Imagine my horror when I turned on breakfast television the other morning to find Danielle Lloyd grinning soppily back at me. It’s not a very pleasant way to start the day.
In case you need reminding about who Danielle Lloyd is, she was one of the contestants on Celebrity Big Brother three years ago. Following the usual formula for these types of shows, when she first entered the house, nobody had the first idea who she was. Apparently her career up to that point had included some modelling work and going out with a footballer. As this hardly constitutes celebrity, I presume she was included to provide some eye-candy for the boys and so that we could all laugh at how thick she was.
Obviously, that didn’t go according to plan. 2007 was the year that the almighty shitstorm kicked off around Shilpa Shetty and the racist bullying directed at her from a coven of housemates led by Jade Goody. Effigies were burnt, diplomatic relations with India became strained and it was even debated in Parliament. The whole thing was a national disgrace and right at the middle of it all was Danielle Lloyd.
I remember watching the show at the time and despising Lloyd more than Jade Goody herself – which is saying quite a lot. At least Goody was brutish and straightforward with her bigoted stupidity, you knew where you stood with her. Lloyd however, was exactly like the worst kind of vindictive schoolyard bully, fawning around the bigger, more powerful figurehead, egging them on to go further, telling them how great they are. She was sly, vindictive and loathsome – sniping hatefully behind Shetty’s back at every opportunity then panicking when she finally became aware of the trouble she was in and rushing to toady and apologise in the most desperate and fake way imaginable in order to save her own skin.
Thankfully, since then, she’s been very quiet. Until now.
Her strategy for a comeback is horribly transparent - devised, no doubt, by a shady Machiavellian PR agency of the worst kind. Lie low for a couple of years to give people time to forget how you behaved, then appear on something light and popular where you don’t have to talk too much just to get your name in the public eye again. After that you can relaunch your career properly on the back of some charity – make sure you’re associated heavily with it, bring in some personal trauma, portray yourself as sincere and caring.
That’s precisely what she’s done. Apparently, she was on Celebrity Wipeout over Christmas and donated her prize money to a domestic abuse charity – a charity that she’s now clamped onto firmly in order to repair her image. This is why she was leering at me from the television screen at breakfast, cosying up to Bill Turnbull on the sofa as if she were just a normal, civilised human being. Undoubtedly, there’ll be a BBC3 documentary soon followed by presenting slots and god alone knows what else.
But, hang on. How exactly is she relaunching herself? What career is she coming back to? Modelling? Going out with footballers? No, she’s coming back to a career in the media.
What career in the media is this? As I stated before, when she entered the Big Brother house, nobody knew who she was – the only reason we do now is because of the furore over the racism row. If she hadn’t verbally abused an Indian actress on national television, nobody would know the name Danielle Lloyd. There’d certainly be no way that she’d be there to goad and taunt me through the television because she wouldn’t be well known enough to appear on anything.
This is what I find so offensive. I wouldn’t mind her so much if she’d just had the dignity to slink back into the shadows and allow people to forget about her after Big Brother. Anyone with the slightest shred of shame would have. Instead however, she’s using the fact that her face and name is known in order to establish herself on television. She’s using the fame generated by her racist bullying as a foothold to get into the media and, by doing so, assuming that the public are so dumb and fickle that we’ll have forgotten about what a horrible person she is.
It scares me that she may be proved right. It scares me that we’ll let Danielle Lloyd become famous.
If she’s going to appear on television, there should be a constant reminder of the reason she’s there. For example, when someone appears on a talk show, the host will generally introduce them by telling the audience their name and the nature of their profession: ‘Please welcome, the actor, Bill Roach’, they might say, or: ‘Today on the show, we’ve got Uri Geller, the Spoon-bender’. Therefore, whenever Lloyd appears on anything she should be announced as: ‘The Bully, Danielle Lloyd’. Or, when she appears on one of those ‘I love the 90s’ type programmes where they show old clips followed by a close up of someone vaguely famous talking you through what you’ve just seen, the caption for hers should read: ‘Danielle Lloyd’, then underneath: ‘Nasty Piece of Work’.
That way, whenever we see that vacant, self-satisfied smile of hers on our screens, we might feel a little bit disgusted at ourselves that we’ve allowed it to get there.
31 January 2010
22 December 2009
Christmas Spirit
I imagined that Christmas would be awful. I’d been in Australia for eleven months by then and hadn’t once been queasy with homesickness. But this was to be my first Christmas away from home and I fully expected to develop some major symptoms.
I was surprised that Christmas is celebrated down under in much the same way as it is here. Australians are so proud of their own identity that I expected them to adapt Christmas and personalise it to their own culture – kangaroos in Santa hats, girls barbecuing in fur clad bikinis, a surfing Father Christmas – that sort of thing. But there was nothing of the kind. Fake snow was sprayed into the corners of windows, decorations were draped across the city streets and winter carols played in every shop. It was a strange sensation to see all this in the height of summer. Father Christmas isn’t quite as jolly when his beard is drenched with sweat and he’s on the verge of collapse because he’s wearing a thick red woollen suit in 35 degree heat. It was so far removed from any Christmas that I’d experienced before that there was nothing to remind me of what I was missing in England. Therefore, I didn’t feel homesick at all. The problem was that I didn’t feel very Christmassy either.
Without any familiar signs to prompt my brain into releasing the chemical responsible for festive cheer, each December day felt the same as a November or October one. There was no sense of build up or anticipation until, finally, on Christmas Eve, something happened.
It was the supermarket that did it. My flatmate and I were there to buy our dinner for the following day and the place was packed with frantic housewives. They all looked dishevelled and exhausted and there was a crazed look in their eyes as they jostled in the aisles, panic buying things they’d forgotten. ‘Oh. So it is Christmas,’ I thought, and was instantly possessed by the Christmas Spirit.
In the end I had a wonderful Christmas Day and, more importantly, it taught me what the season means to me personally. It isn’t about getting presents or eating extravagantly. It’s not about snow or trees or the Queen’s speech and the afternoon blockbuster. It isn’t even about getting drunk or hearing Slade playing from every available speaker. It’s about wrapping tinsel around your sunhat and getting the bus to the beach with a bag full of turkey sandwiches and party poppers. It’s about driving through the suburbs and seeing kids in the street playing with their presents in the sunshine. It’s about falling asleep on a dune and waking up to the laughter of two Korean girls because the inner lining of your swimming trunks has corroded. It’s about spending $3 and two hours writing fake Christmas cards to yourself from ‘Paul and Barry Chuckle’ and ‘all the lads in Radiohead’ and ‘That weather girl off Channel 9’ just to win a futile competition with your flatmate about how many cards each of you would receive. It’s about playing ‘Battleships’ with a pen and paper then bickering for over an hour because one of you cheated. It’s about stepping out of your normal reality for a couple of days, putting aside troubles and concerns and allowing yourself to be silly and carefree.
In short: no worries.
I was surprised that Christmas is celebrated down under in much the same way as it is here. Australians are so proud of their own identity that I expected them to adapt Christmas and personalise it to their own culture – kangaroos in Santa hats, girls barbecuing in fur clad bikinis, a surfing Father Christmas – that sort of thing. But there was nothing of the kind. Fake snow was sprayed into the corners of windows, decorations were draped across the city streets and winter carols played in every shop. It was a strange sensation to see all this in the height of summer. Father Christmas isn’t quite as jolly when his beard is drenched with sweat and he’s on the verge of collapse because he’s wearing a thick red woollen suit in 35 degree heat. It was so far removed from any Christmas that I’d experienced before that there was nothing to remind me of what I was missing in England. Therefore, I didn’t feel homesick at all. The problem was that I didn’t feel very Christmassy either.
Without any familiar signs to prompt my brain into releasing the chemical responsible for festive cheer, each December day felt the same as a November or October one. There was no sense of build up or anticipation until, finally, on Christmas Eve, something happened.
It was the supermarket that did it. My flatmate and I were there to buy our dinner for the following day and the place was packed with frantic housewives. They all looked dishevelled and exhausted and there was a crazed look in their eyes as they jostled in the aisles, panic buying things they’d forgotten. ‘Oh. So it is Christmas,’ I thought, and was instantly possessed by the Christmas Spirit.
In the end I had a wonderful Christmas Day and, more importantly, it taught me what the season means to me personally. It isn’t about getting presents or eating extravagantly. It’s not about snow or trees or the Queen’s speech and the afternoon blockbuster. It isn’t even about getting drunk or hearing Slade playing from every available speaker. It’s about wrapping tinsel around your sunhat and getting the bus to the beach with a bag full of turkey sandwiches and party poppers. It’s about driving through the suburbs and seeing kids in the street playing with their presents in the sunshine. It’s about falling asleep on a dune and waking up to the laughter of two Korean girls because the inner lining of your swimming trunks has corroded. It’s about spending $3 and two hours writing fake Christmas cards to yourself from ‘Paul and Barry Chuckle’ and ‘all the lads in Radiohead’ and ‘That weather girl off Channel 9’ just to win a futile competition with your flatmate about how many cards each of you would receive. It’s about playing ‘Battleships’ with a pen and paper then bickering for over an hour because one of you cheated. It’s about stepping out of your normal reality for a couple of days, putting aside troubles and concerns and allowing yourself to be silly and carefree.
In short: no worries.
09 December 2009
Jason
When I worked with Jason there were just five people in the studio so I got to know him pretty well. He was quiet and a little awkward but no more so than anyone else working in IT. We tried to include him in the usual office banter which he enjoyed despite never really fitting in completely. He was there as a student placement for his degree so I suppose he hadn’t seen enough of the working world to become as cynical and brutal as the rest of us. He didn’t seem to have any sort of monitoring system controlling how much personal information he revealed to us – didn’t know that a group of men working in a creative and pressurised environment will instantly snatch up any potentially embarrassing information like a seagull outside a beachfront chip shop. Then they’ll fly around your head with it, waving it in your face as you flail and stumble.
One such incident took place in the pub, after work. We were all talking about our hobbies and Jason said that he liked photography. The first thought that occurred to a table full of designers high on Barnsley Bitter and bravado was, naturally, porn.
‘What sort of photography?’ said the production manager, coyly.
‘Women, mainly.’
Christ Jason, shut up now – don’t say any more.
‘Naked women?’
‘Yes. I really like the female form.’
It was as if someone had tossed a hand-grenade onto the middle of the table. Poor Jason didn’t have the instinct to take cover or defend himself, I saw that clearly then. He was too naïve and innocent for this, it was like attacking a rabbit with a howitzer and I knew whose side I needed to be on. I parried the verbal barrage on his behalf, fired back with shots aimed well below the belt, provided distractions, diversions and feints to the bar but it didn’t do much good, the photography conversation had given them too much ammunition.
The great thing about Jason however, was that he didn’t seem to mind any of this in the slightest. He went far past the point where anyone else would have become aggressive or, at the very least, gone to have a little cry in the toilets. Through it all he carried on smiling and enjoying the banter until, eventually, someone else spilt a pint and the emphasis shifted away from him.
I worked with Jason for about a year before I left the company to go travelling. Out of everyone I knew, he was by far the most enthusiastic about my trip. I told him all about my preparations, what a hassle everything was and he asked where exactly I was going and what I intended doing. He supplied me with lots of helpful and interesting websites - he even encouraged me to set up a travel blog so that I could gloat about what I great time I was having.
We promised to keep in touch but of course, we didn’t. No matter how close you are to somebody when you’re working with them, as soon as your circumstances change you lose that common bond, that shared experience. Inevitably, you make new friends and the people you used to work with aren’t as important to you as they once were. Over the course of my career, I’ve worked with many wonderful people and I’ve lost touch with every single one of them.
When I returned a year later, I ended up working for the same company but many of the faces I knew had gone. One of those was Jason’s.
According to the bosses, not long after I’d left, he’d started behaving strangely. Apparently, he’d been rude to clients, sat reading magazines all day, walked out of the office at random times on extended lunch breaks and made a badly judged and clumsy pass at the receptionist.
This all seemed very much at odds with the quiet, polite and innocent lad that I knew.
Eventually he stopped turning up for work at all and someone from the University came to speak to the bosses. It turns out Jason had a history of mental problems and was under pretty close psychiatric care. The changes in his personality were because he’d suddenly stopped taking his medication and suffered a breakdown. Nobody at the office had the first idea about any of this.
A few months later I bumped into him in a shop. He introduced me to the friend he was with who didn’t say anything and moved away to a polite distance as we stood talking. Jason certainly wasn’t surly or unpleasant or miserable – but he wasn’t really the lad I had known before either. He seemed upbeat and chirpy – but chirpy in the way that born again Christians or the very lonely are chirpy; as if they’re trying to convince themselves as well as you that everything’s great. It was good to see him but I could tell something wasn’t right. It was the sort of conversation that, when it ends, you walk away from with relief and think: ‘what on earth was that all about?’
That was nearly four years ago now. The next time I heard about Jason was when I saw his name in a local paper. He went missing on the 27th December last year. Three days later the Police found his car parked near the Humber Bridge.
Thinking back to our conversations in the studio, I remember how enthusiastic he was about my trip. I hope he decided to travel too. I hope that he’s been selfish and inconsiderate and opted to avoid all the hassle of preparation by just taking off suddenly. I hope that he’s on a beach or in a foreign bar talking about photographing nude women and smiling at other people’s banter. I hope that the worst thing that’s troubling him is a guilty conscience about all the family and friends he abruptly abandoned.
www.missingpeople.org.uk
One such incident took place in the pub, after work. We were all talking about our hobbies and Jason said that he liked photography. The first thought that occurred to a table full of designers high on Barnsley Bitter and bravado was, naturally, porn.
‘What sort of photography?’ said the production manager, coyly.
‘Women, mainly.’
Christ Jason, shut up now – don’t say any more.
‘Naked women?’
‘Yes. I really like the female form.’
It was as if someone had tossed a hand-grenade onto the middle of the table. Poor Jason didn’t have the instinct to take cover or defend himself, I saw that clearly then. He was too naïve and innocent for this, it was like attacking a rabbit with a howitzer and I knew whose side I needed to be on. I parried the verbal barrage on his behalf, fired back with shots aimed well below the belt, provided distractions, diversions and feints to the bar but it didn’t do much good, the photography conversation had given them too much ammunition.
The great thing about Jason however, was that he didn’t seem to mind any of this in the slightest. He went far past the point where anyone else would have become aggressive or, at the very least, gone to have a little cry in the toilets. Through it all he carried on smiling and enjoying the banter until, eventually, someone else spilt a pint and the emphasis shifted away from him.
I worked with Jason for about a year before I left the company to go travelling. Out of everyone I knew, he was by far the most enthusiastic about my trip. I told him all about my preparations, what a hassle everything was and he asked where exactly I was going and what I intended doing. He supplied me with lots of helpful and interesting websites - he even encouraged me to set up a travel blog so that I could gloat about what I great time I was having.
We promised to keep in touch but of course, we didn’t. No matter how close you are to somebody when you’re working with them, as soon as your circumstances change you lose that common bond, that shared experience. Inevitably, you make new friends and the people you used to work with aren’t as important to you as they once were. Over the course of my career, I’ve worked with many wonderful people and I’ve lost touch with every single one of them.
When I returned a year later, I ended up working for the same company but many of the faces I knew had gone. One of those was Jason’s.
According to the bosses, not long after I’d left, he’d started behaving strangely. Apparently, he’d been rude to clients, sat reading magazines all day, walked out of the office at random times on extended lunch breaks and made a badly judged and clumsy pass at the receptionist.
This all seemed very much at odds with the quiet, polite and innocent lad that I knew.
Eventually he stopped turning up for work at all and someone from the University came to speak to the bosses. It turns out Jason had a history of mental problems and was under pretty close psychiatric care. The changes in his personality were because he’d suddenly stopped taking his medication and suffered a breakdown. Nobody at the office had the first idea about any of this.
A few months later I bumped into him in a shop. He introduced me to the friend he was with who didn’t say anything and moved away to a polite distance as we stood talking. Jason certainly wasn’t surly or unpleasant or miserable – but he wasn’t really the lad I had known before either. He seemed upbeat and chirpy – but chirpy in the way that born again Christians or the very lonely are chirpy; as if they’re trying to convince themselves as well as you that everything’s great. It was good to see him but I could tell something wasn’t right. It was the sort of conversation that, when it ends, you walk away from with relief and think: ‘what on earth was that all about?’
That was nearly four years ago now. The next time I heard about Jason was when I saw his name in a local paper. He went missing on the 27th December last year. Three days later the Police found his car parked near the Humber Bridge.
Thinking back to our conversations in the studio, I remember how enthusiastic he was about my trip. I hope he decided to travel too. I hope that he’s been selfish and inconsiderate and opted to avoid all the hassle of preparation by just taking off suddenly. I hope that he’s on a beach or in a foreign bar talking about photographing nude women and smiling at other people’s banter. I hope that the worst thing that’s troubling him is a guilty conscience about all the family and friends he abruptly abandoned.
www.missingpeople.org.uk
29 November 2009
Writing Clichés #2
WIDE EYED AND LEGLESS
That bloody alarm clock! That bloody snooze button!
I leapt out of bed and skidded across the bedroom on the July issue of Marie Claire. The mirror wasn’t my friend that morning. The massive zit that had been amassing for several days very helpfully chose today to erupt out of my forehead and my hair was a complete fright. All I could do was tie it back and cover it with a hat. Which hat? I shouldn’t be allowed to make important fashion choices when I’m still technically asleep.
Like an idiot, I grabbed the beret that had been lurking in a dark corner of my wardrobe, unworn since the day I bought it. I’ve no idea why it was even there – it had no place among my other clothes which tend to be quite dull and practical. I remember picking it up from a lovely stall on Camden market and imagining how Cosmopolitan and French it’d make me look. That had been a good enough reason when I was all giggly on Chardonnay but in the cold light of day I realised that all I looked was, at best: kooky, and at worst: completely deranged.
Who on earth wears a beret to the office on the day they’ve got an important marketing meeting at 9.30? I obviously wasn’t thinking clearly. I should have just gone back to bed and phoned in sick.
Clothes-wise, I put on the nearest things to hand which happened to be a pink blouse and a trouser suit that luckily wasn’t too creased. Only later when I was sprinting down the street to the tube station did I recall that the jacket had a tzatziki stain on it from Friday’s lunchtime bagel.
I was way too late for my usual train so I missed any encounter I might have had with my mystery man. Most mornings, it’s only the thought of seeing him that gets me out of bed at all. Two or three times a week we end up in the same carriage – that is, I make sure we end up in the same carriage if I’m quick enough to spot him through the window as the train slows down. He gets on somewhere further up the line and gets off somewhere further along, I’ve no idea where. One day, I’m going to book the morning off and follow him just to see where he works.
I imagine him being in publishing, possibly because he’s always reading when I see him. Not the Metro or a newspaper, it’s always a novel, usually written by some French author with loose morals. He has these cute little wire rimmed glasses and slightly overlong hair that’s elegantly dishevelled and makes him appear all arty and serious. I wonder if he’d been wearing his distinctive scarf that morning? I was probably thinking of him when I bought that damn beret.
We’ve never spoken or anything but the time is getting closer, I’m sure of it. Whenever he’s there, I sit as close to him as I dare and wait for him to look up so that I can catch his eye. Surely he must have noticed me by now.
But maybe it’s for the best if we never speak. What if he’s not half as alluring as I imagine him to be? What if he’s a tabloid journalist or a telemarketing guy? What if, when he opens his mouth, there isn’t a refined and gently accented Scottish or Irish burr but a broad Liverpudlian twang?
God, it would ruin my commute!
That day I was on the later train, the one that’s always packed. I had to squeeze in behind some exchange students and my face was in the sweaty armpit of a fat man all the way to the office. I tried my best to put on at least some make-up but what with holding onto the hanging strap and balancing my briefcase between my knees, I ended up with panda eyes and decidedly wonky lipstick. It would have to do.
No time for my usual Chai Latte pick-me-up from the Italian café outside the station or a friendly flirt with the security guard at reception that morning, I went directly up to my office and tried to make myself look as though I’d been there ages. I was just booting up my computer when my boss, poked his head round the door.
‘All set for the meeting Rosalyn?’ he said.
‘Oh yes, Mr Hague. Just spell-checking the final agendas.’
Then he saw my beret and physically flinched.
‘Er, that’s an interesting hat,’ he said.
I brazened it out. ‘Why, thank you Mr Hague,’ I replied, without looking up. He was too polite and old-fashioned to start giving sartorial advice to a woman twenty-five years his junior. I’d managed to get away with it.
There was barely enough time to print out the agendas before the meeting. As I headed upstairs in the lift with Mr Hague I noticed a glaring typo on the second line – typical!
The executive from the marketing agency and the photographer were already there when we arrived. I didn’t notice them at first because I was too busy juggling with an armful of files. I nearly dropped them when I saw who was positioned at the table opposite me.
‘Miss Bedford, I think you know Mr Henrion from the agency?’
‘Hi,’ I gasped at the exec.
‘And this is Jack Miller, our new photographer.’
He stood up and I shook his hand. Was that a glimmer of recognition that flashed across those piercing blue eyes?
‘Hello Miss Bedford,’ he said. It wasn’t Scottish or Irish but thankfully, it wasn’t broad Liverpudlian either. Definitely northern though, Manchester maybe? He’d worn that distinctive scarf today after all.
‘Nice beret,’ he added, with a smile.
That bloody alarm clock! That bloody snooze button!
I leapt out of bed and skidded across the bedroom on the July issue of Marie Claire. The mirror wasn’t my friend that morning. The massive zit that had been amassing for several days very helpfully chose today to erupt out of my forehead and my hair was a complete fright. All I could do was tie it back and cover it with a hat. Which hat? I shouldn’t be allowed to make important fashion choices when I’m still technically asleep.
Like an idiot, I grabbed the beret that had been lurking in a dark corner of my wardrobe, unworn since the day I bought it. I’ve no idea why it was even there – it had no place among my other clothes which tend to be quite dull and practical. I remember picking it up from a lovely stall on Camden market and imagining how Cosmopolitan and French it’d make me look. That had been a good enough reason when I was all giggly on Chardonnay but in the cold light of day I realised that all I looked was, at best: kooky, and at worst: completely deranged.
Who on earth wears a beret to the office on the day they’ve got an important marketing meeting at 9.30? I obviously wasn’t thinking clearly. I should have just gone back to bed and phoned in sick.
Clothes-wise, I put on the nearest things to hand which happened to be a pink blouse and a trouser suit that luckily wasn’t too creased. Only later when I was sprinting down the street to the tube station did I recall that the jacket had a tzatziki stain on it from Friday’s lunchtime bagel.
I was way too late for my usual train so I missed any encounter I might have had with my mystery man. Most mornings, it’s only the thought of seeing him that gets me out of bed at all. Two or three times a week we end up in the same carriage – that is, I make sure we end up in the same carriage if I’m quick enough to spot him through the window as the train slows down. He gets on somewhere further up the line and gets off somewhere further along, I’ve no idea where. One day, I’m going to book the morning off and follow him just to see where he works.
I imagine him being in publishing, possibly because he’s always reading when I see him. Not the Metro or a newspaper, it’s always a novel, usually written by some French author with loose morals. He has these cute little wire rimmed glasses and slightly overlong hair that’s elegantly dishevelled and makes him appear all arty and serious. I wonder if he’d been wearing his distinctive scarf that morning? I was probably thinking of him when I bought that damn beret.
We’ve never spoken or anything but the time is getting closer, I’m sure of it. Whenever he’s there, I sit as close to him as I dare and wait for him to look up so that I can catch his eye. Surely he must have noticed me by now.
But maybe it’s for the best if we never speak. What if he’s not half as alluring as I imagine him to be? What if he’s a tabloid journalist or a telemarketing guy? What if, when he opens his mouth, there isn’t a refined and gently accented Scottish or Irish burr but a broad Liverpudlian twang?
God, it would ruin my commute!
That day I was on the later train, the one that’s always packed. I had to squeeze in behind some exchange students and my face was in the sweaty armpit of a fat man all the way to the office. I tried my best to put on at least some make-up but what with holding onto the hanging strap and balancing my briefcase between my knees, I ended up with panda eyes and decidedly wonky lipstick. It would have to do.
No time for my usual Chai Latte pick-me-up from the Italian café outside the station or a friendly flirt with the security guard at reception that morning, I went directly up to my office and tried to make myself look as though I’d been there ages. I was just booting up my computer when my boss, poked his head round the door.
‘All set for the meeting Rosalyn?’ he said.
‘Oh yes, Mr Hague. Just spell-checking the final agendas.’
Then he saw my beret and physically flinched.
‘Er, that’s an interesting hat,’ he said.
I brazened it out. ‘Why, thank you Mr Hague,’ I replied, without looking up. He was too polite and old-fashioned to start giving sartorial advice to a woman twenty-five years his junior. I’d managed to get away with it.
There was barely enough time to print out the agendas before the meeting. As I headed upstairs in the lift with Mr Hague I noticed a glaring typo on the second line – typical!
The executive from the marketing agency and the photographer were already there when we arrived. I didn’t notice them at first because I was too busy juggling with an armful of files. I nearly dropped them when I saw who was positioned at the table opposite me.
‘Miss Bedford, I think you know Mr Henrion from the agency?’
‘Hi,’ I gasped at the exec.
‘And this is Jack Miller, our new photographer.’
He stood up and I shook his hand. Was that a glimmer of recognition that flashed across those piercing blue eyes?
‘Hello Miss Bedford,’ he said. It wasn’t Scottish or Irish but thankfully, it wasn’t broad Liverpudlian either. Definitely northern though, Manchester maybe? He’d worn that distinctive scarf today after all.
‘Nice beret,’ he added, with a smile.
20 November 2009
Neural Waste
A coastal town, out of season. A narrow street lined with tall Edwardian townhouses. I was at work in the attic of one of them using a drawing board and T-square instead of a Mac. The studio had wooden beams and high ceilings that followed the slant of the roof.
There was a girl there wearing a dark coloured cardigan, white blouse and black trousers. She was small and pretty with long, straight black hair. I’ve never seen her before but I know that we knew each other very well and I trusted and respected her unconditionally – like an older sister rather than a girlfriend.
She took me into the storage room at the back and pointed up to the skylight set into the roof. The wind was blowing clouds across the sky. As I watched, the clouds broke apart and began forming into distinctive shapes. They became cars and trains but not realistic ones, these were blocky and oversimplified, the kind of cars and trains a child might draw.
The wind changed direction and the clouds now came towards us, forming into the shapes of fighter planes – Lancaster bombers, Tornadoes and Spitfires. They floated silently lower and lower until they were close enough overhead for me to see how detailed they were. Every rivet and strut and panel was perfectly formed but the planes themselves were all gunmetal grey and solid as if they’d been carved or injection moulded.
They glided past, following the line of the street. Soon they were level with the window and my friend pulled me back as a Harrier Jump Jet clipped the side of the building with it’s wingtip, demolishing most of the wall in front of me.
Scared and confused we ran from the house and along the street. The fresh, sea air had a calming effect and before long we were walking steadily, so content in each other’s company that we didn’t feel the awkward pressure of having to make conversation.
There was a field on a hill leading up from the cliff. Lots of people were gathered there, many of whom I recognised - close and distant friends; work colleagues; casual acquaintances. They were standing together in loose groups of five or six and looked as though they were waiting for something to begin. I smiled and waved at a few who spotted me but I didn’t stop to talk to anyone.
I saw a lad I remember from University. His name was Phil but I don’t recall his surname. He was on my course but we didn’t know each other very well. He was one of those people that I neither liked or disliked, we just had nothing whatsoever in common so simply never became friends. I haven’t seen him or even thought about his existence for over twelve years which is why it’s strange that suddenly, it seemed very important to me to say hello.
He was striding across the field along with four very attractive women. They were heading for small, squat building that looked like it could be a cricket pavilion. As I ran over to them, they were almost at the door and inside it didn’t look like a pavilion or clubhouse at all. The interior was like the foyer of a block of very new flats – lots of strip lighting and bare white walls. Phil had opened the heavy fire-door by the time I got to him. I gently tapped his shoulder and he turned around to face me.
‘Phil! How are you? Remember me?’ I said, and told him my name in case he’d forgotten.
He obviously had because he looked at me as though I were a complete stranger. Was it him after all? Yes, I was positive.
‘Come on Phil, Nottingham? Graphic Design? 1997?’ I repeated my name but again, got no response. The four women were confused and looking at him for instruction.
I just presumed he’d forgotten. I explained over and over again who I was and how I knew him but he never said a word. Eventually my friend grabbed my arm and pulled me backwards a few steps.
‘He’s blanking you, you idiot.’ She told me. ‘He knows who you are and he’s deliberately ignoring you. Just leave him be, walk away.’
‘No, surely not.’ I said. But then I heard the women giggle and knew it was true. I glanced round and saw him whispering to them, a smirk on his face.
‘Right, well fuck him then,’ I thought and turned around to tell him exactly that but he’d already gone inside the building. The fire-door slammed shut behind him.
I shook my head in total outrage and my friend quietly led me away.
There was a girl there wearing a dark coloured cardigan, white blouse and black trousers. She was small and pretty with long, straight black hair. I’ve never seen her before but I know that we knew each other very well and I trusted and respected her unconditionally – like an older sister rather than a girlfriend.
She took me into the storage room at the back and pointed up to the skylight set into the roof. The wind was blowing clouds across the sky. As I watched, the clouds broke apart and began forming into distinctive shapes. They became cars and trains but not realistic ones, these were blocky and oversimplified, the kind of cars and trains a child might draw.
The wind changed direction and the clouds now came towards us, forming into the shapes of fighter planes – Lancaster bombers, Tornadoes and Spitfires. They floated silently lower and lower until they were close enough overhead for me to see how detailed they were. Every rivet and strut and panel was perfectly formed but the planes themselves were all gunmetal grey and solid as if they’d been carved or injection moulded.
They glided past, following the line of the street. Soon they were level with the window and my friend pulled me back as a Harrier Jump Jet clipped the side of the building with it’s wingtip, demolishing most of the wall in front of me.
Scared and confused we ran from the house and along the street. The fresh, sea air had a calming effect and before long we were walking steadily, so content in each other’s company that we didn’t feel the awkward pressure of having to make conversation.
There was a field on a hill leading up from the cliff. Lots of people were gathered there, many of whom I recognised - close and distant friends; work colleagues; casual acquaintances. They were standing together in loose groups of five or six and looked as though they were waiting for something to begin. I smiled and waved at a few who spotted me but I didn’t stop to talk to anyone.
I saw a lad I remember from University. His name was Phil but I don’t recall his surname. He was on my course but we didn’t know each other very well. He was one of those people that I neither liked or disliked, we just had nothing whatsoever in common so simply never became friends. I haven’t seen him or even thought about his existence for over twelve years which is why it’s strange that suddenly, it seemed very important to me to say hello.
He was striding across the field along with four very attractive women. They were heading for small, squat building that looked like it could be a cricket pavilion. As I ran over to them, they were almost at the door and inside it didn’t look like a pavilion or clubhouse at all. The interior was like the foyer of a block of very new flats – lots of strip lighting and bare white walls. Phil had opened the heavy fire-door by the time I got to him. I gently tapped his shoulder and he turned around to face me.
‘Phil! How are you? Remember me?’ I said, and told him my name in case he’d forgotten.
He obviously had because he looked at me as though I were a complete stranger. Was it him after all? Yes, I was positive.
‘Come on Phil, Nottingham? Graphic Design? 1997?’ I repeated my name but again, got no response. The four women were confused and looking at him for instruction.
I just presumed he’d forgotten. I explained over and over again who I was and how I knew him but he never said a word. Eventually my friend grabbed my arm and pulled me backwards a few steps.
‘He’s blanking you, you idiot.’ She told me. ‘He knows who you are and he’s deliberately ignoring you. Just leave him be, walk away.’
‘No, surely not.’ I said. But then I heard the women giggle and knew it was true. I glanced round and saw him whispering to them, a smirk on his face.
‘Right, well fuck him then,’ I thought and turned around to tell him exactly that but he’d already gone inside the building. The fire-door slammed shut behind him.
I shook my head in total outrage and my friend quietly led me away.
13 November 2009
Writing Clichés
COLOR ME DEAD
Inglewood, West 33rd Street. I was parked outside a neat little redbrick building out in the ‘burbs at the request of a broad named Talula Monsoon. She’d wiggled into my office that afternoon and given me the sort of smile that can loosen a belt at ten paces. Just a simple job she said, a routine stakeout. I’ve been around the block enough times to know that nothing’s routine in my line of work, especially when my fee’s agreed with no questions asked. That amount of dough is enough to buy my curiosity and besides, Talula’s got the kind of figure that makes it hard for a guy like me to refuse.
It can get awful lonely at 3am in a dark suburban street. That’s why I always bring a friend. His name’s Mr Daniels but when you know him as well as I do, you just call him Jack. He’s a good buddy, very easy to get along with. He always travels light but he can pack a hell of a punch just when you need it. Boy, I needed it then. I reached across to the glove box to bring him out for a chat. I was a little jumpy, there was something in the air that night.
That something turned out to be a slug from a ’38. It missed me but caught Jack right in the neck. He was bleeding liquor down my suit before I even realised what had happened. Two more bullets slammed into the bodywork of my sedan before I took the hint and got the hell out of there.
I only just made it. The guy with the itchy trigger finger was now out in the street and he sure was mad about something. Not as mad as my mechanic was going to be, with two more shots my back window was gone and my trunk suddenly had air conditioning. He fired again, wide this time, then turned and ran for his car.
I headed for the hills with the guy right behind me. The roads out there are windy and unlit but I floored the sedan and hoped for the best. When I’d put some distance between us, I rounded a blind bend, skidded the car to a halt and killed the lights. It was time to have a little talk with my angry friend. In situations like this, I always find it best to do my talking with a Colt semi-automatic.
When he came around the corner, my gun was in my hand and I was ready for him. I put three, quick rounds into the space between the headlights and hoped I’d caught the engine block. At least one of them must have hit home as the car swerved to the right and into a ditch. Then, silence.
I waited a while, the smoke from my cigarette mingling with the smoke from my gun. Nothing moved.
Ten minutes later and the sound of those damn crickets was driving me crazy. I crushed my fourth cigarette under my heel and went over to see the damage I’d done.
The engine was ruined. So was the driver. Clunk click, every trip – I guess he forgot that. When the car hit the ditch he’d popped out of his seat like a champagne cork, straight through the windscreen and into the field.
He was very dead.
He was lucky, it would have cost him a fortune in chiropractor bills to fix that nasty crick in his neck.
I pulled out a torch and turned him over with my boot. I recognised the face immediately, especially the mouth, the guy had more teeth than a Ferrari gear box. I’d seen it enough times leering at me out of the gloom and more often than not, that view had directly preceded a lengthy sleep and a trip to Hopewood Infirmary.
Grinning Mike McGee, a hired goon running with Hoagy Winston’s mob. But Hoagy Winston ran his outfit on the Southside, what the hell was he doing in Inglewood?
I had no idea what Talula Monsoon had gotten me into but one thing’s for sure, I was suddenly in a whole heap of trouble...
Inglewood, West 33rd Street. I was parked outside a neat little redbrick building out in the ‘burbs at the request of a broad named Talula Monsoon. She’d wiggled into my office that afternoon and given me the sort of smile that can loosen a belt at ten paces. Just a simple job she said, a routine stakeout. I’ve been around the block enough times to know that nothing’s routine in my line of work, especially when my fee’s agreed with no questions asked. That amount of dough is enough to buy my curiosity and besides, Talula’s got the kind of figure that makes it hard for a guy like me to refuse.
It can get awful lonely at 3am in a dark suburban street. That’s why I always bring a friend. His name’s Mr Daniels but when you know him as well as I do, you just call him Jack. He’s a good buddy, very easy to get along with. He always travels light but he can pack a hell of a punch just when you need it. Boy, I needed it then. I reached across to the glove box to bring him out for a chat. I was a little jumpy, there was something in the air that night.
That something turned out to be a slug from a ’38. It missed me but caught Jack right in the neck. He was bleeding liquor down my suit before I even realised what had happened. Two more bullets slammed into the bodywork of my sedan before I took the hint and got the hell out of there.
I only just made it. The guy with the itchy trigger finger was now out in the street and he sure was mad about something. Not as mad as my mechanic was going to be, with two more shots my back window was gone and my trunk suddenly had air conditioning. He fired again, wide this time, then turned and ran for his car.
I headed for the hills with the guy right behind me. The roads out there are windy and unlit but I floored the sedan and hoped for the best. When I’d put some distance between us, I rounded a blind bend, skidded the car to a halt and killed the lights. It was time to have a little talk with my angry friend. In situations like this, I always find it best to do my talking with a Colt semi-automatic.
When he came around the corner, my gun was in my hand and I was ready for him. I put three, quick rounds into the space between the headlights and hoped I’d caught the engine block. At least one of them must have hit home as the car swerved to the right and into a ditch. Then, silence.
I waited a while, the smoke from my cigarette mingling with the smoke from my gun. Nothing moved.
Ten minutes later and the sound of those damn crickets was driving me crazy. I crushed my fourth cigarette under my heel and went over to see the damage I’d done.
The engine was ruined. So was the driver. Clunk click, every trip – I guess he forgot that. When the car hit the ditch he’d popped out of his seat like a champagne cork, straight through the windscreen and into the field.
He was very dead.
He was lucky, it would have cost him a fortune in chiropractor bills to fix that nasty crick in his neck.
I pulled out a torch and turned him over with my boot. I recognised the face immediately, especially the mouth, the guy had more teeth than a Ferrari gear box. I’d seen it enough times leering at me out of the gloom and more often than not, that view had directly preceded a lengthy sleep and a trip to Hopewood Infirmary.
Grinning Mike McGee, a hired goon running with Hoagy Winston’s mob. But Hoagy Winston ran his outfit on the Southside, what the hell was he doing in Inglewood?
I had no idea what Talula Monsoon had gotten me into but one thing’s for sure, I was suddenly in a whole heap of trouble...
09 August 2009
Manimals
When I first arrived in Sydney, I felt pretty detached from things. I was travelling alone, wasn’t used to the hostel lifestyle and was older and flabbier than most of the people I met there. Typically English, I also had an inherent distrust of ‘Johnny foreigner’ and struggled to adapt to my environment.
After a few nights, I tagged along on a hostel excursion to a nightclub and everything suddenly seemed to click into place. There were Britons, Australians, Germans, Canadians, Japanese - every nation you could think of in that club and their behaviour was very familiar. Drinking, dancing, pulling, predatory males and flirting females all revolving around each other and playing out the same scenes that I’d seen a thousand times before. I realised then that whatever nationality, we’re all essentially the same.
Nightclubs are great places to observe the basic instincts that drive human beings. Booze erodes the veneer of respectability and burrows down into the most basic part of our brain. The primal need to reproduce takes over and nightclubs serve as mating grounds. Sure, the mating rituals may be different, but they’re mating rituals just the same. Instead of growing colourful and elaborate plumage, we might wear a snazzy shirt. Instead of a sophisticated and technical mating dance, we’ll wiggle and strut to Beyonce. Instead of calling out into the darkness with a beautiful song we’ll smarm up to someone at the bar and hit them with our best chat-up line.
I remember being in a Leeds nighclub a few years ago - it must have been about the time The Blue Planet was on television because the dancefloor reminded me of something. There was a scene in the programme that showed thousands of sardines being hounded by a group of sharks. The sardines had been pushed up to the surface to prevent their escape and had then packed themselves into a tight mass for protection. This was called a baitball and the predators swam into it at speed and picked off the weaker fish or the ones that were too slow. The Leeds baitball was a hen-party dressed in tight pink T-shirts and mini-skirts. They were all dancing close together for protection as groups of men prowled their perimeter, pushing them further and further into the middle of the dancefloor so they couldn’t run to the bar. Occasionally a man would bolt into the jiggling mass of women, looking for a bite, picking off the gullible or the ones that were too drunk.
Another primal instinct is violence. When booze has cut through our human airs and graces, the less advanced elements of society tend to fight a lot. That’s pure hunter gatherer, caveman behaviour – the need to protect or display your strength or show power – even the music in nighclubs is almost tribal in its rhythmic pounding.
I saw similar behaviour in two red-deer stags during rutting season. Each of them was surrounded by their own group of hinds and they faced off in a feeding area split in two by a fence. On the left side of the fence was Harry, the mouthy one. He was the younger of the two and kept his harem of hinds close by, preventing them from wandering freely. Being the main aggressor, he was bellowing all the time, putting on a show of strength, trying to prove his worth. Cameron, on the right, was three years older and much more dignified. Being more secure, he didn’t feel the need to watch over his hinds so strictly and they wandered around freely looking a lot less scared than Harry’s. Cameron didn’t bluster quite so much although occasionally he had to react to Harry’s goading and put the young pretender in his place. The two would eyeball each other, walking side by side, backwards and forwards along the fence. Then one would turn away casually before spinning round with his head lowered to launch himself at the opponent.
These sorts of fights happen in nightclubs all the time. I half expected one of the hinds to grab their stag by the antler and shout tearfully: ‘Leave it Cameron, it’s not worth it!’
However developed and important we think we are, you just need to add a catalyst of lager or vodka and you’ll see that, despite national boundaries, we’re all the same species. Not only that, we’re all animals too. We have the same urges and the same drives – the same behaviour much of the time. The only real difference is that our brains are bigger and we’ve built up a more complex and sophisticated system with which to display our base instincts. We’re not quite as special or important as we often think ourselves to be.
After a few nights, I tagged along on a hostel excursion to a nightclub and everything suddenly seemed to click into place. There were Britons, Australians, Germans, Canadians, Japanese - every nation you could think of in that club and their behaviour was very familiar. Drinking, dancing, pulling, predatory males and flirting females all revolving around each other and playing out the same scenes that I’d seen a thousand times before. I realised then that whatever nationality, we’re all essentially the same.
Nightclubs are great places to observe the basic instincts that drive human beings. Booze erodes the veneer of respectability and burrows down into the most basic part of our brain. The primal need to reproduce takes over and nightclubs serve as mating grounds. Sure, the mating rituals may be different, but they’re mating rituals just the same. Instead of growing colourful and elaborate plumage, we might wear a snazzy shirt. Instead of a sophisticated and technical mating dance, we’ll wiggle and strut to Beyonce. Instead of calling out into the darkness with a beautiful song we’ll smarm up to someone at the bar and hit them with our best chat-up line.
I remember being in a Leeds nighclub a few years ago - it must have been about the time The Blue Planet was on television because the dancefloor reminded me of something. There was a scene in the programme that showed thousands of sardines being hounded by a group of sharks. The sardines had been pushed up to the surface to prevent their escape and had then packed themselves into a tight mass for protection. This was called a baitball and the predators swam into it at speed and picked off the weaker fish or the ones that were too slow. The Leeds baitball was a hen-party dressed in tight pink T-shirts and mini-skirts. They were all dancing close together for protection as groups of men prowled their perimeter, pushing them further and further into the middle of the dancefloor so they couldn’t run to the bar. Occasionally a man would bolt into the jiggling mass of women, looking for a bite, picking off the gullible or the ones that were too drunk.
Another primal instinct is violence. When booze has cut through our human airs and graces, the less advanced elements of society tend to fight a lot. That’s pure hunter gatherer, caveman behaviour – the need to protect or display your strength or show power – even the music in nighclubs is almost tribal in its rhythmic pounding.
I saw similar behaviour in two red-deer stags during rutting season. Each of them was surrounded by their own group of hinds and they faced off in a feeding area split in two by a fence. On the left side of the fence was Harry, the mouthy one. He was the younger of the two and kept his harem of hinds close by, preventing them from wandering freely. Being the main aggressor, he was bellowing all the time, putting on a show of strength, trying to prove his worth. Cameron, on the right, was three years older and much more dignified. Being more secure, he didn’t feel the need to watch over his hinds so strictly and they wandered around freely looking a lot less scared than Harry’s. Cameron didn’t bluster quite so much although occasionally he had to react to Harry’s goading and put the young pretender in his place. The two would eyeball each other, walking side by side, backwards and forwards along the fence. Then one would turn away casually before spinning round with his head lowered to launch himself at the opponent.
These sorts of fights happen in nightclubs all the time. I half expected one of the hinds to grab their stag by the antler and shout tearfully: ‘Leave it Cameron, it’s not worth it!’
However developed and important we think we are, you just need to add a catalyst of lager or vodka and you’ll see that, despite national boundaries, we’re all the same species. Not only that, we’re all animals too. We have the same urges and the same drives – the same behaviour much of the time. The only real difference is that our brains are bigger and we’ve built up a more complex and sophisticated system with which to display our base instincts. We’re not quite as special or important as we often think ourselves to be.
18 July 2009
The Road Clown
Driving home from work I was stopped by some traffic lights. A car pulled up next to me and in the back was a girl of perhaps 12 or 13. She looked directly at me and started laughing.
It wasn’t just an ordinary laugh, it was a hysterical laugh. She was also pointing. At me.
‘Fair enough,’ I thought, and waited, slightly awkwardly, for the lights to change. Further down the road, the car with the laughing girl in it overtook me. Then it slowed down again until it was level with mine – just so that the girl could have another laugh. She was now grabbing at the shoulders of the woman in the passenger seat, pointing me out to her like an exhibit at a Victorian freakshow.
It was that horrible, exaggerated sort of laugh that kids force when they’re trying deliberately to make someone feel really small. It reminded me of my school days when I was young and vulnerable and desperate to be like everyone else as opposed to how I am now - old and cynical and desperate not to be like everyone else. The feeling made me want to flick her the Vs on behalf of all the kids at her own school who’ve been on the receiving end of laughs like that. I didn’t though. Fortunately my skin’s thick enough to endure the ridicule of a teenage girl. Besides, the bloke who was driving looked quite big.
However, the incident did make me wonder what specifically she’d been laughing at. The obvious guess would be my car. I get a lot of laughs from people about my car. In a perverse way, I actually quite enjoy it as I think it says a lot more about them than it does me. It exposes them as being young or dumb or downright materialistic if they don’t understand the obvious benefits of having a car like mine.
I’m happy to give them a little amusement and let them feel all superior for a fleeting moment. It might enable them to temporarily justify to themselves the vast amount of money they’ve undoubtedly spent on their own vehicles. I have sympathy for them because the initial thrill of new ownership wears off pretty quickly and that big, expensive car soon becomes just another mundane part of everyday life, just another thing. The higher the price, the more worry that comes with it – scratches and dints; car parks in dodgy areas of town, alarms, security, waxing and polishing – all those extra considerations that eat up your time and are completely irrelevant when you drive a 1984 Toyota Starlet in hearing-aid beige. Yes, they can laugh if they want. They need all the fun they can get.
I didn’t get the impression that it was the car though, the girl seemed to be laughing specifically at me. I wasn’t singing – which is usually the reason – so it must have been something else. The hair? The beard? The sunglasses? The shirt?
I suppose it’s quite pathetic that the answer’s not obvious. Maybe it says a lot about my general appearance that she was probably spoilt for choice. Then again, maybe it says a lot about my ego that I couldn’t care less.
It wasn’t just an ordinary laugh, it was a hysterical laugh. She was also pointing. At me.
‘Fair enough,’ I thought, and waited, slightly awkwardly, for the lights to change. Further down the road, the car with the laughing girl in it overtook me. Then it slowed down again until it was level with mine – just so that the girl could have another laugh. She was now grabbing at the shoulders of the woman in the passenger seat, pointing me out to her like an exhibit at a Victorian freakshow.
It was that horrible, exaggerated sort of laugh that kids force when they’re trying deliberately to make someone feel really small. It reminded me of my school days when I was young and vulnerable and desperate to be like everyone else as opposed to how I am now - old and cynical and desperate not to be like everyone else. The feeling made me want to flick her the Vs on behalf of all the kids at her own school who’ve been on the receiving end of laughs like that. I didn’t though. Fortunately my skin’s thick enough to endure the ridicule of a teenage girl. Besides, the bloke who was driving looked quite big.
However, the incident did make me wonder what specifically she’d been laughing at. The obvious guess would be my car. I get a lot of laughs from people about my car. In a perverse way, I actually quite enjoy it as I think it says a lot more about them than it does me. It exposes them as being young or dumb or downright materialistic if they don’t understand the obvious benefits of having a car like mine.
I’m happy to give them a little amusement and let them feel all superior for a fleeting moment. It might enable them to temporarily justify to themselves the vast amount of money they’ve undoubtedly spent on their own vehicles. I have sympathy for them because the initial thrill of new ownership wears off pretty quickly and that big, expensive car soon becomes just another mundane part of everyday life, just another thing. The higher the price, the more worry that comes with it – scratches and dints; car parks in dodgy areas of town, alarms, security, waxing and polishing – all those extra considerations that eat up your time and are completely irrelevant when you drive a 1984 Toyota Starlet in hearing-aid beige. Yes, they can laugh if they want. They need all the fun they can get.
I didn’t get the impression that it was the car though, the girl seemed to be laughing specifically at me. I wasn’t singing – which is usually the reason – so it must have been something else. The hair? The beard? The sunglasses? The shirt?
I suppose it’s quite pathetic that the answer’s not obvious. Maybe it says a lot about my general appearance that she was probably spoilt for choice. Then again, maybe it says a lot about my ego that I couldn’t care less.
18 June 2009
Generic Journeying
After the safe landing comes uncertainty. Will your luggage have made the same journey you have? Will you stroll through security unhindered, despite the irrational guilty feeling in the pit of your stomach? Will passport control spot something suspicious in your documentation? Will they recognise you from your picture now that you’ve got a beard?
The taxi driver should be waiting for you at arrivals. He’ll be carrying a ragged piece of cardboard that has your name written on it. What will he be like? Will he be trustworthy? Does he have the sort of face that you could describe to the police? Will his features be the last thing you see before you lapse into unconsciousness and awake in a bath of ice, a gaping hole where your kidneys should be?
Once inside the taxi, you start to relax. He seems quite friendly. You try to show him that you’re not the typical British yob by engaging him in light, generic banter. The standard cab-conversation starter of: ‘are you busy tonight?’ is replaced with: ‘How do I say hello/thanks/yes/no/goodbye etc, etc.’ in the local language. The roads around the airport are packed with taxis, all of which contain identical exchanges.
Through his heavy accent you can’t understand a thing he says back to you but attempt to cover this up by laughing politely. Eventually you catch something about Britain so you spend ten minutes telling him how rotten it is. Now he laughs politely.
On the journey, you pass some of the sights and you allow yourself to start enjoying it. All that’s left to do is face the awkwardness of paying the driver in notes of too high a denomination; book into the hotel; dump your luggage and get out into your holiday.
Already you feel a pressing sense of urgency. Time’s tight, you don’t want to miss anything. Where’s the guidebook? Where’s the suncream? Where’s the camera? Where’s my wallet?
The taxi driver should be waiting for you at arrivals. He’ll be carrying a ragged piece of cardboard that has your name written on it. What will he be like? Will he be trustworthy? Does he have the sort of face that you could describe to the police? Will his features be the last thing you see before you lapse into unconsciousness and awake in a bath of ice, a gaping hole where your kidneys should be?
Once inside the taxi, you start to relax. He seems quite friendly. You try to show him that you’re not the typical British yob by engaging him in light, generic banter. The standard cab-conversation starter of: ‘are you busy tonight?’ is replaced with: ‘How do I say hello/thanks/yes/no/goodbye etc, etc.’ in the local language. The roads around the airport are packed with taxis, all of which contain identical exchanges.
Through his heavy accent you can’t understand a thing he says back to you but attempt to cover this up by laughing politely. Eventually you catch something about Britain so you spend ten minutes telling him how rotten it is. Now he laughs politely.
On the journey, you pass some of the sights and you allow yourself to start enjoying it. All that’s left to do is face the awkwardness of paying the driver in notes of too high a denomination; book into the hotel; dump your luggage and get out into your holiday.
Already you feel a pressing sense of urgency. Time’s tight, you don’t want to miss anything. Where’s the guidebook? Where’s the suncream? Where’s the camera? Where’s my wallet?
22 May 2009
Steen-rolling
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.
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.
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