Michael Jackson is dead, but this won’t come as a shock as you know that already. This is not an event to be covered by the news, instead the news has been covered b y this event.
The problem for the rolling 24 hour news stations is that this is a very succinct news story. Michael Jackson has died, at the age of fifty, having suffered a cardiac arrest. That is in effect the story the media had in one sentence yet this had been dragged across hours of news coverage. As such the news channels rummage desperately through their contacts list for anyone vaguely relevant to the star. Sadly in Michael Jackson’s case that means his initial UK eulogising is led by Uri Geller whose tribute included the words “before I began my spoon-bending career”.
The other issue with the story is that there is also very limited footage to talk over. So as we watch mobile phone footage of an ambulance reversing through some expensive gates for the sixth time and continue to see non specific aerial footage of UCLA Hospital the news reporters are forced to pad and step into unfortunate faux pas. “He transcended black and white” said BBC News 24’s anchor, “what will happen to his concert run at the o2 is unsure” said Sky News.
On BBC News24 on contributor intoned “It does make you wonder how people are going to follow this?” The truth is that people have been following this for well over a decade now. There is no doubting that musically Michael Jackson’s work is fantastic, his contribution to pop undeniably significant. Yet, it needs to be realised that Michael Jackson’s work ended a long time ago. He has remained courted by the media despite not really doing much.
In the media Michael Jackson the pop star was replaced by Michael Jackson the oddball somewhere in the early 1990s. As such the tributes and the obituaries contained within the rolling news all seemed to include phrases to the effect of “we should not lose sight of his contribution to music”.
It’s easy to mock Michael Jackson, as it is with any major celebrity. The ammunition is there ready and waiting and unsurprisingly the internet has been awash with such deathbed humour since the news was broken, almost all of which has its roots in the last fifteen years of his life.
BBC also had a representative of Jackson’s World Fan Club in their studio who said he had hoped that Jackson would “live on for a long time to be a happy old man”. Its not just the poor health that makes that eventuality unlikely. As his lifestyle became increasingly distanced from normality the only way in which Jackson’s music could be his legacy, would be if he were to die relatively young.
To that extent, Jackson’s legacy has been in existence for over a decade already. Think back to the last time you heard ABC or Beat It played in a club? At that point was your reaction to think of Jackson in court? Was it to make a child abuse or plastic surgery related joke? Or was your reaction, as mine was, to dance unconcerned and manic with friends? Thought so.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Ladies Singled
Is there a female equivalent to the phrase ‘men against boys’? That is the question which leaps to mind as I flicked the television channel in time to see opponents taking the court for the coin toss. On one side of the net Miss Razzano and Miss Rezai, on the other side the significant presence, in stature and reputation of the Williams’ sisters, looking in comparison to their opponents like characters from a Hot Shot Hamish comic strip.
Messrs Razzano and Rezai were not the only women up against it today either. Elena Baltacha had to face the brunt of media questions about the state of British tennis after she lost out in the second round to Kirsten Flipkens. This criticism of the current quality of British women’s tennis though is as inaccurate as it is unfair.
The current standard of women’s tennis in this country is higher than it has been for some time with Ann Keothavong breaking into the World’s top 50 this year and other players closing in on the top 100. In the words of Baltacha, “Everyone goes crazy about one week and expects someone to do fantastic, otherwise you’re a failure. That’s a shame.”
Messrs Razzano and Rezai were not the only women up against it today either. Elena Baltacha had to face the brunt of media questions about the state of British tennis after she lost out in the second round to Kirsten Flipkens. This criticism of the current quality of British women’s tennis though is as inaccurate as it is unfair.
The current standard of women’s tennis in this country is higher than it has been for some time with Ann Keothavong breaking into the World’s top 50 this year and other players closing in on the top 100. In the words of Baltacha, “Everyone goes crazy about one week and expects someone to do fantastic, otherwise you’re a failure. That’s a shame.”
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Mint Murray?
I don’t care much for Any Murray. There I’ve said it. In fact now that’s out in the open I’m willing to up it now and say that I don’t like him very much at all. I’ve been trying to single out why for some time; it could well be the arrogance, it could be the occasional petulance, it could even have been the relentless monotone in which he speaks making life at the top rung of world tennis seem as exciting as filing accounts in the Beige Services Division of Tedium District Council.
Assuming it is none of those then I think I have found a definitive reason for disliking the guy. The only time I have ever seen him offer anything approaching a smile is on the front cover of the Daily Mail’s Weekend supplement for this week. Its sitting on my mum’s table now as I type… and is creeping me out so much that I just got up and turned it over so I can be faced by one of those big full page adverts for unnecessary chintz instead - the prospect of paying monthly for a garish piece of jewellery much more palatable.
Unfortunately with a dislike of Murray this is going to be a tough week or two as the guy is absolutely everywhere. Smirking forcibly on the front of the television guide, moody (default) and topless on the front of the Sunday Times’ sports section. For two weeks its all about Wimbledon and Wimbledon is all about Murray. ‘My Time Has Come’ said the Times’ piece, ‘My Love Match; Andy Murray on the girl who tamed his temper and turned him into a winner’ went the Mail. Bloody hell.
Murray came into Wimbledon seeded third and having won on grass at Queens. Two significant achievements for a player not long turned twenty-two. Murray should have a lot of years left for his career, and will have plenty of time to win countless tournaments, but to the majority of the UK press and fans that won’t matter unless he wins at Wimbledon and does so soon… ideally now. He’s on course to eclipse the notable achievements of Tim Henman, and yet unless he wins of a surface which he does not favour he will be deemed to have failed.
So I may not like Murray, on a personal level I find him as easy to warm to as a city banker bemoaning his lack of bonuses in the credit crunch. But the ridiculous pressure placed on him means I have much more sympathy for his predicament. As such I was glad he triumphed in his first round match today… just don’t let it be too widely known.
Assuming it is none of those then I think I have found a definitive reason for disliking the guy. The only time I have ever seen him offer anything approaching a smile is on the front cover of the Daily Mail’s Weekend supplement for this week. Its sitting on my mum’s table now as I type… and is creeping me out so much that I just got up and turned it over so I can be faced by one of those big full page adverts for unnecessary chintz instead - the prospect of paying monthly for a garish piece of jewellery much more palatable.
Unfortunately with a dislike of Murray this is going to be a tough week or two as the guy is absolutely everywhere. Smirking forcibly on the front of the television guide, moody (default) and topless on the front of the Sunday Times’ sports section. For two weeks its all about Wimbledon and Wimbledon is all about Murray. ‘My Time Has Come’ said the Times’ piece, ‘My Love Match; Andy Murray on the girl who tamed his temper and turned him into a winner’ went the Mail. Bloody hell.
Murray came into Wimbledon seeded third and having won on grass at Queens. Two significant achievements for a player not long turned twenty-two. Murray should have a lot of years left for his career, and will have plenty of time to win countless tournaments, but to the majority of the UK press and fans that won’t matter unless he wins at Wimbledon and does so soon… ideally now. He’s on course to eclipse the notable achievements of Tim Henman, and yet unless he wins of a surface which he does not favour he will be deemed to have failed.
So I may not like Murray, on a personal level I find him as easy to warm to as a city banker bemoaning his lack of bonuses in the credit crunch. But the ridiculous pressure placed on him means I have much more sympathy for his predicament. As such I was glad he triumphed in his first round match today… just don’t let it be too widely known.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Speaker Class
After a few years wandering in a blissful meadow of apathy and ignorance I’ve seen my political interests reawakened this year by events both positive and negative. The election of Barack Obama, the expenses scandal, the BNP’s European Parliament elections, Doncaster’s new elected Mare (not a spelling mistake) and of course current events in Iran.
With all this in mind, I watched with interest yesterday as the election of a new Speaker of the House of Commons was reported. It was interesting to see the different approach of all nine candidates as they made their individual speeches to the House. However, within them all was a reflected common theme and aim, that of the need for the Speaker (and the House) to be able to connect with the electorate itself.
The candidates made their points along these lines in various ways, Ann Widecombe choosing to do this by, what, even to me, seemed to be Commons suicide, bigging up her many television appearances. That misplaced call for empathy aside, these speeches did at least bring back, to me, some faith in the political process. Namely, that these politicians want clarity, brevity and a political process which better serves the people.
In fact it was all going very well until the final speech shown in the BBC report, that of Parmjit Dhanda when all the previous good work was undone. Not by MP Parmjit Dhanda whose speech and aims were welcome, but by the elected MP seated on the row behind him. Whilst Mr Dhanda spoke well on how the House needs to better appear to be in tune with the people, the man seated behind him was clearly, and in blatant view of the television cameras, asleep.
If they are sleeping on the job in the comparatively young and happening House of Commons then presumable the House of Lords these days resembles a nursing home in the hours after a particularly heavy Sunday lunch. In the aftermath of the furore of expenses there is much scrutiny of MPs at present, you would think the least they could do to keep the heat off would be to keep their eyes open.
With all this in mind, I watched with interest yesterday as the election of a new Speaker of the House of Commons was reported. It was interesting to see the different approach of all nine candidates as they made their individual speeches to the House. However, within them all was a reflected common theme and aim, that of the need for the Speaker (and the House) to be able to connect with the electorate itself.
The candidates made their points along these lines in various ways, Ann Widecombe choosing to do this by, what, even to me, seemed to be Commons suicide, bigging up her many television appearances. That misplaced call for empathy aside, these speeches did at least bring back, to me, some faith in the political process. Namely, that these politicians want clarity, brevity and a political process which better serves the people.
In fact it was all going very well until the final speech shown in the BBC report, that of Parmjit Dhanda when all the previous good work was undone. Not by MP Parmjit Dhanda whose speech and aims were welcome, but by the elected MP seated on the row behind him. Whilst Mr Dhanda spoke well on how the House needs to better appear to be in tune with the people, the man seated behind him was clearly, and in blatant view of the television cameras, asleep.
If they are sleeping on the job in the comparatively young and happening House of Commons then presumable the House of Lords these days resembles a nursing home in the hours after a particularly heavy Sunday lunch. In the aftermath of the furore of expenses there is much scrutiny of MPs at present, you would think the least they could do to keep the heat off would be to keep their eyes open.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Henmaniacs
I like Henman but don’t like Henmania. A poor follow-up to The Killers original single, but the truth none the less. You have to feel for Tim Henman, no really you do. He built a solid career as Britain’s best male tennis player for almost a quarter of a century and yet has since been pigeon-holed by the media as the token comic loser. All this because he failed to live up to the media’s own hype and expectation by winning Wimbledon.
The fact that Henman was only denied by the two most successful tennis players of all time in Pete Sampras and Roger Federer, isn’t really worth bringing up when you can get a bigger laugh by suggesting you could beat him when pissed. So, with all that in mind I am prepared to stick up for Henman now, but only now I have realised one thing… that Henman was in no way responsible for Henmania.
OK, he can be connected with it, you know given that they were watching and cheering for him, but he is not responsible for the fans he seemed to bring in. Henman tried for the bad boy image, by whacking a ball in the face of a ballgirl at one of his earliest Wimbledon appearances. But, sadly tennis, and particularly the Open tennis championship at Wimbledon is a distinctly middle class affair and so Henman’s support had already been decided.
And so it came to pass that the last week of June and the first week of July would become a fortnight of terror for Henman as he was stalked by a distinct creature. Union Jack clad, flag waving, daft hat wearing, twee, hysterical menopausal women of middle age, middle class and middle England. If you were plagued by that sort of following would you be able to concentrate on a second serve at break back point deep in the fourth set? No, me neither.
As daunting as this would have been on the court, at least out there on the green stuff Henman was safely protected from these creatures by distance and barriers. Not to mention of course a battalion of assorted armed forces personnel he hired as bodyguards who would casually lurk at every exit. However, when the matches were over Henman then had the daunting prospect of facing one of these Henmaniacs face to face, mano-a-mano. The eager, fawning, ever doting probably slightly moist Sue Barker.
No wonder Tim Henman never dared win Wimbledon, he was probably terrified of being groped to a pulp by Sue Barker and Princess Michael of Kent. No-one wants that. Not even Cliff Richard.
The fact that Henman was only denied by the two most successful tennis players of all time in Pete Sampras and Roger Federer, isn’t really worth bringing up when you can get a bigger laugh by suggesting you could beat him when pissed. So, with all that in mind I am prepared to stick up for Henman now, but only now I have realised one thing… that Henman was in no way responsible for Henmania.
OK, he can be connected with it, you know given that they were watching and cheering for him, but he is not responsible for the fans he seemed to bring in. Henman tried for the bad boy image, by whacking a ball in the face of a ballgirl at one of his earliest Wimbledon appearances. But, sadly tennis, and particularly the Open tennis championship at Wimbledon is a distinctly middle class affair and so Henman’s support had already been decided.
And so it came to pass that the last week of June and the first week of July would become a fortnight of terror for Henman as he was stalked by a distinct creature. Union Jack clad, flag waving, daft hat wearing, twee, hysterical menopausal women of middle age, middle class and middle England. If you were plagued by that sort of following would you be able to concentrate on a second serve at break back point deep in the fourth set? No, me neither.
As daunting as this would have been on the court, at least out there on the green stuff Henman was safely protected from these creatures by distance and barriers. Not to mention of course a battalion of assorted armed forces personnel he hired as bodyguards who would casually lurk at every exit. However, when the matches were over Henman then had the daunting prospect of facing one of these Henmaniacs face to face, mano-a-mano. The eager, fawning, ever doting probably slightly moist Sue Barker.
No wonder Tim Henman never dared win Wimbledon, he was probably terrified of being groped to a pulp by Sue Barker and Princess Michael of Kent. No-one wants that. Not even Cliff Richard.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Owen Owen Gone
My first ever trip to Wembley was back in 1995 when I saw an England Schoolboys team defeat their Brazilian equivalents 1-0. The goalscorer, from the penalty spot was a fifteen year-old Michael Owen. While aesthetically the only difference between Owen then and now is a coating of stubble which ensures he can get in for eighteen rated films, much has happened in the intermittent fourteen years.
From star of Liverpool and England to captain of a doomed Newcastle United via Real Madrid’s Gallaticos in between Owen has seen a lot in a career that should be far from over. However, the key word there of course is should. The combination of reoccurring injuries and dipping form at Newcastle and an incredibly high wage means that England’s ? highest goalscorer has had to resort to unusual measures to continue playing at the top level.
According to today’s papers Owen and his agent have sent a brochure around top flight clubs advertising the striker’s availability. Should it really come to this though, resorted to peddling himself in a glossy booklet like a posh new city centre apartment complex. The brochure itself promotes Owen’s past achievements and dispels the myths about his fitness and his lifestyle.
Throughout all I have read on this brochure and Owen’s reported keenness to ‘continue playing at the highest level’ there seems to me some key points that few are picking up on. Given their position Newcastle will be happy to offload Owen from their wage bill, meaning that no team will have to pay for him. That leads just one sticking point, wages. All that is stopping Owen from signing for another side is effectively his pay demands. If Owen is as desperate to play as he seems keen to put across, then a man of his considerable current wealth could probably afford to do so for free. Its time for the former European Footballer of the Year to put his mouth where his money is.
From star of Liverpool and England to captain of a doomed Newcastle United via Real Madrid’s Gallaticos in between Owen has seen a lot in a career that should be far from over. However, the key word there of course is should. The combination of reoccurring injuries and dipping form at Newcastle and an incredibly high wage means that England’s ? highest goalscorer has had to resort to unusual measures to continue playing at the top level.
According to today’s papers Owen and his agent have sent a brochure around top flight clubs advertising the striker’s availability. Should it really come to this though, resorted to peddling himself in a glossy booklet like a posh new city centre apartment complex. The brochure itself promotes Owen’s past achievements and dispels the myths about his fitness and his lifestyle.
Throughout all I have read on this brochure and Owen’s reported keenness to ‘continue playing at the highest level’ there seems to me some key points that few are picking up on. Given their position Newcastle will be happy to offload Owen from their wage bill, meaning that no team will have to pay for him. That leads just one sticking point, wages. All that is stopping Owen from signing for another side is effectively his pay demands. If Owen is as desperate to play as he seems keen to put across, then a man of his considerable current wealth could probably afford to do so for free. Its time for the former European Footballer of the Year to put his mouth where his money is.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Birthday Drama Queen
Have you ever seen MTV's My Super Sweet 16? If you've not here's a brief summary. Spoilt soon to be sixteen year old American child demands incredibly lavish birthday party. Gullible rich parents engage every whim of said child to produce an unnecessarily lavish and expensive celebration. However, celebration, no matter how elaborately expensive rarely meets with child's expectations causing tantrums and tears.
General themes of excess within these parties are; 'the entrance', because the birthday girl cannot just walk through the door of the party, they must instead arrive in a limo or via helicopter or on the back of a dolphin. 'The act', all these kids invariably want daddy to somehow from his contacts at his state-wide refrigerator distribution business secure a set from KanyeWest. 'The car', because this over inflated party is not enough for the ego, the child will also receive an expensive gift, which is always a car, and will always cause some sort of hissy fit because the spanking new Audi is in silver and not black, I mean OMG dad, are you kidding me. And finally there's the guests, snivelling equally posh kids, pretending to know the birthday girl so they too can revel in the expense of someone else.
Far fetched and ridiculous, the same would never happen in this country would it? Well yes it would, and no I'm not talking about the poor imitation that is My Super Sweet 16 UK, because frankly our kids are terribly poor imitation Divas; Kerry Katona to Mariah Carey if you like. No, I'm instead talking about HRH The Queen.
Today of course is the Queen's birthday, well her official one at least, her Super Sweet 83. And reading the reports of her bash online and seeing footage on the television news I cannot help but note the similarities to those crass moneyed celebrations of the MTV teenagers. Unnecessarily expensive and showy and all of it met with that charismatic stony faced forced grimace of acceptance that the nation has come to tolerate.
The Queen's birthday celebration is very much in the mould of a Sweet Sixteen bash. To start with there is the entrance, arriving at Buckingham Palace in a vintage horse drawn carriage; a staple part of any new-money celebration. Then there is the act, not for the Queen a simple get together no she gets an RAF fly-past, marching military bands and a parade of 1,100 soldiers and 300 horses. I thought the UK was currently involved in at least a couple of wars globally... should these folk not be in a trench in Hellmand Province rather than prancing around the Mall in a bear-skin hat?
And all this in front of some token Sweet 16 party goers. Sycophantic posh folk, cheering and waving along all pretending that they know the birthday girl in someway and hoping desperately that some of her moneyed importance will rub off on them. The same folk who were up in arms when their local MP claimed expenses for first class travel, now cheering happily as a large proportion of the Defence Budget is tossed at what the BBC called a 'historic display of military pomp and pageantry'.
There's a recession on Ma'am, at least look like your in tune with the people and maybe tone it down a bit eh? Maybe this year just go out for a meal with the family then head back to Windsor for a more low key Royal Tournament; a few games on SingStar or some Wii tennis?
General themes of excess within these parties are; 'the entrance', because the birthday girl cannot just walk through the door of the party, they must instead arrive in a limo or via helicopter or on the back of a dolphin. 'The act', all these kids invariably want daddy to somehow from his contacts at his state-wide refrigerator distribution business secure a set from KanyeWest. 'The car', because this over inflated party is not enough for the ego, the child will also receive an expensive gift, which is always a car, and will always cause some sort of hissy fit because the spanking new Audi is in silver and not black, I mean OMG dad, are you kidding me. And finally there's the guests, snivelling equally posh kids, pretending to know the birthday girl so they too can revel in the expense of someone else.
Far fetched and ridiculous, the same would never happen in this country would it? Well yes it would, and no I'm not talking about the poor imitation that is My Super Sweet 16 UK, because frankly our kids are terribly poor imitation Divas; Kerry Katona to Mariah Carey if you like. No, I'm instead talking about HRH The Queen.
Today of course is the Queen's birthday, well her official one at least, her Super Sweet 83. And reading the reports of her bash online and seeing footage on the television news I cannot help but note the similarities to those crass moneyed celebrations of the MTV teenagers. Unnecessarily expensive and showy and all of it met with that charismatic stony faced forced grimace of acceptance that the nation has come to tolerate.
The Queen's birthday celebration is very much in the mould of a Sweet Sixteen bash. To start with there is the entrance, arriving at Buckingham Palace in a vintage horse drawn carriage; a staple part of any new-money celebration. Then there is the act, not for the Queen a simple get together no she gets an RAF fly-past, marching military bands and a parade of 1,100 soldiers and 300 horses. I thought the UK was currently involved in at least a couple of wars globally... should these folk not be in a trench in Hellmand Province rather than prancing around the Mall in a bear-skin hat?
And all this in front of some token Sweet 16 party goers. Sycophantic posh folk, cheering and waving along all pretending that they know the birthday girl in someway and hoping desperately that some of her moneyed importance will rub off on them. The same folk who were up in arms when their local MP claimed expenses for first class travel, now cheering happily as a large proportion of the Defence Budget is tossed at what the BBC called a 'historic display of military pomp and pageantry'.
There's a recession on Ma'am, at least look like your in tune with the people and maybe tone it down a bit eh? Maybe this year just go out for a meal with the family then head back to Windsor for a more low key Royal Tournament; a few games on SingStar or some Wii tennis?
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Wednesday - In List Form
8 at Doncaster, 9A at Birmingham New Street, 12A at Birmingham New Street, 2 at Worcester Foregate Street, 7A at Birmingham New Street, 4 at Doncaster
- train platforms stood on
Jelly beans, dummy, ham part of a ham roll, Time Out bar, Frazzles, roll part of a ham roll, fingers, a bit of a Twix, Jaffa Cake, toy car, brother's fingers
- things put in the mouth of the toddler sat opposite me on the train to Birmingham
Belle Vue Doncaster, Millmoor Rotherham, Don Valley Stadium Sheffield, Pride Park Derby, Pirelli Stadium Burton, St Andrews Birmingham
- current and past football league grounds seen from the train
Having "no fivers", taking their time getting off the train, "your wait", "upstairs is closed now", "flash flooding in the Chesterfield area", "the late running of this service", having "no more information than that"
- things people have apologised to me for
Woman on the phone complaining to o2 that she "obviously needs" the latest iPhone, Nick Griffin, Shelter charity canvasser who tried to guilt trip me about not stopping to talk to him, private letting agent who wouldn't answer his phone, Screaming baby between Birmingham and Derby, Arguing couple in Doncaster Bus Station, Andy Townsend
- people I have wanted to throw things at
- train platforms stood on
Jelly beans, dummy, ham part of a ham roll, Time Out bar, Frazzles, roll part of a ham roll, fingers, a bit of a Twix, Jaffa Cake, toy car, brother's fingers
- things put in the mouth of the toddler sat opposite me on the train to Birmingham
Belle Vue Doncaster, Millmoor Rotherham, Don Valley Stadium Sheffield, Pride Park Derby, Pirelli Stadium Burton, St Andrews Birmingham
- current and past football league grounds seen from the train
Having "no fivers", taking their time getting off the train, "your wait", "upstairs is closed now", "flash flooding in the Chesterfield area", "the late running of this service", having "no more information than that"
- things people have apologised to me for
Woman on the phone complaining to o2 that she "obviously needs" the latest iPhone, Nick Griffin, Shelter charity canvasser who tried to guilt trip me about not stopping to talk to him, private letting agent who wouldn't answer his phone, Screaming baby between Birmingham and Derby, Arguing couple in Doncaster Bus Station, Andy Townsend
- people I have wanted to throw things at
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The Never Ending City
On train announcement:
"...and we apologise for the busy nature of today's service, this is in part due to today's Tube Strike."
How big is Zone 6? I ask as this announcement came on my morning train to Birmingham... from Doncaster. I always assumed that Zone 6 ended at the edge of the maps, but this announcement suggests I was very much mistaken. Zone 6 it seems is in fact endless extending from the Underground network to encompass the whole of the UK. All us non-London folk are actually mere capitol city suburbanites... I could have saved a fortune today with an Oyster card.
Two long-held personal irritations have been been re-awoken upon hearing this announcement. The first is the heightened national coverage of issues which affect or relate to only those in London. OK, the Underground are striking, but you've still got legs and buses right? Boris Johnson fell over in a river. And? Why should I care? The buffoon doesn't run my town. A strike on Northern Rail would affect as many folk in more cities, but would get nowhere near as more coverage.
The second is the more dangerous and more pathetic subsidiary of 'blame culture', and that's what I've termed 'tenuous-onus'; excusing one event by connecting it by the flimsiest of threads to a barely related more significant event. The train is pretty full compared to yesterday, Undergound trains are emptier than normal today, yeah, that'll be why. 'Can't come out tonight I'm broke, credit crunch innit.' Not every financial disappointment is connected with recession, some people are just shit with money.
And besides, if I was in actual fact on the Undergound today it will at least explain why the guards on these trains often have an industrial torch strapped to his waste band.
"...and we apologise for the busy nature of today's service, this is in part due to today's Tube Strike."
How big is Zone 6? I ask as this announcement came on my morning train to Birmingham... from Doncaster. I always assumed that Zone 6 ended at the edge of the maps, but this announcement suggests I was very much mistaken. Zone 6 it seems is in fact endless extending from the Underground network to encompass the whole of the UK. All us non-London folk are actually mere capitol city suburbanites... I could have saved a fortune today with an Oyster card.
Two long-held personal irritations have been been re-awoken upon hearing this announcement. The first is the heightened national coverage of issues which affect or relate to only those in London. OK, the Underground are striking, but you've still got legs and buses right? Boris Johnson fell over in a river. And? Why should I care? The buffoon doesn't run my town. A strike on Northern Rail would affect as many folk in more cities, but would get nowhere near as more coverage.
The second is the more dangerous and more pathetic subsidiary of 'blame culture', and that's what I've termed 'tenuous-onus'; excusing one event by connecting it by the flimsiest of threads to a barely related more significant event. The train is pretty full compared to yesterday, Undergound trains are emptier than normal today, yeah, that'll be why. 'Can't come out tonight I'm broke, credit crunch innit.' Not every financial disappointment is connected with recession, some people are just shit with money.
And besides, if I was in actual fact on the Undergound today it will at least explain why the guards on these trains often have an industrial torch strapped to his waste band.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Why Wear Work Wear - follow up
May I start by telling you that I am particularly annoyed with myself. On the bus into Doncaster today I was flicking through a copy of the Metro and on their letter's page was a great response from a reader on the subject of journalist's attire. I'm annoyed because I did not take the page or the paper with me and so I am only able to bring you one approximated quote.
So, although I cannot recall who wrote this letter I can tell you that it did include the line "A tie should be worn when reporting war". Obviously I was too quick to dismiss ties as being pointless the other day. They may not offer a layer, cover anything nor hold anything up, but it seems they are actually bullet and blast proof. Who would have thought.
Presumably this is actually the middle class equivalent of ensuring you're wearing clean underwear in case you're hit by a bus. Always wear a tie in battle, that way the enemy will never believe they have succeded in catching you off guard.
So, although I cannot recall who wrote this letter I can tell you that it did include the line "A tie should be worn when reporting war". Obviously I was too quick to dismiss ties as being pointless the other day. They may not offer a layer, cover anything nor hold anything up, but it seems they are actually bullet and blast proof. Who would have thought.
Presumably this is actually the middle class equivalent of ensuring you're wearing clean underwear in case you're hit by a bus. Always wear a tie in battle, that way the enemy will never believe they have succeded in catching you off guard.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
From Rush Hour with Love
I don't do commuting. I am not a commuter. Ich bein not ein commuter. In fact I have done everything I can over my employment years to actively avoid having to participate in any kind of commuting ritual. Arduous, unsociable, tedious, soulless and relentlessly repetitively mind numbing; those are just some of the descriptions that can be given to the jobs I have worked in order to avoid becoming a commuter.
Despite my career-hampering avoidance of concentrated early morning travel I am on occasion forced to venture out into what is termed, with a worrying lack of irony, 'rush hour'. So, as I boarded the 7:52 train today I was reminded of the absurdity of the commute, and most concerning the acceptance of these conditions by those undertaking it. Perhaps it is no co-incidence that commute and commune are just a letter apart. Stony faced, unemotional and silent acquiescence of the surrounding environment, it could be a monastery, albeit one with free wifi and over-priced coffee.
Crammed in the concertinaed vestibule, one foot in Coach C, the other in Coach D effectively surfing down the East Coast Mainline to my destination. And yet I am the only person who appears flustered. The dozen people crammed either side of me in this mobile airing cupboard just resolutely carry on, safe so long as they have enough room to read a copy of the Metro, and that they can breathe... always established in that order.
Beyond the person spending their journey being buffeted on alternate ears by the automatic sliding doors there's a woman riding to work wedged on the luggage rack. Despite the fact that she's paid a peak time fare to ride in a position more precarious than the suitcases and bags beneath her she has a folder wedged open with an elbow and is leafing through papers. She pauses only to apologise to a suit who wants to put his briefcase up there. Why? Why is she saying sorry? Her answer should of course be "Fuck you! You unchivalrous bastard. I'm sitting on a freaking luggage rack here! I can suggest an alternate place for your briefcase and I'll be happy to help you lodge it there!"
Two stops down the line and I've managed to adapt to my ruthless surroundings and beat a middle-aged man to a seat. It wasn't easy, but by charging into the carriage as if I was making an early morning drugs raid and then pushing the automatic door closed and nudging stray luggage behind me into his path like an escaping felon in warehouse based chase scene tossing boxes and barrels in the way of pursuing officers, I have made the leap from commuter scorned to commuter envied. That's right, I have a tray table now, I can multitask without having to wedge my coffee cup against the train wall with my ear.
However, on the table across the aisle I am being heroically outdone. At that table one woman is typing up emails on her laptop with one hand, toying with a Blackberry with the other, and all the time whilst talking into a Bluetooth headset. And she's not even at work yet! Not even in the office yet and she's surrounded herself with more keyboards and electronica than a Rick Wakeman gig. Presumable when she gets to the office she'll continue these activities whilst holding a video conference and orchestrating a power point display as she goes about her day as the Director of Multiple Operations at the ACME Plate Spinning and Simultaneous Unicycling Corporation.
Despite my career-hampering avoidance of concentrated early morning travel I am on occasion forced to venture out into what is termed, with a worrying lack of irony, 'rush hour'. So, as I boarded the 7:52 train today I was reminded of the absurdity of the commute, and most concerning the acceptance of these conditions by those undertaking it. Perhaps it is no co-incidence that commute and commune are just a letter apart. Stony faced, unemotional and silent acquiescence of the surrounding environment, it could be a monastery, albeit one with free wifi and over-priced coffee.
Crammed in the concertinaed vestibule, one foot in Coach C, the other in Coach D effectively surfing down the East Coast Mainline to my destination. And yet I am the only person who appears flustered. The dozen people crammed either side of me in this mobile airing cupboard just resolutely carry on, safe so long as they have enough room to read a copy of the Metro, and that they can breathe... always established in that order.
Beyond the person spending their journey being buffeted on alternate ears by the automatic sliding doors there's a woman riding to work wedged on the luggage rack. Despite the fact that she's paid a peak time fare to ride in a position more precarious than the suitcases and bags beneath her she has a folder wedged open with an elbow and is leafing through papers. She pauses only to apologise to a suit who wants to put his briefcase up there. Why? Why is she saying sorry? Her answer should of course be "Fuck you! You unchivalrous bastard. I'm sitting on a freaking luggage rack here! I can suggest an alternate place for your briefcase and I'll be happy to help you lodge it there!"
Two stops down the line and I've managed to adapt to my ruthless surroundings and beat a middle-aged man to a seat. It wasn't easy, but by charging into the carriage as if I was making an early morning drugs raid and then pushing the automatic door closed and nudging stray luggage behind me into his path like an escaping felon in warehouse based chase scene tossing boxes and barrels in the way of pursuing officers, I have made the leap from commuter scorned to commuter envied. That's right, I have a tray table now, I can multitask without having to wedge my coffee cup against the train wall with my ear.
However, on the table across the aisle I am being heroically outdone. At that table one woman is typing up emails on her laptop with one hand, toying with a Blackberry with the other, and all the time whilst talking into a Bluetooth headset. And she's not even at work yet! Not even in the office yet and she's surrounded herself with more keyboards and electronica than a Rick Wakeman gig. Presumable when she gets to the office she'll continue these activities whilst holding a video conference and orchestrating a power point display as she goes about her day as the Director of Multiple Operations at the ACME Plate Spinning and Simultaneous Unicycling Corporation.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
No News is Good News
I have had to travel amidst the commuters a couple of times of late,a s you will have no doubt gathered by some of the recent posts within this blog. Many things on rush hour trains irritate me and amuse me, but one in particular is the conversations. The best ones are always held with people who are not even in the carriage, on Monday my coach became the venue for some kind of unofficial UK Business Talk Bollocks Championship, as three people seemingly tried to out business each other.
So here we have contestant number one, early thirties, female, taking the early initiative by standing from her chair just to make this call. Lets see how she fairs. Here we go;
"Jonathan, hi. Just to let you know I've left Doncaster on time so shall be able to meet as we arranged... OK... bye"
Oh its a great start, a completely pointless phone call. Nothing has happened, nothing as changed, but you still feel the need to call Jonathan to tell him. What's next? Hi Jonathan just calling to let you know that this train is five carriages long so I should be able to alight onto the platform as previously expected, ok.
Up next its contestant two, an older gentleman, pretty well dressed, he too has got a head start on the competition by reading a copy of the Financial Times a item as hard to come by in South Yorkshire as healthy lung... he's dialled the number; "Hi Sarah, just checking in, what am I doing tomorrow?"
Simple but effective, he's taken the lead with that call. You don't know what you're doing tomorrow, how on earth did you manage to dress yourself and catch this train without inexplicably finding yourself climbing a country stile dressed in a ten-year old Austin Powers fancy dress outfit?
Last into the arena is contestant three, a man in his early 40s with unecessarily trendy designer glasses and a collection of matching luggage. He's already begun, but we can catch up with him now; "Yes, I'm on my way to the Conference now, can you wire me those documents and I'll give them the once over en route"
Step back. We have a winner. Wire me?! wire me?! What is this 1940s mid-town Chicago? Jeez, what a scoop. Send out a wire. Wait til the boys in Atlantic City geta hold of this. I've made it ma. Gee, this is gonna be big I tell you, big.
Done. See you all in the quiet coach yeah?
So here we have contestant number one, early thirties, female, taking the early initiative by standing from her chair just to make this call. Lets see how she fairs. Here we go;
"Jonathan, hi. Just to let you know I've left Doncaster on time so shall be able to meet as we arranged... OK... bye"
Oh its a great start, a completely pointless phone call. Nothing has happened, nothing as changed, but you still feel the need to call Jonathan to tell him. What's next? Hi Jonathan just calling to let you know that this train is five carriages long so I should be able to alight onto the platform as previously expected, ok.
Up next its contestant two, an older gentleman, pretty well dressed, he too has got a head start on the competition by reading a copy of the Financial Times a item as hard to come by in South Yorkshire as healthy lung... he's dialled the number; "Hi Sarah, just checking in, what am I doing tomorrow?"
Simple but effective, he's taken the lead with that call. You don't know what you're doing tomorrow, how on earth did you manage to dress yourself and catch this train without inexplicably finding yourself climbing a country stile dressed in a ten-year old Austin Powers fancy dress outfit?
Last into the arena is contestant three, a man in his early 40s with unecessarily trendy designer glasses and a collection of matching luggage. He's already begun, but we can catch up with him now; "Yes, I'm on my way to the Conference now, can you wire me those documents and I'll give them the once over en route"
Step back. We have a winner. Wire me?! wire me?! What is this 1940s mid-town Chicago? Jeez, what a scoop. Send out a wire. Wait til the boys in Atlantic City geta hold of this. I've made it ma. Gee, this is gonna be big I tell you, big.
Done. See you all in the quiet coach yeah?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)