It's 5:30am, and I'm getting into a cab outside my house. "How nice!" I think. "My bosses provide me with a cab to take me to work when I'm on an early shift. They really are thoughtful sometimes."
The driver smiles cheerfully at me in the rear view mirror, and says, "All right! Early start for you, then?"
"Yes!" I reply brightly. The driver is a chatty type, which I usually abhor, but he clearly feels we have a connection. "Just us two early birds," I think, "the only ones awake in the world, working hard, keeping the wheels of industry grinding. We're the invisible army that prepares the land for the advancing day." I grin back at him. His eyes shine with gratitude.
As we drive down the empty streets, a tramp trundles past, pushing a large trolley filled with rubbish. The driver nods in his direction. "See him?" he says. "He lives under the motorway."
"Really?" I say, leaning forward with interest. "Look at me, being attentive," I think. "I'm the best passenger anyone could ever ask for. This driver probably thought he'd get some miserable snob, but I'm eager to listen to his urban wisdom. Workers of the world unite!" "Yeah," says the driver. "He comes out every night at 3am to do his shopping, and then goes back home."
"HA HA HA!" I shriek. "Actually, it's quite tragic," mutters the driver. He shoots an affronted glance at me, then stares grimly at the road ahead.
My stomach lurches. How can I explain to the driver that I wasn't laughing cruelly at the fate of the poor mournful tramp, but at the concept that he had been shopping, when he'd obviously been rooting through bins for the remains of kebabs? I have just confirmed every stereotype going in the driver's head. Him, the working hero empathising with the downtrodden underclasses of society; me, the titan of capitalism being driven in luxury to my air-conditioned office. The nascent bond between us lies shattered in the footwell.
"Er..." I splutter. "Just here, is it?" the driver asks, sharply. He glares at the steering wheel as I sheepishly close the car door behind me.
"Stupid bosses," I think, as I trudge to the lifts. "Making me endure exquisitely awkward cab journeys when I could have driven in my own car. They must hate me."
I get to my office and discover that I had misread my rota and I wasn't due into work for another four hours. I sigh as I turn on my computer.
Dear the Guardian: Look what I can do! Please can I have a column?
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
I May As Well Just Rename This BrookerWorship.Com And Be Done With It
I was informed the other day that Charlie Brooker was in my actual office in my actual work canteen, so now all my waking hours are spent sobbing over this missed opportunity. Although, missed opportunity to do what? Politely tell him I admire his work? Remain rooted to the spot, catatonic with fear, staring fiercely at him as he walks by? Or completely lose my shit and rugby-tackle him to ground, alternately screaming with laughter in his face and smashing my head into his chest? Or what I probably would have done, which was run outside and furiously chain-smoke whilst casting furtive glances through the window, concocting scenarios in my head where he recognised my keen journalistic talent through sight alone and immediately offered me a co-producer role on Screenwipe? I don't know now, and seeing as there are only a few plausible reasons he would be in my office anyway, I don't think I ever will. Hey, and indeed, ho.
I have trouble with celebrity worship. On one hand, I'm a bloody cool dude who works on the very outskirts of London's Trendy Media Scene, and I've had a darn sight better calibre of celebrity sniffing around my work canteen parts than good ole' Mr Brooker. Why, only the other week one of my colleagues hollered "Course, you don't do the reporting, you only get to do the walking around!" at Jeremy Vine (which I loved, incidentally. It was as if he had had a whole conversation with Jeremy in his head just before that, and had only started vocalising in the middle of it, like some kind of madman. Which he isn't, of course, he's a very nice and sane man. Hi, Stew!) So I should be a stone-cold hardman when it comes to the world of slebs. But on the other hand, I still get inordinately excited when I see the damn fool famous types. I was sorely gutted the other week to not be able to attend a gathering which was attended by not only That Bloke Off The Barclays Adverts, but also The Middle One In That Cider Advert That Goes Ahhhhhhh For A Long Time. They were at the same uni as me as well, which gives an extra level of resonance. Actually, I still harbour deep pools of guilty pleasure (if indeed one can harbour a pool - meh, it's my blog, I can harbour whatever I damn well want) at the fact that most of the numbskulls I knew at college who seemed to be undeservedly destined for stardom have, so far, not achieved anything that I know of, apart from one bloke who was actually very nice and not a numbskull who recently popped up on a series of those little 3 minute slots after the Channel 4 news. I don't begrudge him that, they were quite funny. As you may have already gathered, I am a bitter, bitter, bitter, bitter, bitter individual.
On that massively inconclusive note, I should away for some shuteye, if I can get any. Yesterday, I watched the Derren Brown programme where he made someone think they were witnessing their own death in a car crash, and last night I was plagued with nightmares about my mother being dead, complete with deliciously harrowing images in close-up of her pallid corpse. So thanks for that, Derren. Not fucked with enough minds this year already? Damn your well-trimmed pixie beard.
I have trouble with celebrity worship. On one hand, I'm a bloody cool dude who works on the very outskirts of London's Trendy Media Scene, and I've had a darn sight better calibre of celebrity sniffing around my work canteen parts than good ole' Mr Brooker. Why, only the other week one of my colleagues hollered "Course, you don't do the reporting, you only get to do the walking around!" at Jeremy Vine (which I loved, incidentally. It was as if he had had a whole conversation with Jeremy in his head just before that, and had only started vocalising in the middle of it, like some kind of madman. Which he isn't, of course, he's a very nice and sane man. Hi, Stew!) So I should be a stone-cold hardman when it comes to the world of slebs. But on the other hand, I still get inordinately excited when I see the damn fool famous types. I was sorely gutted the other week to not be able to attend a gathering which was attended by not only That Bloke Off The Barclays Adverts, but also The Middle One In That Cider Advert That Goes Ahhhhhhh For A Long Time. They were at the same uni as me as well, which gives an extra level of resonance. Actually, I still harbour deep pools of guilty pleasure (if indeed one can harbour a pool - meh, it's my blog, I can harbour whatever I damn well want) at the fact that most of the numbskulls I knew at college who seemed to be undeservedly destined for stardom have, so far, not achieved anything that I know of, apart from one bloke who was actually very nice and not a numbskull who recently popped up on a series of those little 3 minute slots after the Channel 4 news. I don't begrudge him that, they were quite funny. As you may have already gathered, I am a bitter, bitter, bitter, bitter, bitter individual.
On that massively inconclusive note, I should away for some shuteye, if I can get any. Yesterday, I watched the Derren Brown programme where he made someone think they were witnessing their own death in a car crash, and last night I was plagued with nightmares about my mother being dead, complete with deliciously harrowing images in close-up of her pallid corpse. So thanks for that, Derren. Not fucked with enough minds this year already? Damn your well-trimmed pixie beard.
Monday, May 14, 2007
I Look At The Television And Write Down My Thoughts, Unwisely
Hmm. I've just watched Panorama, mostly because I'm trapped at work on my own with only the BBC's generous array of programming for company. Well, it was either Panorama on Scientology or BBC3's offering,"Help! My Dog's A Big Fucking Racist". Simple choice really. Anyway, it could have been a truly wonderful documentary if the reporter wasn't such a big ole' almost-firey-head! Man, I have seen no-one do snipey, sarcastic, repressed English anger as well as this guy. Until he blew his freakin' top, that is, which was worth it in itself.
So, it was a whole thing about Scientology being crazy control freaks whose religion is based on an "inter-galactic warlord" (which apparently Scientologists are now saying is bullpie...meh, makes approximately equal sense to me as that story about a garden with a naughty little snake.) There wasn't as much Scientology trashing as I was expecting, really. Vague mumblings about certain members completely ignoring their dying parents here, slight harumphing about the amount of money people have to throw at it to get anywhere there. Mostly, though, it was this reporter being followed about by mysterious cars and having to execute handbrake turns in the middle of LA highways (oh please! Just how much must he have loved that? One minute, you're a mild-mannered BBC reporter, the next, you're Jason muthafuckin' Bourne) because THE SCIENTOLOGISTS KNEW ALL AND WERE STALKING HIM.
But hell, that was the best thing about it. This completely freaky, glossy, besuited and sunglassed Scientologist automaton magically appeared every time the reporter talked to anyone at all. The reporter would just be hanging out, interviewing his peeps, shooting the shit, and bing! There was Scientology Guy, arriving from nowhere in a blacked out SUV from 24. I swear to God, he didn't walk around, he glided, like an old time vampire. No! Actually, like the baddies in that episode of Buffy where none of them could talk, which I am now painfully aware makes me sound like the squarest of the square, Squarey McSquareason, Mayor of Squaretown, Mississisquare, etc, etc, etc, cliche, cliche, christ I've just laughed so much my spleen has come out of my ear.
Where was I?
Oh yeah. Scientology Guy would arrive and shout at Mr Reporter's face in a very confident and American way, and Mr Reporter would be snipey and sarcastic and English back and lose every argument just on force of opinion. At one point, Scientology Guy started "hey, dude, it's my constitutional right to call this a religion"-ing in response to the whisper of "cult". Please, I screeched, please, here's your chance! Say it's your constitutional right to freedom of speech, and you will call his group of nutjobs whatever you damn well please, and incidentally, what's all this about Scientology going to any major disaster to lay on healing hands, I mean, great, but surely the victims of Virginia Tech would want the bullets removing first?
But no, Mr Reporter quacked a bit and waddled around until steam came out of his ears. Come on, BBC, where's the Paxmans of the world when you need 'em to rip these people to teeny tiny shreds?
Yes. Remind me never to post anything like this ever again. Thanks.
So, it was a whole thing about Scientology being crazy control freaks whose religion is based on an "inter-galactic warlord" (which apparently Scientologists are now saying is bullpie...meh, makes approximately equal sense to me as that story about a garden with a naughty little snake.) There wasn't as much Scientology trashing as I was expecting, really. Vague mumblings about certain members completely ignoring their dying parents here, slight harumphing about the amount of money people have to throw at it to get anywhere there. Mostly, though, it was this reporter being followed about by mysterious cars and having to execute handbrake turns in the middle of LA highways (oh please! Just how much must he have loved that? One minute, you're a mild-mannered BBC reporter, the next, you're Jason muthafuckin' Bourne) because THE SCIENTOLOGISTS KNEW ALL AND WERE STALKING HIM.
But hell, that was the best thing about it. This completely freaky, glossy, besuited and sunglassed Scientologist automaton magically appeared every time the reporter talked to anyone at all. The reporter would just be hanging out, interviewing his peeps, shooting the shit, and bing! There was Scientology Guy, arriving from nowhere in a blacked out SUV from 24. I swear to God, he didn't walk around, he glided, like an old time vampire. No! Actually, like the baddies in that episode of Buffy where none of them could talk, which I am now painfully aware makes me sound like the squarest of the square, Squarey McSquareason, Mayor of Squaretown, Mississisquare, etc, etc, etc, cliche, cliche, christ I've just laughed so much my spleen has come out of my ear.
Where was I?
Oh yeah. Scientology Guy would arrive and shout at Mr Reporter's face in a very confident and American way, and Mr Reporter would be snipey and sarcastic and English back and lose every argument just on force of opinion. At one point, Scientology Guy started "hey, dude, it's my constitutional right to call this a religion"-ing in response to the whisper of "cult". Please, I screeched, please, here's your chance! Say it's your constitutional right to freedom of speech, and you will call his group of nutjobs whatever you damn well please, and incidentally, what's all this about Scientology going to any major disaster to lay on healing hands, I mean, great, but surely the victims of Virginia Tech would want the bullets removing first?
But no, Mr Reporter quacked a bit and waddled around until steam came out of his ears. Come on, BBC, where's the Paxmans of the world when you need 'em to rip these people to teeny tiny shreds?
Yes. Remind me never to post anything like this ever again. Thanks.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Recommedy-roo. It's A Word Because I Say It Is
Some really excellent things have been wibbling in front of my droopy eyes in the last week. Some not so excellent things, as well. An example of the latter: the new Aero bubbles advert, in which a "hunk" (and if there was a way of shouting quote marks in print, believe me, I would be doing it right now) drones on and on in a supposedly erotic fashion about the melting point of chocolate. Oh, but here's the thing. It is the single most unattractive thing that has ever seared itself inexorably into my visual cortex. OK, so my taste in men may err more towards the gawky, socially inept, grumpy malcontent end of the spectrum (with apologies, Mr Ed, you are of course the exception that proves the rule) but I can't be the only one who looks at this smug, towel-wearing, gurning, greased-up, grotesque man flailing his bare feet everywhere and thinks one thing - "that's just unhygienic". Anyway, everyone everywhere knows that the only way to sell chocolate is to just film it melting and undulating and pouring into moulds and being all gooey. See? Now you all want some chocolate, even if you have a fatal lactose intolerance. Goo!
Onto the goodness. Firstly, there is Mr Biffo's book, which is a hoot, a hoot, a hoot and a half, half a hoot, and exactly no more hoots. It reminds me of the much-lamented-only-by-me Bubblegun, which I think has vanished from this here internet parish, but could probably be thoroughly googled, if you had the time, which I most certainly do not. Bonus extra: my good friend made me a t-shirt featuring one of the top ten lists from Bubblegun (the one about the shoe shop, fact fans) and it was one of the most loveliest things I owned, but then the letters started peeling off and it became less funny, although hopefully, translated into something offensive in some tiny minority language. Plus, the reading of the t-shirt would necessitate a person kneeling in front of me and myopically squinting at my chest for ten minutes, which is something I savour only in certain, private, disgusting situations.
The other thing of excellence: Children Of Men, a film so bloody good that I kept having to pause the DVD in order to shout "THIS IS SO BLOODY GOOD!" at the dog. The dog's not real. That's how much this film messed with my head. Christ, I can't even tell you why it's so good without honking hysterically. Go and look up a Guardian review of it or something, that'll explain everything. In fact, I just have done that very thing, and it does that very thing. The Observer one even mentions allegories. Just for you, the tav.
So there you go: a chocolate whine, pervs online, and a film that's fine. Ba-dum!
Onto the goodness. Firstly, there is Mr Biffo's book, which is a hoot, a hoot, a hoot and a half, half a hoot, and exactly no more hoots. It reminds me of the much-lamented-only-by-me Bubblegun, which I think has vanished from this here internet parish, but could probably be thoroughly googled, if you had the time, which I most certainly do not. Bonus extra: my good friend made me a t-shirt featuring one of the top ten lists from Bubblegun (the one about the shoe shop, fact fans) and it was one of the most loveliest things I owned, but then the letters started peeling off and it became less funny, although hopefully, translated into something offensive in some tiny minority language. Plus, the reading of the t-shirt would necessitate a person kneeling in front of me and myopically squinting at my chest for ten minutes, which is something I savour only in certain, private, disgusting situations.
The other thing of excellence: Children Of Men, a film so bloody good that I kept having to pause the DVD in order to shout "THIS IS SO BLOODY GOOD!" at the dog. The dog's not real. That's how much this film messed with my head. Christ, I can't even tell you why it's so good without honking hysterically. Go and look up a Guardian review of it or something, that'll explain everything. In fact, I just have done that very thing, and it does that very thing. The Observer one even mentions allegories. Just for you, the tav.
So there you go: a chocolate whine, pervs online, and a film that's fine. Ba-dum!
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