Snow Business

I’m mostly spending today walking around outside with less clothes on than everyone else. I have sneered at snow warnings and temperature predictions with distaste. Oh no, -10c outside is it? How terrifying for you all. Might snow a bit might it? Get little cold toesies will you? Not me. Yesterday in Helsinki the plane I flew back to the UK on took off in a snow blizzard in -23c. Get in. Take your poxy British winters, I am now an experienced Arctic snow dude. Through the last week travelling around the gorgeous sights of Estonia and Finland I have felt cold that nearly made me cry. It didn’t, purely because my tear ducts had frozen to become another weak area on my face. Wrapped in so many layers, I was like a human onion. Peeling off any of them would have made you cry. Underwear, topped with thermals, with tshirt and jeans on top, then thick socks, a zip up, a warmer zip up, my jacket, hat and scarf. I was the winter version of a weeble, padded to the extremes. Had I been hit by a car, I would have softly bounced off to land gently in the half a foot of snow. Only my face exposed, it meant I was often strolling around working out how to hold my head so that the insides of my nose wouldn’t freeze incase I sneezed and killed a child.

I was quite an experience being away this past week. I had gigged in Denmark before but Estonia and Finland were two new ventures and both equally amazing. Estonia is a country I never would have thought of going to if gigs hadn’t appeared, but now having been I would highly recommend to anyone. Only 1.2m people in the whole place, you get an incredible sense of space and calm strolling around picturesque medieval streets. Surrounded by huge 12th century churches and city walls, while all the houses are coloured a mix of pastel reds and yellows, it all feels a bit magical. Talinn was a beautiful city, but Tartu in its miniature size felt like someone had allowed me to run around a children’s book. Thick snow and cobbled streets is a lovely mixture. The whole place felt like Disneyland with much less crying children. Again though, the cold tear ducts could have been a factor.

I didn’t get to see a lot of Finland, being only in Helsinki for one night and the weather being so cold that walking around sightseeing was impossible. I still saw enough to say that I like the city though and to be honest I fell in love with it on the ferry there from Talinn, staring out at the frozen patches of sea looking like an icy cobblestoned path. I think I’m just a sucker for still getting excited about snow. Yesterday while having a mini-sightseeing trip myself and Louis (the organiser of all the gigs and from Australia so still amazed by snow) spent ages watching some men unstick a ship from its frozen waters with huge steam rods, and then we purposefully stomped in thick snow, avoiding the cleared paths. It didn’t matter that I was only wearing trainers as the powder just fell off. Its lucky I was only there for one day or there’s a high chance I’d have no feet by now.

Finnish and Estonian people both similarly crave the sunshine and being used it, aren’t huge fans of the cold white stuff, but it still doesn’t have the same ‘sigh’ factor when it snows as in the UK. It may be partly because they can deal with it, roads are cleared in seconds, planes still take off. I think when it snows here, as much as love how it looks and the joy of building snowmen etc, we know our week is ruined. As a self-employed person its generally shit, as I lose tons of work due to the inefficiency of British transport and road services. It may also be because there are too many of us here and so we can’t just enjoy the tranquil stillness of a snow covered place. Helsinki is a busy city but still has less than 600,000 people there. We have nearly 8 million people in London. Thats’ more than the entire population of Denmark and Estonia put together. Yet we’re all crammed into one city. No wonder its a hassle. Snow makes darting round these people even harder on icy streets. It makes trains even more crowded as there are less of them. It makes traffic jams so horrible tear ducts will unfreeze through frustration.

As my plane left Helsinki last night, the last few glittering snow flakes hovering in the front of the aircraft, I thought I might miss the snow. I thought I’d miss the extra 5 minutes it would take to get ready to head out, adding every single bit of clothing. I thought I’d miss how quickly the fresh icy air would heal a hangover. But right now, I’m praying it doesn’t snow tonight. I have to go to Poole and something tells me that cold weather will make that journey harder than traversing across several countries in the North. Bloody England. Its great to be back.

Sven

Sven is not a happy man. Despite his carefully crafted dreadlocks and lifestyle not dissimilar of a student, he doesn’t seem to be remotely impressed with being stuck in charge of a youth hostel in Talinn. Not one bit. A tall thin man with a sad face, he wears clothes that looks like he was lifted up and slotted into them like a toilet roll into a loo roll holder. They fit him almost exactly, with slight space for movement and an area about the shoe to make it look like he accidentally grew in the night. His t-shirt of a red, once exciting, now rather faded and word. A reminder that once, long ago, Sven had fun. His trousers have probably seen clubbing days but now only see other return from clubbing as he enforces that ‘no visitors’ are allowed in the rooms or ‘to keep the noise down’. Sure Germans do stick to rules but he didn’t think he’d be the stereotype when he took this job, spending everyday perched at his tiny computer desk, surfing the escape possibilities online endlessly, using the computer that ‘is for everyone unless I am using it.’

As I entered the hostel today Sven didn’t even look me in the eye. Another one of those comedians, he probably thought. Staying here for one night, taking a large room to himself, while the rest of the world suffers. ‘You do this comedy as a hobby?’ He asked me. ‘No’, I replied. ‘Full time. Its my proper job.’ ‘Hmm, curious’ came the response. As discerning in tone as possible. My job isn’t a proper job. Nor will it ever be. Yet somehow, somehow, I earn more than he does and enjoy my life. This discrepancy will only burn inside his soul as he searches yet another Facebook page for some reason as to why his life has hit a huge dead end. The sort of dead end that you can’t quite turn the vehicle out of without scraping both the sides and some arsehole telling you ‘its a dead end y’know’ and that you’re facing the wrong way.

‘Where are you from?’ ‘Germany.’ ‘Yep, but which part.’ ‘Oh, you wouldn’t know it.’ I honestly began to wonder if Douglas Adams’ creation Marvin was based on a trip to Germany many moons ago. ‘I don’t know why I left’, Sven said, before turning back to Facebook. Outside the very walls in which he sits is a city steeped in architectural history dating back over 7 centuries. But he’s seen it. He’s seen it before. He’s seen the people come and go through it. He’s heard Americans say its quaint, English people talk about the beer and Australian backpackers take extra bread and cheese at breakfast to make a sandwich for lunch. Tomorrow, I leave here. Another one of those many people whose names he won’t ask about, whose careers he will discern out of spite, whose comments on minus 13C degree weather he’ll snort at, knowing full well he hates the cold too. And in years to come he’ll still be here. Surfing Facebook, wondering why everyone in the world has more fun than Sven.

Why waste time Sven? Here’s the answer: Its because you’re a penis. I’m totally going to find a way to fuck up the internet on that computer and make you cry. I really worry I shouldn’t be allowed out into the world. Ever.

White Whine

Things seem to be easier in Denmark. That’s what I’ve discovered. Well most things anyway. I’m currently staying in a magician’s bedroom in Copenhagen while he’s in Aarhus, and trying to find where he keeps the tea is a nightmare. So far I’ve discovered tons of glitter, a crystal ball, balloons, a toy racoon, a skateboard, a series of hats and I know where the beer is. His flatmate, a Danish comic called Niels who’s very kindly letting me stay, is still asleep. I have no idea how you wake a sleeping Dane in a kind way but I can’t help but think back to the Jorvik Viking museum and seeing a helmet destroyed by a Danish sword, so I’m staying clear. There is beautiful snow outside with children sledding down picturesque hillsides, while I am scrabbling around just wanting a cuppa. All is wrong with the world.

Well not all. Denmark, actually, is one of those countries that makes me return home and wonder why we can’t do anything right. Yesterday for example, I got on a three hour train journey. It cost me £45 to buy a ticket on the day, which is about 3 times less than it would in the UK. Then the train itself was clean, spacious, with information about where you were and when you’d get there every step of the way. The views were snowy fields and amazing lakes all the way. Compare that to any UK train journey it it merely seems like we get the withered, not talked about, younger brother of European travel. Even when the high speed rail from London to Birmingham is made I daresay the wifi won’t work, you won’t be able to find a plug socket for your laptop, you be able to either have your table down or move your arms and chances are someone who smells will sit next to you.

I do realise that complaints about ‘not plugging in your laptop’ are what Niels has been referring too as ‘white whine’. He often likes to point out when a complaint is something we can only make having the lives we do in the Western world. So far these have included things like complaining that the hotel yesterday kicked me out at 11am and him being annoyed his plate wasn’t big enough for all his food. At either of those moments someone from the 3rd world could happily have pointed out what arseholes we are and all the other far more miserable things in the world. Though this wouldn’t have stopped me from being tired, nor Niels from being hungry and all in all we’d have questioned how that person had got to Denmark from their country without a reasonable income and why on Earth they were in Niels’ flat.

Apparently, I’ve been told, Danish people complain a lot. But I reckon that’s because things work and make sense here, so when they don’t, its a surprise. I’ve never seen anyone new to London negotiate the Underground system as quickly as I did the S-Train system last night. I don’t speak a word of the language but it was all pointed out clearly how to get where, with everything running on time. I’ve seen people stare at Oyster card machines for well over 30 minutes hoping that their brain might explode before they have to actually get on a tube train. Yet we grumble and moan but never really complain and I think that’s because we are now so used to how badly everything works we’ve given up trying to change it. Not that I’d change it you understand. Otherwise I’d have to work a damn sight harder to write jokes and I’d feel far to content to ever rant about anything. Its all just white whine really.

Language Barriers

Less a blog today, more an observation. Perhaps store it somewhere and use it for studying or something interesting/rubbish to say at a party.

For the last two nights now I’ve have watched Danish comedians do stand-up in Danish, before taking to the stage myself, often late into the evening’s proceedings to shout funnies in English at the predominantly Danish crowd. There’s a number of oddities to this. One being that up until I go onstage, I have no idea of what the acts have been talking about. They may have covered every topic I’m about to do, ruining my set entirely. They may have said something that, unbeknownst to me, is a real taboo and ruins the room. Worse still, the compere may introduce me by saying ‘and next we have a massive bellend from England’, or ‘and now we dine on the blood of a British man’ and I stroll onto applause and a horrible trap. I’ve watched most of the acts on before me though, and the strangest thing is that no matter what language comedians are speaking in, there is a rhythm and a body language that appears to be universal. I have no idea what the set up is, but I can tell when the punchline is coming. There is a high use of clowning amongst Danish stand-ups, with large amounts of physical movement and expressions and so most of this I find myself chuckling away even though the context is completely lost. Its all very weird.

More weird is then going on stage and speaking English. I’ve been made to headline two small shows due to ‘being all the way from England’, the audience having no idea how unglamorous that actually is, and I’ve been doing my own hour show here too, the last one of which is tonight. I was asked to do my Edinburgh show which was primarily about UK politics and so I have spent several days tweaking it so it might work for a Danish crowd, worried I’ll have no clue of their parliament or how it works and that my points will be completely irrelevant to them. Turns out, after last night’s show they are not. The only thing they didn’t like/get was a reference to Wind In The Willows which was only popular here about 20 years ago. Its things like this that throw me. Doing an old routine at an amazing open mic night in caverns underground last night, I talked about having spots to some odd stares. After coming off stage one of the Danish acts looked at me and said ‘you have to say pimples’. Something so small yet the whole gag would’ve worked so much better.

Still, as it is, all the shows have been lovely. Danish audiences, rather wonderfully, sit and listen. I’ve been told several times now that ‘heckling is a British thing’ and apart from the odd attempt to contribute politely, they just laugh and applaud. An ideal audience despite only speaking English as a second language. It’s funny how the British people’s stubbornness to become bi or tri lingual helps us in these situations. Danish comics can only really perform in Denmark, as nowhere else speaks Danish. English comics can perform across the world without ever having to learn a single word of any other language. Its awful, but sometimes I feel lucky for our sheer forceful pig ignorance, and ever so respectful for the learned knowledge of other countries. It makes my life a lot easier.

Only one show to do tonight before I’m off to Copenhagen tomorrow so my aims are to walk around in the snow, then drink a ton of coffee – remnants of my monumental hangover from yesterday are still kicking about – to warm myself up again. Its properly shitting freezing here, and I’m donned in several layers from thermals to jumpers and still feel the bite, while local Aarhusians stroll around in a thin leather jacket looking all tall and pretty. Every one here is tall and attractive and I honestly feel like a tiny cold hobbit man scuttling around between them. Well more fool them, because at least I only know one language. Hah.

Aarhusing Again

This week’s excuse for not blogging comes from the fact that at 5am tomorrow I leave for Denmark. Well I say I, but I mean Tiernan Douibe, the person who’s names on my boarding pass. I’d like to be able to change that but I didn’t book the flights and it would cost £110 to do so, so I’m praying Ryan Air don’t have me arrested by the terror police and I’ll happily spend my flight pretending to be someone slightly different. Sure me and Tiernan Douibe will have some similarities. We both totally have beards, we both like the Wu Tang Clan, things like that. But where we differ is that Tiernan Douibe may speak in an accent. I’m not sure what yet. He may also laugh if he farts on the plane. In a loud way that states he is in no way embarrassed. He’ll also prounounce ‘water’ slightly wrong so that when he asks for some on the plane, everyone around him thinks he’s exotic. And he might walk with a limp. We’ll have to wait and see. I haven’t met him yet. It could all go horribly wrong though. Firstly Ryan Air may just not let me on. That’d be bad. Worse would be if I get to Denmark and they are expecting Tiernan Douibe who is a completely different comedian and his one hour show ‘I Fire Penguins From My Asses’.

This would be mostly bad because a) I can’t fire penguins from my asses, not least because I don’t have a pet ass. Nor do I have more than one bodily ass. Either way, it’d be hard and 2) because I have spent a week learning Danish things. There is nothing like an abroad trip to make you realise just how culturally ignorant you are. I know the Danish watch a fair amount of British TV but my gags seem to be filled with far too many vague references on people and places that outside of the British Isles are fairly pointless comparisons. I could go full ‘British Tourist’ and just say them anyway, only loudly, hoping they’ll get it, but instead I’m actually trying to write jokes. Mostly, as I’m doing two one hour shows, I’m trying to write about their government so I can squeeze it in and around my Edinburgh show of last year. Turns out that its pretty hard working out how other countries work. Well it is if you’re me.

I spent ages learning how British politics work, and now to try and get my head around Danish politics, it feels like a whole whirlpool of boringness. Its not the most interesting aspects of Danish culture I’ll give you that. Sure, there are bits that are. Like the fact that their Queen smokes, their Nick Griffin equivalent is the only Danish MP that supports David Cameron, and recently they too suffered from Norway’s butter crisis. But ultimately things are so similar yet with such subtle differences, that cramming them all in my brain isn’t very helpful to anyone. I’ve been watching the Danish show Borgen to help me, and what that has told me is that most Danish politicians are quite pretty, anyone who looks like an evil Pacey from Dawson’s Creek is definitely evil and that calling someone ‘Bent’ as a first name will be funny for the rest of my life.

Thing is, comedy is totally universal. There are things that will make people laugh all over the world and last time I was in Aarhus I found it an absolute joy to play. But I wasn’t trying to comment on the state of the nation. Nor was I talking for an hour to a theatreful of people. Hopefully, I’ll just wing the whole thing, say Borgen a lot, occasionally say how funny it is that their PM is called Helle and then break down crying. Or if all else fails I’ll learn how to Fire Penguins From My Asses.

Elementary Level Tourette’s

I have already had one of those moments today where I’ve scowled at my own needs overriding my viewpoints on society. I am in full support of Wikipedia’s blackout against the US’s SOPA law which will affect internet freedom across the globe, but at the same time, I’ve tried to find a two things out today where I automatically went to said site, only to be greeted by the ‘blackout’ screen and a stream of expletives that flowed freely from my gob. It’s a horrible instinctive viewpoint Tourette’s that I sometimes have. All in all, I know what they are doing is right. While I’m partially against internet piracy, I am a downloader of sorts, and by that, I mean I download things illegally. And sometimes legally. But mostly only after downloading them illegally then deciding they are worthy of money. However, I nearly always buy the CDs or see the bands live that I download and eventually get the films I like in Blu-Ray just so I can pretend to be snobbish about ‘the picture’ quality, which is usually the same as if its from my computer anyway. But, I do believe that while it loses some creative types money, overall, it spreads the word about them around the world. Further to that, if the SOPA law comes in, it will affect the way website run and ultimately the way in which information is spread around the world. And if that’s all to stop me downloading episode of Adventure Time then its all bit petty.

Yet, if protesting against a law I really don’t like means that today I couldn’t find out who the manager of FC Barcelona was for a competition answer then fuck you wikipedia, I am no longer a friend of the cause. I’m not sure where this lack of patience or tolerance for things I don’t like has arisen from, but its definitely got more evident as I’ve got older. On Sunday Nat was watching Sherlock in the living room and while I said that was fine, I found it impossible to point out consistently why I thought it was shit, what annoys me about it and then read a HP Lovecraft graphic novel while constantly explaining why the storyline in that was better. I am, if nothing else, a really annoying flatmate. And yes, I can already guess that some of you are absolutely enraged as to me not liking Sherlock. Though blogs, Facebook and tweets, you had probably assumed that I was one of the cool kids and therefore down with everything everyone else is. This would prove you hadn’t read my blog of Sunday but on all other accounts, yes, you’d be right. Except for Sherlock which I have never liked. Reasons are as follows: 1) If you are going to make a new detective show based in the 21st century, then why does it have to be a future version of Sherlock Holmes? Why do you have to take an absolute classic and modernise it when you could just write a story about a new autistic detective? Its as though originality has been sucked from the world once again. I’ve been rewatching The Wire again just to remember how television can be made if it goes back to the days where it didn’t patronise its viewers. 2) It’s all too slick. The reason the original Holmes was amazing was because technology didn’t exist, they couldn’t just grab a criminal by his DNA and therefore his deducing skills were incredible. Cumberbatch’s Holmes feels very one dimensional in comparison with just his Rain Man like qualities and lack of drug addiction. ‘Jim’ Moriarty more so for using phone apps. The whole thing bounces along at such a pace it doesn’t feel like much of a mystery at all and uses this technique to gloss over plot holes and improbabilities. Look, to be honest, I may like it if he wasn’t called ‘Sherlock Holmes’ and the stories weren’t bastardised versions of Conan-Doyle’s originals.

It’s that that upsets me the most. Its the way that since the TV show has been on, I’ve found myself in a bookshop looking at a copy of ‘Hound Of The Baskervilles’ with Cumberbatch and Freeman’s face on with the blurb ‘you’ve seen the series, now see where the story comes from!’ which made my miserly Tourette’s throw out a retch and a ‘fuck off’ much to the disconcertion of those in Waterstones York. US TV station CBS have now just announced too that they are also doing their own version of Sherlock set in New York in the 21st Century. WHY? JUST WRITE A NEW DETECTIVE SHOW! Is it that hard? Clearly it is. Or clearly they’ve realised they can just patronise audiences with substandard TV and because its not as shit as Take Me Out, everyone thinks its gold. I honestly think that Sherlock Holmes himself would deduce that pretty damn quickly.

See? That’s what I mean. I didn’t want to write about Sherlock today because I know you, the public, will lambast me. You’ll tell me how great it is because text messages pop up on screen in writing so you don’t have to make any assumptions as to what they say. You’ll say that it means you don’t have to struggle with working it out as it spells it all out for you. You’ll say that Martin Freeman is great as Watson because he’s meant to be just like Tim from the Office and Arthur Dent in the Douglas Adams raping film version of Hitchiker’s Guide To The Galaxy. You’ll say that it doesn’t matter that we lose a large part of the mystery because we now have action sequences instead and its far easier to sit while drool escapes our mouths when explosions happen than try and work anything out with brain power we may need to work out where our mouths are to shovel chips in at a later time. If you disagree then maybe use the internet before SOPA kicks in to download some of the Sherlock Holmes episodes Jeremy Brett did. I would point you to links for the wiki page for all of those but I can’t. Because of its bloody great, shitty, brilliant protest.

I should point out that you are allowed to like Sherlock, in the same way I’m allowed not to like it. That’s the lovely way the world works. And the lovely way the internet works is that we can see everyone’s opinions and make our own based on all the facts and views. Let’s hope the law doesn’t ever change that.

Conforming To The Masses

I wouldn’t say that I’m one of those people who actively won’t like something just because so many others do, but chances are if everyone in the world is going on about something, I won’t rush to see or do it. I’m not sure where this petulance has arisen from, but I suppose there is some stuck up pompous ideal in my head that if its for everyone, its probably not for me as I’m better than that. There are many other areas in life where the masses go on about something or ratings or votes prove that they are popular, yet they are actually massively shit. For example: the government, Mrs Brown’s Boys, Pop Tarts. While this is definitely a case towards not liking the populist views, in reality I think its more that I’ll go see or do whatever it is everyone is banging on about and then not get it and feel like a massive tool. I like the term ‘tool’ as an insult. According to the Urban Dictionary, it means someone who doesn’t realise they are being used. However, sometimes I think being a tool would be alright. I bet power drills don’t mind being used. Not being used would be far more upsetting. There you are with the capacity to make a huge fucking hole in a huge fucking concrete wall and instead you’re gathering dust. Adversely to this, I like using it because on the surface, in my head, being a tool isn’t necessarily a bad thing and therefore saying it in an insulting way is funnier. Such was the case as school with the word ‘chief’. We would regularly refer to someone we didn’t like as a ‘chief’ which, in turn, meant they were a tool. For years as a kid playing cowboys and native Americans (I have hippy parents), being a chief would have been the best thing in the world, yet as a teenager suddenly all those brave Apache men were merely twats due to their hierarchical title.

Anyway, I once again, digress. What I was saying was that there have been many a ‘cool’ thing that I’ve not bothered with in the name of wanting to seem like a hella cool kid. Then secretly, when no one is looking, I’ll totally get into it and watch it all. Turin Brakes were played repeatedly in my house at university by my flatmates Jamie and Mat, and so I refused to like it. The second we moved out of the house I fell in love with The Optimist LP and in the following year saw them live twice. The Wire was avoided for a few years and I expressed annoyance at anyone that chose to tell me that it simply is the best TV show ever made, then finally sitting down to watch episode one I became instantly hooked watching all five seasons in a matter of weeks, and then becoming one of those annoying people. But so far 2012 has been a bit of surprise, as already there have been two things that the nation won’t be quiet about that I will happily applaud as well. And not in secret. Maybe I’ve grown up. Maybe, more likely, I’ve just given in and realised that when a lot of people like a thing, it doesn’t necessarily mean that everyone one of those people are chief tools.

Thing one was The Artist. Quite possibly one of the best films I’ve seen in ages. Brilliantly shot, wonderfully brave with its use of silent acting, and once again made me wonder why tap dancing isn’t on telly and film more often. I realise that this is not an often  shared opinion but you watch a Gene Kelly film – preferably Singin’ In The Rain, but really, any of them – and try hard not to smile when he’s rat-a-tatting with his shiny sneaks. I’m sure there’s more professional terms than that, but frankly I wouldn’t care to know them. It’s much better making it sound like a tiny machine gun fires out of some glittery ninjas. Maybe. Tap dancing is easily one of the happiest things ever. Its dancing, where the feet of the dancer make noise. Its a three year olds ideal pastime yet done by adults and with fare more coordination and skill. Incredible. The Artist is a film that hasn’t pandered to anything that Hollywood usually demand. The cast is interesting, vibrant and perfectly chosen, and the story fun and yet touching at times. I worry what will happen now is that several films about the silent movie era will happen after The Artist wins a ton of Oscars and it will ruin it all. Michael Bay’s The Scarlet Pimp or something where a nuclear weapon explodes and the word ‘Boom!’ appears on a card.

The second one and the one I really didn’t want to get involved in, but now am inexplicably stuck in, is Skyrim. A game that sounds like some sort of arial anal sex activity has had ‘the geeks’ banging on for ages now. Oh yawn, you can be an elf of something and kill a dragon with your enchanted penis. Give. A. Shit. It sounds exactly the sort of thing a dude who has a beard and wears children’s tshirts would get all hyper over and spend his life sitting in a darkened room playing. Sadly I am that bearded dude, in those tshirts, with the blinds down in the day so I can see the screen and search for Arnam’s family’s sword. I didn’t want this game. I have things to do. Loads to do. Why would I want a game that has been referred to as ‘boundless’? I can’t have ‘boundless’. So far Olaf Sporkbeard has only killed one dragon, learnt two ‘shouts’ and ran away from one Frost Troll and already I’m wondering how I can earn money from never going outside again and getting L and Nat to just deliver me food while I scour Skyrim for a Nettlestone. It is incredible though. I have this horrible image of the people that made it just sitting there, plotting how their game would be responsible for gamers everywhere just getting more and more fat, their eyes akin only to dark until we all shuffle underground like Morlocks to our game stations as they take over the outside world. Hence today I have walked up the hill and back, eaten some eggs and had a shower. If I can just do that everyday, then they won’t win.

So here it is. Maybe 2012 is the year of conforming. Ed Milliband seems to be doing it. Saying that he’s now backing public sector pay freezes and that Labour are accepting the cuts. A sad moment that really signs the demise of the opposition party even pretending to care for the working people. Very much a case of ‘if you can’t beat them, why not totally sign up to their fan club, get a badge and shit all over your dignity’. I refuse to let that happen to me. Sure I can like Skyrim and The Artist because they are both actually good, but if by the end of the year I’ve decided James Corden is alright and own anything by James Morrison, then please, for my sake, send a punch in my face my way for I’ll have become a total tool chief.

 

As a final note, this blog will now be irregular and irrelevant. A more political weekly rant shall be occurring at The Huffington Post website with the first one here (a few days old now in terms of topic):

PRAISE THE LORDS 

 

 

31

I filled in my age on something today. I say something, what I mean is ‘a shitty competition that I entered’. I hesitated to clarify the exactness of the ‘something’ for two main reasons. One is that I haven’t been blogging much lately and I am pretending this is because I just don’t have time. I don’t. I really honestly don’t. Things are a bit mental and aside from not having many musings of any note – honestly my life is boring admin and staying indoors. I’m sure no one cares about my foibles about why the coriander plant I bought was dead in just 3 days or that my gmail inbox is overfull. These two aren’t related I should. The coriander plant didn’t die in protest at my overuse of gmail memory. I hope. – I also don’t have time to muse. Wow I love the word muse. Say it again. Go on. Yeah ace huh? Now rhyme it with news. Fun. For everyone. See, I totally have time. But I’m saying I haven’t and instead filling the time I should be blogging by rhyming the word muse and entering competitions to win a soda stream because along with a Tory government, a recession and some truly shit music, I feel I should help embrace this dive back to the 80′s with open arms. I’m willpower minutes away from a mullet and leg warmers.

So yes, I filled in my age and its the first time since Monday, which was my birthday, that I’ve had to do it. 31. I am now 31. Its such a nothing age 31. For a start it looks boring. Sideways it looks like a bum about to sit on a thorny branch. Not fun. Generally though, in ages, its could just as easily glide past without any notice as happen. There’s not really another big one now till 40 which is when you stop celebrating birthdays and only invite people to get drunk with you so you can all feel miserable about how shit you feel on a day to day basis and hopefully lose some memory so you can feel more comfortable with your meaningless and ever harder existence. So 31 for me is just another notch on the age post and another terrifying reminder that life is still battling my desire to grow up.

I never read Gunter Grass’s The Tin Drum despite my friend Luke banging on about it (yes, the pun was intentional) on an almost regular basis until I borrowed and subsequently stole his copy, only for it to sit on my shelf wishing it would either be read or released back into the wild with its brothers and sisters. However I did always love the idea and after reading about 12 pages I garnered enough information to be jealous of the idea of this tiny boy who never ever grew older than a child. I wouldn’t like that as such, but I’d have been very happy if someone had said I could have stayed at 25 for many many years then just die. There are huge flaws to that ideal. For example, I’d be the weirdest of granddads. Aside from that, it’d be amazing.

I think my problem is that despite physically ageing – and I am. Noticeable by hairs in very odd places, unnecessary aches and my constant want to sit down – my brain hasn’t changed a bit. My Nana, now at the grand old age of 86, said to me once that she still had the mind of a 21 year old but her body was letting her down. Now I fully sympathise. My birthday compromised of L getting me lovely presents including a Radiohead remixes CD and a graphic novel, taking me for a huge lunch, then to see a Manga exhibition at the British Museum (Japanese Art, not a male Lady Gaga impersonator) and finally for a meal where the tables were computers and she beat me twice at Battleships despite knowing it was my birthday and obviously ignoring the rules. I spent ages wondering if you could leave porn as the table’s backdrop then run away and make them sad. All in all, the sort of birthday I would have enjoyed about ten years ago, and will still enjoy in ten years time. Then we had to run for a bus and I nearly died. At 40 I will just give up and wait for the next bus, knowing full well I actually would die if I ran. Also knowing full well that due to my stupid career, at 40 I still won’t be able to afford a cab home in January.

 

I will still be blogging this year. It may just be a tad infrequent due to workload and the fact that I am getting more boring and don’t wish to tell you about it. There is also soon to be a new blog on the Huffington Post website so I’ll post many things about that soonish.

I-Cons

There is a tad too much to write about today. It seems that 2012 is rife for human error already and today has witnessed Ed Milliband’s amazing twuckup (yes, I’m going to call it that. I know it sounds horrible. Tough), following on Diane Abbott’s Twuckup yesterday. More and more it seems that if you are a person who values your credibility at all, you probably either shouldn’t use social networking sites like Twitter, or you should very carefully check what you say before you hit send. Whatever Labour decide amongst them they haven’t had the strongest year despite it only being 6 days in. Their plans to boost popularity announced just before the new year, seem to to have transformed today into an announcement that they will be accepting the cuts in order to seem credible. This is pretty strange. I’m concerned there will be some sort of chain reaction whereby the Green Party will start condoning people drive everywhere and the Anti-Nazi League will promote anti-Semitism. I mean who do Labour want to seem credible to though? The working person? Or the upper class, tax-dodging business man? It seems far more the latter than the former who’s blood the red of their motif is meant to represent. Oddly for a party with Balls, they really don’t seem to have any. It appears their long term strategy is to make themselves seem so ridiculous and laughable as an opposition party that the schadenfraude loving British public will vote for them for a laugh. To be fair, it worked for Boris Johnson in London, so it may well work for them. Which in turn, would really fuck off the monster raving looney party.

I don’t know what political party’s think people want anymore. It concerns me that the less they care about the people that vote for them, the more it will become a battle of who is the least shitty. If it hasn’t already. It isn’t helped by the media projecting what we should want on us. I’m talking in particular about the release today of The Iron Lady, a film about Margaret Thatcher, which sadly didn’t just CGI her head onto footage from Downfall. Cameron today says he thought the film was ‘too soon’ which I suppose is correct as the public needs ample time to get over any National or International disaster before it can be transferred to screen. It’s odd that Cameron thinks the film should have been made at another time, concerned it doesn’t promote the idea of a ‘great Prime Minister’, as I would state the opposite. I haven’t seen the film, but my understanding is that it creates a sympathy for someone who clearly had none for anyone else. If people born in the 90′s had no knowledge of the impact of Thatcherism, they will perhaps see the Conservatives as less of a threat than they are, ultimately viewing Cameron in a different light too.

What I really don’t get is when it was decided that the ideology of a hero or film worthy character was changed so dramatically. In the olden days there was folklore of heroes such as Robin Hood or William Tell who fought for the people. Since that time there have been a tidal wave of icons ranging fictional and non, ranging from Malcolm X and Michael Collins to Billy Elliot or even Spiderman (poverty stricken young kid, fighting for justice despite his home problems). Sure I’m skipping tons of them and I’m also missing out all those film biopics about serial killers and people like Hitler, but fact is, in recent years there has been a spate of films where we are to sympathise with rich, wealthy, elitist individuals. The King’s Speech for example which was so wonderfully but rightfully ruined by my dad’s inclusion of ‘He was a neo-fascist you know’ referring to George VI’s relationship with Oswald Moasley. It did ruin Colin Firth’s stuttering hero somewhat to know that his character was chummy with a man who followed some of Adolf’s ideals. And now Margaret Thatcher, whose industry and life destroying decisions are apparently skimmed over quite lightly and instead the audience’s are asked to warm to this ageing woman with dementia.

It’d be nice to have a film about someone who we can all relate too again, though sadly I can’t see it happening anytime soon. With not even a political party to represent the middle and lower classes, chances are the next Oscar winning film will be about Fred Goodwin looking for love.

On a hugely different note, myself and L watched Being Elmo last night, the documentary on Kevin Clash. It is easily, one of the best docufilms I’ve seen in some time, provoking the first man tears of 2012. Of course, it can’t really go wrong, featuring on one of the best loved muppets ever and the well loved and kind man that somewhat created him. The film points out that Elmo’s appeal is simply that he loves and that as well as loving people, he needs people to love him, which makes him so vulnerable yet warming. It makes me so pleased that The Henson Company is having something of a comeback considering it not only makes some of the best telly ever, but the whole group seems to operate on love for the work and that’s a such a rarity nowadays. All I’m saying is, there’s a reason post Iron Lady that people won’t be buying Tickle-Me Thatchers for presents.

Dogs In Coats

I’m not sure why I think its so brilliant, but lately, every time I see a little dog in a little jacket, I find it funnier than most other things. I was so sure that coming up to the grand age of 31 I’d developed a better sense of humour than that. A wry political comment should be my hors d’oeuvres followed by a meaty cryptic philosophical set up that has no punchline on account of nothing existing and so a punchline not being worthwhile as my mains. Finally a Shakespearian gag as a sweet dessert. That’s where I should be. Instead I’ve spent today laughing really hard at making up Wurzel’s songs on Twitter with my friend Mary (previously seen in THIS BLOG) whereby we have made cheap insinuations about incest and pig fucking, and then at a tiny white Scottish Terrier wearing a red jacket and looking all a bit distressed at the wind and rain situation.

It was impossible not to give it a tiny Scottish voice in my head saying things like ‘ooh my this wind’s blowing right oop my joomper’ and such things. The smaller the dog, the more elaborate the jacket, the better. I saw one of those really tiny ones, like really small, wearing a dogs puffer gillette. Yes this means the owner is a bell end, but at the same time, the dog looked so confused by its wearing of the jacket, a noted ‘I have fur, so why am I wearing this?’ that it was an endlessly hilarious site. I want more confused animals in coats. I have been told that some dogs need coats due to their thin fur, but I maintain that its funnier if they definitely don’t for extra confusion. Let’s put coats on dogs, boots on cats and earmuffs on rabbits. Then, to really confuse them, we should all be naked. Let’s mess up the animal kingdom! Wait, I’ve just read the last part back. Let’s skip the nude bit.

I’m honestly not sure what’s happened to me over Christmas. Just yesterday I fixed both a fridge door light (admittedly it was just changing a bulb) and then a bathroom pull cord switch light (admittedly, only after sending 240V into my left arm when trying to fix it without turning the mains off first). Surely this denotes me as an adult? Not only that, but an adult who exhibits powers only dads get? I’m almost certain I’m not a dad, so if anything, this just means when I do become a dad my powers will so extreme I’ll be able to rewire entire buildings in minutes, build swimming pools and hit anything electrical to make it work. Yet adverse to this clear sign that I am a grown up, I laugh at dogs in jackets, and this morning I spent some time replying to this spam email because it was too fun:

Dear Friend,
Please this email is very confidential and specifically for you alone. My name is Dr. Jessee Lynn Page, personal physician of the 73-year-old entertainer and singer Mrs. Etta James. Like you are aware, she is terminally ill with chronic leukemia, dementia and kidney failure. She brought out your contact from a diary yesterday and she asked me to write
you and tell you to contact her by email at ettajamestheblues@hotmail.com
Do email her at once because she said she has something important to tell you.
Dr. Jessee Lynn Page.

 

Best. Spam. Ever. Etta James wants to speak to me? I know its spam, but what a brilliant con! I replied with a lengthy email about how lovely it is that Etta remembers me after all these years. I hope to god for some reason it isn’t fake and she replies. Though it is and she won’t. But still what if she does? Though she won’t. But still. Imagine getting that then seeing the dog with the jacket and the Wurzel’s jokes things? Pretty good day huh? Yes indeed. This is on a par with the day last month where I saw a dog so small it was in someone’s pocket, then along the same bit of road I saw two twins who were dressed the same in sharp suits with trilby hats and both carrying saxophone cases. Musical twins. I mean, seriously.

I am so never growing up. Factoids.