Nanny State?
Do we have a nanny state? I don't think so. I believe it is fairly easy to tell whether or not we do, the signs would be as follows:
- Mary Poppins clears the scum off the streets by wiggling her nose. She then makes an audacious and wildly popular move to seize power, explaining that a spoonful of sugar helps democracy die down.
- The army is replaced by a throng of dancing, animated penguins and the police force is replaced by small squadrons of soot-faced chimney sweeps, with hearts of gold and dubious cockney accents.
- Full financial recovery is achieved within months, as the city's bankers are given some first-hand lessons, in what is really important in life.
- The issue of binge drinking is resolved with the plummet in alcohol sales that results from young people realising they can get high (up) simply by telling weak jokes and laughing hysterically.
- Umbrellas start talking.
Those are the signs of a nanny state. It is not here yet but I suggest we are all mindful. I'm sure we'd all rather have an overzealous government hell-bent on eradicating our human rights, under the guise of protection from terrorism, than have to ask Dick Van Dyke for directions.
The Dangers of Dieting
I’m dieting at the moment. It’s a common story, I (still) need to lose the Christmas pounds and shouting at them doesn’t appear to be scaring them off. I had a tin of pea and ham soup for lunch. I might have to eat a piece of bread later. Otherwise I'll be ravenous when I get home and inhale dinner.
If I'm still hungry I'll probably eat one of my girlfriend’s arms and then she’ll be all like, “Ow, ow, oh God, oh Jesus there's so much blood, there's so much blood, what the hell are you doing?! You ate my arm!”
And I'd be all like, “Nom, nom, nom, munch, chomp, chomp.”
She’ll be screaming and crying and stuff, and then eventually once I’m full, I might feel sorry. Maybe I would try to make it up to her by getting the little hand-held kitchen vacuum and shoving it into her bloody stump. It would probably still work because it’s cordless. Maybe we could find a way to charge it from her heart, that would be more eco-friendly, which is quite important to her.
But then after a while it probably wouldn't work and she might feint from the strain or blood loss or something. Then I would probably be sad and have some chips, which would ruin my diet and I really wouldn't appreciate her not helping, so maybe it’s worth her remembering that, so she can try to be less selfish in future.
Alas poor media…
The writing's on the wall for CDs, it has been for ages. It's no surprise because historically one form of media has always been surpassed by a younger, better, sexier format that immediately makes the old one feel like a decrepit useless husk and its user embarrassed to be associated with it. Ever was it thus.
The CD Reaper. Camp as hell to you but to CDs he's pure terror.
Of course personal digital transfer now spells the end of single track or album storage media forever, which I will stop discussing immediately, for fear of growing metal from my eyes, wires from my fingers and speaking only in digital screams, which as we all know is the fate of people who write about such things. Yes it is.
I shall miss putting CDs into the stereo. I quite enjoyed the eager glint of the disc and the pleasant sensation of its sharp but soft edge, snugly nestled into my finger tips. I liked opening them and flicking through the inlay. I liked the feeling of having bought something solid from a record shop.
Though I have to admit I won't miss the scratches and the impossibly fragile cases. Neither will I miss that moment when you open the box and it's empty, and you KNOW you put it away, so it was DEFINITELY someone else and then you get really angry. You start shouting and ranting about how no-one has any respect for anyone else's property, and maybe even a bit of spit comes out of your mouth, and then you're hitting the CD rack and kicking at it and then the CD rack falls over and it's broken and you finally calm down and realise it's not the CD rack, its your house mate lying on the floor and those aren't CDs on the carpet, they're his teeth along with the irreparable pieces of another friendship, which was doomed to failure by CDs.
So on reflection I won't miss CDs. They're crap. Thank god we're getting rid of them. I hate them, they're a lot like Hitler, only much worse on a very real scale.
The Truth About Michael Jackson
Often it falls upon humble writers to reveal uncomfortable truths. Usually the world turns away, content to keep its blissful ignorance rather than face the unsettling realities of life. Today I ask, nay plead, don't look away, hold fast and stare down truth. Fix your courage,ook into the eye of the storm of actuality and accept that Michael Jackson and Mickey Mouse are the same person. Yes they are.
...just ONE white glove
In case you need any more evidence, here it is:
- They have the same name
- They were both born black
- The have the same voice
- They both hang around children a lot
- Both have a lot of imaginary animal friends.
I rest my case.
Abba Will Kill Me
I'm going for sushi tonight. It's highly likely that while I am there someone will kill me. There won't be any fuss. It will be very quiet, it won't happen immediately but my fate is sealed.
Of course I'm not talking about my lovely girlfriend who'll be there without, I hope, murderous intent. No I'm talking about the Polonium-B-loving Russian secret service. They are going to kill me, I know this because what I am about to write is the kind of information that could bring the country crashing to its knees.
I could forget what I know. I could look the other way. I could; but I won't. I owe it it to you. I owe it to myself.
So, this is it. Four little words: Putin danced to Abba.
"Whoa! Get down! If you ever speak of this I'll make a hat from your lungs"
There, I've done it, that is a relief. He denies it of course. As would anyone who had danced to Abba, (yes, yes, it's great pop, but it's still as musically interesting as sand) or who set up a private concert with Abba tributary Bjorn Again.
God bless.
Read it here last.
‘Mare Boris
I wrote this just after Boris became Mayor of London. For some reason it wasn't published. So here it is now
I have now come to terms with the result of the London Mayoral election. I do not understand what happened but I thought I knew the consequences. I expected the roads to be filled with cars, over-burdened with bags and valued belongings, hurriedly gathered from dwellings, doors left swinging in the wind. Indeed I thought the coming of Boris would be greeted with the joy and enthusiasm of any other unexpected natural disaster. Not so. Perhaps we’re all just waiting to see what happens
An actual photograph of my fears
I suppose with me it’s just fear of the unknown. Here are some of my fears:
In the year 2010 the streets burn. When Boris re-introduces smoking in public, the trouble begins. Anti-smoking riots spring up all over the country. All the previously calm people, who had for so long put up with breathing the smoke of inconsiderate people, maintaining their Rizla-thin patience with the thought of the coming ban, finally snap.
At first there will be small instances of raised voices in pubs. Then fights will break out in restaurants, mainly between courses. Finally there will be the burning down of a cigarette factory. When Boris is asked about this, his response will be, quite literally, incendiary
"I wish I'd known they were going to do it.” He'll grin “I would have organised helicopter rides above the factory for smokers to get a free lung-full. Ha ha flibbittyflipflop."
This will be the final flippant comment, the last in a long series following questions on serious issues:
When asked how he justified scrapping the congestion charge, despite its clear contribution to reducing London’s emissions…
“Ah, well, ha ha, you see if we make a congestion charge for the road we need to make one for your nose when you have a cold and are congested. Ha! You see, its madness! It had to go. Ha ha flibbittyflipflop.”
And on how banning all alcohol consumption on public transport might be enforced…
“Ah, well, yes, of course. No, what people mustn't do is focus on the negatives. This is a simple problem, all we have to do is train those little rats on the tube to bite people whenever they see them with booze! You see? Simple! Ha ha flibbittyflipflop.”
I suppose my fears are unreasonable but it feels like I live inside a glass ball and someone has given it to a bear to hold. And that the bear is dancing. And mad.