I'm a man who, history has documented, is willing to try new things, and this week, I thought "I've never actually bought, and read, the Sun!". Well, when you combine that with the release of the brand-new and not-at-all-like-the-News-of-the-World Sun on Sunday, it was an ideal opportunity to dip my toes into tabloid water. In the interests of a fair comparison, I also got The Mail on Sunday, its main rival in the Sunday paper market. Here is a comparison of each against each other.
The Sun has the newstritional (Deliberate pun) content of a cereal box. If you want a series of insightful, thoughtful articles, examining the biggest issues society faces today, with relevant examples from this week, The Sun is not the place to look. It's like a kid's "My First Newspaper", with big, exciting pictures and small, simple words. Of the opening ten pages, 5 can be considered "News", and three of them are about the "Indy" debate. Seriously, they shorten independence to "indy". It's got 12 letters, I can't be expected to read all of them. They also have "Celebrity" endorsements littered throughout the paper, as this is the glorious first edition, to quote them; "A new era has dawned". One such celebrity endorsement is The Krankies. Oh yes, the ever-relevant Krankies, thank God you sought out their opinion of the paper, I couldn't imagine doing anything without their agreement. Another celebrity was Barbara Rafferty. You know, from Rab C Nesbitt? The wife, of a supporting character! Don't tell me you don't remember! She was on River City, till about 3 years ago? Come on! No? She's one of 3 former River City stars to say the Sun's great. I wouldn't expect you to get the other two either.
The Mail isn't exactly content-heavy either, in fairness to the Sun, but it does at least have a token effort at including news (Judging by the randomness of the articles, largely by accident. "Oh no, Mr Dacre, I accidentally ran an article containing news!" "It's too late now, we've already started printing!" is probably a common exchange in the editor's office).
Both papers rely heavily on celebrity tittle-tattle to make up for their stunning lack of news. there is however, one news story that featured fairly prominently in the columnists pages for the Sun: Fellow News International war correspondent Marie Colvin's death came up twice, separately. Katie Price (In her articles on page ELEVEN. That's ten pages of sort-of news then "Woah there, but what does celebrity topless model Katie Price make of this!?". The tagline is "The Price is ALWAYS right!", and she talks about private education versus state education, using the damning line "I went to a state school and look how well I've done!". Quite. But if I don't want my daughter stripping for money...) says "She is just the sort of woman who impresses me", while Catriona Shearer also sings her praises. Nothing mentioned of the award-winning war photographer who died with her. Presumably he was just freelance rather than working for NI.
The Mail didn't focus on this story much, but how could they with space at such a premium that the story about Tara Palmer-Tomkinson telling Kate that William would come running back to her could only take up a (full) single page? That's a four page spread at least, but they must have somehow whittled it down to one. The Sun weren't quite so economical in their story about Amanda Holden giving birth, unable to get that down, somehow, to less than two pages.
Having criticised Katie Price, The Mail's columnists aren't much better, in fairness. Liz Jones looks around the world, sees plague and pestilence across the world, looks at the issues in Syria and Bahrain, looks at the big issue of the day, the Scottish independence debate, glances at the NHS debate, and indeed, the "Slave labour" issue rearing its head, and thinks "The world needs an article, and I am ready to deliver". She sits down at her desk, is presumably briefly possessed (It's the only logical conclusion) and churns out "Someone has to tell the truth about fashion (...Even if it does cost me that lovely olive greatcoat)". Brilliant. Well, thank god you stepped up, Liz, because it doesn't seem particularly likely that anyone else would, and now that Marie Colvin's dead, someone has to nail these big issues. Unbelievable.
Mercifully, though, The Sun is slightly less right-wing than the Mail (I kid you not, the Mail has some sort of weird article about the Socialist Worker's Party and its front organisations. Apparently whatever side they are on, "Sensible citizens" should be on the other. It reads like a 1920s piece against the rise of communism. "Sacrificed on the altar of Leftist dogma" may be the weirdest way to end an article since about 1953) but it's hardly the Socialist Worker. Both papers lose marks for showing clear bias here.
Additional pull outs and so on, as is standard for Sunday papers, were adequate in both. A decentish sport section, although nothing remarkable. The Mails "You" magazine featured the rest of the aforementioned Tara Palmer-Tomkinson interview which didn't fit in the newspaper. To show you that I've done my reading, she describes herself as "secretly clever". Oh really. I'm secretly very handsome. No, no, I know I don't look it, but that's because it's a secret. I didn't realise we could ascribe ourselves qualities and then put "secretly" before them, and thus, it becomes a perfectly valid statement. The Sun's pull out was "Fabulous" magazine, which had the story article "99 Buy Me Now Shoes". I'll let that speak for the general tone of the thing. Nothing more to say about them, really.
In short then: The Mail wins, but only because, at fifty pence, The Sun on Sunday is the best value toilet paper I've ever bought. Don't buy either if you can avoid it.
Sunday, 26 February 2012
Friday, 27 January 2012
Small things occasionally about the news
David Cameron said: "I often say to my children 'No need to go to the Natural History Museum to see a dinosaur, come to the House of Commons at about half past twelve'.", which Labour took offence at, so Conservative Mark Pritchard said: "I wonder whether this House of Commons would be better with more or less humour?". Judging by the first statement I'd start with introducing some humour, then working our way up. Given that parliamentary footage is explicitly not allowed to be used for comedic purposes, it's a shame Cameron's non-stop gag-reel of a mind is so wasted on an audience of "Politicians and to a lesser extent, people who care about politics". He really zinged that 79 year old, to the extent that he never even knew what hit him. Possible return zings "I often tell my kids that if they fancy hot-air ballooning, it appears the PM has an excess of fuel that they can pick up about now.", or "I tell my children that instead of going to the local farm on the off-chance of seeing a cock crowing to his loyal following chickens, they might as well be certain of it by coming to Prime Minister's Questions". He said neither of these things, by the way.
I was in a shop that was playing Falco's seminal German hit "Rock Me Amadeus". It was as close as I'll ever get to time-travel. I felt like going up to the cashier and yelling "WHAT YEAR IS IT?!". At some stage in 2030, someone is going to make this precise joke about current hit "Party Rock Anthem". I sometimes like to remember that one day, that'll come on Radio 2 as one of the "hits from the past" while I'm driving, and I'll sing along, and the children in the car will be horrified. Partly because they're not mine, but mostly because of the song thing. That's a joke obviously; that song will still be cool in 18 years.
The Duchess of Cornwall launches a new initiative for kids on Jubilee day: A cooking competition! "Cook for the Queen", presumably shortened from the original title "Cook for the Queen like the worthless peons you are, she demands it of you and who are you to resist the demands of a divinely-chosen being, you pleb?!", aims to unite the children of the UK through their shared love of baking into one joyous nation again. This should single-handedly stop the Scottish independence referendum in its tracks, and grind republicanism to a halt. Anything less and it can only be considered a failure.
People have been "Flooding" MPs with questions via twitter for Michael Gove. Over four billion people from around the world have tried to get MPs to ask him "Why are you so hateful?", as well as "A royal yacht?! What sort of austerity measure is handing out free boats?!". One person got halfway through a sensible question about the government's new academy policy before descending into using his remaining characters on "IHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEY". Sadly, it closed at 11am, so you've missed your chance to ask a question to Michael Gove.
Ed Miliband, as ever a man of the people has had a go at David Cameron about what this week? Let's make it a multiple choice quiz!
[a] Swingeing cuts to core services that will leave many in Britain who are reliant on a system of social security, those are the most vulnerable in our society, out of luck as the system abandons them in a desire to save money?
[b] The intractable war which Britain has been waging for nearly a decade in the Middle-East, and the PM's position on the apparently growing threat that is Iran?
[c] Chocolate Oranges.
It's a tough one... Got an answer? Good! If you said [c], well done! If you said [a] or [b], I'm afraid you simply have too much faith in the leader of the opposition to address issues that are actually meaningful or important. You grow out of it, it's a phase, like having faith in the political process, or liking George Michael. Yes, Ed "Fathead" Miliband has pointed out that David Cameron was aghast, appalled and angered by the cut-price chocolate oranges available to fat people at WHSmiths, only 6 years ago, in 2006. And yet, in 2 years of power, he has not found time between battling the political fires of the middle-east and economic woes of neighbours to address what is, CLEARLY, a burning issue. "If he can't sort out the chocolate oranges, he's not going to sort out the train companies, the energy companies, the banks, is he?". In a wide-ranging interview, he was also asked about whether he would donate to a privately-funded Royal Yacht. He said "I give money to charity in different ways. There are obviously lots of deserving causes.", carefully neglecting to finish that with the sentence "And a new yacht for a woman who literally lives in a palace isn't one of them.". Very politically astute of him.
Finally there has been a hubbub over RBS giving someone a bonus of £963,000. On top of his regular salary of £1.2 million. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I will do the job for a paltry £100,000 a year, and not ask for ANY bonus. And given that, due to the joys of shares, the £45.5 billion investment has now lost £27 billion under his reign, it's hard to imagine I could do a worse job. Consider this my formal application, RBS. I await your response with anticipation.
I was in a shop that was playing Falco's seminal German hit "Rock Me Amadeus". It was as close as I'll ever get to time-travel. I felt like going up to the cashier and yelling "WHAT YEAR IS IT?!". At some stage in 2030, someone is going to make this precise joke about current hit "Party Rock Anthem". I sometimes like to remember that one day, that'll come on Radio 2 as one of the "hits from the past" while I'm driving, and I'll sing along, and the children in the car will be horrified. Partly because they're not mine, but mostly because of the song thing. That's a joke obviously; that song will still be cool in 18 years.
The Duchess of Cornwall launches a new initiative for kids on Jubilee day: A cooking competition! "Cook for the Queen", presumably shortened from the original title "Cook for the Queen like the worthless peons you are, she demands it of you and who are you to resist the demands of a divinely-chosen being, you pleb?!", aims to unite the children of the UK through their shared love of baking into one joyous nation again. This should single-handedly stop the Scottish independence referendum in its tracks, and grind republicanism to a halt. Anything less and it can only be considered a failure.
People have been "Flooding" MPs with questions via twitter for Michael Gove. Over four billion people from around the world have tried to get MPs to ask him "Why are you so hateful?", as well as "A royal yacht?! What sort of austerity measure is handing out free boats?!". One person got halfway through a sensible question about the government's new academy policy before descending into using his remaining characters on "IHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEY". Sadly, it closed at 11am, so you've missed your chance to ask a question to Michael Gove.
Ed Miliband, as ever a man of the people has had a go at David Cameron about what this week? Let's make it a multiple choice quiz!
[a] Swingeing cuts to core services that will leave many in Britain who are reliant on a system of social security, those are the most vulnerable in our society, out of luck as the system abandons them in a desire to save money?
[b] The intractable war which Britain has been waging for nearly a decade in the Middle-East, and the PM's position on the apparently growing threat that is Iran?
[c] Chocolate Oranges.
It's a tough one... Got an answer? Good! If you said [c], well done! If you said [a] or [b], I'm afraid you simply have too much faith in the leader of the opposition to address issues that are actually meaningful or important. You grow out of it, it's a phase, like having faith in the political process, or liking George Michael. Yes, Ed "Fathead" Miliband has pointed out that David Cameron was aghast, appalled and angered by the cut-price chocolate oranges available to fat people at WHSmiths, only 6 years ago, in 2006. And yet, in 2 years of power, he has not found time between battling the political fires of the middle-east and economic woes of neighbours to address what is, CLEARLY, a burning issue. "If he can't sort out the chocolate oranges, he's not going to sort out the train companies, the energy companies, the banks, is he?". In a wide-ranging interview, he was also asked about whether he would donate to a privately-funded Royal Yacht. He said "I give money to charity in different ways. There are obviously lots of deserving causes.", carefully neglecting to finish that with the sentence "And a new yacht for a woman who literally lives in a palace isn't one of them.". Very politically astute of him.
Finally there has been a hubbub over RBS giving someone a bonus of £963,000. On top of his regular salary of £1.2 million. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I will do the job for a paltry £100,000 a year, and not ask for ANY bonus. And given that, due to the joys of shares, the £45.5 billion investment has now lost £27 billion under his reign, it's hard to imagine I could do a worse job. Consider this my formal application, RBS. I await your response with anticipation.
Monday, 23 January 2012
My Own Magdalen College Rejection Letter
Dear Magdalen College,
I, like many other candidates who have not been accepted to your university, am writing pre-emptively to reject any offers you may put my way. I sincerely hope you understand that you were in competition with many other universities who have not accepted me, and I simply cannot accept all possible offers that are not yet put to me.
I hope you find many other not-accepted candidates who are willing to attend your university in my stead.
Yours Sincerely
Me.
On a side note, I read the (actual) letter, and the final sentence is "Perhaps you should offer a glass of water in your interviews; it is rude to torture your guests". The use of torture there is bold, to say the least. One could suggest that real torture victims in Guantanamo might say they get arguably too much water during interviews. It's a fine line between "Satiating Thirst" and "Waterboarding", and frankly, if a college doesn't want to accidentally stray across that line, I can respect that.
I, like many other candidates who have not been accepted to your university, am writing pre-emptively to reject any offers you may put my way. I sincerely hope you understand that you were in competition with many other universities who have not accepted me, and I simply cannot accept all possible offers that are not yet put to me.
I hope you find many other not-accepted candidates who are willing to attend your university in my stead.
Yours Sincerely
Me.
On a side note, I read the (actual) letter, and the final sentence is "Perhaps you should offer a glass of water in your interviews; it is rude to torture your guests". The use of torture there is bold, to say the least. One could suggest that real torture victims in Guantanamo might say they get arguably too much water during interviews. It's a fine line between "Satiating Thirst" and "Waterboarding", and frankly, if a college doesn't want to accidentally stray across that line, I can respect that.
Monday, 16 January 2012
Song Puns around Communist Leaders
New Music Update! Robbie Williams has released a new album of communist remixes of his old songs. "I'm loving Engels instead" is to be the title track. Also included is a brand new version of Fatboy Slim's seminal hit "Right here, Right Mao", advocating an immediate change to Maoism in Britain. Another twist on a new song with "Just the Che you are" remixed with the aid of Bruno Mars. And a change on the classic "Sparks" by Coldplay, called, you guessed it, "Marx". Say what you like about his music, you can't argue with the underlying political messages in his songs. Nothing in there for fans of Liebknecht, but it's hard to rhyme, I can't blame him really. THAT JUST HAPPENED. Get on board.
Friday, 6 January 2012
Powerlessness
Due to stormy conditions, we went without power for 3 whole days. I am going to relate to you that nightmarish existence. Do not read before bedtime, as this is clearly, a first-world horror story.
DAY 1
Wake up without power. Think little of it, as I am going to a friend's house, and it'll surely be back on by the evening. Surely.
Arrive back that evening. Enjoy a game of cards by candlelight. Novelty factor still making this a relatively enjoyable experience. Good analogy is a Christmas jumper. Wearing it once isn't bad. Midway through day three, though, with absolutely no choice in the matter, it begins to become a little grating. Go to bed. House not yet lost the warmth, but is noticeably colder than I would desire.
DAY 2
Wake up. Curse the cold. Then curse the mind-numbing boredom. Suddenly understand the popularity of Victorian toys and sports, given that the alternative is "Freeze to death inside your own home reading ludicrously ambitious literature" (I had a stab at Dante's Inferno and very nearly learnt something before Scottish Power turned the electricity back on. What are you trying to pull, Scottish Power!? I don't want to LEARN on my time off. God.). Spent all day at home, tending to fires (Read: Not moving very far away from fires) reading books I'd always meant to get round to reading but never had. Nearly died from ennui. Had to eat something unexpectedly spicy just to liven up my day. Evening came. Played cards. Went to bed around 10, just because I needed something to do. Cold. So cold. Slept with a hot water bottle. In a sleeping bag. Under a duvet. Was acceptably warm. Scottish Power's emergency line said we'd have power by today. We did not.
DAY 3
Wake up at dark o'clock. No idea what time it is, and my phone won't tell me as it is out of power. Decide to sleep until it's light outside. Get up. Ring Scottish Power's emergency line again. Shout "What are we to you, ANIMALS?! I need my electricity!". Moo down the line at the automated voice telling me it would now be midnight tomorrow till I got my power back. Begin to suspect cold and boredom may be messing with my mind. Spent all day trying to make a fire so hot it redefined the temperature scale as we know it, and everything would have to be designated in terms of this fire. This should just about stave off the cold. Sit within a four yard radius of the fire. Take up napping as a pastime. Boredom is physically palpable. At lunchtime, I try to learn piano. Twenty minutes later, I knew I was not cut out for the world of piano. Stare out of the window like a lonesome dog. Secretly hope UFOs land and take me away, just to end the crushing tedium. Night falls at about 4 pm. Wear a headtorch. This is my only fun. Play cards.
DAY 4
Wake up to power. Shout "THANK THE LORD!" at the sight of the illuminating glow of the shaving light. Immediately upon having power again, I get offers to go do something that isn't sit at home alone the dark. C'est la vie.
DAY 1
Wake up without power. Think little of it, as I am going to a friend's house, and it'll surely be back on by the evening. Surely.
Arrive back that evening. Enjoy a game of cards by candlelight. Novelty factor still making this a relatively enjoyable experience. Good analogy is a Christmas jumper. Wearing it once isn't bad. Midway through day three, though, with absolutely no choice in the matter, it begins to become a little grating. Go to bed. House not yet lost the warmth, but is noticeably colder than I would desire.
DAY 2
Wake up. Curse the cold. Then curse the mind-numbing boredom. Suddenly understand the popularity of Victorian toys and sports, given that the alternative is "Freeze to death inside your own home reading ludicrously ambitious literature" (I had a stab at Dante's Inferno and very nearly learnt something before Scottish Power turned the electricity back on. What are you trying to pull, Scottish Power!? I don't want to LEARN on my time off. God.). Spent all day at home, tending to fires (Read: Not moving very far away from fires) reading books I'd always meant to get round to reading but never had. Nearly died from ennui. Had to eat something unexpectedly spicy just to liven up my day. Evening came. Played cards. Went to bed around 10, just because I needed something to do. Cold. So cold. Slept with a hot water bottle. In a sleeping bag. Under a duvet. Was acceptably warm. Scottish Power's emergency line said we'd have power by today. We did not.
DAY 3
Wake up at dark o'clock. No idea what time it is, and my phone won't tell me as it is out of power. Decide to sleep until it's light outside. Get up. Ring Scottish Power's emergency line again. Shout "What are we to you, ANIMALS?! I need my electricity!". Moo down the line at the automated voice telling me it would now be midnight tomorrow till I got my power back. Begin to suspect cold and boredom may be messing with my mind. Spent all day trying to make a fire so hot it redefined the temperature scale as we know it, and everything would have to be designated in terms of this fire. This should just about stave off the cold. Sit within a four yard radius of the fire. Take up napping as a pastime. Boredom is physically palpable. At lunchtime, I try to learn piano. Twenty minutes later, I knew I was not cut out for the world of piano. Stare out of the window like a lonesome dog. Secretly hope UFOs land and take me away, just to end the crushing tedium. Night falls at about 4 pm. Wear a headtorch. This is my only fun. Play cards.
DAY 4
Wake up to power. Shout "THANK THE LORD!" at the sight of the illuminating glow of the shaving light. Immediately upon having power again, I get offers to go do something that isn't sit at home alone the dark. C'est la vie.
Friday, 30 December 2011
"For Normal Hair"
My shampoo has "For normal hair" written on it. This would normally be acceptable, but it sort of implies that there is such a thing as abnormal hair. I can imagine the scene now: Man walks into a chemists and says "Hi, I need some shampoo." and the woman behind the till gives him some, he looks at the packaging and goes "...Oh, no, this is for normal hair. I should have said really. My hair naturally assumes the shape of legendary English opening batsmen. Under my hat today I have Geoffrey Boycott playing a forward defensive. Yesterday it was Trescothick executing a magnificent square cut.", and the woman says "I'll see if we've got anything for that" and comes out holding a shampoo bottle that says "For hair that is NOT normal". I have a lot of time to think about these things in the bath. We also have something called Radox "Shower Therapy". I daren't use it lest I end up weeping on the floor shouting "Yes Dr Radox, I see it now, all my problems stem from my unrequited love in Primary 5! I need to let it go and be all the person I can be!". That's probably not what it does, but when it has such an ambiguous name I can never quite be certain, and why take that risk?
Tuesday, 27 December 2011
Jedward
Jedward; We all know who they are, the cheeky, happy-go-lucky human equivalent of the puppy that occasionally runs into trees, and then has the temerity to look both confused and baffled by what is, to its simple mind, the sudden appearance of a 40 foot wooden pole from seemingly thin air. They are also, according to wikipedia "Proud possessors of hair so utterly magnetising it has drawn all 20% of a personality that they were born with, and sucked it directly to its magic follicles". It's fair to say that Jedward's hair is the best thing about them, which is a shame, because if you are outshone by your hair, you probably aren't very interesting. They are some sequiny clothes with hair. The only thing I could accurately tell you about them as people is that they are Irish, and so pale that, naked, they are invisible to the human eye in the Antarctic.
But we must come to the crux of the matter. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say this: Jedward have literally ruined my life. You see, all my personal and professional accomplishments, admittedly scarce and minor, lie scattered by the wayside to their unending success. My achievements have been stripped of all meaning by the knowledge that, no matter how great I am in my chosen career, I will never be as well-known as Jedward, despite their bottomless well of talentlessness. To be outstripped by greats of our time, and cast aside as sand to the winds of eternity whilst they live on, rocks of brilliantness that generations from ours will look back on in awe and respect, that is a noble thing. But to imagine that in 100 years Jedward will be better remembered than Nobel prize-winners and other luminaries of our generation? Well, by contrast, what chance do I have against the might of their captivating hair?
So why bother even trying to eclipse these gigantic planets of meaningless celebrity? My every action now is a futile gesture against their unending success in the face of millions and millions and millions of obstacles that should be holding them back. In a century they will be remembered and I shall not; in a millennium, we will all be forgotten, consigned to the books of history. They will impact more lives more heavily than I could ever hope to do. I could spend my every waking moment pursuing an impact on society as strong as theirs is, and never come anywhere near it.
My experience tells me effort and talent bring success. Logic dictates that this should be so. Yet around Jedward, this worldview is a shattered illusion, a lie invented to explain reality in a way I can understand, and I have become painfully aware of this. My new outlook on life is that silly hair and ridiculous clothing brings unimaginable success. As such, I have bought hairgel and a sequin-covered floral nightgown. Wish me luck!
But we must come to the crux of the matter. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say this: Jedward have literally ruined my life. You see, all my personal and professional accomplishments, admittedly scarce and minor, lie scattered by the wayside to their unending success. My achievements have been stripped of all meaning by the knowledge that, no matter how great I am in my chosen career, I will never be as well-known as Jedward, despite their bottomless well of talentlessness. To be outstripped by greats of our time, and cast aside as sand to the winds of eternity whilst they live on, rocks of brilliantness that generations from ours will look back on in awe and respect, that is a noble thing. But to imagine that in 100 years Jedward will be better remembered than Nobel prize-winners and other luminaries of our generation? Well, by contrast, what chance do I have against the might of their captivating hair?
So why bother even trying to eclipse these gigantic planets of meaningless celebrity? My every action now is a futile gesture against their unending success in the face of millions and millions and millions of obstacles that should be holding them back. In a century they will be remembered and I shall not; in a millennium, we will all be forgotten, consigned to the books of history. They will impact more lives more heavily than I could ever hope to do. I could spend my every waking moment pursuing an impact on society as strong as theirs is, and never come anywhere near it.
My experience tells me effort and talent bring success. Logic dictates that this should be so. Yet around Jedward, this worldview is a shattered illusion, a lie invented to explain reality in a way I can understand, and I have become painfully aware of this. My new outlook on life is that silly hair and ridiculous clothing brings unimaginable success. As such, I have bought hairgel and a sequin-covered floral nightgown. Wish me luck!
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
Kim Jong-Very Ill.
Well, it's been a bad year for dictators all round. North Korea is no exception, and now Kim Jong-Il has died of natural causes. The world mourns one of the greatest men of our times. Certainly, the world of golf is poorer for not having his ability to get 38-under par (11 holes in one) in it, but that is just one of many talents that the people of North Korea can no longer rely on. A prolific writer, it was said in his autobiography that he had written no fewer than 1,500 books whilst at university, but having mastered the art of prose, he turned his attention to alternative entertainment forms. He went on to write 6 operas, and became obsessed by film (Perhaps obsessed isn't quite strong enough to do justice for his love of film. He liked films so much he kidnapped a South Korean actor/director couple and made them make films until they absconded 8 years later), and apparently produced a 100-part series on the history of North Korea. In later life, having conquered everything that stood before him as a personal challenge, he had waterslides installed in his house, such that he may enjoy the relaxation of retirement. He leaves behind a legacy of an impoverished nation, cruelly misled by wild propaganda (He has reportedly convinced the people of North Korea that he can control the weather with his mood) and 5 children, one of whom will be the next to lead North Korea through another glorious 17 years of unending success.
Christmas news, now! Eastenders beat Coronation Street in the famous "Battle of the Soaps" for the hearts and minds of people who are too drunk to care what's on TV, and slightly hate adverts. Well done! Of course, the Battle of the Soaps is a long tradition, started when, in 1999, Ross Kemp smashed Ken Barlow over the head with a champagne bottle at the Baftas, leading to a ratings explosion as people were desperate to see what these shows were about. Barlow and Kemp came to a gentleman's agreement: Whichever soap got most viewers on Christmas Day god a mug engraved with "King of the Soaps" given to it by the other soap, containing the ashes of a pump handle at the Rover's Return, after an infamous poem in Hello! magazine, in which a reader mourned the death of Coronation Street, and said the Ashes would head to London. Since 2003, the real Ashes have been kept safely locked away in the BBC archives, but a replica is given to the winning soap each year.
Prince Philip has been ill, which has been bizarrely big news. The Sun went with "90 year old man in shock not-perfect condition horror!" while The Standard went with "Diana's Revenge: Philip in mortal threat after attack by Britain's best loved ghost!". Nobody seemed to consider an old man in not great condition a normal thing, somewhat irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, rather than a newsworthy headline story.
AMERICAN ELECTION UPDATE
Since my last foray into writing about news, Hermain Cain has spectacularly imploded on the campaign trail for Republican nomination. Elections in America take about 30 years to complete (We're still not sure who won in 2000) so ignore the fact that a man can collapse in the election nearly a year before the vote, and focus on the brilliant things he has brought to us, including quoting the Pokemon song as something to inspire us, his flat-rate 9% tax on absolutely everything (Pointed out later to be pretty similar to SimCity) and, of course, the sex scandals. The man is single-handedly trying to capture every headline bulletin in the news at 10. He was the fore-runner before the trifling matter of him being almost catastrophically bad forced him to retire, leaving the way clear for Newt Gingrich, according to political pundits. Initially, what sort of name is "Newt"? Secondly, and perhaps more pressingly, the man is a known-philanderer and took a $1.6 million payment for doing nothing for a company (Smells a LITTLE like bribery). I shall repeat; He is the forerunner. His challengers have fallen by the wayside due to being crazy (Bachmann) then slightly less crazy, but quite stupid (Perry), being Herman Cain, with all the accompanying disasters (Cain) and worst of all "Being Mitt Romney" (Romney). Romney is realistically, the last hope of sanity in a Republican election that isn't so much littered with madness as a landfill of crazy. He is plagued by the issues of "Being a former Democrat", and "Being so wildly and unimaginably rich that all reasonable voters should find him utterly unelectable". But of course, these are republicans. There are two final candidates, the fringe Jon Huntsman, who has the worst thing possible: Good international experience due to being ambassador to China. And Ron Paul. Who is admirable in his consistency and desire to see through his libertarian ideals despite the fact states' rights went out the window as a concept sometime around 1865. He would gladly see Federal government vanish and states take precedence. His foreign policy is isolationist (Rather than invasionist). What's worst is not that his policies are dangerously bad, but rather more that they are so removed from the standard political process that people are deeply, DEEPLY disenfranchised (9% approval rating for Congress. Hitler probably ranked higher in 1940s West Europe than that) with that he may actually do quite well electorally.
That is your news. Fin.
Christmas news, now! Eastenders beat Coronation Street in the famous "Battle of the Soaps" for the hearts and minds of people who are too drunk to care what's on TV, and slightly hate adverts. Well done! Of course, the Battle of the Soaps is a long tradition, started when, in 1999, Ross Kemp smashed Ken Barlow over the head with a champagne bottle at the Baftas, leading to a ratings explosion as people were desperate to see what these shows were about. Barlow and Kemp came to a gentleman's agreement: Whichever soap got most viewers on Christmas Day god a mug engraved with "King of the Soaps" given to it by the other soap, containing the ashes of a pump handle at the Rover's Return, after an infamous poem in Hello! magazine, in which a reader mourned the death of Coronation Street, and said the Ashes would head to London. Since 2003, the real Ashes have been kept safely locked away in the BBC archives, but a replica is given to the winning soap each year.
Prince Philip has been ill, which has been bizarrely big news. The Sun went with "90 year old man in shock not-perfect condition horror!" while The Standard went with "Diana's Revenge: Philip in mortal threat after attack by Britain's best loved ghost!". Nobody seemed to consider an old man in not great condition a normal thing, somewhat irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, rather than a newsworthy headline story.
AMERICAN ELECTION UPDATE
Since my last foray into writing about news, Hermain Cain has spectacularly imploded on the campaign trail for Republican nomination. Elections in America take about 30 years to complete (We're still not sure who won in 2000) so ignore the fact that a man can collapse in the election nearly a year before the vote, and focus on the brilliant things he has brought to us, including quoting the Pokemon song as something to inspire us, his flat-rate 9% tax on absolutely everything (Pointed out later to be pretty similar to SimCity) and, of course, the sex scandals. The man is single-handedly trying to capture every headline bulletin in the news at 10. He was the fore-runner before the trifling matter of him being almost catastrophically bad forced him to retire, leaving the way clear for Newt Gingrich, according to political pundits. Initially, what sort of name is "Newt"? Secondly, and perhaps more pressingly, the man is a known-philanderer and took a $1.6 million payment for doing nothing for a company (Smells a LITTLE like bribery). I shall repeat; He is the forerunner. His challengers have fallen by the wayside due to being crazy (Bachmann) then slightly less crazy, but quite stupid (Perry), being Herman Cain, with all the accompanying disasters (Cain) and worst of all "Being Mitt Romney" (Romney). Romney is realistically, the last hope of sanity in a Republican election that isn't so much littered with madness as a landfill of crazy. He is plagued by the issues of "Being a former Democrat", and "Being so wildly and unimaginably rich that all reasonable voters should find him utterly unelectable". But of course, these are republicans. There are two final candidates, the fringe Jon Huntsman, who has the worst thing possible: Good international experience due to being ambassador to China. And Ron Paul. Who is admirable in his consistency and desire to see through his libertarian ideals despite the fact states' rights went out the window as a concept sometime around 1865. He would gladly see Federal government vanish and states take precedence. His foreign policy is isolationist (Rather than invasionist). What's worst is not that his policies are dangerously bad, but rather more that they are so removed from the standard political process that people are deeply, DEEPLY disenfranchised (9% approval rating for Congress. Hitler probably ranked higher in 1940s West Europe than that) with that he may actually do quite well electorally.
That is your news. Fin.
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
Short Things That Are Difficult To Flesh Out
In the case of another cold winter, I have written to the BBC politely asking that News 24 and, indeed, the red button services, be dedicated to live footage and highlights of particularly slippy areas in built-up city centres. Not only is this more interesting than actual news, there could be a wonderful, post-Queen's Speech 2 hour special featuring the best falls from around the nation, for elderly relatives to fall asleep to on Christmas Day. I encourage you to do the same. Actually, scrap that idea: I've had a similar but better one: Winterwatch, like Springwatch, Bill Oddie and Kate Humble go round, set up some cameras in a town in Leicestershire or whatever, and then we get a daily round up of the best bits. I can imagine Bill going "This little old biddy is going to the shops for some cat food, we've tracked her with our cameras for several minutes now... and she's over! That was a good one! Look, she's lost her hat! Haha!" or "This young chap's nipped out for a pack of fags, but he's not properly prepared... Look out for that lamppost.".
Things that are fun: Trying to make a virtual pro in Fifa look like Nicholas Lyndhurst. I've also got a Gaddafi lookalike for "Dictators' Eleven", the safe hands of Mao in goals, Stalin organising the defensive line, Pol Pot bombing up and down the (very) left wing, Hitler out on the far right. Fidel "Goal Machine" Castro up front, sharing the line with "the Italian Steamtrain", Mussolini. General Franco at left back, with Idi Amin playing that crucial holding midfielder role. Bashar Al-Assad, creative with excuses for atrocities, creative with through balls. Attacking midfielder. Gaddafi at right back. Saddam Hussein playing centre back. Good side. Very much a side looking for world domination.
I went to McDonalds. Whilst there, the people behind me said "I'm going to drink my milkshake first." I thought "What a tedious anecdote.". It was difficult not to turn round and go "Christ, you should tell that story at parties" (I can be rather sarcastic if I'm in a bad mood). Of course, I then texted this whole terrifyingly dull anecdote to a friend. The irony was not lost on me. And now I'm telling all of you. The cycle of tediousness is complete.
Somehow, I have managed to procure a pair of socks that are uncomfortable. These feel like they've been designed for cloven-hooved mammals rather than a human. I don't know how it's possible to screw up socks, but the designers of these monstrosities have boldly succeeded in this ambition. Rubbish socks. Bah.
I've started hiccuping like my dad. It's a hiccup I've heard absolutely no-one else ever do. I'm pretty sure I've got some sort of genetic hiccup defect. It sounds like the noise I'd imagine a hippo to make when it comes up for air.
My mum has taken to playing her friends at scrabble online. Both of them will use Scrabble cheating software, to the point where it might as well be robot A v robot B. The fun bit is trying to justify the words. "Oh, glasnost? I was just thinking about the Soviet Republics under Gorbachev, and I glanced at my letters, and there it was: The period of maximum openness preceding the fall of communism. That's a bonus fifty for using all my letters", "Kakemono? It's a Japanese wall-hanging. Isn't that common knowledge?", "Ranarium? It's where I used to breed all my frogs as a kid." etc, etc.
I like it when emails say "Please find attached". It lends an element of desperation, as if the person sending the email is sitting going "Oh my god, oh my god, is it working? I really hope this works. This is a vital email. PLEASE attach!" at their screen. And yet, even now, I still do it, just on the off-chance that the recipient of my email finds it as inherently funny as I do.
I used to have a sweet holder with Hassan Nasrallah's face on it. I did always like my Pezbollah dispenser.
There you are. Those were things I liked initially, then quickly went off, until it got to the point that I couldn't be bothered fleshing them out properly to justify them as their own blog post so they are all lumped together. Think of this like the bits I cut out of regular blog postings. And a pun about a Lebanese political group. Everything you'd love to read, I'm sure. Enjoyed it? Great!
Things that are fun: Trying to make a virtual pro in Fifa look like Nicholas Lyndhurst. I've also got a Gaddafi lookalike for "Dictators' Eleven", the safe hands of Mao in goals, Stalin organising the defensive line, Pol Pot bombing up and down the (very) left wing, Hitler out on the far right. Fidel "Goal Machine" Castro up front, sharing the line with "the Italian Steamtrain", Mussolini. General Franco at left back, with Idi Amin playing that crucial holding midfielder role. Bashar Al-Assad, creative with excuses for atrocities, creative with through balls. Attacking midfielder. Gaddafi at right back. Saddam Hussein playing centre back. Good side. Very much a side looking for world domination.
I went to McDonalds. Whilst there, the people behind me said "I'm going to drink my milkshake first." I thought "What a tedious anecdote.". It was difficult not to turn round and go "Christ, you should tell that story at parties" (I can be rather sarcastic if I'm in a bad mood). Of course, I then texted this whole terrifyingly dull anecdote to a friend. The irony was not lost on me. And now I'm telling all of you. The cycle of tediousness is complete.
Somehow, I have managed to procure a pair of socks that are uncomfortable. These feel like they've been designed for cloven-hooved mammals rather than a human. I don't know how it's possible to screw up socks, but the designers of these monstrosities have boldly succeeded in this ambition. Rubbish socks. Bah.
I've started hiccuping like my dad. It's a hiccup I've heard absolutely no-one else ever do. I'm pretty sure I've got some sort of genetic hiccup defect. It sounds like the noise I'd imagine a hippo to make when it comes up for air.
My mum has taken to playing her friends at scrabble online. Both of them will use Scrabble cheating software, to the point where it might as well be robot A v robot B. The fun bit is trying to justify the words. "Oh, glasnost? I was just thinking about the Soviet Republics under Gorbachev, and I glanced at my letters, and there it was: The period of maximum openness preceding the fall of communism. That's a bonus fifty for using all my letters", "Kakemono? It's a Japanese wall-hanging. Isn't that common knowledge?", "Ranarium? It's where I used to breed all my frogs as a kid." etc, etc.
I like it when emails say "Please find attached". It lends an element of desperation, as if the person sending the email is sitting going "Oh my god, oh my god, is it working? I really hope this works. This is a vital email. PLEASE attach!" at their screen. And yet, even now, I still do it, just on the off-chance that the recipient of my email finds it as inherently funny as I do.
I used to have a sweet holder with Hassan Nasrallah's face on it. I did always like my Pezbollah dispenser.
There you are. Those were things I liked initially, then quickly went off, until it got to the point that I couldn't be bothered fleshing them out properly to justify them as their own blog post so they are all lumped together. Think of this like the bits I cut out of regular blog postings. And a pun about a Lebanese political group. Everything you'd love to read, I'm sure. Enjoyed it? Great!
Sunday, 11 December 2011
Lenin's Schooldays
Recently I have found myself pondering the bigger questions in life: "Which of my hands do I prefer?" (The left, I find the vein pattern more aesthetically pleasing), "Name all post-war prime ministers who have 4 syllable names?" (Answer: Clement Attlee, Winston Churchill and Harold Wilson (Will also accept Anthony Eden, provided you call him "Tony", similarly Tony Blair provided you call him "Anthony")) and, most importantly "What would Lenin's schooldays have been like?".
Initially, I imagine he'd have come into school full of hope and idealism. He would arrive, and find that the class began with 2 pupils owning 85% of the pencils, and the other 24 having make do with 6 pencils between them. Immediately struck by the unfairness of this system, he would organise the 24 pupils into a workers' collective, and overthrow the traditional hierarchy of the classroom, demanding pencils for all. He would then get the most violent children in the classroom and form them into a small group designed to suppress the students, and demand that the teacher become little more than a propaganda wing, spouting his rhetoric directly into the proletariat whilst pretending to be an unbiased figure of authority.
Ultimately several of the other students would try to have Lenin wedgied, but those who opposed him would face a fierce and unknowable group that would silently stalk them and ultimately, wedgie them in retaliation. These would be some of the darkest days for freedom in Lenin's classroom until classmate Stalin took over, when they would seem like positively ebullient days of happiness and joy by contrast.
He would collapse the workers' essay-producing capabilities by paying them a pittance for their harvest of essays (which would obviously force them to give less to the collective and sell their essays on the black market in order to make ends meet), leading to a communal essay-famine that would leave people having to drop out of the class for not getting enough essays. This would be whilst he was fighting an interclass war with 2C, trying to get them to adopt his policy on pencil-sharing despite their own ambitions for the spread of pencils throughout their class, but this was ultimately part of his ideal; to have the whole school share pencils evenly. He would rebuild essay-writing capabilities with the New Essay Policy (NEP), but little Joseph would scuttle that when he came to power.
Ultimately, he would find it hard to deal with the political and economic realities of communal pencil ownership (and, indeed, the bureaucratic overhead demanded to ensure that pencils were truly shared amongst the students) and, compared to the old system, his idealistic yet almost hopelessly naive system would seem both cumbersome and complex. He would eventually leave the school, passing the baton of a system that could have worked to Stalin in 3P, but Stalin would ultimately damage this pencil-sharing collective irreparably, leading to it falling apart under Mikhail Gorbachev, the last student to lead the collective, and the only leader not in school when the collective was first formed, who would then smash the system, and allow the school to use whatever pencil-dispensation method it wanted. (There you are: Fun fact about communism in Russia, it really was a single-generational thing. Gorbachev was the only leader who was born into Communism, all the others were born pre-1917).
Ultimately this is analogy that breaks down in multiple areas, such as portraying assassination attempts through the medium of wedgies, portraying a devastating famine as some sort of dearth of essays, and is let down my general lack of knowledge about the communist era in Russia. However, like many of the world's best politicians, I do not let trifling facts stifle what I find a fundamentally agreeable idea, and so I present this to you. If you wish, you may put it on the BBC as "Little Lenin", and try to use it to teach kids 20th century history (Arguably, you should get an ACTUAL historian in to fact-check, rather than rely on quickly read Wikipedia articles and my loose understanding of Animal Farm). At worst, it is equal with Byker Grove, and significantly more enriching. Consider it!
Initially, I imagine he'd have come into school full of hope and idealism. He would arrive, and find that the class began with 2 pupils owning 85% of the pencils, and the other 24 having make do with 6 pencils between them. Immediately struck by the unfairness of this system, he would organise the 24 pupils into a workers' collective, and overthrow the traditional hierarchy of the classroom, demanding pencils for all. He would then get the most violent children in the classroom and form them into a small group designed to suppress the students, and demand that the teacher become little more than a propaganda wing, spouting his rhetoric directly into the proletariat whilst pretending to be an unbiased figure of authority.
Ultimately several of the other students would try to have Lenin wedgied, but those who opposed him would face a fierce and unknowable group that would silently stalk them and ultimately, wedgie them in retaliation. These would be some of the darkest days for freedom in Lenin's classroom until classmate Stalin took over, when they would seem like positively ebullient days of happiness and joy by contrast.
He would collapse the workers' essay-producing capabilities by paying them a pittance for their harvest of essays (which would obviously force them to give less to the collective and sell their essays on the black market in order to make ends meet), leading to a communal essay-famine that would leave people having to drop out of the class for not getting enough essays. This would be whilst he was fighting an interclass war with 2C, trying to get them to adopt his policy on pencil-sharing despite their own ambitions for the spread of pencils throughout their class, but this was ultimately part of his ideal; to have the whole school share pencils evenly. He would rebuild essay-writing capabilities with the New Essay Policy (NEP), but little Joseph would scuttle that when he came to power.
Ultimately, he would find it hard to deal with the political and economic realities of communal pencil ownership (and, indeed, the bureaucratic overhead demanded to ensure that pencils were truly shared amongst the students) and, compared to the old system, his idealistic yet almost hopelessly naive system would seem both cumbersome and complex. He would eventually leave the school, passing the baton of a system that could have worked to Stalin in 3P, but Stalin would ultimately damage this pencil-sharing collective irreparably, leading to it falling apart under Mikhail Gorbachev, the last student to lead the collective, and the only leader not in school when the collective was first formed, who would then smash the system, and allow the school to use whatever pencil-dispensation method it wanted. (There you are: Fun fact about communism in Russia, it really was a single-generational thing. Gorbachev was the only leader who was born into Communism, all the others were born pre-1917).
Ultimately this is analogy that breaks down in multiple areas, such as portraying assassination attempts through the medium of wedgies, portraying a devastating famine as some sort of dearth of essays, and is let down my general lack of knowledge about the communist era in Russia. However, like many of the world's best politicians, I do not let trifling facts stifle what I find a fundamentally agreeable idea, and so I present this to you. If you wish, you may put it on the BBC as "Little Lenin", and try to use it to teach kids 20th century history (Arguably, you should get an ACTUAL historian in to fact-check, rather than rely on quickly read Wikipedia articles and my loose understanding of Animal Farm). At worst, it is equal with Byker Grove, and significantly more enriching. Consider it!
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