I think we, as a society, have taken jazz as far as creative licence allows us whilst sticking to the regimented and frankly old-fashioned system of having people attend shows in order to see it. It's why it gives me great pleasure to unleash the artistically-valid yet somewhat whimsical notion of "Surprise Jazz" upon the nation. Jazz is limited by the expectation that jazz will happen, and I enjoy the concept of unpredictable jazz. Consider it a live version of jazz unexpectedly coming up in "Shuffle" mode on your personal choice of media player.
Basically, across the country, small jazz groups (Quartets or quintets, maximum) carefully attire themselves in bush camouflage, and hide, unseen, behind benches in the park. Perhaps a couple of old ladies sit down to feed ducks and discuss their grandsons, and, I dunno, the latest advancements in blue-rinse technology, I don't know what little old ladies in the park talk about. Anyways, it's at this moment that the Surprise Jazz quintet strike, leaping from the bushes and playing an assortment of jazz classics (I'd open with Dave Brubeck's Take Five) to the delighted nans. They'll talk about it for weeks. "We were sitting in the park, discussing cardigan prices, when, suddenly, jazz!". You will not only brighten their day, but I'd dare say make their week. The unexpected element of the jazz will only heighten their joyous delight.
I've taken the liberty of making up several reviews from mainstream papers, this is what they might have to say about this concept:
"Bigger and more artistically daring than the early punk movement" - The Times
"Unprecedented artistic freedom playing to an unsuspecting audience gives the quartet whole new directions in which to take jazz that were previously closed to mainstream forms" - The Independent
"Immigrant music ruining our parks!" - The Daily Mail
"Conceptually brave, smashing the cultural conventions that jazz belongs in jazz clubs, this new medium opens up a whole new world to jazz, one which deserves to be fully utilised by modern jazz musicians and fans alike" - The Guardian
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
Sampling
Sampling is the process of taking part of one song and slamming it into your song. It's considered fine to be done. Inspired by the fact that Leona Lewis has sampled Penguin Cafe Orchestra, and ruined one of my favourite songs, I think it's fair to call it "Theft". If I "sample" someone else's essay, suddenly I'm hauled up on charges of plagiarism.
It strikes of a creativity-impairment. "I can't think of my own melody.. I'll just take this one from another song". Usually a song so old that it's no longer really recognisable. Do you think MC Hammer wrote the riff for "U Can't Touch This"? You're wrong, it's from 1981's Super Freak, by Rick James. He had to sue to get some of the credit he deserved for basically writing the song. I was once listening to Talk by Coldplay, when my dad overheard it and went "Why are you listening to Kraftwerk?". I was pretty certain I wasn't. Turns out I was wrong, I was listening to the main riff from Computer Love. He dug out a tape to show me this. I'd have had no idea if he hadn't have told me, there was no indication in the song that they basically used Kraftwerk's song and added some other words. At least, according to Wikipedia, they received permission to use it.
In any other industry if you "sampled" a colleague's piece, it'd be rightly criticised for outright theft, or at best, unacknowledged borrowing. You wouldn't have a comedian use other comedian's jokes without ever mentioning it. You wouldn't have a journalist lift 200 words from an old column someone else wrote. You wouldn't get seemingly endless repeats of old TV shows pretending to be new content(Oh wait, sorry BBC, I forgot. Zing. Don't think I didn't see you play Yellowstone on BBC Four, then move it to BBC Two this year. If I watched it then, I don't want to watch it again. If I didn't watch it then, it's because I didn't want to watch it. Unless the BBC assumes I just watch documentaries by accident and assumes it has to put them in the place I'm most likely to trip over them).
I wouldn't have recognised Leona Lewis as having thieved Penguin Cafe Orchestra if I didn't already know and like the original song, which is slightly obscure. I'd have thought "My, Leona Lewis knows how to write a good song! That does surprise me.", but instead I'm thinking "My, Leona Lewis knows how to ruin a good song! That doesn't surprise me.". I had to listen to the song (Pity me) to find out it's just the main riff from Perpetuum Mobile (Released in 1987), repeated, over a thudding, jarring drum beat (Not in the original song because it ruins it), with some singing over the top. And occasionally an aggressively annoying bass line. Enjoy.
It strikes of a creativity-impairment. "I can't think of my own melody.. I'll just take this one from another song". Usually a song so old that it's no longer really recognisable. Do you think MC Hammer wrote the riff for "U Can't Touch This"? You're wrong, it's from 1981's Super Freak, by Rick James. He had to sue to get some of the credit he deserved for basically writing the song. I was once listening to Talk by Coldplay, when my dad overheard it and went "Why are you listening to Kraftwerk?". I was pretty certain I wasn't. Turns out I was wrong, I was listening to the main riff from Computer Love. He dug out a tape to show me this. I'd have had no idea if he hadn't have told me, there was no indication in the song that they basically used Kraftwerk's song and added some other words. At least, according to Wikipedia, they received permission to use it.
In any other industry if you "sampled" a colleague's piece, it'd be rightly criticised for outright theft, or at best, unacknowledged borrowing. You wouldn't have a comedian use other comedian's jokes without ever mentioning it. You wouldn't have a journalist lift 200 words from an old column someone else wrote. You wouldn't get seemingly endless repeats of old TV shows pretending to be new content(Oh wait, sorry BBC, I forgot. Zing. Don't think I didn't see you play Yellowstone on BBC Four, then move it to BBC Two this year. If I watched it then, I don't want to watch it again. If I didn't watch it then, it's because I didn't want to watch it. Unless the BBC assumes I just watch documentaries by accident and assumes it has to put them in the place I'm most likely to trip over them).
I wouldn't have recognised Leona Lewis as having thieved Penguin Cafe Orchestra if I didn't already know and like the original song, which is slightly obscure. I'd have thought "My, Leona Lewis knows how to write a good song! That does surprise me.", but instead I'm thinking "My, Leona Lewis knows how to ruin a good song! That doesn't surprise me.". I had to listen to the song (Pity me) to find out it's just the main riff from Perpetuum Mobile (Released in 1987), repeated, over a thudding, jarring drum beat (Not in the original song because it ruins it), with some singing over the top. And occasionally an aggressively annoying bass line. Enjoy.
Wallpapering Leagues
Wallpapering league. Like football league, but for wallpapering. “Oh my God, you see the way he did that corner?! Right on the seam! Unbelievable". Kids wallpapering in the streets. Mums saying "Tim! How many times have I told you not to wallpaper in the hall?!" Lads down pubs, saying "What do you think of the new Melchester lad?" "Struggles a bit on fiddly banisters, but he's got potential. Good work on the open walls, really knows his way around a standard corner."
You'd get some classic commentary from decorating league icons Handy Andy and Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen on Sky Sports:
"What do you think of the Brighton laddering formation?"
"Risky strategy, but it's a bold one. you wouldn't expect to see a double ladder plan this early on in the papering, but it gives them an advantage if it's executed well.... Oh and that one's come straight from the training stairwell! Brilliantly done!"
"Oh, and look at that, he's got paste on the skirting! He'll have to clear that up, he won't be happy with that. And you can see the manager's livid on the sidelines! Unbelievable! A man of his wallpapering calibre making such a simple mistake! Is he losing it? Oh, he's tried to fold an embossed roll! It's all going wrong here for Brighton!"
Offices would arrange fantasy pasting leagues, chatting to each other about that weekend's results."I can't believe the Doncaster Decorators beat the Tyneside Trimmers! Everyone thought that the Decorators would go down this year!", picking their favourite players and saying to each other "Picking the Dutch Master Van der Stroom for an away tie on a fiddly stairwell? What were you thinking!?".
I've just picked up the advertising pamphlet for EA Sports Wallpapering 2012, which promises all the biggest name stars from the English Wallpapering Premiership, the Italian Lega Tappezzeria, the German Tapeteliga and the Scottish Decorating Division 1. It also promises a whole new method and dynamic as you control your multi-millionaire decorators against some of the biggest wallpapering sides in Europe, and manage your team to the very highest level. With a whole new pasting-table mechanic that promises to deliver more realistic coverage of paste, and additional brush coverage controls, this is the best Wallpapering simulator ever! Create your own character and work your way up from reserve side at your favourite club, say, the Preston Pasters, or the Wigan Wallpaperers, to become the best decorator in Europe. And an all-new Manager mode that allows you to train your decorators in your own, specially designed hallway set-pieces makes sure this is an unmissable addition to any wallpapering fan's game collection!
You'd get some classic commentary from decorating league icons Handy Andy and Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen on Sky Sports:
"What do you think of the Brighton laddering formation?"
"Risky strategy, but it's a bold one. you wouldn't expect to see a double ladder plan this early on in the papering, but it gives them an advantage if it's executed well.... Oh and that one's come straight from the training stairwell! Brilliantly done!"
"Oh, and look at that, he's got paste on the skirting! He'll have to clear that up, he won't be happy with that. And you can see the manager's livid on the sidelines! Unbelievable! A man of his wallpapering calibre making such a simple mistake! Is he losing it? Oh, he's tried to fold an embossed roll! It's all going wrong here for Brighton!"
Offices would arrange fantasy pasting leagues, chatting to each other about that weekend's results."I can't believe the Doncaster Decorators beat the Tyneside Trimmers! Everyone thought that the Decorators would go down this year!", picking their favourite players and saying to each other "Picking the Dutch Master Van der Stroom for an away tie on a fiddly stairwell? What were you thinking!?".
I've just picked up the advertising pamphlet for EA Sports Wallpapering 2012, which promises all the biggest name stars from the English Wallpapering Premiership, the Italian Lega Tappezzeria, the German Tapeteliga and the Scottish Decorating Division 1. It also promises a whole new method and dynamic as you control your multi-millionaire decorators against some of the biggest wallpapering sides in Europe, and manage your team to the very highest level. With a whole new pasting-table mechanic that promises to deliver more realistic coverage of paste, and additional brush coverage controls, this is the best Wallpapering simulator ever! Create your own character and work your way up from reserve side at your favourite club, say, the Preston Pasters, or the Wigan Wallpaperers, to become the best decorator in Europe. And an all-new Manager mode that allows you to train your decorators in your own, specially designed hallway set-pieces makes sure this is an unmissable addition to any wallpapering fan's game collection!
Saturday, 12 November 2011
A Man, Stalling
Today was a day unlike any other, a day that will go down in the annals of time for all eternity. For on this day, a man stalled in such a catastrophic fashion as to make me evaluate my entire life.
First, let me set the scene, paint you a delicate watercolour of the events, if you will. The location was a local road, relatively major. I had just crossed onto the central island, and cursed fate as I saw the lights had turned to green. Little did I know this was actually the gods offering me a chance to witness the brilliance, for had I crossed, I surely would have missed it.
Scene suitably set (And alliteration duly implemented), let me tell you of the events the unfolded before my very eyes. The lights turned to green, and the small queue moved, the first two cars shot casually through the lights, but the third, the third car, a white Vauxhall Astra, was stationary. Upon realising this, the driver panicked. The pressure got to him, and the stares of a few passers-by set his nerves on edge. He stalled. He's abandoned, a lone car, miles from the lights, holding up the entire world behind him. The tension is palpable. What was a couple of pedestrians staring innocently becomes a small crowd, watching, ogling, gawking. He nervously starts the car under our shared gaze. There has never been a more high-profile car start in the entire city's history. He tries to find the biting point. The engine revs wildly, but he can't handle the power of the mighty Astra. He judders to a halt again. Entire empires have risen and fallen in the time it has taken this man to leave away from the lights. He tries a third time. He gets a clean start this time. He, and only he, gets through the lights.
The crowd cheers. I am moved to tears by the witnessing of this man's heroic struggle to move his car in the face of such unrelenting adversity, and from that moment on vow to live my life as he does. The crowd are aware we have witnessed something magical, and all bask in our shared joy of this moment, smiling at eachother as we cross the road. Before this happened, happiness was just a word to me, but now, I have known the raw elation of unfettered joy, and I know what it is to live.
First, let me set the scene, paint you a delicate watercolour of the events, if you will. The location was a local road, relatively major. I had just crossed onto the central island, and cursed fate as I saw the lights had turned to green. Little did I know this was actually the gods offering me a chance to witness the brilliance, for had I crossed, I surely would have missed it.
Scene suitably set (And alliteration duly implemented), let me tell you of the events the unfolded before my very eyes. The lights turned to green, and the small queue moved, the first two cars shot casually through the lights, but the third, the third car, a white Vauxhall Astra, was stationary. Upon realising this, the driver panicked. The pressure got to him, and the stares of a few passers-by set his nerves on edge. He stalled. He's abandoned, a lone car, miles from the lights, holding up the entire world behind him. The tension is palpable. What was a couple of pedestrians staring innocently becomes a small crowd, watching, ogling, gawking. He nervously starts the car under our shared gaze. There has never been a more high-profile car start in the entire city's history. He tries to find the biting point. The engine revs wildly, but he can't handle the power of the mighty Astra. He judders to a halt again. Entire empires have risen and fallen in the time it has taken this man to leave away from the lights. He tries a third time. He gets a clean start this time. He, and only he, gets through the lights.
The crowd cheers. I am moved to tears by the witnessing of this man's heroic struggle to move his car in the face of such unrelenting adversity, and from that moment on vow to live my life as he does. The crowd are aware we have witnessed something magical, and all bask in our shared joy of this moment, smiling at eachother as we cross the road. Before this happened, happiness was just a word to me, but now, I have known the raw elation of unfettered joy, and I know what it is to live.
Monday, 7 November 2011
Energy Crisis
I've discovered the cure for the world's energy usage crisis, and the rising rates of obesity amongst western countries: cut back on central heating. In order to fully test this theory, I have decided to go without any heating for the last three days. Here is a rough outline of my diary over those three days:
10:45 pm, Day 1: Heating goes off. Curl up in bed. Lovely and toasty. Sleep, or, realistically, watch Life (With David Attenborough) until sleep overcomes me.
7:45 am Day 2: Wake up earlier than expected, due to desperate desire to urinate. Get up hurriedly and rush to the bathroom. Seconds later, regret getting up. Finish, and sprint back to bed. Cold is overwhelming. Get up 15 minutes later, and get into shower. Try and avoid as much time as possible outside. Get dressed faster than ever before. Go to Tesco, if only to steal their warmth. Buy energy food: bananas, apples and pasta.
6 pm Day 2: Have eaten considerable amounts of banana. Still not warm. Consider a third jumper.
7:20 pm Day 2: Already in bed. Have eaten enough pasta to keep me full until 2012. Consider hibernating. Reject the notion as outlandish, and rather too "Bearish".
10:00 pm Day 2: It gets even colder at night. Become convinced man is yet to invent an adjective suitable to describe the conditions. Settle for "Cold", in a deliberately understated way.
9 am Day 3: Wake up. Regret it. Get up to go to class. Get into shower. Leave sanctity of warming shower, and enter arctic wilderness that my bathroom has become. Convinced I saw a caribou. Flee pack of hunting wolves clad in towelled dressing down. I was I mean. Not the wolves. That'd be silly. But a very good camouflage in my bathroom. The cold is leading to mental degradation.
10 pm Day 3: Shivering. Begin writing this. Still haven't eaten since pasta meal. Still, bizarrely, feel full. Consider a second pair of socks in combination with my slippers. Reject the notion. Consider thermometer in order to accurately measure temperature. Laugh at the thermometers in one of my lecture halls that go from -30 Fahrenheit to +130. Giggle at this for ten to fifteen minutes. Finish this. Go to bed. Shivering replaced by a dull acceptance of the cold.
I am dedicated to seeing this through as an experiment. If I can do it, anyone can do it. I'm saving the planet. What are YOU doing?
10:45 pm, Day 1: Heating goes off. Curl up in bed. Lovely and toasty. Sleep, or, realistically, watch Life (With David Attenborough) until sleep overcomes me.
7:45 am Day 2: Wake up earlier than expected, due to desperate desire to urinate. Get up hurriedly and rush to the bathroom. Seconds later, regret getting up. Finish, and sprint back to bed. Cold is overwhelming. Get up 15 minutes later, and get into shower. Try and avoid as much time as possible outside. Get dressed faster than ever before. Go to Tesco, if only to steal their warmth. Buy energy food: bananas, apples and pasta.
6 pm Day 2: Have eaten considerable amounts of banana. Still not warm. Consider a third jumper.
7:20 pm Day 2: Already in bed. Have eaten enough pasta to keep me full until 2012. Consider hibernating. Reject the notion as outlandish, and rather too "Bearish".
10:00 pm Day 2: It gets even colder at night. Become convinced man is yet to invent an adjective suitable to describe the conditions. Settle for "Cold", in a deliberately understated way.
9 am Day 3: Wake up. Regret it. Get up to go to class. Get into shower. Leave sanctity of warming shower, and enter arctic wilderness that my bathroom has become. Convinced I saw a caribou. Flee pack of hunting wolves clad in towelled dressing down. I was I mean. Not the wolves. That'd be silly. But a very good camouflage in my bathroom. The cold is leading to mental degradation.
10 pm Day 3: Shivering. Begin writing this. Still haven't eaten since pasta meal. Still, bizarrely, feel full. Consider a second pair of socks in combination with my slippers. Reject the notion. Consider thermometer in order to accurately measure temperature. Laugh at the thermometers in one of my lecture halls that go from -30 Fahrenheit to +130. Giggle at this for ten to fifteen minutes. Finish this. Go to bed. Shivering replaced by a dull acceptance of the cold.
I am dedicated to seeing this through as an experiment. If I can do it, anyone can do it. I'm saving the planet. What are YOU doing?
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
The Butter Debacle
A chat I had with a friend about my thrilling life:
"I heard noises in the kitchen, so I went to investigate, and there were people in there, doing checks, but it meant I had to pretend I had gone in there for another reason, to get something. I panicked, and got out butter. I now have to sit and watch my butter slowly melt until they leave, or have a bread and butter slice I don't REALLY want. This is the sort of hectic activity my day entails."
"'Oh, sorry, I was just wondering what the noise was'?!"
"I'll quote the original text. "I panicked". Now, if you'd presented the scenario to me again, and said "How are you going to handle this?" I'd do what you recommended above. But at the time, my brain shifted from "Helpful" to "Panic mode". I'd overheard someone saying "I really like the smell of butter, is that a crime?!" earlier today, so butter leapt to my mind. I announced "Just, uh, just getting some butter." to the assembled crowd in the kitchen, who stared at me in silence till I got the butter out. I then gestured at the butter, as if to go "See? Butter!" in the hope this would break the tension. I shall admit now, it failed spectacularly in this regard. I don't imagine that could have gone more awkwardly."
Thrilling conclusion: I had to put the butter back, the people were still in the kitchen. In my naivete, I tried the "Gesture at butter" move again. I even threw in an eyebrow raise (Suggesting "Butter, eh? Tsk!"). In case anyone wasn't thinking I was mental, my mouth opened without me knowing about it and the words "Just putting the butter back. I like butter." had tripped out of my mouth. Aggressively bland and stupidly inane. I stopped myself, but I could feel an "mmmmm" about to come out too, so at least I salvaged something.
"I heard noises in the kitchen, so I went to investigate, and there were people in there, doing checks, but it meant I had to pretend I had gone in there for another reason, to get something. I panicked, and got out butter. I now have to sit and watch my butter slowly melt until they leave, or have a bread and butter slice I don't REALLY want. This is the sort of hectic activity my day entails."
"'Oh, sorry, I was just wondering what the noise was'?!"
"I'll quote the original text. "I panicked". Now, if you'd presented the scenario to me again, and said "How are you going to handle this?" I'd do what you recommended above. But at the time, my brain shifted from "Helpful" to "Panic mode". I'd overheard someone saying "I really like the smell of butter, is that a crime?!" earlier today, so butter leapt to my mind. I announced "Just, uh, just getting some butter." to the assembled crowd in the kitchen, who stared at me in silence till I got the butter out. I then gestured at the butter, as if to go "See? Butter!" in the hope this would break the tension. I shall admit now, it failed spectacularly in this regard. I don't imagine that could have gone more awkwardly."
Thrilling conclusion: I had to put the butter back, the people were still in the kitchen. In my naivete, I tried the "Gesture at butter" move again. I even threw in an eyebrow raise (Suggesting "Butter, eh? Tsk!"). In case anyone wasn't thinking I was mental, my mouth opened without me knowing about it and the words "Just putting the butter back. I like butter." had tripped out of my mouth. Aggressively bland and stupidly inane. I stopped myself, but I could feel an "mmmmm" about to come out too, so at least I salvaged something.
Pundemonium
"Have you ever seen a royal box at the theatre?"
"No, but I once saw Princess Anne go 4 rounds with Barry McGuigan in a Leicester bar."
I was a pretty famous silent performer for a while, but I had to give it up. Didn't want to hog the mimelight.
I saw a vulture playing with some sort of meat puppet. Must have been a carrionette.
Another bird one, I saw a man killing hundreds of seabirds on his lawn. Well, it was an albatrossity.
Obscureish music references now. Cypress Hill have recorded a political biography of Iraq's longest serving leader. It's called "Hussein in the Membrane". As part of the album, they've also recorded "Blair De Loon", a new remix of Clair de Lune, which pokes fun at Blair's record as Prime Minister, and "Bush It", which, as you don't need me to tell you, is a new take on Salt-N-Pepa's classic seminal hit, obviously aimed at George W Bush. Should be good, I'm looking forward to it. Since we're on the topic of music, this isn't a pun as such, but I'm beginning to suspect Sir Mix-a-lot and Lady Gaga haven't ACTUALLY been knighted.
I'm opening a travel agents/fish and chips shop. I'm calling it "Going Plaices". That or an Elvis Presley themed Travelodge with it's own small race-track underneath, called "Kartbrake Hotel".
Where do letters go to worship God? Commanion. Except the letter K. He's too busy running a protection bracket. I got given a date rape drug in my mail this week. It was apostroofie. Apostrophe? A post roofie? "Date Rape drug" is just a roofiemism. Euphemism? Christ, this is harder than I thought. I met up with my relative Miss O'Nim. She's a bit of a black sheep, completely the opposite of the rest of us. Aunt O'Nim, we call her. Go easy on me, I've got irritable vowel syndrome. I'm trying to fix it with my diet, I'm becoming a verbivore.
[Caution: Not a pun] If I ever have kids, I'm going to leave cryptic messages written in child's handwriting for them to find in later life and be completely baffled and confused by. Ideally, they'd ask me "What do you think this means? I found it in my room when I was clearing it out. It... It looks like I wanted to overthrow capitalism aged 7. Was I displaying communist tendencies then?" and I'd say "well, when we played snooker, you did refuse to break up the reds, declared the black fundamentally wrong for being so high value, then demanded we make every ball worth the same".
Alternative endings to that include "Whenever we played chess, you demanded that the pawns stop infighting, unite, and overthrow an outdated political elite that ruled them. We had to stop playing with kings and queens. You didn't like chess much."
"You hated monopoly, repeatedly shouting "All property is theft!" and when I charged you rent for landing on my square, you demanded the other players work with you against me. We had to make all the land publicly owned, in the centre of the board. It was a bureaucratic nightmare, but you seemed to enjoy it."
Apparently they're going to swap the hour and minute hands from small and big, respectively, to the alternative (ie, big and small, respectively). All I can say to that is "Not on my watch!".
Extreme tidying, it's the new craze sweeping the nation. Buster "the Duster" Johnson is brushing aside his competitors and mopping the floor with them. He's really cleaning up in the leagues.
THAT'S IT FOR PUNS AND OTHER RELATED SMALL THINGS.
"No, but I once saw Princess Anne go 4 rounds with Barry McGuigan in a Leicester bar."
I was a pretty famous silent performer for a while, but I had to give it up. Didn't want to hog the mimelight.
I saw a vulture playing with some sort of meat puppet. Must have been a carrionette.
Another bird one, I saw a man killing hundreds of seabirds on his lawn. Well, it was an albatrossity.
Obscureish music references now. Cypress Hill have recorded a political biography of Iraq's longest serving leader. It's called "Hussein in the Membrane". As part of the album, they've also recorded "Blair De Loon", a new remix of Clair de Lune, which pokes fun at Blair's record as Prime Minister, and "Bush It", which, as you don't need me to tell you, is a new take on Salt-N-Pepa's classic seminal hit, obviously aimed at George W Bush. Should be good, I'm looking forward to it. Since we're on the topic of music, this isn't a pun as such, but I'm beginning to suspect Sir Mix-a-lot and Lady Gaga haven't ACTUALLY been knighted.
I'm opening a travel agents/fish and chips shop. I'm calling it "Going Plaices". That or an Elvis Presley themed Travelodge with it's own small race-track underneath, called "Kartbrake Hotel".
Where do letters go to worship God? Commanion. Except the letter K. He's too busy running a protection bracket. I got given a date rape drug in my mail this week. It was apostroofie. Apostrophe? A post roofie? "Date Rape drug" is just a roofiemism. Euphemism? Christ, this is harder than I thought. I met up with my relative Miss O'Nim. She's a bit of a black sheep, completely the opposite of the rest of us. Aunt O'Nim, we call her. Go easy on me, I've got irritable vowel syndrome. I'm trying to fix it with my diet, I'm becoming a verbivore.
[Caution: Not a pun] If I ever have kids, I'm going to leave cryptic messages written in child's handwriting for them to find in later life and be completely baffled and confused by. Ideally, they'd ask me "What do you think this means? I found it in my room when I was clearing it out. It... It looks like I wanted to overthrow capitalism aged 7. Was I displaying communist tendencies then?" and I'd say "well, when we played snooker, you did refuse to break up the reds, declared the black fundamentally wrong for being so high value, then demanded we make every ball worth the same".
Alternative endings to that include "Whenever we played chess, you demanded that the pawns stop infighting, unite, and overthrow an outdated political elite that ruled them. We had to stop playing with kings and queens. You didn't like chess much."
"You hated monopoly, repeatedly shouting "All property is theft!" and when I charged you rent for landing on my square, you demanded the other players work with you against me. We had to make all the land publicly owned, in the centre of the board. It was a bureaucratic nightmare, but you seemed to enjoy it."
Apparently they're going to swap the hour and minute hands from small and big, respectively, to the alternative (ie, big and small, respectively). All I can say to that is "Not on my watch!".
Extreme tidying, it's the new craze sweeping the nation. Buster "the Duster" Johnson is brushing aside his competitors and mopping the floor with them. He's really cleaning up in the leagues.
THAT'S IT FOR PUNS AND OTHER RELATED SMALL THINGS.
Hallowe'en
Hallowe'en is fast approaching. What I like about it (The only thing I like about it) is that it immediately divides everyone into "Is prepared to dress up" and "Won't dress up". I am very much in the latter, and my plan is to make fun of people who think it'll be fun to go out as the archetypal slutty nurse, Florence Nightingale, or early 20th century ace president, William Taft, with bitter comments, which they'll be too busy having fun to notice. Worst, though, I can see a pumpkin in our kitchen, which suggests that a flatmate is actively encouraging people to get into the "Hallowe'en spirit". I am to Hallowe'en what Scrooge was to Christmas, without the ultimate redemption of the changing dreams. Bah, humbug.
Of course, sometimes with costumes, they represent a deeper or more intangible point than the mere costume being worn. "What are you dressed as?" "I'm dressed as the cutbacks to an already stretched NHS." "Are you sure you didn't accidentally pick up the skimpy nurse costume?" "Oi! The lack of length in this skirt is a METAPHOR, alright, and my eyes are up here! Pervert."
Or occasionally they're a deliberate attempt to be ironic, which is intended to be cool, but almost always comes off as incredibly annoying. That includes the gem "What are you dressed as?" "The guy who doesn't dress up for Hallowe'en" "Oh, haha, you're so VERY clever. Was the shop all out of 'someone who isn't an unrepentant arsehole?'".
As a final Hallowe'en gesture, I'm going to include a concise list of people I'm not expecting to see people dressed up as this Hallowe'en:
1980s darts sensation Bobby George.
Governor of the Bank of England Mervyn King.
5th century BC "Father of History" Herodotus.
1980s Australian cricketer Mervyn Hughes.
The last Pope to have resigned, 15th century sex-symbol Pope Gregory XII.
19th century British Prime Minister Spencer Perceval.
James Brudenell, who, as you don't need to tell me, was the 7th Earl of Cardigan, famed for leading the Charge of the Light Brigade.
Only president to have served non-consecutive terms in the US, Grover Cleveland.
I could go on. But for your sake, I shan't.
Of course, sometimes with costumes, they represent a deeper or more intangible point than the mere costume being worn. "What are you dressed as?" "I'm dressed as the cutbacks to an already stretched NHS." "Are you sure you didn't accidentally pick up the skimpy nurse costume?" "Oi! The lack of length in this skirt is a METAPHOR, alright, and my eyes are up here! Pervert."
Or occasionally they're a deliberate attempt to be ironic, which is intended to be cool, but almost always comes off as incredibly annoying. That includes the gem "What are you dressed as?" "The guy who doesn't dress up for Hallowe'en" "Oh, haha, you're so VERY clever. Was the shop all out of 'someone who isn't an unrepentant arsehole?'".
As a final Hallowe'en gesture, I'm going to include a concise list of people I'm not expecting to see people dressed up as this Hallowe'en:
1980s darts sensation Bobby George.
Governor of the Bank of England Mervyn King.
5th century BC "Father of History" Herodotus.
1980s Australian cricketer Mervyn Hughes.
The last Pope to have resigned, 15th century sex-symbol Pope Gregory XII.
19th century British Prime Minister Spencer Perceval.
James Brudenell, who, as you don't need to tell me, was the 7th Earl of Cardigan, famed for leading the Charge of the Light Brigade.
Only president to have served non-consecutive terms in the US, Grover Cleveland.
I could go on. But for your sake, I shan't.
Thursday, 20 October 2011
Clearing out Fail Farm
The biggest news on the lips of the nation: Dale Farm "travellers" have been evicted! The last time an eviction was this big in the news, Big Brother was still popular and relevant (A far cry from our modern times). Yes, the travelling folk who meticulous set up full-time homes that weren't going anywhere (It's good to know I can randomly ascribe myself qualities I don't possess if they're in my heritage at some stage. On that basis, I'm a God-fearing war-mongerer, and probably addicted to opiates too. My relatives were surely alive in 19th century Britain), have been evicted from their illegally occupied land. This is just a warm-up for Britain's police force, as we plan to evict Israel from their slightly illegally occupied territories too. Consider it a pre-season friendly for the force, get to work together again, competitive fixture with no risk of failure. It couldn't go wrong. The residents soon staged a mass walk-out in protest at being made to, uh, walk out, in a bizarre twist. They've been there 10 years and sort of walked out after the police stormed the place going "If you wanted us out, you only had to ask! Tsk. We don't want to make trouble. You silly people.".
Sticking with surprising evictions having an inevitable conclusion, Libya's ex-leader Gaddafi is now dead. France said "It's an end to 40 years of tyranny" conveniently forgetting to add "Which we just stood by and watched for decades because Gaddafi was a politically expedient leader, despite his close ties with terrorism.". Britain's PM, Cameron said "I think today is a day to remember all of Colonel Gaddafi's victims" carefully not adding "Which we as a nation forgot when Tony Blair was the first major world leader to endorse him, and hung out with him, signing neato oil deals.". Of course, like all good tyrants (To take Alain Juppe's use of "Tyranny") we, that is to say, Britain and France, supplied him with weapons deals for decades. What Cameron meant to say was "This is a day for conveniently forgetting our roles in the rise and maintenance of Gaddafi, and instead remembering that we helped bring him down! Can we help the National Transitional Council, perhaps by selling you arms or buying oil?". Of course, this death was inevitable, like the sun coming up, or Britain exporting arms to people who eventually use them on their own citizens. There would have been no sense of conclusion without it, and there's nothing worse than an unfinished civil war. Of course, we're totally helping out nations under tyranny. So we're solving North Korea, right guys? No? Well, Zimbabwe? No? We must be too busy with Iran then? No? But only because we're stopping off and sorting out Syria first, right? No? Huh. I guess we're nothing better than despicable hypocrites who make politically expedient moves and claim we did it because it was "right", whilst letting the world do what is pretty obviously wrong right in front of our faces. Brilliant.
Side note: I don't want to suggest I'm bad at picking a fantasy team, but when I picked my fantasy dictator team, I went for experienced, old hands who would rake in the points, and then Mubarak goes and retires, ruining my strike force, and from nowhere, Gaddafi's out for the rest of the season with a niggling death wound he picked up in a pre-season friendly against his own citizens. Not to mention the surprise move by Ben Ali. I'm pinning my hopes on Bashar al-Assad (Captain) and Ahmadinejad (Vice-captain).
In other news, people in America and Britain have gathered in order to protest.. uh, stuff. In general. Some of the stuff they're complaining about includes fiscally irresponsible behaviour by banks, which were let off the hook from both regulation and having to be responsible for their own failures. Also complaining about the corporate influence in modern politics (For £50,000, you can spend the night with David Cameron, and talk to him. It's easy to make the lewd comparisons to him being a high-class prostitute, obviously, but I'm better than that. I'm sure campaign donations to large political leaders in America is equally shady, possibly even more so thanks to corporations being people, and political donations being free speech, bizarrely), which seems reasonable enough to me. "We'll give you, the man who is supposed to be impartially deciding the rules of the nation, loads of money in exchange for time spent telling you what we would simply love it if you did. We may do this fairly frequently if it gets results." has the ring of untrustworthiness to it. Far be it from me to suggest giving politicians thousands of pounds would influence their decision-making, I'm merely saying it MIGHT. Protests thus far have been met in New York with the tiniest smidge of police brutality, and widespread condemnation at the fact that these people "Look funny" and "Don't have a cohesive message", despite the fact that the majority of Americans agree with the general thrust of the message which is "The American Dream is dead, and American Politics killed it". "Work hard, do your bit, and one day you could have YOUR retirement plan generously donated to global banks because of their shortcomings!" seems to be the gist of their social security system just now.
There's been a Greek general strike. Obvious jokes at the ready: "How did anyone notice?" and "What did they do differently?" and "Didn't that start around 440 BC with the release of Histories by Herodotus?". This is in protest at the aggressive austerity measures enforced in the face of their somewhat laid-back lifestyle (Retirement age of 61, the minor issue of not really paying the taxes they owe, etc). I sincerely doubt the strikes will cause Greece to go "Fine, let's go bankrupt! THAT'S a good idea! Jeez. For the country that invented democracy, we're not very good at it.". The Greek finance minister must be spending his days alternately hiding beneath his desk and telling his secretary to clear his appointments, and weeping in a therapist's office, saying "It all started when I was a boy, and I bought toys with money I didn't really have, on credit! You're right!".
That's enough news. We're done here.
Sticking with surprising evictions having an inevitable conclusion, Libya's ex-leader Gaddafi is now dead. France said "It's an end to 40 years of tyranny" conveniently forgetting to add "Which we just stood by and watched for decades because Gaddafi was a politically expedient leader, despite his close ties with terrorism.". Britain's PM, Cameron said "I think today is a day to remember all of Colonel Gaddafi's victims" carefully not adding "Which we as a nation forgot when Tony Blair was the first major world leader to endorse him, and hung out with him, signing neato oil deals.". Of course, like all good tyrants (To take Alain Juppe's use of "Tyranny") we, that is to say, Britain and France, supplied him with weapons deals for decades. What Cameron meant to say was "This is a day for conveniently forgetting our roles in the rise and maintenance of Gaddafi, and instead remembering that we helped bring him down! Can we help the National Transitional Council, perhaps by selling you arms or buying oil?". Of course, this death was inevitable, like the sun coming up, or Britain exporting arms to people who eventually use them on their own citizens. There would have been no sense of conclusion without it, and there's nothing worse than an unfinished civil war. Of course, we're totally helping out nations under tyranny. So we're solving North Korea, right guys? No? Well, Zimbabwe? No? We must be too busy with Iran then? No? But only because we're stopping off and sorting out Syria first, right? No? Huh. I guess we're nothing better than despicable hypocrites who make politically expedient moves and claim we did it because it was "right", whilst letting the world do what is pretty obviously wrong right in front of our faces. Brilliant.
Side note: I don't want to suggest I'm bad at picking a fantasy team, but when I picked my fantasy dictator team, I went for experienced, old hands who would rake in the points, and then Mubarak goes and retires, ruining my strike force, and from nowhere, Gaddafi's out for the rest of the season with a niggling death wound he picked up in a pre-season friendly against his own citizens. Not to mention the surprise move by Ben Ali. I'm pinning my hopes on Bashar al-Assad (Captain) and Ahmadinejad (Vice-captain).
In other news, people in America and Britain have gathered in order to protest.. uh, stuff. In general. Some of the stuff they're complaining about includes fiscally irresponsible behaviour by banks, which were let off the hook from both regulation and having to be responsible for their own failures. Also complaining about the corporate influence in modern politics (For £50,000, you can spend the night with David Cameron, and talk to him. It's easy to make the lewd comparisons to him being a high-class prostitute, obviously, but I'm better than that. I'm sure campaign donations to large political leaders in America is equally shady, possibly even more so thanks to corporations being people, and political donations being free speech, bizarrely), which seems reasonable enough to me. "We'll give you, the man who is supposed to be impartially deciding the rules of the nation, loads of money in exchange for time spent telling you what we would simply love it if you did. We may do this fairly frequently if it gets results." has the ring of untrustworthiness to it. Far be it from me to suggest giving politicians thousands of pounds would influence their decision-making, I'm merely saying it MIGHT. Protests thus far have been met in New York with the tiniest smidge of police brutality, and widespread condemnation at the fact that these people "Look funny" and "Don't have a cohesive message", despite the fact that the majority of Americans agree with the general thrust of the message which is "The American Dream is dead, and American Politics killed it". "Work hard, do your bit, and one day you could have YOUR retirement plan generously donated to global banks because of their shortcomings!" seems to be the gist of their social security system just now.
There's been a Greek general strike. Obvious jokes at the ready: "How did anyone notice?" and "What did they do differently?" and "Didn't that start around 440 BC with the release of Histories by Herodotus?". This is in protest at the aggressive austerity measures enforced in the face of their somewhat laid-back lifestyle (Retirement age of 61, the minor issue of not really paying the taxes they owe, etc). I sincerely doubt the strikes will cause Greece to go "Fine, let's go bankrupt! THAT'S a good idea! Jeez. For the country that invented democracy, we're not very good at it.". The Greek finance minister must be spending his days alternately hiding beneath his desk and telling his secretary to clear his appointments, and weeping in a therapist's office, saying "It all started when I was a boy, and I bought toys with money I didn't really have, on credit! You're right!".
That's enough news. We're done here.
Monday, 10 October 2011
LibDems are a lot like a First Love (Part 2)
The LibDems are a lot like first love. But there's always got to be a point where it all goes wrong. Where you're left wondering "What did I do? What could I have done better?". You've built up an identity around being a LibDem voter. All of a sudden, with a few injudicious choices that's not an option anymore. Sure it's fair to say there's blame on both sides. Did you really do everything you could do to be a better LibDem? Did they really do everything they could do to keep you voting LibDem? It's hard to say.
You start by looking at yourself, blaming yourself. "I could have done more. She let me down because I didn't give her any choices. I was a terrible party-voter.", but you soon snap out of it. You switch to denial. "She'll come back. She can't go on without me. It'll be fine. I'll be a better voter this time. I can change.", but after a bit of time has passed, it switches to anger. "She sold me out! I can't believe that two-faced cow of a political party! She said she loved me! She was just paying me lip-service! She was just using me! she's used people before me and she'll go on using people after me. I don't need her anyways!". Then you go to the classic third stage of grief: Bargaining. "I'll take her back if she repeals the Digital Economy Act. I'm sure she will. I can trust her if she does. Who cares about Tuition Fees? Everyone makes mistakes. She fell in with a bad crowd, what could she have done?".
Then you switch to depression. You wake up every morning thinking "God, I wish there was a political party that truly represented the best interests of me and the common man. Goddamn it!" and then roll over. They dominate your waking moments, the loss you feel. You've always identified yourself as a LibDem voter. What are you now? Just a floating voter? Back on the political market? You go out to political rallies, trying to see if another party will catch your eye, but you don't really feel it. There's only one party for you in your heart. The LibDems. But that's not an option anymore.
Eventually you arrive at acceptance. This is the stage where you write annoying blog posts comparing a seemingly meaningless political mishap to the genuine heartbreak of a relationship ending. You know that, perhaps, political monogamy isn't for you just yet, it's maybe too soon for you to be settling down with a political party for the rest of your life. You're still young. Perhaps there will be a time when, a few years from now, you bump into the LibDems at a news broadcast held by your mutual friend. You say to each other "You look well.", and there's still a little spark there. Time heals all wounds, and you begin to see the saucy glint in her that says "I'm as left wing as you're going to get from mainstream parties", and the chemistry flows. You've both grown up a little. Perhaps there's still a chance for the LibDems in your heart.
You start by looking at yourself, blaming yourself. "I could have done more. She let me down because I didn't give her any choices. I was a terrible party-voter.", but you soon snap out of it. You switch to denial. "She'll come back. She can't go on without me. It'll be fine. I'll be a better voter this time. I can change.", but after a bit of time has passed, it switches to anger. "She sold me out! I can't believe that two-faced cow of a political party! She said she loved me! She was just paying me lip-service! She was just using me! she's used people before me and she'll go on using people after me. I don't need her anyways!". Then you go to the classic third stage of grief: Bargaining. "I'll take her back if she repeals the Digital Economy Act. I'm sure she will. I can trust her if she does. Who cares about Tuition Fees? Everyone makes mistakes. She fell in with a bad crowd, what could she have done?".
Then you switch to depression. You wake up every morning thinking "God, I wish there was a political party that truly represented the best interests of me and the common man. Goddamn it!" and then roll over. They dominate your waking moments, the loss you feel. You've always identified yourself as a LibDem voter. What are you now? Just a floating voter? Back on the political market? You go out to political rallies, trying to see if another party will catch your eye, but you don't really feel it. There's only one party for you in your heart. The LibDems. But that's not an option anymore.
Eventually you arrive at acceptance. This is the stage where you write annoying blog posts comparing a seemingly meaningless political mishap to the genuine heartbreak of a relationship ending. You know that, perhaps, political monogamy isn't for you just yet, it's maybe too soon for you to be settling down with a political party for the rest of your life. You're still young. Perhaps there will be a time when, a few years from now, you bump into the LibDems at a news broadcast held by your mutual friend. You say to each other "You look well.", and there's still a little spark there. Time heals all wounds, and you begin to see the saucy glint in her that says "I'm as left wing as you're going to get from mainstream parties", and the chemistry flows. You've both grown up a little. Perhaps there's still a chance for the LibDems in your heart.
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