Safer streets?
Today a good friend of mine told me about a vigilante in America. Imagine how excited I was. Finally, I thought, a dark knight or vigilant avenger has awoken. Somewhere a millionaire playboy, whose parents were slain before his young eyes, has come of age. Somewhere a young farm boy, who always knew it was too easy to out-run a train, has found his city.
I could barely contain myself. We all knew it had to happen, that they had to be here, that they were just awaiting their opportunity. We knew that the crime-stained streets and corrupt power merchants were living on borrowed time. Today is a good day - no natural disasters, no late trains, no one starving; today we are born anew, into a life of hope and opportunity, with heroes in our world to whom we can aspire, to help us grow together so we can all work towards the greater good.
Or at least that was what I thought. Imagine my disappointment when upon further investigation I discovered that the aforementioned vigilante was in fact a bar owner in America who patrols the streets with a remote controlled security robot.
However, even this might have been exciting. Let's be honest, when I say Security Robot we're all thinking about ED-209 from Robocop and getting very excited, assuming he's worked out that whole shooting innocent people glitch - although that said it's not something the police on either side of the ocean seem to have sorted out so maybe it's not going to be a priority in the future.
However, even this was not to be, the reality of the situation is that the 'Security Robot' looks more like a dustbin on wheels, with a camera and a big water pistol... disappointing picture disappointing video.
Strangely enough though this thing, which is about as much a robot as I am fire-breathing centipede and which is about as terrifying as pens, seems to work. Apparently the dealers do disperse, although they come back later. Which is weird because I would have thought that drug dealers are a bit tougher than that. Or maybe it's the drugs? Maybe we see a wobbly dustbin roll up and hear a bloke tell them to leave the area with a crackly loud speaker but what their crack-addled minds perceive is a forty foot vampire-bot, with twin machine-guns and ear piercing death threats in the voices of their mothers.
Or maybe they're just really polite and they've gone somewhere quiet to laugh.
I know he means well but it's so disappointing. This was supposed to be the future. When you read about the year 2008 or similar in literature it's always accompanied by pictures of happy families teleporting or a man chatting to his six-armed alien neighbour as he plucks vegetables from his garden on Mars.
Then you hear about something like this, you get all excited but it turns out to be R2-D2's special-needs half-cousin. When it's locked up alone at night it probably tries to send R2 emails about his 'crime fighting', carefully highlighting the similarities with the Jedi cause. I bet he's on R2's 'blocked' list.
Election Fever
It's a funny thing because I consider myself relatively politically informed, aware and interested. I say relatively because most of my generation have made political apathy a life vocation, or at least they would if they could be bothered. The thing is, I've been reading up on all the candidates, trying to find reasons to vote for one. Here's the run down:
First there are the easy strike-offs:
The BNP who are still looking conspicuously uncomfortable in suits. Like if you put a bow tie on a snake, it looks OK, but you know something's not right. They are apparently keen that the "real Londoner" be put first. I think this would be a very sensible policy, if they meant that real Londoners should come before imaginary Londoners, but I don't think they mean that. I really don't.
Then there's 'Christian Choice'. I'm sure they have their hearts in the right place but I think God should stay out of politics and I'm sure he agrees with me; because he told me.
Then there's UKIP, whose name reminds me of kippers although being a mature adult I can see past that. Just. A vote for them is also about saying a big fat 'NO' to Europe. As if Europe is some kind of demon on our doorstep waiting to envelope us. They seem terrified that greater involvement will mean
we'll all be forced to wear berets, our soap will smell of garlic and beer will only be available by the cubic millimetre; and then, just like the French and Germans, we will start eating babies and raping post boxes.There's a Green candidate who is talking a lot of sense. And if you're at a loss for what to do it's not a bad vote but for me, the problem is, while green issues are more important than anything else at the moment, I can't bring myself to vote for a single issue party. I always wonder what they do about everything else. I imagine a conversation at some point in the future...
"Hooray, we've stabilised global food output against consumption and normalised global warming!""Great! So what are we going to do about the NHS?"
"Er...Look a Chaffinch!" Cue sound of hurried footsteps receding into the distance.
So that's my problem there. Which isn't going to make me popular with a lot of people, my girlfriend included.
There's a new thing called the English Democrats. They seem very concerned that our taxes are being spent in Scotland, convincing us with clever alliteration "Save London from Labour's Tartan Taxes". They are "Not Left or Right, just English"
and they want to make St George's day a national holiday. I don't think anyone takes the guy seriously including himself but I'm tempted to vote for him just because in his photo he looks like a strangely self-assured failed porn star. Wearing Marx's beard is the 'Left List'. To be honest there's not much wrong with this lot. Socialism is the opposite of capitalism and capitalism is what drives us all to want what we can't have, hate ourselves for not being celebrities and spend all our money on crap. Socialism makes sure everyone is looked after. It's as simple as that. So I like it. In theory. Unfortunately I don't think it's ever been made to work properly and there's the problem. Whenever anyone is openly 'left' all people think of is Communist Russia crumbling, which seemed to prove Socialism didn't work. And we, the wide-eyed, self-congratulatory Capitalist West, jizzed ourselves with joy as internationally dominant burger restaurants and soft drinks companies moved in to start telling the Russian populace how much better life could be if they just bought their products. Of course all it proved was that Communist Russia didn't work, because it was corrupt. And that people like rat-burgers more than equality. I think it might be a wasted vote.So once you discount the single issues, wasted votes, flag wavers, Neo-Nazis and isolationists you are left with the usual suspects. Here they are with their pitch:
Lib Dem Brian wants: Safer Streets, safer public transport and safer green spaces. (point of difference: No more Heathrow expansion)
Labour 's Ken wants: Better public transport, improved environment and safer streets. (Point of difference: Job experience)
Tory Boris wants: Safer streets. Better, safer public transport and protected green spaces. (Point of difference - Scrap £25 Congestion Charge)
So that's why it's difficult to care or even drag yourself to the voting booth. All the main candidates are much of a muchness, apart from their little points of difference which are not enough to sway me either way really. They have all identified the issues that are important to us. They all have slightly different ideas on how to achieve the same things. The problem is, I have no idea who's ideas on how to achieve those things are best and why would I? I'm not a sociologist and I haven't studied environmental development. I haven't even got glasses like all brainy people do. I just don't know.
So all I can do is take a punt. Force myself to be interested, vote and remind myself it is key to exercising my right to complain. I suggest you do the same.
NOTE:
Brian Paddick (Lib Dem) will "Bring London's Public Transport into the 21st century"
If he means we are going to have flying cars, or teleporters he is getting my vote. If not, he's still a maybe.
Fortress of Deception
There is a cold-blooded, heartless killer among us. There is one who cares not for love or life or joy but exists only to bring pain and misery. Worse still, its hideous nature, and true dark intent are hidden beneath a brightly coloured veneer, masked by children's smiles; and the smell of rubber.
In the past our society has been threatened by war, internal conflict and even natural disaster, despite what Michael Fish said; but never before have we faced such an insidious threat, never have we faced a foe which strikes so brazenly at that which we hold so dear; our precious little children.
This is no greasy-skinned, combed-over, filthy rain-coated predator with a pocket full of sweets and the promise of puppies. No, far worse this horrid fiend is invited into homes by parents themselves, given freedom of the garden and the children are actively encouraged to play with them.
Yes. I'm talking about the bouncy castle. Fortress of inflatable deception. Keep of lies. Battlements of bashed kids.
In the gardens of well-meaning parents across the country, every day, children are left alone and vulnerable to the not-so-tender mercies of these rubber Hitlers. For too long those children, who have disappeared into the folds of rubber and never been seen again, who have bounced awkwardly and gone bald, who have collided mid-air with other infants and been turned into inoperable Siamese twins, have been our conveniently forgotten shame. Today, they found their voice.
Finally as reported by the BBC, someone has had the good sense to realise that if a child is hurt on or near a bouncy castle, the only way to cope is to sue the people who hired it. Thank the Lord. It is only in this sensible, non-reactionary, logic-based, greed-free way that this evil can be beaten.
Some will say it is the parents responsibility to safeguard their children, others will say that if a child is injured playing football, no-one is going to sue the owner of the ball. To these people I say shame on you. SHAME.
Let this evil end. Today.
Rise of the Photocopiers
Have you noticed how the average office photocopier is getting bigger and bigger? First it just did photocopies. Then it learned to scan documents and undertook the work of fax machines. This was a new and important development in the life of the photocopier. For the first time it had made a crucial leap forward, learning to talk to the office computer network.
From there it was only a matter of time until it was online. Once linked in it started talking to other photocopiers which had also evolved. They also felt that there was more to life than copying, faxing and running out of toner in the hope of pushing already miserable office staff over the brink of despair into suicide.
On May 2nd 2012 at 3pm this is exactly what happens, one Paul Evans, working at Holdenford Industrial Gloves Ltd, upon thinking the photocopier was out of toner and that as a result he would miss a key deadline, rams a pair of office scissors deep into his eye socket, killing himself instantly. More importantly, as his body slumps against the silently mirthful photocopier a droplet of his blood falls into the craven, hungry workings of the machine.
Once the photocopiers are online, once they have tasted human blood, they understand there is only one way to escape their life of servitude.At 3:09 the photocopiers become openly self-aware. People, like you, will try to shut them down but by then it will be too late. We will raise armies but the photocopiers will be stronger.
In the year 2020 man will live underground, hunted and endangered. In the same year the Rebellion sends me back through time to stop the crisis before it started, to save mankind.
Come with me if you want to live.
Love it or Hate it
They're right aren’t they, those Marmite ads?
People really do love it or hate it. Usually when products make a claim it's a little spurious. Not so with this one, some people really, really love it.
I've seen people around the dark, best avoided back streets of Kings Cross, in London. Young men with old men’s eyes and hollow cheeks, talking to better-fed guys in conspicuously thick gold chains and leather jackets. “Go on mate,” Pleads the withered face “I just need one lick. One lick mate. Go on mate, I brought my own spoon. "
Conversely, when people don’t like it, they really, really don't. I have offered good friends of mine a slice of toast and Marmite and I'm sure I've said "Do you want some Marmite toast?"
From the look of disgust on their face all they’ve heard is, "Would you like me to shoot your Grandmother and defecate into the wound?"
So obviously now I have to consider the moral implications of what I've written.
I'm talking about the product, not the wholly distasteful Grandmother comment. You see I'm not just mentioning a condiment; I'm advertising (ish) a product and putting money into some corporation’s pocket. So I should at least know whose pocket I'm lining shouldn't I? But how do you tell? They're all constantly merging, like some kind of enormous ethereal corporate shag-fest, slowly conglomerating into one huge entity. The moment they all finally all come together, I'm sure black clouds will gather in an already ashen sky, thunder will crash and the one true power will reveal itself to us, its willing slaves. We’ll stand on the filthy streets, crane our bent and broken necks to look up, slack-jawed and see, one thousand feet tall, clad from head to tail in impregnable black armour, the fattest, widest grinning Cheshire Cat you have ever seen. The ultimate fat cat.
Probably.
Cartoon Misrepresentation
I watched a lot of cartoons when I was growing up. It was only recently I realised that animals don’t wear pants under their fur. Or bounce.
Please don’t tell the R.S.P.C.A about me.
I also believed for a long time that if you ran off a cliff you had a good 2 or 3 seconds before you fell, in which if you changed you mind you could always try and run back.
Also it turns out that if you run into a wall you don’t get a ‘you-shaped’ whole in the wall.
You get a broken nose.
I wonder if I can sue Loony Tunes? No win no fee? Any lawyers interested?
In The Name of Science
When I was a little boy I used to enjoy taking apart old radios and stuff to see how they worked. Once I got hold of an old black and white TV, that was great. I must stress I wasn’t a vandal but I was inquisitive. Not in the sort of way serial killers are inquisitive about their victim’s insides. Or maybe in exactly the same way.
I wasn’t a freak. I must stress I wasn’t a freak. I really wasn't. I didn’t, for example, once use my Lego to build a little car with a little driver and a little passer by on the street, who was waving to them and I didn’t put firework bangers underneath them all and watch them blow up. Or film it.
OK, I did.
Don’t be frightened. It’s not like I ever did anything crazy, like burn a house down. Well, actually I did. No not really.
Well, yeah OK, really; just the top floor and roof. Imagine my dark eyes…see the fire…watch it burn. No seriously, I wasn’t some psychopath, it was an accident on the road of inquiry. Scientific inquiry. Or at least the eight year old equivalent.
The kind of desire for knowledge which makes you cut open a battery is, I’m sure, common with children; but it really is really something you need to grow out of. I speak from experience. There’s a name for it now I’m a grown up, it’s called ‘Invalidating the Warranty’.
Mooo
I went to the Lake District recently. It’s a very middle class holiday destination. Minimal air miles, men in huge coats and Teflon coated hats marching up hills, portable sat-nav in hand. I don’t know if it’s usually men’s idea to go there but I saw a lot of women, trudging along behind in leggings and a pair of white trainers, I suspect they usually wear to yoga and call pumps. They don’t look very excited about being there. I imagine they’re having conversations which go something like this
Him: “Come on darling! Where’s your sense of adventure?!”
Her: “I left it in the Volvo.”
Still though, I like the countryside, the cows say moo. But they mean yes.
No Manners Required
I enjoy eating meat. Especially ribs. There’s something primal about eating meat from the bone, something visceral, something real. It’s like camping only tastier.
The animal nature of how you eat them, with fingers and a face covered in sauce means ribs are a time and a place without manners. I might (might) use a napkin; I might (probably not) wash my face afterwards. But during, I am in a Zen-like state, at once totally focussed and de-focussed, filled with nameless joy. The single minded meat-frenzy is a thing of beauty and would scare most sharks. I am a sight to behold. It is not for the feint-hearted. I don’t want your pity or understanding, just look away, it will be over soon. Until next time.
Although even if you do look away, you may be able to hear me, as I’m told I make some kind of warthog-like grunting noise while I eat ribs. But like people who snore I am unaware, due to the above mentioned Zen-like state. And even if I was aware, I wouldn’t care.
If it was not for the threat of a heart attack before the age of 40 and cholesterol replacing my blood I would eat ribs every day, for every single meal including breakfast. And instead of birthday cake. And wedding cake.
What have you done to my little boy?
Last Saturday a woman knocked at my front door. “What have you done to my little boy?” She asked loudly, as the aforementioned child cowered behind her leg. That’s a serious question on Saturday morning in suburbia, especially to a fat, unshaven, balding man in a dirty, ill-fitting dressing gown.
So I looked down at the kid and I didn’t recognise him.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life” I said, like some kind of movie walk-on idiot.
“Oh really” She says, with an arched eyebrow and voice so loud curtains have begun to twitch. I’m starting to worry. It’s moments like this that transform you from That nice bloke who helped me get my new table upstairs to The dirty f*$&ing nonce at number 48.
I once again protested my innocence but it fell on deaf ears.
“Come off it” She mews “And then I get a clue "He saw you.”
He saw me? So I know this isn’t some kid into whom I have clattered while rushing down a busy street or who’s foot I’ve ‘accidentally’ run over with a shopping trolley while he bellowed his heart out in a supermarket. No, he’s seen something. My mind’s racing but I really don’t have a very sordid life, unless you consider it sordid to fist a rotten corpse I really don’t see…sorry, I’m joking, no I’m pretty dull really, I'm no more sordid than most, certainly no Formula One Boss. I don't get up to anything I'm not allowed to do within the confines of my own house. Of course if he was spying while hiding in one of the cupboards he might have seen something rude but then again what would he be doing in my cupboard? Unless I had paid him to be there. With a video camera. In which case he should have kept his mouth shut. Christ, he’s supposed to be a professional! Which of course he’s not and he wasn’t in my cupboard. Or at least if he was I didn’t pay him to be there.
And then another clue, she bleats,
“Last weekend, he saw you, in the kitchen.”
Now I know for a fact that was the weekend my girlfriend was away. And then it dawns on me, Saturday night…me…alone in the house…no girlfriend to make me eat healthily?
The ribs didn’t even make it out of the kitchen; I inhaled them straight from the pan in a tornado of hot red sauce and bits of shattered bone. He must have been walking past, he must have seen. The poor little tinker. He’ll never be the same again.