoiling the ambience of the park with garish bright colours. And rather than building these child-friendly mini-assault courses on some good old-fashioned flesh-ripping, bone-breaking concrete, they use this artificial softened springy duvet-like sponge and STILL parents follow their kids round the playground with anxious outspread arms in case they fall. Fuck me, what would they have made of the medieval-designed, threat to life and limb that was a Witch’s Hat? These parents (and yes, I am one of them) would piss their pants with terror to see little Oliver or Jemima (NOT my kids names) graze their knees from carpet burn falling half a foot from a car-tyre swing onto the sponge-floor. (Sometimes its woodchip. Where I’m from the only place you’d find woodchip was in the wallpaper and the hamster’s cage.) Whereas, my mum was happy to wait for us to get home after dark and splash Dettol on our gaping wounds before picking the larger stones out of our flesh with her fingernails.
Another thing my children never experience is a complete void of ideas when they have to buy birthday or Christmas presents for a parent. Because these days, parents have “interests”. We like music and films and books and football and clothes and just about anything you can pick up from the supermarket for under a tenner. But I was never spoilt for ideas. I never knew what the fuck my mum and dad would want. Parents didn’t have “interests” in the 70s. What did they DO? Well, my mum smoked and cooked and did housework, so invariably she’d get something to aid her in these pastimes, including ashtrays, lighters and one time a drying-up rack to put next to the sink for the plates and cutlery. I got that from Argos. All on my own. I was very proud of myself. Dad liked smoking and betting on horses, so he got the same as mum but without any kitchen utensils. When we were old enough we might go into a bookies and buy him a six-horse accumulator.
To be fair, both my parents read a lot of books, but for some reason we never bought books. (Libraries gave them away for free and reminded you of that fact with 5-year overdue letters.) Being working-class didn’t mean you never read books. We weren’t fucking chavs. We might have watched a lot more ITV than what today’s middle-class parents would allow their kids (because it’s the TV channel equivalent of The Sun… which we also used to read, or at least look at.) I was a big fan of Enid Blyton, from “Noddy” when I was very young to “The Secret Seven” and “Famous Five” when I was older. I tried reading the “Famous Five” once to my own kids, but had to stop when Julian or Dick or someone started to talk about a boy at their school that they’d nicknamed “Sooty” because his skin was so black.
The casual racism of the average 1970’s working-class household tends to be swept under the carpet when people nowadays look back at that time. You’d never see “Love Thy Neighbour” on UK Gold, but even re-runs of “The Sweeney” have lines cut that I clearly remember, particularly one about a certain crook called Lee-Roy Brown. A rite of passage for us children of that time was the first time we turned round to our Dad and said, “That’s a bit racist,” after he’d told a joke about corner-shops or “blacks” (to use a milder word than most you might hear.) As a succeeding generation you have to take a higher moral ground and challenge your parents. But then your own children will do it to you. I get accused by mine of being homophobic just for suggesting that Louis Walsh might have more than a professional interest in some of the boy bands that come on X Factor. I’m only saying.
Sometimes I wonder if I am denying my children some of the joys of life that I fondly recall from my own youth. I feel that I should turf them out of the house today, without their phones or shoes on their feet (because the sun’s out) and then go to the corner shop to buy spaghetti bolognaise in a tin for dinner. We could even have it on toast.
Sunday, 20 February 2011
Where's that Bastard Wally?
If ever there was a more intentionally sadistic attempt to cause stress to the more cerebrally challenged children of the UK, then it must have been even more insidious than the “Where’s Wally?” series of books. The concept of lulling society’s more seratonin-starved youth into believing that its easy to spot a conspicuously identifiable boy in a highly detailed picture containing several hundred other people is just plain fucking cruel. Because it’s not easy. It should be, but its not. And the realisation that such an easy task cannot be negotiated in the few seconds that you’d expect to spend trying, can cause frustration, stress, long-term feelings of inadequacy, low self-esteem and psychological trauma; all of which manifest themselves into an inability to form stable relationships or assume the responsibility of parenthood, an unwillingness to undertake simple employment and a lasting suppressed rage which will occasional flare up and lead to criminal assault and probably incarceration.
Wally, you bastard, you have a lot to answer for.
So, which wanker came up with this idea? Whoever it was, the likelihood is that this person, as with most creators of children’s fiction, based Wally on his or her own son. You might lean towards being slightly sympathetic to any parents who found that every time they took their child out somewhere, the gormless little fucker would wander off and get himself lost. You’d even credit these unfortunate parents with some initiative for then dressing their child in a distinctive red and white top and matching woolly hat in order to be capable of finding them in a large crowd. And you would surely feel your heart go out to them when, after the 150th occasion of contacting the police to report their son missing, they had Social Services knocking on their door and the media turning them into the worst parenting pariahs since the McCann’s.
But then you’d think, why not just buy a high-viz jacket for the errant child? Buy some drugs that would induce agoraphobia. Stick a fucking lead on him like you do the dog. Whatever you do though, don’t turn your mishap into a series of iconic children’s books that could potentially cause society to collapse under its own frustrated sense of failure.
Perhaps I am over-reacting a little. The “Where’s Wally?” books should of course be lauded for their popularity, particularly as the spin off films and TV series have proved to be global successes. In case you’re not quite up to speed, I am referring to Harry Potter, Big Brother and Glee.
J K Rowling was commissioned to turn Wally into a literary and film icon by placing him in a situation where you’d never expect to find him: A boarding school for freaks, which was periodically attacked by some bastard with no nose and his right wing, gothic-looking cronies. If you didn’t know that Harry was an incarnation of Wally, then think about the usual reaction he gets when someone comes across him for the very first time. There’s always that look of awe and surprise as they slowly utter his name in prolonged syllables – “Har….ry….Pot…..ter!!!” Clearly, they’d spent ages trying to find him in a detailed drawing of a crowded fairground and now, here he was!
Adapting the concept of “Where’s Wally?” to television marked the start of the reality TV revolution. Hardening the humour somewhat, Channel 4 put a large crowd of people into a confined space and challenged us to play “Where’s the Arsehole?” With the same modus operandi as the original books, there were just too many to choose from and so, as with the books, it usually took about 3 months to single it down to one arsehole or wally. I am of course talking about Big Brother, “Where’s Wally?” for the small screen. And ironically, every housemate seemed to have suffered the same childhood affliction of struggling to find Wally on a page, because they each nursed the sort of fragile self-esteem that leads to over-compensating through self-promotion and affectation. In other words, they were a bunch of annoying c**ts. (And perhaps the worst was the one who looked the most like the original Wally - Sam Pepper.)
And so, “Where’s Wally?” evolved via Harry Potter into “Where’s the Arsehole?” aka “Big Brother” and then, like all good ideas, crossed the Atlantic where the Americans dumbed it down, glossed it over, sprinkled some sugar-coated moralising on top and made it a song-and-dance show that is now well-known to all of us as “Glee.”
“Glee” has a cast full of wallies or as our exiled cousins like to say, jerks. But in order not to tax their citizens of too much neuron activity, anyone you choose from the show can count as the jerk that you’re trying to find. Metaphorically, they all have red and white striped jumpers and hats. So, in case you can’t tell the difference, the programme makers have given each of them an obvious distinctive identify. Glee is a melting pot of stereotypes, but the message is clear. Celebrate diversity! You might be Christian or Jewish, disabled or able-bodied, Chinese or Hispanic, Black or White, Gay or Heterosexual, but you can still be a spoilt, self-centred, irritating show-off with the capacity to bastardise any popular song from the last four decades. You can’t however be any of that and be a Muslim. “Glee” shies away from having an obvious Muslim character, because that might just challenge a few innate prejudices too much. After all, between a red and white striped top and a red and a white striped hat is a white face and a red neck.
Finally, having started with Wally and ended with a totally unrelated diatribe against American redneck prejudices, I will return to base and reveal one more piece of useless fact. On page 11 of the 4th Wally book in the series, the prequel to the original, known as “The Phantom Wally,” it is actually impossible to find our chief protagonist, because in this beach scene he has been buried alive by violently neurotic bystanders who grew up reading the original books. Revenge is sweet.
Wally, you bastard, you have a lot to answer for.
So, which wanker came up with this idea? Whoever it was, the likelihood is that this person, as with most creators of children’s fiction, based Wally on his or her own son. You might lean towards being slightly sympathetic to any parents who found that every time they took their child out somewhere, the gormless little fucker would wander off and get himself lost. You’d even credit these unfortunate parents with some initiative for then dressing their child in a distinctive red and white top and matching woolly hat in order to be capable of finding them in a large crowd. And you would surely feel your heart go out to them when, after the 150th occasion of contacting the police to report their son missing, they had Social Services knocking on their door and the media turning them into the worst parenting pariahs since the McCann’s.
But then you’d think, why not just buy a high-viz jacket for the errant child? Buy some drugs that would induce agoraphobia. Stick a fucking lead on him like you do the dog. Whatever you do though, don’t turn your mishap into a series of iconic children’s books that could potentially cause society to collapse under its own frustrated sense of failure.
Perhaps I am over-reacting a little. The “Where’s Wally?” books should of course be lauded for their popularity, particularly as the spin off films and TV series have proved to be global successes. In case you’re not quite up to speed, I am referring to Harry Potter, Big Brother and Glee.
J K Rowling was commissioned to turn Wally into a literary and film icon by placing him in a situation where you’d never expect to find him: A boarding school for freaks, which was periodically attacked by some bastard with no nose and his right wing, gothic-looking cronies. If you didn’t know that Harry was an incarnation of Wally, then think about the usual reaction he gets when someone comes across him for the very first time. There’s always that look of awe and surprise as they slowly utter his name in prolonged syllables – “Har….ry….Pot…..ter!!!” Clearly, they’d spent ages trying to find him in a detailed drawing of a crowded fairground and now, here he was!
Adapting the concept of “Where’s Wally?” to television marked the start of the reality TV revolution. Hardening the humour somewhat, Channel 4 put a large crowd of people into a confined space and challenged us to play “Where’s the Arsehole?” With the same modus operandi as the original books, there were just too many to choose from and so, as with the books, it usually took about 3 months to single it down to one arsehole or wally. I am of course talking about Big Brother, “Where’s Wally?” for the small screen. And ironically, every housemate seemed to have suffered the same childhood affliction of struggling to find Wally on a page, because they each nursed the sort of fragile self-esteem that leads to over-compensating through self-promotion and affectation. In other words, they were a bunch of annoying c**ts. (And perhaps the worst was the one who looked the most like the original Wally - Sam Pepper.)
And so, “Where’s Wally?” evolved via Harry Potter into “Where’s the Arsehole?” aka “Big Brother” and then, like all good ideas, crossed the Atlantic where the Americans dumbed it down, glossed it over, sprinkled some sugar-coated moralising on top and made it a song-and-dance show that is now well-known to all of us as “Glee.”
“Glee” has a cast full of wallies or as our exiled cousins like to say, jerks. But in order not to tax their citizens of too much neuron activity, anyone you choose from the show can count as the jerk that you’re trying to find. Metaphorically, they all have red and white striped jumpers and hats. So, in case you can’t tell the difference, the programme makers have given each of them an obvious distinctive identify. Glee is a melting pot of stereotypes, but the message is clear. Celebrate diversity! You might be Christian or Jewish, disabled or able-bodied, Chinese or Hispanic, Black or White, Gay or Heterosexual, but you can still be a spoilt, self-centred, irritating show-off with the capacity to bastardise any popular song from the last four decades. You can’t however be any of that and be a Muslim. “Glee” shies away from having an obvious Muslim character, because that might just challenge a few innate prejudices too much. After all, between a red and white striped top and a red and a white striped hat is a white face and a red neck.
Finally, having started with Wally and ended with a totally unrelated diatribe against American redneck prejudices, I will return to base and reveal one more piece of useless fact. On page 11 of the 4th Wally book in the series, the prequel to the original, known as “The Phantom Wally,” it is actually impossible to find our chief protagonist, because in this beach scene he has been buried alive by violently neurotic bystanders who grew up reading the original books. Revenge is sweet.
Saturday, 5 February 2011
How I became a Middle-Class Bastard
Actually, it’s more than that. I’m a Middle-AGED, Middle-class bastard now, which is twice as worse and means that I am poisonously laced with all the invidious attitudes that go with both stereotypes. For starters, I just used the word invidious. Only a paradigm of turpitude would employ such terminology. And I am that paradigm, which more or less means (before you feel the need to check the dictionary app on your phone like I just did) that I am a prime example of nasty self-righteous prejudice, housed in a liberal-socialist humanitarian-sequined overcoat of slightly narked politeness; or to be more precise - actually technically and basically my friends - a right bleeding middle-class bastard.
I wasn’t always this way.
I used to be young. And before that I used to be working class.
Before the amateur sociologists begin unpicking my blasé bandying about of class labels and accuse me of employing such unsuitably vague and over-generalised misnomers, let me just say one thing. I am deliberately stereotyping. Like pissing your pants in a supermarket queue, stereotyping is anti-social, offensive and just plain wrong, but from a non-protagonist’s viewpoint, it is highly amusing.
What turned me into this Middle-class bastard then? And what damage has it caused?
I believe that everything hinged on going to university, where I was rewarded for my half-efforts with a degree in Classical Studies. Here I surrounded myself with similar working-class people and poked fun at all the jumper-wearing, Sloane-accented veterans of multiple ski-holidays. But it was like walking into the sea and trying to shake yourself dry as you went along. I had begun to turn to the dark side and yet I would forever try to exert my working-class sensibilities by attacking those who were now my peers.
For example, the gentrification of football has meant that my £1000 a year season ticket provides me with a seat surrounded by some right middle-class tossers. In other words, they are more middle-class than I am and for that reason I despise them. I despise how they live down to their stereotypes, by pontificating in well-spoken accents about the game at loud volume, breaking off to discuss matters of economics, law and finance, being polite to each other and yet thoughtlessly ill mannered to everyone else around them. They all leave early and Stuart rings a taxi to take him home to Notting Hill, so that he doesn’t have to queue for the tube. Wanker.
Another example of raging against the middle-class machine from the inside was to do with that degree. I went on to do teacher training and there were 15 of us doing a PGCE in Classics. 13 had studied Ancient Greek or Latin at university and these “linguistic” Classicists were destined for jobs available only in the private sector or some grammar schools. 3 of us were non-linguistic Classicists, because we’d only taken one of those two ancient languages as a minor part of a degree that was more about the history and culture of Greece and Rome. It meant we could go on and teach History or English in state education and therefore we were able to revel in our non-elitism.
This didn’t help. I met my wife at university. She comes from Surrey and her family eat lots of vegetables. Not normal vegetables that you’d get from a tin, peas and carrots and the such like, but exotic vegetables like aubergines and courgettes and other stuff that looks like it comes out the ground rather than a shop. But now I eat all that shit and harbour a snobbish disregard for tinned veg, tinned fruit, microwave meals and wine costing less than £4. These are the measures of my middle-classness. Especially with regard to wine. I could have started this blog with a thesis about what exactly I mean by middle-class, but that would have been a middle-class thing to do; so to save trouble, let’s just assume that middle-class means that the ratio of wine to beer that you’d drink as a man is heavily weighted towards the former. I reckon I’m about 3:1, thus am I condemned.
So, what are the other factors in making me this way?
I live in St Albans. When I get into debt I remortgage, because my house is disgustingly overpriced on account of being near an excellent school to which I send my kids. It is of course a comprehensive school – I am against any other kind, in principle – but the intake of students is only comprehensive insofar as you have to be able to afford one of the semi-detached properties in the surrounding streets to be able to get in.
When it’s raining hard or excessively windy I worry about damage to the roof extension, rather than how shit it would be to have to get a bus to work.
When something goes wrong with my car, I stress about the cost and inconvenience of getting it fixed, because then we’d be down to just my wife’s car. Again, no bus worries.
Had I booked tickets for a holiday in Egypt this year, I’d have been cursing the locals for not being able to tolerate another year of tyrannical freedom-curbing government, because I might have lost my deposit to Thomson.
And I have just started playing squash. With a bloke called Tim.
That, my friends, is how I have turned to the Dark Side. I will leave you with one final example that best encapsulates the Russian Doll sense of being a middle-class bastard with a working-class one raging inside. My wife picked me up in her car from somewhere or other, because I had been drinking. Some dickhead driving behind us was too close, something I consider to be the height of macho intimidation and bad fucking manners. So, as we pulled away into another lane, he passed on our inside and I opened my window to spit a big grolly of phlegm at him. Sadly, it never have hit him in the face as his window was closed and he was going too fast, but if it had done then I am sure he would’ve noticed that my spit tasted of white wine. Probably Pinot Grigio and definitely from a £6 bottle.
I wasn’t always this way.
I used to be young. And before that I used to be working class.
Before the amateur sociologists begin unpicking my blasé bandying about of class labels and accuse me of employing such unsuitably vague and over-generalised misnomers, let me just say one thing. I am deliberately stereotyping. Like pissing your pants in a supermarket queue, stereotyping is anti-social, offensive and just plain wrong, but from a non-protagonist’s viewpoint, it is highly amusing.
What turned me into this Middle-class bastard then? And what damage has it caused?
I believe that everything hinged on going to university, where I was rewarded for my half-efforts with a degree in Classical Studies. Here I surrounded myself with similar working-class people and poked fun at all the jumper-wearing, Sloane-accented veterans of multiple ski-holidays. But it was like walking into the sea and trying to shake yourself dry as you went along. I had begun to turn to the dark side and yet I would forever try to exert my working-class sensibilities by attacking those who were now my peers.
For example, the gentrification of football has meant that my £1000 a year season ticket provides me with a seat surrounded by some right middle-class tossers. In other words, they are more middle-class than I am and for that reason I despise them. I despise how they live down to their stereotypes, by pontificating in well-spoken accents about the game at loud volume, breaking off to discuss matters of economics, law and finance, being polite to each other and yet thoughtlessly ill mannered to everyone else around them. They all leave early and Stuart rings a taxi to take him home to Notting Hill, so that he doesn’t have to queue for the tube. Wanker.
Another example of raging against the middle-class machine from the inside was to do with that degree. I went on to do teacher training and there were 15 of us doing a PGCE in Classics. 13 had studied Ancient Greek or Latin at university and these “linguistic” Classicists were destined for jobs available only in the private sector or some grammar schools. 3 of us were non-linguistic Classicists, because we’d only taken one of those two ancient languages as a minor part of a degree that was more about the history and culture of Greece and Rome. It meant we could go on and teach History or English in state education and therefore we were able to revel in our non-elitism.
This didn’t help. I met my wife at university. She comes from Surrey and her family eat lots of vegetables. Not normal vegetables that you’d get from a tin, peas and carrots and the such like, but exotic vegetables like aubergines and courgettes and other stuff that looks like it comes out the ground rather than a shop. But now I eat all that shit and harbour a snobbish disregard for tinned veg, tinned fruit, microwave meals and wine costing less than £4. These are the measures of my middle-classness. Especially with regard to wine. I could have started this blog with a thesis about what exactly I mean by middle-class, but that would have been a middle-class thing to do; so to save trouble, let’s just assume that middle-class means that the ratio of wine to beer that you’d drink as a man is heavily weighted towards the former. I reckon I’m about 3:1, thus am I condemned.
So, what are the other factors in making me this way?
I live in St Albans. When I get into debt I remortgage, because my house is disgustingly overpriced on account of being near an excellent school to which I send my kids. It is of course a comprehensive school – I am against any other kind, in principle – but the intake of students is only comprehensive insofar as you have to be able to afford one of the semi-detached properties in the surrounding streets to be able to get in.
When it’s raining hard or excessively windy I worry about damage to the roof extension, rather than how shit it would be to have to get a bus to work.
When something goes wrong with my car, I stress about the cost and inconvenience of getting it fixed, because then we’d be down to just my wife’s car. Again, no bus worries.
Had I booked tickets for a holiday in Egypt this year, I’d have been cursing the locals for not being able to tolerate another year of tyrannical freedom-curbing government, because I might have lost my deposit to Thomson.
And I have just started playing squash. With a bloke called Tim.
That, my friends, is how I have turned to the Dark Side. I will leave you with one final example that best encapsulates the Russian Doll sense of being a middle-class bastard with a working-class one raging inside. My wife picked me up in her car from somewhere or other, because I had been drinking. Some dickhead driving behind us was too close, something I consider to be the height of macho intimidation and bad fucking manners. So, as we pulled away into another lane, he passed on our inside and I opened my window to spit a big grolly of phlegm at him. Sadly, it never have hit him in the face as his window was closed and he was going too fast, but if it had done then I am sure he would’ve noticed that my spit tasted of white wine. Probably Pinot Grigio and definitely from a £6 bottle.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
True Tales of Bastardness involving Poo (and related smells)
Should I ever have cause to write an autobiography, I would expect the opening chapter to be all about poo.
It seems that my childhood (and parts of my adult life) can be measured out in poo anecdotes. In most cases, the pleasure gleaned from these episodes centres upon the impact of the faecal matter on other people. Few things have caused me more mirth than the sheer nausea, violent retching or offended horror experienced by the victims of these acts of bastardness.
And so I would like to document for your delight (or disgust) my top ten turd-related true tales, in reverse order, because it’s apt to begin at the bottom:
10. Shit-stained pants behind the sink
My mother insisted that my brother and I wear plain white y-fronts while we were growing up. This was a shockingly shortsighted decision on her part. Our response was to leave skid marks along the gusset which would have required a chisel and blow-torch to remove once she’d discovered them dried-out and tucked behind the bathroom sink, where we erroneously believed she’d never find them. Perhaps if she had taught us to wipe our bottoms properly, she would not have fallen victim to this practice.
9. A Human Poo behind the Garages
Whilst playing out in a narrow alleyway of bushes behind the garages near our house, I lazily decided to spare myself the walk home (about 100 metres) and so dropped my pants to have a shit there and then. Foliage in the vicinity was not the most robust, but what the hell, I could always tuck that day’s pants behind the bathroom sink.
Our neighbour, who’d been playing out with us (yes, there was an audience for this base act) grassed me up to his mum, who then told my mum. When accused, I naturally denied the crime; but our neighbour’s mum had been round behind the garages to verify the accusation. I suggested that the evidence she had discovered was probably a dog’s poo, but she claimed that she knew the difference between dog and human poo.
What was she? A fucking shit expert? My mum must have thought so, because on her testimony I was banged to rights.
8. Stinkbomb in a Phone Box
Straying slightly away from poo, this was my favourite prank played on total strangers. There was a phone box outside our house, so we took the number, waited next to it until someone happened to be walking up the hill towards us and then smashed a stink bomb inside. Then we’d run back inside the house, ring the number and look mischievously out of the window at the poor passer-by stepping inside to answer the phone, being subjected to that most foul of manufactured smells.
7. Shat in My Shorts
At first glance this sounds like a run-of-the-mill occurrence. However, the shorts in question cost me £20 in 1990 from a Rolling Stones concert at Wembley stadium. Bermuda shorts (all the rage in 1990) emblazoned with the Stone’s Tongue design. And the shitter who shat in my shorts was my brother.
Self-conscious about his narrow waist, he would wear several layers beneath his jeans and on this occasion he chose to make my very special expensive Stones Bermuda shorts the bottom layer. He was in a club in Manor House called The Catacombs, dancing to The Doors, when he felt a fart brewing. As it turned out, there was a lot more to it and he shit himself. In my fucking shorts. He disposed of them in the gents (down the loo rather than behind any sink) and returned to the dancefloor.
Bastard.
6. Exploding Poo
Back in the 1970’s, before dog owners were ordered to scoop up their pets’ plops, you really couldn’t go anywhere as a kid without stepping in shit. If we spotted one in advance, we’d often lance the canine waste matter with a stick and throw it at each other.
Come the 1980’s, there was less opportunity for such bastardness in the UK – but no less in France. On an exchange trip, me and my mate Wayne bought the obligatory pack of bangers and had the idea of sliding one inside a dog’s turd. We lit it and ran. The effect was all that we’d hoped for, but for the fact that some of the fall-out hit Wayne. Ironically, he was the fastest sprinter in our year at school, but even he couldn’t outrun exploding dog shit.
5. Fartspray: the brainchild of a bastard
Joke shops were well stocked with Fartspray back in the 80’s. Not that it smelt of fart. It was far worse than that. My brother was used to me farting on his head (sometimes bare-arsed for maximum effect) but he and our cousin were totally unprepared for being locked in our coal-shed and having me liberally spraying it through the gap above the door. Sadly, I had to let them out quickly, because they were close to taking the door off its hinges in their desperation to escape.
4. Floater in the Bath
I’m sure I was still made to share a bath with my younger brother until I was at least 6 or maybe 7 or 8 at best. Perhaps the trigger for ending this slightly unsavoury practice was the growing frequency of one or other of us to either piss in the bath, or on a few occasions, to squeeze a nugget of poo out and see if it could float towards the other before he had a chance to spot it and jump out. Mum must have got tired of the resultant screaming on these joint bath nights and let us have our own baths from then on.
3. Enacting the Chinese Proverb
Do you remember, as a kid, someone saying: Old Chinese proverb say, He who goes to bed with itchy bum, wakes up with smelly finger? Well that gave me an idea. (I’ll apologise to the reader now, because as we hit the top 3, the anecdotes become increasingly impossible to stomach.) I would deliberately itch my bum until my finger was so potently smelly that I couldn’t bear to move it within a foot of my nose. Then I’d grab my little brother in a headlock with one arm and with my free hand – the one with the offensive arse-residue on its index finger – I’d cover his mouth and make sure that the finger was wedged against his nostrils.
I put my hands up to this – it was abuse. People who criticise the Americans for Guantanamo Bay, really need to question whether I should be on trial for Human Rights violations before the US government is.
2. Nutella
I’m not getting paid for the advertisement, but I would like to thank Nutella for this number 2 prank. Chocolate spread, out of context (i.e. not in a jar or on bread) looks exactly like poo. Exploiting this fact, I played this prank on someone – I can’t even remember who – and I would encourage everyone to try it, because the effect was worth recording and sending to You’ve Been Framed.
I smeared chocolate spread quite thickly onto a scrunched up bundle of toilet paper and placed it on the floor next to the loo. Then I called the victim in and accused that person of being responsible for the shitty tissue missing the pan. As they were denying involvement in this apparent act of carelessness, I picked up the tissue and shoved it all into my mouth.
The look of horror and immediate retching of my victim meant that I had to swiftly unplug my mouth, because I was laughing so hard I nearly choked on it.
(You know what, now that I think about it, for this prank I was an adult and the victim may have been my own son. Is that bad?)
1. Why the fuck did I do this?
My favourite poo-related prank of all time tops the list for two reasons. Firstly, the impact of this action on the victim was the most extreme; and secondly, it was never intended as a prank and it was a completely illogical thing for me to do.
Again, thinking about the house in which I did this, I was at least 6 years old, but couldn’t have been much older, because it was so incomprehensively dumb.
I went into the bathroom to use the toilet and I decided that for a change I would poo in the bath instead. FOR A CHANGE? I recall my decision clearly. I wanted variety in my life. I asked myself, why should we always have to poo in the toilet? Let’s try something different.
So, I pooed in the bath. Not like I did when my brother was in the bath with me, when the poo would float a while on the surface of the water and you could offer a defence to your mum that it was an accident. NO! This was a shit in a dry bath. I had the foresight to dispose of the subsequent tissue in the actual toilet, but then I was confronted by the inevitable and horrifying realisation that you can’t flush a bath.
There’s something about the water in a toilet that minimises the smell of poo. This I concluded as I reaped the reward of witnessing a turd hit the dry surface of the bath. I also have a theory that much of the smell is contained within a poo and is released when it breaks. Well this one certainly had its surface crack on impact.
I knew what to do next, though. I shouted to my little brother to come and see. Innocently he responded to my call and walked straight in. Hit by the stark image of that misplaced poo and the wave of stink emanating from its pores, my brother immediately turned back into the hall and vomited all over the floor.
My mum, called into action to deal with both the poo and the vomit, plus her eldest son’s sheer brainlessness, was far too furious with me to allow me to enjoy the moment straight away. But I’ve dined out on the memory for almost 35 years since and for that reason as well this is my number one number two tale.
It seems that my childhood (and parts of my adult life) can be measured out in poo anecdotes. In most cases, the pleasure gleaned from these episodes centres upon the impact of the faecal matter on other people. Few things have caused me more mirth than the sheer nausea, violent retching or offended horror experienced by the victims of these acts of bastardness.
And so I would like to document for your delight (or disgust) my top ten turd-related true tales, in reverse order, because it’s apt to begin at the bottom:
10. Shit-stained pants behind the sink
My mother insisted that my brother and I wear plain white y-fronts while we were growing up. This was a shockingly shortsighted decision on her part. Our response was to leave skid marks along the gusset which would have required a chisel and blow-torch to remove once she’d discovered them dried-out and tucked behind the bathroom sink, where we erroneously believed she’d never find them. Perhaps if she had taught us to wipe our bottoms properly, she would not have fallen victim to this practice.
9. A Human Poo behind the Garages
Whilst playing out in a narrow alleyway of bushes behind the garages near our house, I lazily decided to spare myself the walk home (about 100 metres) and so dropped my pants to have a shit there and then. Foliage in the vicinity was not the most robust, but what the hell, I could always tuck that day’s pants behind the bathroom sink.
Our neighbour, who’d been playing out with us (yes, there was an audience for this base act) grassed me up to his mum, who then told my mum. When accused, I naturally denied the crime; but our neighbour’s mum had been round behind the garages to verify the accusation. I suggested that the evidence she had discovered was probably a dog’s poo, but she claimed that she knew the difference between dog and human poo.
What was she? A fucking shit expert? My mum must have thought so, because on her testimony I was banged to rights.
8. Stinkbomb in a Phone Box
Straying slightly away from poo, this was my favourite prank played on total strangers. There was a phone box outside our house, so we took the number, waited next to it until someone happened to be walking up the hill towards us and then smashed a stink bomb inside. Then we’d run back inside the house, ring the number and look mischievously out of the window at the poor passer-by stepping inside to answer the phone, being subjected to that most foul of manufactured smells.
7. Shat in My Shorts
At first glance this sounds like a run-of-the-mill occurrence. However, the shorts in question cost me £20 in 1990 from a Rolling Stones concert at Wembley stadium. Bermuda shorts (all the rage in 1990) emblazoned with the Stone’s Tongue design. And the shitter who shat in my shorts was my brother.
Self-conscious about his narrow waist, he would wear several layers beneath his jeans and on this occasion he chose to make my very special expensive Stones Bermuda shorts the bottom layer. He was in a club in Manor House called The Catacombs, dancing to The Doors, when he felt a fart brewing. As it turned out, there was a lot more to it and he shit himself. In my fucking shorts. He disposed of them in the gents (down the loo rather than behind any sink) and returned to the dancefloor.
Bastard.
6. Exploding Poo
Back in the 1970’s, before dog owners were ordered to scoop up their pets’ plops, you really couldn’t go anywhere as a kid without stepping in shit. If we spotted one in advance, we’d often lance the canine waste matter with a stick and throw it at each other.
Come the 1980’s, there was less opportunity for such bastardness in the UK – but no less in France. On an exchange trip, me and my mate Wayne bought the obligatory pack of bangers and had the idea of sliding one inside a dog’s turd. We lit it and ran. The effect was all that we’d hoped for, but for the fact that some of the fall-out hit Wayne. Ironically, he was the fastest sprinter in our year at school, but even he couldn’t outrun exploding dog shit.
5. Fartspray: the brainchild of a bastard
Joke shops were well stocked with Fartspray back in the 80’s. Not that it smelt of fart. It was far worse than that. My brother was used to me farting on his head (sometimes bare-arsed for maximum effect) but he and our cousin were totally unprepared for being locked in our coal-shed and having me liberally spraying it through the gap above the door. Sadly, I had to let them out quickly, because they were close to taking the door off its hinges in their desperation to escape.
4. Floater in the Bath
I’m sure I was still made to share a bath with my younger brother until I was at least 6 or maybe 7 or 8 at best. Perhaps the trigger for ending this slightly unsavoury practice was the growing frequency of one or other of us to either piss in the bath, or on a few occasions, to squeeze a nugget of poo out and see if it could float towards the other before he had a chance to spot it and jump out. Mum must have got tired of the resultant screaming on these joint bath nights and let us have our own baths from then on.
3. Enacting the Chinese Proverb
Do you remember, as a kid, someone saying: Old Chinese proverb say, He who goes to bed with itchy bum, wakes up with smelly finger? Well that gave me an idea. (I’ll apologise to the reader now, because as we hit the top 3, the anecdotes become increasingly impossible to stomach.) I would deliberately itch my bum until my finger was so potently smelly that I couldn’t bear to move it within a foot of my nose. Then I’d grab my little brother in a headlock with one arm and with my free hand – the one with the offensive arse-residue on its index finger – I’d cover his mouth and make sure that the finger was wedged against his nostrils.
I put my hands up to this – it was abuse. People who criticise the Americans for Guantanamo Bay, really need to question whether I should be on trial for Human Rights violations before the US government is.
2. Nutella
I’m not getting paid for the advertisement, but I would like to thank Nutella for this number 2 prank. Chocolate spread, out of context (i.e. not in a jar or on bread) looks exactly like poo. Exploiting this fact, I played this prank on someone – I can’t even remember who – and I would encourage everyone to try it, because the effect was worth recording and sending to You’ve Been Framed.
I smeared chocolate spread quite thickly onto a scrunched up bundle of toilet paper and placed it on the floor next to the loo. Then I called the victim in and accused that person of being responsible for the shitty tissue missing the pan. As they were denying involvement in this apparent act of carelessness, I picked up the tissue and shoved it all into my mouth.
The look of horror and immediate retching of my victim meant that I had to swiftly unplug my mouth, because I was laughing so hard I nearly choked on it.
(You know what, now that I think about it, for this prank I was an adult and the victim may have been my own son. Is that bad?)
1. Why the fuck did I do this?
My favourite poo-related prank of all time tops the list for two reasons. Firstly, the impact of this action on the victim was the most extreme; and secondly, it was never intended as a prank and it was a completely illogical thing for me to do.
Again, thinking about the house in which I did this, I was at least 6 years old, but couldn’t have been much older, because it was so incomprehensively dumb.
I went into the bathroom to use the toilet and I decided that for a change I would poo in the bath instead. FOR A CHANGE? I recall my decision clearly. I wanted variety in my life. I asked myself, why should we always have to poo in the toilet? Let’s try something different.
So, I pooed in the bath. Not like I did when my brother was in the bath with me, when the poo would float a while on the surface of the water and you could offer a defence to your mum that it was an accident. NO! This was a shit in a dry bath. I had the foresight to dispose of the subsequent tissue in the actual toilet, but then I was confronted by the inevitable and horrifying realisation that you can’t flush a bath.
There’s something about the water in a toilet that minimises the smell of poo. This I concluded as I reaped the reward of witnessing a turd hit the dry surface of the bath. I also have a theory that much of the smell is contained within a poo and is released when it breaks. Well this one certainly had its surface crack on impact.
I knew what to do next, though. I shouted to my little brother to come and see. Innocently he responded to my call and walked straight in. Hit by the stark image of that misplaced poo and the wave of stink emanating from its pores, my brother immediately turned back into the hall and vomited all over the floor.
My mum, called into action to deal with both the poo and the vomit, plus her eldest son’s sheer brainlessness, was far too furious with me to allow me to enjoy the moment straight away. But I’ve dined out on the memory for almost 35 years since and for that reason as well this is my number one number two tale.
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