Some bright spark has come up with a website in which you can 'rate' MPs for their sexiness; according to the creator it's supposed to be a "fun and memorable tool to help the British public get to know their members of parliament" Well, quite. We're always in need of those.
I had a look at the site (just out of morbid curiosity, you understand) and was immediately faced with huge mugshots of Eric Pickles and Jack Straw side-by-side as though they were about to face each-other in a duel. A caption at the top read: "Which MP would you rather have sex with? Choose one"
Bit forward, isn't it? Not, "Which MP do you find the most attractive", or even "Which MP would you most like to share a plate of spaghetti with in a low-lit restaurant?", but "Which MP would you rather have sex with?" And then the barking "Choose One" order; it's as though the website creator instinctively knew that some of the MP bedfellow options made Sophie's Choice seem like a casual toss-up between a chocolate eclair and a fairy cake, and that any visitors would have to be strongarmed into actually answering.
Despite having been given my orders I declined to actually answer the Pickles vs. Straw dilemma, in case you were on the edge of your seat in wonder, although I'm almost ashamed to say I did actually ponder it for all of about two seconds. Instead I had a look down the 'Top Rated' list (of which most were Conservative MPs, for some reason - what's wrong with Old Labour chic? Some of those pudding-bowl haircuts can be very attractive) and I also looked for my own local MP, who was in dismal 179th place. Even Ed Miliband and George Osborne were rated higher, and for a few mad seconds I actually felt a bit disappointed...just before I came to my senses and exited the site before I felt tempted to scan the MP's pictures in full and suffering the potential agony of thinking "Oooh, that one's nice".
Tuesday, 31 May 2011
Sunday, 29 May 2011
'Chick-crack' - otherwise known as The Personality Test
Last year on holiday, my beach read was Neil Strauss's 'The Game', an autobiography about the 'underworld' of the male pick-up artist. It was an interesting read...one of the things I liked best about it was that the 'pick-up artists' in the book collected and categorised their conquests in ways only men can do, seemingly completely forgetting that these women were real people. One kept an alphabetical log, whilst another ranked them in order of attractiveness (in case you hadn't guessed, PC this book isn't). I got the impression they all could have saved themselves a lot of time and effort if they'd just gone out and got themselves a job-lot of model aircraft to build instead, with a little chart to record all their efforts on in whatever way they wanted. Tom Cruise made a bizarre cameo in the book too, doing and saying absolutely nothing whatsoever to dispel the 'sub-atomic fruitcake' image he currently enjoys. All good fun.
But anyway. Part of the book was devoted to the methods used by the pick-up artists to entice their potential conquests, together with their effectiveness. I read through them wondering if any of them would have worked on me, and I'm almost ashamed to admit the one that would, is the one Strauss refers to as 'chick-crack', i.e. a supposedly impromptu personality test he would try out on a potential conquest and her friend/s. Called 'chick-crack' because of its 100% success rate, it would consist of Strauss (or one of his 'disciples') approaching a girl and saying something like "I can tell you your personality in five questions".
Even though I like to think I have some idea of my own personality by now, I lap up personality tests and quizzes like my childhood cat used to lap up evaporated milk. If there is a 'What's Your Ideal Career? - Test Inside!' strapline on the front of a magazine, I'll buy it, even if the magazine is rubbish and even though my answers are always the same, 'writer' or 'counsellor'. What am I looking for by doing essentially the same quiz over and over again? It's not as though I'd nod along in agreement if the conclusion ever changed and became 'debt collector', 'toilet cleaner' or 'football club manager'.
It's not just career quizzes, it's any personality quiz. "What's Your Hair Type?" screamed a quiz advertised on the front of Cosmopolitan. I bought it and did the quiz, even though I know what my hair type is (how could I not...it's on the top of my head for God's sake!)
But it's nice when you get an indication that you might be special, or a bit different from all the rest from personality tests (something Neil Strauss also knew well). The Myers-Briggs test I took for work came back with a conclusion that "only four per cent of the population have this extremely rare personality type" which made me feel great for all of about five minutes, before I read on and discovered that I was best described as "cool, aloof and arrogant" and someone who "inspires a vague feeling in others that life is passing you by". Charming! The personality test conclusion also advised people who may be working with me "not to give Nina a spontaneous hug" (though why would anybody do that at work anyway?!) and that I was "excellent with figures". Wrong! They got that bit wrong! Maybe I'm not cool, aloof and arrogant, either! (cough).
Oh, whatever. I've got a new issue of Cosmopolitan here, and there's a great 'What Kind of Lipstick Are You?' quiz in this one. Can't wait to find out.
But anyway. Part of the book was devoted to the methods used by the pick-up artists to entice their potential conquests, together with their effectiveness. I read through them wondering if any of them would have worked on me, and I'm almost ashamed to admit the one that would, is the one Strauss refers to as 'chick-crack', i.e. a supposedly impromptu personality test he would try out on a potential conquest and her friend/s. Called 'chick-crack' because of its 100% success rate, it would consist of Strauss (or one of his 'disciples') approaching a girl and saying something like "I can tell you your personality in five questions".
Even though I like to think I have some idea of my own personality by now, I lap up personality tests and quizzes like my childhood cat used to lap up evaporated milk. If there is a 'What's Your Ideal Career? - Test Inside!' strapline on the front of a magazine, I'll buy it, even if the magazine is rubbish and even though my answers are always the same, 'writer' or 'counsellor'. What am I looking for by doing essentially the same quiz over and over again? It's not as though I'd nod along in agreement if the conclusion ever changed and became 'debt collector', 'toilet cleaner' or 'football club manager'.
It's not just career quizzes, it's any personality quiz. "What's Your Hair Type?" screamed a quiz advertised on the front of Cosmopolitan. I bought it and did the quiz, even though I know what my hair type is (how could I not...it's on the top of my head for God's sake!)
But it's nice when you get an indication that you might be special, or a bit different from all the rest from personality tests (something Neil Strauss also knew well). The Myers-Briggs test I took for work came back with a conclusion that "only four per cent of the population have this extremely rare personality type" which made me feel great for all of about five minutes, before I read on and discovered that I was best described as "cool, aloof and arrogant" and someone who "inspires a vague feeling in others that life is passing you by". Charming! The personality test conclusion also advised people who may be working with me "not to give Nina a spontaneous hug" (though why would anybody do that at work anyway?!) and that I was "excellent with figures". Wrong! They got that bit wrong! Maybe I'm not cool, aloof and arrogant, either! (cough).
Oh, whatever. I've got a new issue of Cosmopolitan here, and there's a great 'What Kind of Lipstick Are You?' quiz in this one. Can't wait to find out.
Saturday, 28 May 2011
As National Vegetarian Week draws to a close...
I wasn't actually aware that it was National Vegetarian Week this week until today. What a waste! From Monday through to Sunday I could have spent the entire time legitimately proselytising to unwilling carnivores how it's much better to be meat-free. Or something like that. But now I've got to squeeze all that in during the rest of today and tomorrow! How unfair.
Not that I'd ever do that, of course, as I'm often fond of saying on here (read that as: moaning on and on about it). But it's not just me, honest! The subject just keeps on cropping up; there's usually always a nice, fresh little anecdote to tell on the subject if I wait long enough (roughly a month or so). And seeing as how this is actually an Official Week for Vegetarians, why waste the opportunity?
I went to a barbecue recently, at which I'd let the hostess know beforehand that I'm a vegetarian (this always makes me feel slightly stupid; it's one of those things I feel I do have to mention with barbecues so people don't feel as though I think their cooking is horrible, but at the same time I don't want them to think they've got to do anything 'special' for me and that that was the reason I'd mentioned it). She was fine with it, and bless her, had prepared some meat-free dishes especially. As I grabbed a plate and helped myself, someone behind me tutted. "Bloody vegetarians! It's a barbecue; you're supposed to eat meat here - honestly, why do these people even bother coming?"
Seeing as I didn't know this person, I didn't know if her comment was directed at me or not. But in response I demonstrated my well-known, devastatingly brutal thing of...just walking away feeling slightly hurt. There it was; yet another example of the surprising level of vitriol directed towards vegetarians by meat eaters. Get the violins out; just make sure the strings haven't been made with catgut, OK?
As I've stated before on this blog (again, many a time!) a lot of people do seem quite fascinated with the reasons for my being vegetarian. Usually they ask the question with a small amount of masochistic fear lurking behind their eyes, because I might start trying to convert them/tell them they shouldn't be eating meat or wearing leather shoes/try to convince them that Quorn substitute bacon doesn't taste like shoe insoles (though I haven't quite convinced myself of that one yet!) When I just shrug and say I don't like the taste of meat, most of them look a bit disappointed.
I'll always remember the first time I discovered that meat was...well, animals made into food. I was about six years old and on going back to infants class after lunch, our teacher asked "Hands up who had the shepherd's pie for lunch!" Innocently I put my hand up. The teacher fixed us all with a smug 'I know something you don't know' sort of smile and said "Now, did you realise you were eating part of a cow?" A few of the others nodded, but I was dumbstruck. Looking back, that scene might have looked great as part of a bad sitcom episode (I'm thinking 'Outnumbered').
Since then, I'd always been very aware that I was eating an animal when I ate a piece of meat, which made me feel uncomfortable and so I finally took the meat-free plunge as soon my Dad would let me, aged thirteen. But I don't cite "animal cruelty" as a reason for my being vegetarian because to say that would imply that I had researched, or had some knowledge of, what really happens in abattoirs and farms and cattle markets and the like. No - meat just makes me feel a bit iffy, so I don't eat it. But why do I feel so embarrassed about saying that to people I don't know?
In the best 'self help' book ever written (though technically it's not really a 'self-help' book at all, just a bloody brilliant book full of common sense business advice), 'Innervation' by Guy Browning, he writes something along the lines of never letting anybody ride roughshod over what's important to you. It's a great sentiment, though I feel I'm a bit lacking at the moment. But if I ever see that barbecue-woman ever again, I'll let her have it. Probably.
Not that I'd ever do that, of course, as I'm often fond of saying on here (read that as: moaning on and on about it). But it's not just me, honest! The subject just keeps on cropping up; there's usually always a nice, fresh little anecdote to tell on the subject if I wait long enough (roughly a month or so). And seeing as how this is actually an Official Week for Vegetarians, why waste the opportunity?
I went to a barbecue recently, at which I'd let the hostess know beforehand that I'm a vegetarian (this always makes me feel slightly stupid; it's one of those things I feel I do have to mention with barbecues so people don't feel as though I think their cooking is horrible, but at the same time I don't want them to think they've got to do anything 'special' for me and that that was the reason I'd mentioned it). She was fine with it, and bless her, had prepared some meat-free dishes especially. As I grabbed a plate and helped myself, someone behind me tutted. "Bloody vegetarians! It's a barbecue; you're supposed to eat meat here - honestly, why do these people even bother coming?"
Seeing as I didn't know this person, I didn't know if her comment was directed at me or not. But in response I demonstrated my well-known, devastatingly brutal thing of...just walking away feeling slightly hurt. There it was; yet another example of the surprising level of vitriol directed towards vegetarians by meat eaters. Get the violins out; just make sure the strings haven't been made with catgut, OK?
As I've stated before on this blog (again, many a time!) a lot of people do seem quite fascinated with the reasons for my being vegetarian. Usually they ask the question with a small amount of masochistic fear lurking behind their eyes, because I might start trying to convert them/tell them they shouldn't be eating meat or wearing leather shoes/try to convince them that Quorn substitute bacon doesn't taste like shoe insoles (though I haven't quite convinced myself of that one yet!) When I just shrug and say I don't like the taste of meat, most of them look a bit disappointed.
I'll always remember the first time I discovered that meat was...well, animals made into food. I was about six years old and on going back to infants class after lunch, our teacher asked "Hands up who had the shepherd's pie for lunch!" Innocently I put my hand up. The teacher fixed us all with a smug 'I know something you don't know' sort of smile and said "Now, did you realise you were eating part of a cow?" A few of the others nodded, but I was dumbstruck. Looking back, that scene might have looked great as part of a bad sitcom episode (I'm thinking 'Outnumbered').
Since then, I'd always been very aware that I was eating an animal when I ate a piece of meat, which made me feel uncomfortable and so I finally took the meat-free plunge as soon my Dad would let me, aged thirteen. But I don't cite "animal cruelty" as a reason for my being vegetarian because to say that would imply that I had researched, or had some knowledge of, what really happens in abattoirs and farms and cattle markets and the like. No - meat just makes me feel a bit iffy, so I don't eat it. But why do I feel so embarrassed about saying that to people I don't know?
In the best 'self help' book ever written (though technically it's not really a 'self-help' book at all, just a bloody brilliant book full of common sense business advice), 'Innervation' by Guy Browning, he writes something along the lines of never letting anybody ride roughshod over what's important to you. It's a great sentiment, though I feel I'm a bit lacking at the moment. But if I ever see that barbecue-woman ever again, I'll let her have it. Probably.
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
On being used as an "emotional scapegoat" and classics I just can't understand
I've noticed a bit of "emotional scapegoating" being thrown in my direction recently. The main reason for this is that I, rather unfortunately, am in possession of the kinds of facial expression and general demeanour that betray exactly how I am feeling, even if I'm trying to hide it. This tends to mean that other people can 'use' me as a sort of conduit to disguise how similarly THEY are actually feeling themselves.
You're in need of amusing examples to highlight this? Well, no problem. The first one I can offer you is in Disneyland last week. As I have already successfully established, I was no fan of all the enforced Disney jolliness. This I couldn't hide, and even if I'd attempted to, my husband and my best friend know me well enough to be able to see through it. So I didn't hide it, and this gave them all the perfect excuse to deflect their own feelings of annoyance onto me. "Ha ha ha! Nina really hates the music! Hilarious!" "Look at Nina's face, she really can't STAND this parade we've seen about five times already; isn't it funny!" See what I mean? Another example is of our Australian friends talking to us about going to visit them in Sydney some time. My husband answered "Oh, we'll probably never get to come...Nina hates flying; she'll be scared to sit on a plane for that long". Nothing to do with his own lack of interest in going to Australia and the fact that he himself doesn't want to "spend twenty-four hours on a plane"! So there you go.
And now I have something a lot more grave to admit...there are some cultural "classics" I don't like. Recently I was talking to a friend and the conversation came round to 'Fawlty Towers' (as all conversations invariably do). "I've always hated Fawlty Towers" I said. My friend went a bit quiet, then spluttered in response "But it's a classic! How can you hate Fawlty Towers?!" "I don't know...I've just never found it funny. Actually, I've never found John Cleese very funny anyway"
This response nearly garnered a burst blood vessel in my friend's temple. But is it really so very wrong, that I've never found John Cleese very funny, and that I don't like 'Fawlty Towers'? Isn't it just a matter of personal taste? Just because the majority of people laugh at John Cleese, does that mean I have to? Isn't that what the Nazis wanted, for us all to be the same? (I'm aware this argument is maybe just a little flawed...but still, you get the point!) Here are a few more 'classics' I either don't understand or just don't like that have received a similar blood-vessel-bursting response in other people:
David Bowie. Is he really a genius? Or just someone who wrote songs whilst high on drugs, dressed up in a selection of wigs and make-up and got lucky? (See also: Bob Dylan, but without the wigs and make-up).
George Orwell's 'Nineteen Eighty-Four'. I've read this book twice, and I'm a bit ashamed to say that I didn't really 'get' it. I'm the only one, apparently.
Benny Hill. Just why? Someone I previously respected once told me that their favourite ever comedy sketch was "that one where Benny Hill is sitting in an office, counting sheets in a pile of paper....he's up to about 149. A sexy girl walks past, he takes his eyes off the paper and stares at her, then he sighs and goes back to counting the paper, starting from one again. It's hilarious because it's so simple and so true to life!" Well, quite.
Monty Python. I know it's supposed to be the Mecca of British humour and surrealist comedy, and I can see how clever some of it is, but (whispers)...I just don't think it's very funny. (I know, I know!!)
I think I've made my point...and now I shall disappear, before I betray any more information that may be likely to get me lynched.
You're in need of amusing examples to highlight this? Well, no problem. The first one I can offer you is in Disneyland last week. As I have already successfully established, I was no fan of all the enforced Disney jolliness. This I couldn't hide, and even if I'd attempted to, my husband and my best friend know me well enough to be able to see through it. So I didn't hide it, and this gave them all the perfect excuse to deflect their own feelings of annoyance onto me. "Ha ha ha! Nina really hates the music! Hilarious!" "Look at Nina's face, she really can't STAND this parade we've seen about five times already; isn't it funny!" See what I mean? Another example is of our Australian friends talking to us about going to visit them in Sydney some time. My husband answered "Oh, we'll probably never get to come...Nina hates flying; she'll be scared to sit on a plane for that long". Nothing to do with his own lack of interest in going to Australia and the fact that he himself doesn't want to "spend twenty-four hours on a plane"! So there you go.
And now I have something a lot more grave to admit...there are some cultural "classics" I don't like. Recently I was talking to a friend and the conversation came round to 'Fawlty Towers' (as all conversations invariably do). "I've always hated Fawlty Towers" I said. My friend went a bit quiet, then spluttered in response "But it's a classic! How can you hate Fawlty Towers?!" "I don't know...I've just never found it funny. Actually, I've never found John Cleese very funny anyway"
This response nearly garnered a burst blood vessel in my friend's temple. But is it really so very wrong, that I've never found John Cleese very funny, and that I don't like 'Fawlty Towers'? Isn't it just a matter of personal taste? Just because the majority of people laugh at John Cleese, does that mean I have to? Isn't that what the Nazis wanted, for us all to be the same? (I'm aware this argument is maybe just a little flawed...but still, you get the point!) Here are a few more 'classics' I either don't understand or just don't like that have received a similar blood-vessel-bursting response in other people:
David Bowie. Is he really a genius? Or just someone who wrote songs whilst high on drugs, dressed up in a selection of wigs and make-up and got lucky? (See also: Bob Dylan, but without the wigs and make-up).
George Orwell's 'Nineteen Eighty-Four'. I've read this book twice, and I'm a bit ashamed to say that I didn't really 'get' it. I'm the only one, apparently.
Benny Hill. Just why? Someone I previously respected once told me that their favourite ever comedy sketch was "that one where Benny Hill is sitting in an office, counting sheets in a pile of paper....he's up to about 149. A sexy girl walks past, he takes his eyes off the paper and stares at her, then he sighs and goes back to counting the paper, starting from one again. It's hilarious because it's so simple and so true to life!" Well, quite.
Monty Python. I know it's supposed to be the Mecca of British humour and surrealist comedy, and I can see how clever some of it is, but (whispers)...I just don't think it's very funny. (I know, I know!!)
I think I've made my point...and now I shall disappear, before I betray any more information that may be likely to get me lynched.
Sunday, 22 May 2011
A trip to the Magic Kingdom (and no, I'm not talking about THAT sort of trip!)
People who really know me, know that Disneyland Paris (or Florida for that matter; I'm not picky) is on the Top Ten List of Places I Never Want To Visit. The reasons for this probably go without saying, but I'll say them anyway; I don't have any kids, and all the enforced jolliness makes my stomach churn just a little bit. I never wanted to be any of the Disney princesses when I grew up, and I don't have a favourite Disney film. Reasons enough? You'd think so.
So when my husband and I decided to go with my best friend and her husband, who do have kids, it was a decision that inspired amusement in most of my other friends and family members. "Are you sure you're going to be OK?" some of them asked in concerned tones, exactly as they might have done had I announced I was intending on packing a bikini for a mini-break in downtown Afghanistan. But to be honest, I wasn't sure I was going to be OK. How was I going to cope without exclusive me-time? Like a diva I stated that I was going to need at least half an hour every day for the gym, or coffee and a quick read of my book, otherwise I knew I would be unbearable (forget kids' tantrums...mine are atomic).
So anyway, we came, we saw and we went back home again. And I survived - just about. But what of the whole 'Magic Kingdom'? Well, I shall detail some of the highlights of the experience below for your edification...
THE GOOD
So when my husband and I decided to go with my best friend and her husband, who do have kids, it was a decision that inspired amusement in most of my other friends and family members. "Are you sure you're going to be OK?" some of them asked in concerned tones, exactly as they might have done had I announced I was intending on packing a bikini for a mini-break in downtown Afghanistan. But to be honest, I wasn't sure I was going to be OK. How was I going to cope without exclusive me-time? Like a diva I stated that I was going to need at least half an hour every day for the gym, or coffee and a quick read of my book, otherwise I knew I would be unbearable (forget kids' tantrums...mine are atomic).
So anyway, we came, we saw and we went back home again. And I survived - just about. But what of the whole 'Magic Kingdom'? Well, I shall detail some of the highlights of the experience below for your edification...
THE GOOD
- Spending precious time with my friend's children (who I really do love) and seeing how happy and excited they got every time they went on a ride, or saw a poor student on minimum wage dressed up in a sweaty Donald Duck costume in the 30-degree heat (sorry, I am a horrible cynic at times). Their pure excitement almost - almost - made up for 'The Bad' and 'The Ugly' sections to follow, but I simply wouldn't be me if I didn't include those, so there we go.
- The hidden little room at the bar in the posh Disneyland hotel that doesn't allow kids but does allow alcohol.
- Our hotel, which was actually lovely.
THE BAD
- The music. The bloody terrible music. In addition to the Disney songs piped through speakers everywhere you went, every day there was a parade along the 'Main Street' which featured all the aforementioned minimum-wage students in various Disney costumes. The accompanying music was God-awful; syrupy ballads that repeated on a continuous loop for over an hour. Though it did raise sort of a smile, listening to lyrics that went on and on about how it was "just like we dreeeeamed it...who knows just how far a dream can go" when at the time you're fighting crowds of E-number filled kids and their crazed parents just to get some air. Not many of my dreams feature large crowds of noisy people, but I suppose it's all horses for courses.
- Getting up at 6am every morning to 'beat the crowds' at the free-for-all Krypton Factor obstacle course that masqueraded as the breakfast buffet.
THE UGLY
- Most of the people. I didn't see one attractive person the entire time we were there; male or female (and yes, this included when I looked in the mirror!) Not an important observation, just a general one you can't help but make because places like that are bloody fantastic for people-watching.
- My (slightly xenophobic?) observation that the only people who ever said sorry if they got in your way or accidentally ran over your feet with their pushchairs were British. You could tell immediately who were Brits before they opened their mouths; not just because they queued, but because they expected to queue. More than that, they liked it. Nobody does queuing like we do. Observing the mainly Brit-formed queue for Buzz Lightyear's Lazer Blast made me feel proud, followed by crushing disappointment that I had even noticed things like that which surely puts me directly on the slippery slope that leads to "becoming just like my Nan".
Reading these back, I have to admit they concur beautifully with the attitude of someone who "doesn't really do Disney". But actually on the whole I had a lovely time, mainly because I was with people I genuinely enjoy spending time with and the trip was full of belly laughs, especially when we all went to Cafe Mickey (the place for meeting all the characters, darling) and we were lumbered with the grumpiest waiter on the planet. So what if I wanted to cave the occasional person's head in with a life-size model of the Mad Hatter, because it's the effort that counts, right?
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Special Deliveries (or: "I remember when all this was just fields...")
I've always loved writing letters. Better still, I've always loved receiving letters (there are some obvious caveats here of course...HM Customs, I'm looking at you). When I was little I remember writing some thank-you letters for birthday presents and I asked my Dad when we were going to deliver them. When he said we didn't have to; someone else would deliver them as long as we just wrote the address on the front of the card with a stamp, I just couldn't believe it. A whole new world of communication had immediately opened up right before my little eyes!
My Dad was to regret giving me this information approximately...ooh, five seconds after mentioning it, as I started writing sheaves of cards and letters to send to various friends and family members. "Stamps do cost money, you know" he grumbled, but it was too late. And when the letters started coming back...well, let's just say I was a child who was very easily pleased. I sought penpals from all corners of the globe as I was growing up, and had over fifty of them in my teens. This is probably one of the many reasons why I had no 'normal' friends at the time, but hey.
These days, I like e-mail but I really miss the times when I used to actually write to people and they wrote back; even if that takes a bit of time. Last year I read novel du jour, David Nicholls' 'One Day', and whilst I thought it was one of the worst books I'd ever read, its Eighties setting and the fact that the novel was part-epistolary brought home the point that I do take for granted how quickly you can get a response from people these days. I was born a little bit too late to appreciate the agony of asking somebody out by letter and then waiting days, if not weeks, for their reply. Most of my letters focussed on what I'd done at the weekends and how to say "Oooh, this sandwich is very nice, thank you" in German (one of my penpals was learning Spanish while I was learning German and we'd 'teach' each-other the languages in our letters...told you I was a weird kid). What with texting and Facebook and Twitter and e-mail and the like, you can ask out whoever you want in whatever way you want, and they can get back to you in seconds. But I'm not sure I'm really convinced that's such a great thing...the whole process of communication comes across as disposable, and a lot less meaningful.
It's a bit like digital cameras; great for making everyone look good because you can remove red-eye and delete those horrible ones where you're gurning drunkenly into the camera with lank hair and a double chin (not that I ever did any of that, of course). But I miss taking my camera film into Boots and then having to wait before I could see my pictures, even if I was disappointed with how I looked in them (read: every single time!). Even when the man behind the photo desk always picked the most embarrassing photo of you to go in the transparent bit on the front of the pack, so you could identify your pics. Even then.
I'm aware that this post sounds a lot like an episode of 'Grumpy Old Women', so here I shall stop, before I start offering all my readers a free bag of Werther's Originals. I'm just saying, that's all.
My Dad was to regret giving me this information approximately...ooh, five seconds after mentioning it, as I started writing sheaves of cards and letters to send to various friends and family members. "Stamps do cost money, you know" he grumbled, but it was too late. And when the letters started coming back...well, let's just say I was a child who was very easily pleased. I sought penpals from all corners of the globe as I was growing up, and had over fifty of them in my teens. This is probably one of the many reasons why I had no 'normal' friends at the time, but hey.
These days, I like e-mail but I really miss the times when I used to actually write to people and they wrote back; even if that takes a bit of time. Last year I read novel du jour, David Nicholls' 'One Day', and whilst I thought it was one of the worst books I'd ever read, its Eighties setting and the fact that the novel was part-epistolary brought home the point that I do take for granted how quickly you can get a response from people these days. I was born a little bit too late to appreciate the agony of asking somebody out by letter and then waiting days, if not weeks, for their reply. Most of my letters focussed on what I'd done at the weekends and how to say "Oooh, this sandwich is very nice, thank you" in German (one of my penpals was learning Spanish while I was learning German and we'd 'teach' each-other the languages in our letters...told you I was a weird kid). What with texting and Facebook and Twitter and e-mail and the like, you can ask out whoever you want in whatever way you want, and they can get back to you in seconds. But I'm not sure I'm really convinced that's such a great thing...the whole process of communication comes across as disposable, and a lot less meaningful.
It's a bit like digital cameras; great for making everyone look good because you can remove red-eye and delete those horrible ones where you're gurning drunkenly into the camera with lank hair and a double chin (not that I ever did any of that, of course). But I miss taking my camera film into Boots and then having to wait before I could see my pictures, even if I was disappointed with how I looked in them (read: every single time!). Even when the man behind the photo desk always picked the most embarrassing photo of you to go in the transparent bit on the front of the pack, so you could identify your pics. Even then.
I'm aware that this post sounds a lot like an episode of 'Grumpy Old Women', so here I shall stop, before I start offering all my readers a free bag of Werther's Originals. I'm just saying, that's all.
Thursday, 12 May 2011
Books vs film adaptations?
I read an article this morning about 'A Clockwork Orange' and whether or not the film still had the power to shock, after its ban was lifted (and in the advent of a Blu-ray version about to be released).
I've never watched the film version of 'A Clockwork Orange', but I did read the book aged about fourteen, and it haunted me for months afterwards (though it's only recently, since learning Russian, that I finally got an understanding of the "unique" slang used throughout the story!) Like I say, I haven't seen the film, but I have no idea how anyone could possibly have made that story into a film in the first place, or how they could possibly have made the imagery as strong as it was in my head in the first place. The ban of the film made no sense to me; the story, in all its arguably more gruesome form, was still readily available to anyone who wanted it, just not on the screen.
I'm annoyingly precious about books I've read being turned into films, and I would never, ever recommend going to the cinema with me if it's a film that's been made from a book I've read. It makes no difference whether or not I actually enjoyed the book. Even the film adaptation of John Grisham's 'The Chamber', which is the only John Grisham book I've ever read because I thought it was utter pap, annoyed me because Chris O'Donnell didn't look anything like the main character did in my head. I refused to even watch 'The Beach' because I felt Leonardo diCaprio was such a bad choice to play Richard (also because I've always found Leonardo diCaprio bloody irritating anyway, for some unknown and unfair reason).
It's fine if I've seen the film before reading the book; step forward 'Gone With the Wind', for example. But if I've read the book first then I've already formed a relationship with the characters; I already know exactly what they look like and I understand their stories and how they relate to one another, and I've never seen that relationship properly replicated on screen (God, don't I sound like a pretentious cow? But it's true!)
Maybe it's because characters have always mattered to me more than plot or story. I myself am rubbish at writing stories with explosive or intricate plots, but I like to think I can create a good character or two. I can also take a lot more death, gore and horror if I'm reading about it rather than watching it. Sarah Waters' 'The Little Stranger' is a good example of this; if it had been a film I know I'd have been too scared to finish watching it. Luckily though, I was actually sitting on the tube in the middle of the Central Line when I got to the scariest part of the book, so I read on with confidence that I was safe (that didn't stop me from later worrying about looking in my bathroom mirror without it jumping across the room and smashing itself in the corner, but I dealt with that in my own way!)
The worst film adaptation of a book I've read? Easy - it's actually a TV adaptation of Christopher Brookmyre's 'Quite Ugly One Morning', which I thought was rubbish from start to finish, mainly because the TV company had taken liberties with the original plot and for some reason James Nesbitt had been chosen to play thin, wiry, sandy-haired Scotsman Jack Parlabane.
"This is really rubbish!" I spluttered at the screen, while my husband, free from all the constraining expectations of the book, mentioned that he was quite enjoying it.
For future peace of mind, maybe I should just stop reading and rent 'A Clockwork Orange' on Blu-ray.
I've never watched the film version of 'A Clockwork Orange', but I did read the book aged about fourteen, and it haunted me for months afterwards (though it's only recently, since learning Russian, that I finally got an understanding of the "unique" slang used throughout the story!) Like I say, I haven't seen the film, but I have no idea how anyone could possibly have made that story into a film in the first place, or how they could possibly have made the imagery as strong as it was in my head in the first place. The ban of the film made no sense to me; the story, in all its arguably more gruesome form, was still readily available to anyone who wanted it, just not on the screen.
I'm annoyingly precious about books I've read being turned into films, and I would never, ever recommend going to the cinema with me if it's a film that's been made from a book I've read. It makes no difference whether or not I actually enjoyed the book. Even the film adaptation of John Grisham's 'The Chamber', which is the only John Grisham book I've ever read because I thought it was utter pap, annoyed me because Chris O'Donnell didn't look anything like the main character did in my head. I refused to even watch 'The Beach' because I felt Leonardo diCaprio was such a bad choice to play Richard (also because I've always found Leonardo diCaprio bloody irritating anyway, for some unknown and unfair reason).
It's fine if I've seen the film before reading the book; step forward 'Gone With the Wind', for example. But if I've read the book first then I've already formed a relationship with the characters; I already know exactly what they look like and I understand their stories and how they relate to one another, and I've never seen that relationship properly replicated on screen (God, don't I sound like a pretentious cow? But it's true!)
Maybe it's because characters have always mattered to me more than plot or story. I myself am rubbish at writing stories with explosive or intricate plots, but I like to think I can create a good character or two. I can also take a lot more death, gore and horror if I'm reading about it rather than watching it. Sarah Waters' 'The Little Stranger' is a good example of this; if it had been a film I know I'd have been too scared to finish watching it. Luckily though, I was actually sitting on the tube in the middle of the Central Line when I got to the scariest part of the book, so I read on with confidence that I was safe (that didn't stop me from later worrying about looking in my bathroom mirror without it jumping across the room and smashing itself in the corner, but I dealt with that in my own way!)
The worst film adaptation of a book I've read? Easy - it's actually a TV adaptation of Christopher Brookmyre's 'Quite Ugly One Morning', which I thought was rubbish from start to finish, mainly because the TV company had taken liberties with the original plot and for some reason James Nesbitt had been chosen to play thin, wiry, sandy-haired Scotsman Jack Parlabane.
"This is really rubbish!" I spluttered at the screen, while my husband, free from all the constraining expectations of the book, mentioned that he was quite enjoying it.
For future peace of mind, maybe I should just stop reading and rent 'A Clockwork Orange' on Blu-ray.
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
Right then, so which of the new Apprentices looks like a 'Just For Men'-ned Piers Morgan as reflected in the back of a spoon?
I love The Apprentice. But strictly as an entertainment programme; there's no way you could watch it for good advice on running a business, or getting into business. In fact the programme invents new rules for being 'business-like' that make it seem as though it's in an alternative, Doctor Who-style dimension populated by large-mouthed aliens in badly fitting pinstripe. I've worked for a few companies in my time (though admittedly not at the top) and nowhere has it ever been accepted that saying "I'm cold and hard! I don't eat or sleep or have any kind of social life. I just work!" or my favourite one of this series so far "Don't tell me the sky's the limit when there are footprints on the moon!" (!!) are actually Good Things To Say To Make You Come Across Well In Business Or Life In General.
But then, the person they have to impress is business velociraptor Alan 'Lord' Sugar, who recently advised people "not to hire women of childbearing age because you never know if they'll go off on maternity leave". Charming. Even though these women probably had a lucky escape because Amstrad haven't made anything good since...erm...well, we'll leave that one for now. Lord Sugar has gone on to become one of those people on the telly who tells us what they think about everything without actually being very relevant any more. He's even had an eye-job and lost a bit of weight, bless him. I'm convinced we're going to see him judging next year's 'Britain's Got Talent'. Or performing on it.
As a recruitment professional of sorts, the semantics of The Apprentice really do make me cringe. I'm sure it's been responsible for the increasing number of people I've interviewed for reception-level jobs who stride bolshily into the room announcing that they're going to be Managing Director in roughly five seconds' time. If you're going for a job interview, just be vaguely likeable and show you can do the job without pissing anyone off. That's really all you need to do, but then I suppose that doesn't make very good telly.
Another thing I like to do when I'm watching 'The Apprentice', just like when I have to go to boring business networking meetings, is try to determine which famous people everyone looks like. So far nothing has yet topped a meeting I went to in which I identified three exceptional lookalikes: Matt Lucas, Phil Tufnell and a natty combination of Will Young and Kevin Spacey. But there are some potentials in this crop of Apprentices. "Michael Sheen! That one looks like Michael Sheen, if he was starring in a Mr. Muscle advert" I said excitedly to my husband while we were watching last night's episode. He didn't look impressed with my observational skills, so I kept the rest of them to myself: Piers Morgan 20 years younger with a full head of 'Just For Men', an orange Mackenzie Crook, a rough-skinned cross between Pat Butcher and Jo from S Club 7 and an Irish Jimmy Nail with an exceptionally small mouth.
Great business-related fun.
But then, the person they have to impress is business velociraptor Alan 'Lord' Sugar, who recently advised people "not to hire women of childbearing age because you never know if they'll go off on maternity leave". Charming. Even though these women probably had a lucky escape because Amstrad haven't made anything good since...erm...well, we'll leave that one for now. Lord Sugar has gone on to become one of those people on the telly who tells us what they think about everything without actually being very relevant any more. He's even had an eye-job and lost a bit of weight, bless him. I'm convinced we're going to see him judging next year's 'Britain's Got Talent'. Or performing on it.
As a recruitment professional of sorts, the semantics of The Apprentice really do make me cringe. I'm sure it's been responsible for the increasing number of people I've interviewed for reception-level jobs who stride bolshily into the room announcing that they're going to be Managing Director in roughly five seconds' time. If you're going for a job interview, just be vaguely likeable and show you can do the job without pissing anyone off. That's really all you need to do, but then I suppose that doesn't make very good telly.
Another thing I like to do when I'm watching 'The Apprentice', just like when I have to go to boring business networking meetings, is try to determine which famous people everyone looks like. So far nothing has yet topped a meeting I went to in which I identified three exceptional lookalikes: Matt Lucas, Phil Tufnell and a natty combination of Will Young and Kevin Spacey. But there are some potentials in this crop of Apprentices. "Michael Sheen! That one looks like Michael Sheen, if he was starring in a Mr. Muscle advert" I said excitedly to my husband while we were watching last night's episode. He didn't look impressed with my observational skills, so I kept the rest of them to myself: Piers Morgan 20 years younger with a full head of 'Just For Men', an orange Mackenzie Crook, a rough-skinned cross between Pat Butcher and Jo from S Club 7 and an Irish Jimmy Nail with an exceptionally small mouth.
Great business-related fun.
Sunday, 8 May 2011
Identity artefacts
I tried to wean myself off coffee this week. I do this periodically, usually at the point where I'm drinking about six mugs a day, having gradually built up from the last time I stopped drinking it, then resolving to just have one mug a day, and so on and so forth.
But the thing about my relationship with coffee is that I almost feel as though it defines me. That's a strange thing to say about a drink I know, but I suppose I should be grateful that I don't feel that way about something like Scrumpy Jack's. I'm just not the same person when all I drink is water and tea. Because tea, for me, is the equivalent of a lovely warm hug and should really only be drunk in times of peril or illness. It doesn't feel right, drinking it when I'm well. No - coffee is my drink, black and sugarless. Just like me. Or not.
The coffee episode made me think, rather self-indulgently, about what other things define me, so I've included a nice little list of five below. Feel free to do the same with five things that define you, if you like. It's the perfect selfish Sunday afternoon activity (that, and finishing an almost entire tub of Haagen-Dazs Limited Edition White Chocolate and Raspberry ice cream on your own).
1. My name
Rather obvious, this one. But I didn't quite realise the enormity of it until I got married and I changed my name. My married name didn't feel like it referred to me any more, and as such I only really use it for business. As much as I love being married, the only name I really identify with is my birth name. In the unlikely event of me ever getting a book published, it'll be published in my name. Partly for me, and partly for my Dad, who with three married daughters doesn't really have any way for our family name to be carried on.
2. Taking very British books on holiday so I don't get too homesick
Bit weird, this one, but if I go abroad, and especially by plane, I must always have a very British book with me or I feel a bit lost, for some unknown reason. I think it originated when I went on a holiday one year to Las Vegas over Christmas, falling extremely ill while I was there and being holed up in my hotel room for most of the trip. The only things that saved me (especially on Christmas Day when I was probably more homesick than I can ever remember) were copious amounts of English tea (told you it was an "ill" drink) and a copy of Andrew Collins' 'Where Did It All Go Right?' Now a foreign holiday isn't really a foreign holiday unless I'm carrying a book by David Nobbs, Stuart Maconie, Andrew Collins or Karl Pilkington, all marvellous bastions of Britishness.
3. Writing
Pretentious, probably, but I must write something every day, whether it's something like this blog, a private diary or one of my rubbishy stories or novels.
4. Cheese
See: 'Coffee'. I'm fussy about a lot of things, but not cheese. I'll eat any cheese of any description, and that's it. I'm that annoying person in restaurants who orders the stinkiest, strongest cheese that makes the entire room smell and puts everyone else off their dinners.
5. Jason Mraz's 'No Stopping Us'
There's something about this song; it came up as the answer to a rubbishy quiz I did once called "What Jason Mraz Song Are You?" (I know, but I was bored). But I was pleased; it's a lovely summery song and I feel an affinity with it. So there.
So there you go...and I'm sure after I've posted this I'll think of at least another ten defining things that a) are a lot more interesting than these, and b) don't make me sound like a mental patient. I'll let you know.
But the thing about my relationship with coffee is that I almost feel as though it defines me. That's a strange thing to say about a drink I know, but I suppose I should be grateful that I don't feel that way about something like Scrumpy Jack's. I'm just not the same person when all I drink is water and tea. Because tea, for me, is the equivalent of a lovely warm hug and should really only be drunk in times of peril or illness. It doesn't feel right, drinking it when I'm well. No - coffee is my drink, black and sugarless. Just like me. Or not.
The coffee episode made me think, rather self-indulgently, about what other things define me, so I've included a nice little list of five below. Feel free to do the same with five things that define you, if you like. It's the perfect selfish Sunday afternoon activity (that, and finishing an almost entire tub of Haagen-Dazs Limited Edition White Chocolate and Raspberry ice cream on your own).
1. My name
Rather obvious, this one. But I didn't quite realise the enormity of it until I got married and I changed my name. My married name didn't feel like it referred to me any more, and as such I only really use it for business. As much as I love being married, the only name I really identify with is my birth name. In the unlikely event of me ever getting a book published, it'll be published in my name. Partly for me, and partly for my Dad, who with three married daughters doesn't really have any way for our family name to be carried on.
2. Taking very British books on holiday so I don't get too homesick
Bit weird, this one, but if I go abroad, and especially by plane, I must always have a very British book with me or I feel a bit lost, for some unknown reason. I think it originated when I went on a holiday one year to Las Vegas over Christmas, falling extremely ill while I was there and being holed up in my hotel room for most of the trip. The only things that saved me (especially on Christmas Day when I was probably more homesick than I can ever remember) were copious amounts of English tea (told you it was an "ill" drink) and a copy of Andrew Collins' 'Where Did It All Go Right?' Now a foreign holiday isn't really a foreign holiday unless I'm carrying a book by David Nobbs, Stuart Maconie, Andrew Collins or Karl Pilkington, all marvellous bastions of Britishness.
3. Writing
Pretentious, probably, but I must write something every day, whether it's something like this blog, a private diary or one of my rubbishy stories or novels.
4. Cheese
See: 'Coffee'. I'm fussy about a lot of things, but not cheese. I'll eat any cheese of any description, and that's it. I'm that annoying person in restaurants who orders the stinkiest, strongest cheese that makes the entire room smell and puts everyone else off their dinners.
5. Jason Mraz's 'No Stopping Us'
There's something about this song; it came up as the answer to a rubbishy quiz I did once called "What Jason Mraz Song Are You?" (I know, but I was bored). But I was pleased; it's a lovely summery song and I feel an affinity with it. So there.
So there you go...and I'm sure after I've posted this I'll think of at least another ten defining things that a) are a lot more interesting than these, and b) don't make me sound like a mental patient. I'll let you know.
Saturday, 7 May 2011
Too much information!
I suppose you could say I'm OK at navigating the internet, but not brilliant. I know how to do all the basics, like typing and clicking on links. I'm great at that bit, actually. But it's taken me all of seven months to notice that this blog thingy has a 'Stats' section, which shows me how many 'page views' I've had for each of my posts (by the way, please don't worry if you're reading this and you don't want me to know you're reading this for whatever reason...you're safe; it doesn't tell me WHO you are...it doesn't show me a rosy picture of you sitting in front of your PC in stained tracksuit bottoms, a bowl of cheesy Wotsits at your side...and if that was accurate it was purely coincidental, of course).
I wish I hadn't found this 'Stats' page. Because now I'll be looking at it every day, frantically checking to see if my rivetingly witty posts have reached a wider audience than I intended them to (i.e. more than one person, that person being me). I suppose it's the same kind of hunger people sometimes get when they log into Facebook and there's this teasing little post on a friend's profile, stating "I found out who's been viewing my profile! Just click here and see who's been following you!"
But the problem with these Facebook "profile checkers" (which I must admit I've never tried to use, so I've no idea if they even work) and the 'Stats' page on this blog is that they'll only ever give you part of the story, then they just leave you feeling a bit empty. OK, so you might find out that someone you like has viewed your profile 1,000 times in the past month. But all that fact really does is make you wonder why; did their computer contract some sort of virus that kept involuntarily clicking on your wonderful and beautiful and witty profile; did they do it because they think you're wonderful and beautiful and witty, or do they in fact just have a morbid fascination with how rubbish you are. Like when I sometimes seek out articles by the worst journalists in the Daily Mail because I can't quite understand why anybody takes them seriously.
It's the same with my 'Stats' page. It might be all wizzy and lovely and informative...except it isn't, because it's not telling me what I really want to know, which is if people ARE reading this, are they enjoying it, or do they think it's terrible but they still just can't keep away? Is it the same person reading this blog and clicking on it numerous times just to try and wind me up, or is it different people; people clicking on it by accident and then reading the first few lines and thinking...."nah"
See what I mean? It's like when 1471 first came in...everyone thought "Great, now I'll know who's been calling me", but then it became more of a hindrance when they tried it and they wondered why Adrian called them five times on Tuesday and didn't leave a message; and whereabouts is the area code 08761 and who do they know that lives there and why didn't they leave a message either, and why do some people block their numbers before they call, it's so bloody infuriating, and what have they got to hide anyway?
(I have never thought any of this myself, by the way. They were just a few examples of how the fact you can never really know what's in someone's mind when they click on a blog, or a Facebook profile, or call without leaving a message can be a bit annoying, that was all).
I wish I hadn't found this 'Stats' page. Because now I'll be looking at it every day, frantically checking to see if my rivetingly witty posts have reached a wider audience than I intended them to (i.e. more than one person, that person being me). I suppose it's the same kind of hunger people sometimes get when they log into Facebook and there's this teasing little post on a friend's profile, stating "I found out who's been viewing my profile! Just click here and see who's been following you!"
But the problem with these Facebook "profile checkers" (which I must admit I've never tried to use, so I've no idea if they even work) and the 'Stats' page on this blog is that they'll only ever give you part of the story, then they just leave you feeling a bit empty. OK, so you might find out that someone you like has viewed your profile 1,000 times in the past month. But all that fact really does is make you wonder why; did their computer contract some sort of virus that kept involuntarily clicking on your wonderful and beautiful and witty profile; did they do it because they think you're wonderful and beautiful and witty, or do they in fact just have a morbid fascination with how rubbish you are. Like when I sometimes seek out articles by the worst journalists in the Daily Mail because I can't quite understand why anybody takes them seriously.
It's the same with my 'Stats' page. It might be all wizzy and lovely and informative...except it isn't, because it's not telling me what I really want to know, which is if people ARE reading this, are they enjoying it, or do they think it's terrible but they still just can't keep away? Is it the same person reading this blog and clicking on it numerous times just to try and wind me up, or is it different people; people clicking on it by accident and then reading the first few lines and thinking...."nah"
See what I mean? It's like when 1471 first came in...everyone thought "Great, now I'll know who's been calling me", but then it became more of a hindrance when they tried it and they wondered why Adrian called them five times on Tuesday and didn't leave a message; and whereabouts is the area code 08761 and who do they know that lives there and why didn't they leave a message either, and why do some people block their numbers before they call, it's so bloody infuriating, and what have they got to hide anyway?
(I have never thought any of this myself, by the way. They were just a few examples of how the fact you can never really know what's in someone's mind when they click on a blog, or a Facebook profile, or call without leaving a message can be a bit annoying, that was all).
Friday, 6 May 2011
Technology Saves
I used to love getting the train. Hard as it is to believe, because I'm aware I come across as a sprightly young thing, but when I first started regular rail travel not all that many people had mobile phones, and even if they did they hardly used them. Nobody had personal music players, or if they did they played them extremely quietly. Most people just read books or newspapers on the train, or they'd sit with their heads back and their mouths open as they snored softly away, or they'd stare out of the windows with blank looks on their faces and you could just sit and watch people and wonder what it was they might be thinking about, coming up with all kinds of mad scenarios for them to be journeying to. Or was that just me?
Yeah, yeah. I'm doing that "old person" thing where I make something that's always probably been a bit crap sound idyllic...a bit like my Nan when she says the time of bombs and rationing was the best in her life. But I'm sure train journeys were less irritating ten-odd years ago. Yesterday I was coming home from Oxford, and as it was the middle of the day I was looking forward to a stress-free train journey back home, out of rush hour. I had a book with me; I was looking forward to reading it in peace. Surely at 2:10pm or thereabouts, the train wouldn't be that busy?
And so it wasn't - but the people on the train must have been the noisiest bunch I've ever travelled with. Two men in suits got on and sat in the seats in front of me, going on about share prices in extra-loud braying voices. Then a student got on (or at least she looked like a student) with her iPod on full blast, so loud that I could hear the Lady Gaga album she was listening to as though I'd just put it on myself as background music. Then a skinny man in jeans low-slung enough to hardly warrant wearing them in the first place shuffled on, shouting menacingly into his mobile phone "I'm not 'aving any of that, innit? I want it there by the time I get back, you got that? Just make sure it's there, or I'll go fucking apeshit" before moving on to making a call to his Mum about a wedding he was going to at the weekend. (Yes, you'll be pleased to hear he'd toned down his voice for the second call).
I envy people who can sleep through any amount of noise and can just switch off from anything going on around them. I am not one of these people. A hair drifts to the floor at night and I'll sit bolt upright in bed, hair like Emmett Brown from Back to the Future, wondering what horrors are about to happen. And if people are talking around me, or there's a dim second-heard piece of music playing through someone else's headphones, no matter how interesting it is I'll abandon everything I'm doing or thinking and listen to them instead. It's so annoying. And it's too much. One of the reasons I don't have things like iPhones or iPads or that kind of stuff is because I'm so easily distracted that I'd just never get anything done, ever (also because I slightly regard people who own all these things as a little bit poncey. Especially if I don't know them. Sorry...can't help it).
One of the reasons I was in Oxford in the first place was to see a stand-up comedy show with a friend, which was quite good, even if most of the jokes seemed to have been taken from Jerry Seinfeld's Nineties' stand-up routines. But one of the statements stuck with me. "We don't need God any more, because it's technology that's always watching; always with us" This then went on into a vaguely amusing ramble about people with iPhones that I won't repeat here because I can only remember about half of it and it won't be half as half-funny as I found it when I heard it).
A favourite book of mine when I was eleven years old was 'Letters to Growing Pains'. Growing Pains was a little section in a Saturday morning kids' TV show called 'Going Live!', which in those days everybody watched because the only other choices on offer were the news or an Open University programme about maths. Anyway, the Growing Pains section was presented by a kind looking man who read out the letters kids wrote in to him about problems with bullying at school, or bad breath, or wonky eyes, or all three, and he'd give them kind, honest and matter-of-fact solutions. And I loved the book, because it continued that gentle theme of people around my age presenting problems that could be solved with a bit of simple kindness and common-sense thought. It was a lovely, reassuring sort of book.
Recently I found my original copy of that Growing Pains book and read through it for old times' sake. I sat there wondering if Nigel from Wythenshawe ever did find a girlfriend after being cruelly dumped in a disco at 13, or if Michelle from Leicester's spots ever cleared up. But mainly I felt a bit wistful, because a book like that couldn't exist now. Now, if a kid had a B.O. problem they'd probably just look up a solution on the internet and get a myriad of dubious, faceless suggestions. An issue as formerly simple as playground bullying can't be sorted out in a kindly sentence any more, because with the advent of technology it's all become a lot nastier and more complicated, with the bullies 'following' their victim on social networking sites and the like.
So yes, technology is always watching, and just like God, it claims to have all the answers and inevitably some people will use it as a force for good or evil. And there's no real answer to that, is there...except, if you get on a train with your iPod blaring out, and there's a blonde person with glasses on reading a book next to you...just please TURN THE BLOODY THING DOWN A BIT! OK?
Yeah, yeah. I'm doing that "old person" thing where I make something that's always probably been a bit crap sound idyllic...a bit like my Nan when she says the time of bombs and rationing was the best in her life. But I'm sure train journeys were less irritating ten-odd years ago. Yesterday I was coming home from Oxford, and as it was the middle of the day I was looking forward to a stress-free train journey back home, out of rush hour. I had a book with me; I was looking forward to reading it in peace. Surely at 2:10pm or thereabouts, the train wouldn't be that busy?
And so it wasn't - but the people on the train must have been the noisiest bunch I've ever travelled with. Two men in suits got on and sat in the seats in front of me, going on about share prices in extra-loud braying voices. Then a student got on (or at least she looked like a student) with her iPod on full blast, so loud that I could hear the Lady Gaga album she was listening to as though I'd just put it on myself as background music. Then a skinny man in jeans low-slung enough to hardly warrant wearing them in the first place shuffled on, shouting menacingly into his mobile phone "I'm not 'aving any of that, innit? I want it there by the time I get back, you got that? Just make sure it's there, or I'll go fucking apeshit" before moving on to making a call to his Mum about a wedding he was going to at the weekend. (Yes, you'll be pleased to hear he'd toned down his voice for the second call).
I envy people who can sleep through any amount of noise and can just switch off from anything going on around them. I am not one of these people. A hair drifts to the floor at night and I'll sit bolt upright in bed, hair like Emmett Brown from Back to the Future, wondering what horrors are about to happen. And if people are talking around me, or there's a dim second-heard piece of music playing through someone else's headphones, no matter how interesting it is I'll abandon everything I'm doing or thinking and listen to them instead. It's so annoying. And it's too much. One of the reasons I don't have things like iPhones or iPads or that kind of stuff is because I'm so easily distracted that I'd just never get anything done, ever (also because I slightly regard people who own all these things as a little bit poncey. Especially if I don't know them. Sorry...can't help it).
One of the reasons I was in Oxford in the first place was to see a stand-up comedy show with a friend, which was quite good, even if most of the jokes seemed to have been taken from Jerry Seinfeld's Nineties' stand-up routines. But one of the statements stuck with me. "We don't need God any more, because it's technology that's always watching; always with us" This then went on into a vaguely amusing ramble about people with iPhones that I won't repeat here because I can only remember about half of it and it won't be half as half-funny as I found it when I heard it).
A favourite book of mine when I was eleven years old was 'Letters to Growing Pains'. Growing Pains was a little section in a Saturday morning kids' TV show called 'Going Live!', which in those days everybody watched because the only other choices on offer were the news or an Open University programme about maths. Anyway, the Growing Pains section was presented by a kind looking man who read out the letters kids wrote in to him about problems with bullying at school, or bad breath, or wonky eyes, or all three, and he'd give them kind, honest and matter-of-fact solutions. And I loved the book, because it continued that gentle theme of people around my age presenting problems that could be solved with a bit of simple kindness and common-sense thought. It was a lovely, reassuring sort of book.
Recently I found my original copy of that Growing Pains book and read through it for old times' sake. I sat there wondering if Nigel from Wythenshawe ever did find a girlfriend after being cruelly dumped in a disco at 13, or if Michelle from Leicester's spots ever cleared up. But mainly I felt a bit wistful, because a book like that couldn't exist now. Now, if a kid had a B.O. problem they'd probably just look up a solution on the internet and get a myriad of dubious, faceless suggestions. An issue as formerly simple as playground bullying can't be sorted out in a kindly sentence any more, because with the advent of technology it's all become a lot nastier and more complicated, with the bullies 'following' their victim on social networking sites and the like.
So yes, technology is always watching, and just like God, it claims to have all the answers and inevitably some people will use it as a force for good or evil. And there's no real answer to that, is there...except, if you get on a train with your iPod blaring out, and there's a blonde person with glasses on reading a book next to you...just please TURN THE BLOODY THING DOWN A BIT! OK?
Sunday, 1 May 2011
Random thoughts of the week
One of the themes of my next, as yet unwritten but so far temptingly researched (and no doubt unpublished and left drifting in the wisps of time) novel, will be the dawning realisation that there are some aspects of your personality that crystallise with time without you noticing - and by the time you do, it's far too late for you to do anything about them. You're just there, trapped in life with this basic self-blueprint that you realise can't ever really be changed, so you must choose to live with it or spend the rest of your life hating yourself for it.
This realisation first dawned on me when I was chatting to an elderly relative a few years ago. It surprised me how insecure she still was about certain things. You just don't think of older people as having fears or basic insecurities such as what people will think about the way you look; when I was younger I just thought older people had everything sorted, and that if I just sat tight and waited for life to take its course, then that would be me one day. I just assumed that things like my intense fear of flying, or the fact that I can never watch horror films without them somehow infiltrating my dreams for nights afterwards, would evaporate with age and I'd emerge from the swirling remnants of youth as a more confident and fearless version of myself. It never occurred to me that I'd just basically be me, but with added wrinkles and a dowager's hump. It's a bloody scary prospect.
Shall I move on to a bit less depressing 'random thought of the week' now? Right...
...I was chatting to a friend this week about people in the public eye who we thought would make good friends. But after much deliberation I was only really sure about the ones I wouldn't want to spend time with, which I narrowed down to a 'terror triumvirate' consisting of Liz Hurley, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Phil Tufnell. Ms. Hurley because I read an interview with her in which she just seemed desperately dull and recommended that "for a treat, count out six dried apricots and two dried almonds". Even assuming she meant for you to actually eat them after you'd counted them out, if you don't eat cheese or chocolate in copious amounts, you're no friend of mine (sorry, Liz).
Catherine Zeta-Jones just seems to me like she'd be a complete cow in real life. I don't really know why I think this, and I know it's probably very unfair (!) - but she just irritates me on a complete 'Alpha Girl' level. If we'd been at school together, she'd have bullied me. I just know it.
As for 'Tuffers', his Sun-inspired nickname alone makes me cringe. I get the impression he'd just be a total cricket-and-other-boring-sports-bore and you just know in twenty years' time he'll still be exactly the same, propping up the bar and commentating on the pub's darts league matches to men in stretched T-shirts barely covering hairy beer bellies. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing, you understand. It's just...well, it's just not my cup of tea for a nice evening out, really.
So there you go (!) For posterity, my friend picked Barbra Streisand (something about her that just seems a bit 'iffy') and Prince Charles because he never looks as though he really listens. It's a great game, and I heartily recommend it.
Another 'random thought' of the week; I went to the cinema today (to see 'Limitless' if you're interested, and no I wouldn't recommend it) and it seems the classification people have gone a bit mad in their descriptions of the films' 'naughty bits'. Before we had to rely on certificates, but now none of the gory details are spared. 'Contains strong bloody violence!' 'Contains mild peril and one use of strong language!' 'Contains mild slapstick and comic peril!' Basically they all sound like a hysterical mother gossiping over the garden fence about how the world's gone mad. But I'd love to have that job; it'd be great watching all the films with a little notebook, tutting and shaking my head as I counted up how many "uses of strong language" occurred. Perhaps it's something useful I could have done when I was working as a cinema usherette at the age of eighteen, decked out in a uniform three sizes too big and forced to watch four daily showings of 'Judge Dredd' and 'Power Rangers - The Movie' in the dark whilst simultaneously checking that nobody had their feet on the seats.
Ahem. Like I say, just a few 'random thoughts of the week'. More to follow shortly.
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