There's so much to put about the expenses row that I told myself I wasn't going to say anything about it. I wouldn't know where to start and i'd only make myself angry. I won't comment. I won't, I won't, I won't.
Aaargh, can't leave it alone! This Anthony Steen character is just too good. His interview with Radio Four's World at One is perfect. Doesn't his voice alone make you want to punch him in the face?
My favourite bits were:
'Do you know what it's about? Jealousy. I've got a very, very large house. Some people say it looks like Balmoral.' An inspired way to get the public back on his side. Brilliant.
'We have a wretched Government here which has completely mucked up the system and caused the resignation of me and many others, because it was this Government that introduced the Freedom of Information Act and it is this Government that insisted on the things which caught me on the wrong foot.' That's right, it's entirely the fault of The Freedom Of Information Act because it allowed people to discover what he was up to. I'd like to be in a courtroom when a burglar tries that line of defence. 'It's entirely the Police's fault, your honour. They're the ones who caught me coming out of the window. If it hadn't been for them I wouldn't be here'.
'What right does the public have to interfere with my private life? None.' Fair point. After all, an Englishman's Castle is his... well, castle. We have no right to poke around in his private life. Oh, apart from the fact that OUR MONEY PAID FOR HIS FUCKING PRIVATE LIFE.
I know he's an easy target - the man's clearly an idiot. His life of privilege means that he's been able to sit in his mini-Balmoral (probably on a throne) safely detached from the realities that the rest of us mere proles have to face. Only that sort of a man would say: 'I don't know what the fuss is about,' and then be surprised that his constituents are 'absolutely beside themselves with anger'. Let's face it, only that sort of a man would name his daughter Xanthe. He's blundering through a world that he doesn't understand, relying on sheer arrogance to carry him through the shitstorm that's kicking off all around him.
Granted, the way he's been highlighted and blown up in the media does feel a little like bullying a disabled child or throwing rocks at a crippled donkey. I might even have some sort of sympathy for him if he hadn't been in a position of power and able to make important decisions that affect real people. That also goes for the rest of the politicians who are apparently suffering so much from stress and depression that a psychiatrist has been brought into the House of Commons to offer counselling. Aaaah, poor Politicians, all sad because they've been found out. Nasty public, mercilessly persecuting them just because they've been getting ripped off by the people they elected to speak for them. The politicians shouldn't have done it if they couldn't face the consequences. The cost of that psychiatrist had better not be coming out of our taxes. If it is, there'd better be free counselling for all the honest, hardworking families that are struggling to pay their mortgages and bills after losing their jobs. All those families that have been let down by the politicians who allowed the banks and big business to balls up their finances. All those families without a duck island or a moat or a second home to give them any comfort.
After Steen's interview, David Cameron said: 'One more squeak like that and he will have the whip taken away from him so fast his feet won't touch the ground.' I understand why he's angry about the comments; he's been working very hard to convince the voting public that he's a down-to-earth and practical everyman - the sort of tactic that worked so successfully for Tony Blair in 1997. Hell, he was even starting to win me over after taking quick decisive action over the expenses furore while Brown dithered and skulked, typically displaying as much leadership and dynamism as a kitten's fart.
But Sheen is exactly the sort of stereotypical Tory that Cameron's been trying so hard to make us forget about. The sort of moneyed, arrogant snob who thinks he's got a god-given right to do whatever he wants because he's firmly entrenched in the higher echelons of the establishment. The fact that people like him are still in the party should be a warning to everyone who's considering voting Conservative. I have this image of a pack of old-school Tories like Steen lurking in the shadows. No matter how genuine or sincere Cameron is, as soon as he gets elected, they'll all rush forward and take over again. Then we really will be up shit creek.
22 May 2009
21 May 2009
Supermarket Scenes
- Down the alleyway, next to the main entrance. a cluster of staff on their break. Their identical maroon and navy fleeces and the way they're huddled together makes them look like a sports team discussing tactics. You can hear their cackles and coughs as you pass. A cloud of smoke hangs over their heads.
- The security guard in the main entrance. He's tall and overweight and he's balding badly but has tried to hide this by getting a crew cut. He's bored so he browses through the newspapers on the carousel next to him holding his mobile phone, looking for competitions to enter.
- Several beenied students loitering in the runway behind the tills, getting in people's way. They're waiting for mates that are still going through the checkout and they congregate around the store notice board. Between their feet they have carrier bags filled with booze and blue and white packaged food. In their hands, pens and pads to write down details of second-hand white goods, special deals and part-time work.
- They've moved the sandwich spreads again. Every time I come they're somewhere different. I walk up and down the three most likely aisles, scanning the shelves. A couple of people glance at me when I say to myself 'Where the fuck is the tuna?' in a voice louder than I intended.
- At the checkout, there's social etiquette regarding the Next Customer Please blocks that separate people's shopping. It's good manners to put one behind your stuff when you've unpacked. Often, the person in front won't. They'll either stand with their back to you ignoring their responsibility or, more frequently, they'll have simply forgotten and will turn and say 'oh, sorry,' with a smile when you lean across their shopping to pick one up for yourself. Some people make a big show of it. They'll put their block down behind their beans or asparagus quite flamboyantly to make sure you notice how nice they are. They'll glance at you to make sure you've acknowledged this and if you catch their eye, you can see in their half-smile that they're proud to have done something considerate. Maybe they'll even use it as an excuse to start a conversation.
- There's a middle-aged man in front of me at the till. He's buying two tins of cat food and sixteen cans of own brand bitter - the sort where the alcohol content is the most prominent feature on the packaging. I interpret this as a horrible warning about my own future. He doesn't put a Next Customer Please block down behind his stuff.
- The shop assistant scanning my food. She's got short, jet black hair and wears a very stern expression. Without looking at me, she asks whether i've got a store card and whether i'm collecting vouchers. Her tone of voice reveals that she's asked these scripted questions a million times before and doesn't care what the answers are. As I pack up my shopping and take my card out of the machine, she turns to me and says 'hope you have a good weekend'. I don't think she's being ironic, the huge smile she gives me is so lovely that it must be genuine. As I leave the store i'm in a happier mood. An unexpected human gesture like that cheers me up far more than any roll-back offers or logos with smiley faces on.
- The security guard in the main entrance. He's tall and overweight and he's balding badly but has tried to hide this by getting a crew cut. He's bored so he browses through the newspapers on the carousel next to him holding his mobile phone, looking for competitions to enter.
- Several beenied students loitering in the runway behind the tills, getting in people's way. They're waiting for mates that are still going through the checkout and they congregate around the store notice board. Between their feet they have carrier bags filled with booze and blue and white packaged food. In their hands, pens and pads to write down details of second-hand white goods, special deals and part-time work.
- They've moved the sandwich spreads again. Every time I come they're somewhere different. I walk up and down the three most likely aisles, scanning the shelves. A couple of people glance at me when I say to myself 'Where the fuck is the tuna?' in a voice louder than I intended.
- At the checkout, there's social etiquette regarding the Next Customer Please blocks that separate people's shopping. It's good manners to put one behind your stuff when you've unpacked. Often, the person in front won't. They'll either stand with their back to you ignoring their responsibility or, more frequently, they'll have simply forgotten and will turn and say 'oh, sorry,' with a smile when you lean across their shopping to pick one up for yourself. Some people make a big show of it. They'll put their block down behind their beans or asparagus quite flamboyantly to make sure you notice how nice they are. They'll glance at you to make sure you've acknowledged this and if you catch their eye, you can see in their half-smile that they're proud to have done something considerate. Maybe they'll even use it as an excuse to start a conversation.
- There's a middle-aged man in front of me at the till. He's buying two tins of cat food and sixteen cans of own brand bitter - the sort where the alcohol content is the most prominent feature on the packaging. I interpret this as a horrible warning about my own future. He doesn't put a Next Customer Please block down behind his stuff.
- The shop assistant scanning my food. She's got short, jet black hair and wears a very stern expression. Without looking at me, she asks whether i've got a store card and whether i'm collecting vouchers. Her tone of voice reveals that she's asked these scripted questions a million times before and doesn't care what the answers are. As I pack up my shopping and take my card out of the machine, she turns to me and says 'hope you have a good weekend'. I don't think she's being ironic, the huge smile she gives me is so lovely that it must be genuine. As I leave the store i'm in a happier mood. An unexpected human gesture like that cheers me up far more than any roll-back offers or logos with smiley faces on.
15 May 2009
Eurosong Fever
I used to quite enjoy the Eurovision Song Contest. I used to research the acts and place bets with disbelieving bookmakers. I've even sat there alone in front of the telly with a couple bottles of red wine and a scorecard. In my defence however, the scoring criteria I used was very different from that of the judges. I was looking for songs that were ludicrous, backing singers/dancers that were dirty looking, skimpy clothing and a decent amount of overacting from the lead singer. The more wine I drank, the more generous the marks - tellingly, my highest rated acts were usually among the last five.
Granted, that sounds quite pathetic but what can I say? I'm just a very lonely person. At least Eurovision meant that for one saturday at least I was able to keep the black dog of despair from yapping around my ankles.
Not this year though - i've lost all enthusiasm for it.
The problem is that we seem to be taking it seriously which is completely missing the point.
Britain has produced and still produces some of the greatest music in the world. We may have lost the empire; we may be crap at football, cricket and any other sport that matters; we may be miserable, skint and hated by almost every other nation on earth but at least we can knock out a decent tune - we have that going for us. Traditionally, we were, to some extent, justified to feel all superior towards Johnny Foreigner and his quaint little attempts at producing music. Spearheading the sneering was Terry Wogan who was brilliant in his role as narrator - his commentary seemed to echo what we were all feeling about the event. But last year he became so disillusioned with the ridiculous thing that he quit. The gaping hole he left behind has been filled by an obligatory reality show build up and what appears to be a serious attempt to win.
The song we've entered is obviously trying to appeal to the to the broadest audience possible. By trying to please everyone however, you water things down and make them inoffensive and boring. The result is a bland and forgettable song whose only surprising element is how much rage it manages to induce in me. The singer's no better, she's one of those Leona Lewis/Pop Factor Alexandria type clones - completely generic and pointlessly oversinging every word. It's a sure sign of desperation when a singer's got to screech and warble and stretch notes beyond breaking point. If the tune wasn't so dull she wouldn't have to yodel around it. She ends up sounding as if she's in a field hospital, wailing as a medic digs shrapnel out of her leg without any anaesthetic.
By treating Eurovision seriously, we're belittling ourselves. We used to watch it thinking: 'Look at these idiots, do people actually listen to this dross in Liechtenstein/San Marino/Azerbaijan/Monrovia/wherever?'. Now, we're the idiots and unfortunately yes, we do listen to this dross in Britain these days.
But, being British, i'm used to being let down and disappointed. On holiday a few years ago in Spain, the only thing I could get on the hotel television was a European music channel. It sucked me in and, along with my friends - who were also music snobs - we became obsessed with a band that they seemed to play every fifteen minutes or so. The song was so awful, so utterly, painfully bad that it was unintentially hilarious and we were amused no end that the Spanish seemed to like it so much. How we laughed and sneered at them for their musical tastes. How we looked down our noses and dropped references to The Beatles and Radiohead into every conversation. Imagine my horror therefore, when I returned to England to find that the same band that we'd arrogantly ridiculed were number two in the UK charts. That band was Scooter.
Scooter.
I'll never understand how my countrymen could debase themselves so horribly.
For that reason, i've always been quite relieved when Britain finishes last in Eurovision. At least that shows that we're still a little bit detached from the mindless pap churned out in the name of Europop. I hope our song finishes last again this year. Mainly so that I won't have to hear the bastard thing on the radio all the time, but also because maybe then, the people who decide what our entries are going to be will finally admit that whatever song we submit, it won't make the slightest difference. Even when we give it our best shot, take it seriously and produce a record so bad that it might actually stand a chance of scoring some points, it's irrelevant. The voting is entirely political and we're never going to win because everyone hates us.
After this year, when this will be proved beyond all doubt, we might as well say 'fuck it' and do whatever we want. Because we're one of the few countries that actually pays for the contest, we always get an automatic place in the final so why not use this to our advantage? Get Morrissey or Thom Yorke to write something - someone with established talent and credibility so that when they come last it shows up what a sham the contest is. Either that or put something in that's patently ridiculous and takes the piss like the Irish turkey from last year who sadly didn't make it through to the final because Ireland had to go through an elimination round and none of the organisers have a sense of humour. if you're going to lose, might as well lose BIG, that's what I say.
The other option is to just withdraw altogether, taking our money with us. That'd be a shame though, it'd make us look like bad losers and that's one thing we certainly aren't. In fact, we've had so much practice i'd say that the people of Britain are the best losers in the world.
At least that's something to be proud of.
Granted, that sounds quite pathetic but what can I say? I'm just a very lonely person. At least Eurovision meant that for one saturday at least I was able to keep the black dog of despair from yapping around my ankles.
Not this year though - i've lost all enthusiasm for it.
The problem is that we seem to be taking it seriously which is completely missing the point.
Britain has produced and still produces some of the greatest music in the world. We may have lost the empire; we may be crap at football, cricket and any other sport that matters; we may be miserable, skint and hated by almost every other nation on earth but at least we can knock out a decent tune - we have that going for us. Traditionally, we were, to some extent, justified to feel all superior towards Johnny Foreigner and his quaint little attempts at producing music. Spearheading the sneering was Terry Wogan who was brilliant in his role as narrator - his commentary seemed to echo what we were all feeling about the event. But last year he became so disillusioned with the ridiculous thing that he quit. The gaping hole he left behind has been filled by an obligatory reality show build up and what appears to be a serious attempt to win.
The song we've entered is obviously trying to appeal to the to the broadest audience possible. By trying to please everyone however, you water things down and make them inoffensive and boring. The result is a bland and forgettable song whose only surprising element is how much rage it manages to induce in me. The singer's no better, she's one of those Leona Lewis/Pop Factor Alexandria type clones - completely generic and pointlessly oversinging every word. It's a sure sign of desperation when a singer's got to screech and warble and stretch notes beyond breaking point. If the tune wasn't so dull she wouldn't have to yodel around it. She ends up sounding as if she's in a field hospital, wailing as a medic digs shrapnel out of her leg without any anaesthetic.
By treating Eurovision seriously, we're belittling ourselves. We used to watch it thinking: 'Look at these idiots, do people actually listen to this dross in Liechtenstein/San Marino/Azerbaijan/Monrovia/wherever?'. Now, we're the idiots and unfortunately yes, we do listen to this dross in Britain these days.
But, being British, i'm used to being let down and disappointed. On holiday a few years ago in Spain, the only thing I could get on the hotel television was a European music channel. It sucked me in and, along with my friends - who were also music snobs - we became obsessed with a band that they seemed to play every fifteen minutes or so. The song was so awful, so utterly, painfully bad that it was unintentially hilarious and we were amused no end that the Spanish seemed to like it so much. How we laughed and sneered at them for their musical tastes. How we looked down our noses and dropped references to The Beatles and Radiohead into every conversation. Imagine my horror therefore, when I returned to England to find that the same band that we'd arrogantly ridiculed were number two in the UK charts. That band was Scooter.
Scooter.
I'll never understand how my countrymen could debase themselves so horribly.
For that reason, i've always been quite relieved when Britain finishes last in Eurovision. At least that shows that we're still a little bit detached from the mindless pap churned out in the name of Europop. I hope our song finishes last again this year. Mainly so that I won't have to hear the bastard thing on the radio all the time, but also because maybe then, the people who decide what our entries are going to be will finally admit that whatever song we submit, it won't make the slightest difference. Even when we give it our best shot, take it seriously and produce a record so bad that it might actually stand a chance of scoring some points, it's irrelevant. The voting is entirely political and we're never going to win because everyone hates us.
After this year, when this will be proved beyond all doubt, we might as well say 'fuck it' and do whatever we want. Because we're one of the few countries that actually pays for the contest, we always get an automatic place in the final so why not use this to our advantage? Get Morrissey or Thom Yorke to write something - someone with established talent and credibility so that when they come last it shows up what a sham the contest is. Either that or put something in that's patently ridiculous and takes the piss like the Irish turkey from last year who sadly didn't make it through to the final because Ireland had to go through an elimination round and none of the organisers have a sense of humour. if you're going to lose, might as well lose BIG, that's what I say.
The other option is to just withdraw altogether, taking our money with us. That'd be a shame though, it'd make us look like bad losers and that's one thing we certainly aren't. In fact, we've had so much practice i'd say that the people of Britain are the best losers in the world.
At least that's something to be proud of.
14 May 2009
Burlesque Stage Names
Talula Fondue
Twinkie DeLuxe
Angel Fatale
Starlight Parfait
Ambrosia Divine
Fifi McPlenty
Almond Monsoon
Honeydew Satin
Samphire L'amour
Coco Supreme
Scrunty O'Toole
Diva Fontaine
Cupcake Fandango
Melody Crumpet
With a cowgirl theme:
Minxy Alabama
Yeeha Sparkles
Sally Sidesaddle
Dallas Bandana
Amber Rider
Kentucky McSwoon
Tamara Stetson
Delilah Udderful
More riské:
Wanda Pheromone
Labia Hottentot
Pendula Mindfuck
Chastity Buxom
Felicity Gleestick
Akimbo DeFleur
Trixie Flagranté
Remedy Fettlewell
Twinkie DeLuxe
Angel Fatale
Starlight Parfait
Ambrosia Divine
Fifi McPlenty
Almond Monsoon
Honeydew Satin
Samphire L'amour
Coco Supreme
Scrunty O'Toole
Diva Fontaine
Cupcake Fandango
Melody Crumpet
With a cowgirl theme:
Minxy Alabama
Yeeha Sparkles
Sally Sidesaddle
Dallas Bandana
Amber Rider
Kentucky McSwoon
Tamara Stetson
Delilah Udderful
More riské:
Wanda Pheromone
Labia Hottentot
Pendula Mindfuck
Chastity Buxom
Felicity Gleestick
Akimbo DeFleur
Trixie Flagranté
Remedy Fettlewell
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