There’s a hole in my electricity meter, dear Liza, dear Liza
On the first day of the new decade, I spent the evening wrapped in a blanket drinking lukewarm tea by candlelight. Fun though that sounds, it was a necessary step to stop the house burning down from a fire caused by an aging electricity meter that would overheat if asked to deliver more than the most basic amounts of electricity to our home - lights, heating, cooker, washing machine, reality TV, toaster, kettle… that type of thing.
Normally, this would be a fairly easy issue to solve. In the warming glow of hindsight I can tell you that the flickering lightbulbs, the hot-to-the-touch meter and the burning plastic smell under the stairs were all caused by a single loose cable gradually melting away and, theoretically, fixable in half an hour. The job involves unscrewing the meter housing, replacing the burnt cable with a fresh one, and screwing it all back up again. However - and here’s where it gets complicated - the mains fuse needs to be removed first.
If only we'd had some tasteful candle holders like these
We rent from a private leaseholder who bought the house from Camden Council many years ago. Camden still own the estate and are responsible for some of the shared amenities but, most of the repair jobs are left to the landlord (i.e. we end up doing it). Camden have created a kind of ‘us and them’ scenario in which we get discriminated against because ‘they’ can’t be arsed to help ‘us’. At least I think that’s their reasoning.
So it’s New Year’s Day, due to be followed by the weekend leading into the first day back at work after Christmas - naturally we’re keen to get things up and running, but very few people are actually at work and able to help. Following a recorded message from our (new) power company, we speak to someone at the local electricity board who tells us to turn off the electricity and wait for things to cool down. If things don’t cool down, we’re to call the fire brigade. We’re now classing this as an emergency.
The electricity board send round Electrician #1, who arrives and establishes what the problem is. He also tells us that he can’t do the job because he can’t get to the mains fuse and isn’t authorised to carry out repairs. It turns out the electricity meter belongs to the power company; the loose cable belongs to the landlord; and the mains fuse belongs to Camden. Camden also own the padlock that stops any of us getting into the basement where the mains fuse is held. Electrician #1 leaves, telling us to contact Camden to open up the lock, and then hire a private electrician.
With the power still off, we tentatively book Electrician #2 for tomorrow and get some sleep.
Here's what you could have won
Tomorrow comes. Despite some unpleasant dealings with Camden in the past, I put my faith in what they call the ‘Emergency Repairs’ team, which turns out to be a call centre filled with people who spend their working days inventing new ways to say ‘It’s not my fucking problem, sir’. My phone is now rapidly running out of battery and I’ve a nagging fear that if I try to charge it, I’ll cause the Great Fire of London II. After an unpleasant conversation with a fool, I get bumped onto the supervisor who tells me that Camden’s electrician can access the mains fuse but can’t be authorised to do what they are forced to classify as a private job. They will not send him to us for any amount of money or pleading.
After efficiently establishing that it’s not their fucking problem, I ask them as kindly as my fuming head will allow, to come and at least open the padlock so that the private electrician we’re expecting can come round and do his job without dying. They tell me they’ll send the local caretaker round to open the padlock as soon as we have an electrician on site. He’s 5-6 minutes away, and ready to leap up and save us. Hooray.
Electrician #2 turns up and we call to book the caretaker who is, of course, not 5-6 mintutes away. In fact, they don’t know where he is. We entertain Electrician#2 at a very reasonable £150 per hour and wait for Camden to send someone else around, who we are assured is a mere 30 minutes away. This turns into an hour and, as the winter sun sets, Electrician#2 glances once more at his iPhone, makes his final apologies and leaves to do another job in another part of town. He’s kind enough not to charge us for drinking our lukewarm tea, but we are left without a skilled worker.
I phone Camden and tell them what’s happened. They ‘apologise’ and assure me that they’ll open the padlock tomorrow as long as I give them at least 30 minutes notice. Slightly more honest but it does mean another night by candle light. We venture to turn the power back on long enough to charge our phones and heat some food up. The house doesn’t burn down but the meter gets hot, so we go back to candles.
On day three, we go through a very similar process. Electrician #3 can’t get hold of the right type of cable to do the repair (I can picture the guy but am struggling to fit him into the chronology - I think the power board sent him in response to our frustration at Camden) so we send him away. Electrician #4 looks like Bubbles from The Wire and we manage to keep him talking long enough for Camden’s guy to arrive with the key.
He can't help us either
Bubbles is so keen to leave that I’ve practically got him in a headlock as I push out to find Camden’s guy. Camden’s guy is a welder. He has absolutely no idea why he’s here. He doesn’t know that electricity is involved, he doesn’t have the key, and he doesn’t even know where the door is that needs to be opened. Bubbles shrugs and leaves. We’re still at square one. I feel like I’m in a surreal nightmare where consequences no longer follow actions and problems never get solved.
Camden’s welder goes to get reinforcements while we book Electrician #5. Electrician #5 is the most helpful so far but it’s still a struggle to get him to coincide with the welder. He too leaves us, just in time for Camden’s van to arrive, out from which pours a value version of the A-Team: Bob the welder, a carpenter, Electrician #6 (whom Camden will not authorise to fix the loose wire) and an all rounder with a crowbar. This motley crew find their way into the basement, where they spend the dwindling daylight hours trying to figure out which fuse to pull out. Electrician #5 comes back and twiddles his thumbs at another reasonable hourly rate, waiting for them to figure out. Together they come through and pull the fuse. The job itself takes 20 minutes, and costs £90.
Why send one guy when you can send four?
Camden’s electrician has to come back and replace the fuse. He tells me he could have done the whole job on day one for £60 and yet, for some reason, Camden’s pointless bureacracy left us stranded in a David Lynch-directed episode of a Franz Kafka sitcom for three cold days. I have no sympathy for the petty official.
I don’t think anyone at Camden specifically wanted to hinder us - I don’t think any of the idiocy or false promises were calculated or malicious. I just think councils as a rule are victims of their own red tape. After one phone call, they could have sent an electrician round to do an urgent repair job in less than an hour. Instead what happened is that a bunch of civil servants sat around with their thumbs up their arses trying to figure out which box to tick while a series of skilled workers popped round for cold tea and frustration. Thanks, Camden. Happy New Year.
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Can’t exercise won’t exercise - the saga of a great toe
I can’t exercise for shit. And I don’t mean that I don’t know how to do it, because I do. Running, press-ups, sit-ups, all that nonsense - It’s all in there, academically, and I’ve even tried it out on occasion, but there’s one really inconvenient obstacle that stops me from doing it regularly - I don’t seem to want to. I’ve tried really hard to want to, but I simply do not. Want to, I mean. I think it’s genetic.
Back in January, I did the classic January thing. I’d pulled a supplement out of a paper that outlined a (free!) fitness and strength building programme (from the British Army no less) that promised to walk me through a realistic schedule of running, press-ups, sit-ups, and a few other ups that I’d rather not go into. I decided then and there that I would follow it to the letter - three days a week: running and upper body stuff on Mondays, just running on Wednesdays, and just upper body stuff on Fridays. I wouldn’t need to buy any equipment at all, just start.
This is what I see when I make it to the top of the hill
I live within trotting distance of Hampstead Heath so getting into the running part was easy and I was happy enough to do the ‘ups’ stuff at home, behind closed doors where nobody could see my impassioned, straining face. After a few weeks, to my utter surprise, I even started to enjoy it. I began to believe I was actually getting fitter and stronger.
Now at this point, I start to become wary of myself. I have a long history of hating exercise. There’s a big part of me that’s self destructive, cynical, and lazy. That part of me hates people who try to encourage me to exercise, because exercise is stupid. You can imagine my consternation when it’s me trying to get me to exercise. My own inner motivational speaker was soon shot down by a cutting remark from my own inner heckler.
After all, it seems pretty pointless to run for half an hour just to get back to where I started (incidentally, if you are someone who runs on a treadmill, there is something wrong with you). Here’s where I start to relate to healthy people, however, because the inner motivational speaker (let’s call him Arnie) is strong. Stronger than the inner heckler (let’s call him Todd). If it comes to an arm-wrestle, Arnie wins hands down, and even Todd’s cuttingest remarks are pretty weak against such a studly and buff Austrian lunatic with a big gun. If he can get away with “Let off some steam”, after killing someone with a steam pipe, there’s really no outwitting him.
"No! You are the one who is not correct! Bwa ha ha!"
Todd (or me, Jimi, for those of you not keeping up), had to resort to more cowardly tactics. He broke Arnie’s toe (my toe). At least that’s what I assumed at the time. I remember the date because I’d just come home from a gig at The Bull & Gate in Kentish Town, where I’d been upstaged by a younger, cooler band. It was April 16 (or Black Thursday). About a week prior to that, I had stubbed my toe on the runner for the sliding door. It hurt quite a lot. On April 16, I committed the exact same injury, only much harder. It hurt more than anything I can ever remember. In the immediate aftermath, I invented several swearwords and tried to tear the door off its runners with my bare hands.
I sat down, holding the toe as tightly I could, imagining how nasty it would look when I could finally take my hands off it. Calming down, I talked myself out of that fear. It’s only a stubbed toe, I told myself. It would just look like a normal toe, maybe slightly pink. I peeled away my hand in time to see a glob of thick red blood dripping off the purple McNugget that my digit had become. More swearwords, but at least I knew what I was dealing with. I hopped downstairs, ran it under the cold tap, and limped into the bedroom. I don’t mind admitting that I felt faint but I think I can attribute the tear in my eye to grief at the death of Arnie. He was done for.
The next day, I limped to a job interview, limped home, changed my dressing. Tried to cut my toenail, did some more swearing. Soldiered on. Everyone (including you) told me not to go to the hospital, that even if it was broken, they wouldn’t do anything about it anyway. By July, the purpleness under the nail had just about faded, and I was able to file the nail, if not cut it. It still ached every time the temperature changed though. That was less than cool, and I finally succumbed and went to the hospital.
I may be the first person ever to go to the hospital two months after stubbing a toe
After a 2-hour wait, the conversation with the emergency nurse went like this.
“I think I broke my toe two months ago.”
“There’s not much we can do about that.”
“That’s what everyone told me. That’s why I’ve only just come in. It still hurts.” I removed my shoe and sock and showed her my big toe.
“It’s your great toe? You should have come in straight away for a great toe. That’s your balance”.
So by that point, I was convinced I was headed for blue badge territory (if distracted by the enjoyment of the phrase ‘great toe’). I might never run again. Todd, after all Arnie’s big talk, is an evil genius.
I don’t want to drag out this misery too long, so I’ll skip forward. I got the x-ray appointment (alarmingly, they loaned you a lead bath mat for the duration. I assumed it was for my heart but it turned out to be for my sperms). The x-ray came back ‘normal’ - not broken, just taking a bloody long time to heal. And here we are in October, with the temperature dropping and no signs of aching in the great toe. Exercise is back on my mind, and I’ve run out of excuses.
Aside from that one about not wanting to. I’ll blame the schedule of events - it tells me to start on a Monday, and Mondays are not good for me. I’m reluctant even to get to the kitchen on a Monday morning, let alone the park. If I could just get those first few weeks out of the way though, I’d be well on my way. I missed Monday this week, so I’m ‘resting’ until another Monday rolls around. And when it does… I’ll be back.
Battle of the Engines of Search and Decision
Microsoft have challenged Google’s reign over the multi-million dollar industry of searching for things, or “Googling” as it’s known, by releasing a new online game called Bing! Like all good games, it’s very simple - you type words into a little box and then it Googles them for you and you have to decide which one to click on. Seems like you could just do that with Google, but it’d be a shame not to get a fight going about which one is the best.
Classic search engine
By the way, I added the exclamation mark to the word ‘Bing!’ add a certain gravitas to the onomatopoeia. Microsoft have foolishly omitted it from their own press.
To find out more about Bing, I googled it. Bing calls itself a Decision Engine. It doesn’t just search for things, it actually decides which of them you should click on. According to this online video ad, it will offer a RICHER EXPERIENCE through a range of innovative features. The first of these is ‘infinite image scrolling’. You hear that Google? None of this looking-at-a-few-images-and-then-clicking-to-the-next-page nonsense. Bing gives you infinity images all at once. That’s the second highest number, so until Google can come up with a way to put infinity plus one (no returnsies) images on the page, it’s game over.
The other innovative features of Bing include refining image searches (just like Google), playing videos directly from the search page (just like Google) and ’searching from where you are’, meaning you can Bing from your Hotmail account, (just like Gmail). So far, so similar, so underwhelming.
Glory be! It's the Arch of Triumph!
On the subject of ’searching from where I am’, I had a quick look at the French Bing and it has not forgiven me for peeking. I’m now back on the UK version, and it still returns an awful lot of French results, Binging on about Paris and Michel Guérard while twirling its virtual moustache and trying to sell me a string of e-garlic. This is not going to help its test results.
Let’s see how Google and Bing fare in a fight for my affections, in what we shall call: The Battle of the Engines of Search and Decision (I’ve divided it into rounds to make it tense).
Round 1. The physical contest
In a Googlefight, the winner is the one who yields the most search results. There is no Bingfight, so it will have to be a tricky away game for Bing. I held their jackets while they battled it out in the car park, Engine à Engine. The results were bloody, brutal, and unsurprising:
At the time of writing, Google shows 343 billion hits to Bing’s measly 10 billion. A sound beating, even with Bing stalwarts like Chandler and Crosby bolstering the results. 1-0 to Google.
This man is a coward (compared to me)
Round 2. Self esteem
I asked each Engine of Search and Decision to tell me a little about themselves. I know that putting Google into Google is extremely dangerous but, much like the brave test pilots who flew the first Harriers, I took the risk for humankind.
Google boasts about winning libel law suits, and inventing the telephone, before telling me that Google is Google and giving me a link to Google, presumably so I can go Google something else.
Asking Bing to go Bing itself brings up news items about Detroit mayor David Bing and dead movie star Bing Crosby (breaking news - still dead!). For being slightly less self obsessed, we’ll give the points to Bing. 1-1
Round 3. How they make me feel about myself
Everyone Googles themselves from time to time. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We don’t talk about it but we all do it… But I’ve never self-Binged, until now.
Google’s first result claims that Jimi Odell is “easily one of the finest guitarists working today… his playing and singing are nothing short of pure poetry”. The video is of an older man than myself talking about the Philadelphia jazz scene under my name, but I’ll take the compliment. Maybe I really am one of Philly’s best kept secrets.
Bing actually finds the real me and drags up my underwhelming IMDB profile which leaves out a lot of the good work I’ve done and paints me as some kind of dogsbody. I feel like it’s pointing out my flaws and run home crying.
Still, even though my feelings are hurt in the short term, I appreciate Bing’s honesty. At least it bothered to mention me. 1-2 in favour of Bing.
kmuqutas
Round 4. Cleverosity
An Engine of Search and Decision has to be cleverer than me, or there’s no way it will find what I have so far failed to acquire through old fashioned searching methods (such as rifling through old post-it notes and asking people at the bus stop).
I tried misspelling a few words to see if the wily engines can figure out what I’m trying to say. Both deal comfortably with a variety of errors in and around the word ‘kumquat’ but Bing stumbles over ‘kmuqat’ where Google succeeds. 2-2. It’s a close one.
Round 5. Looks
Google became a verb because it stripped off and bared its plain white innards, its dignity covered by nothing more than a blank search window. Bing has undone all this good work and taken up residence at Tower Bridge. Out of curiosity, I went to www.bing.ru to see which Russian landmark clothes Bing’s naked villainy. St Basil’s Cathedral perhaps? Gorky Park? No. Turns out it’s Sydney Opera House. 3-2 to Google.
Round 6. Excitement
As a human, it’s important to me that everything should be as convenient as possible and that nothing should require any effort at all. Google is at the end of my Home button, where it’s been for years. I hate moving house. Familiarity doesn’t breed contempt, it breeds comfort and warmth. However, Bing deserves some acknowledgement for inventing the phrase Decision Engine, and causing this fight. Maybe it’s time to embrace change and/or violence. This round goes to Bing. 3-3.
Round 7. Sense of humour
All Engines of Search and Decision should have what’s known online as a GSOH. Google used to translate ‘isn’t’ into ‘is’ which was funny for a while. It doesn’t any more, so I offered it something that’s already funny - the naked mole rat. Both Google and Bing lead to the same zoological journal that compares the naked mole rat to ‘a hot dog with teeth’. Sadly, that’s not the correct answer. I want you to look at this image now:
Naked mole rat
OK. Now mentally subtract the teeth, wrap it in a warm bun, add mustard, and tell me whether you still want to eat it.
No points this round. Neither of these Engines is funny. We remain at 3-3.
Round 8. Searching and Deciding
OK, this is the real clincher. The deciding round. I need help SEARCHING for and DECIDING where to go for dinner. Refining local restaurant searches is supposed to be Bing’s forte so it could be the nail in the coffin for Google.
I asked Google about restaurants in Camden, my local ‘hood. It provided me with a long list of places, reviews, contact details, menus - this is hopeful. I asked Bing the same question, expecting an even more tailored response, based on what the marketing chaps told me in the aforementioned video.
Here’s where Bing stumbles and fails. It led me to Yahoo! local. At the first sign of having to make a decision, the world’s first Decision Engine decided to defer to an old fashioned Search Engine, one that used to be powered by Google and actually has an exclamation mark. Yes, Bing uses Yahoo! to decide; Google uses Google to search.
4-3 to Google. In fact, 7-0. I’m taking Bing’s points away and giving them back to Google. I should never have doubted it. I can rest now, in the familiar arms of the monopoly, like a lizard in a hammock. The memories of my foray into Binging will soon fade, just as the sounds of the Sydney Philharmonic dwindle to silence on a chilly Moscow evening.
I think I’ll use my own thoughts and memories to decide what to have for dinner tonight. Maybe kumquats and hot dogs.
Farewell to my 20’s
A comparison I'll no doubt regret making
After nearly three full decades in youth’s exile, I’ve been discovered. I will emerge tomorrow morning from a camouflaged hideaway with my hands in the air and tell the authorities ‘I am Jimi Odell, and my time is up’. As I am handcuffed, blindfolded, and led away, I will already know I have been defeated. I shall put up no resistance.
Feeling groggy and tired, I won’t remember much about the trial. The court records will show that I pleaded guilty to a mis-spent youth although I won’t be able to pin down any concrete memory of that. Following a brief trial during which my lawyer says very little, I will be given a life sentence and set free to roam the earth, tutting at those foolish 20-somethings who think they can get away with anything.
The roaring 20's - not to scale
And so now I am 30, I can’t help but look back over my 20’s and wonder if they met my expectations. I had of course assumed that they would closely resemble the sitcom Friends - a spacious living room, a series of week-long relationships, and the occasional life lesson picked apart over a giant cup of coffee… in the end though, I was closer to the sitcom Spaced - zig-zagging conversations about crappy jobs, hazy afternoons of tea and weed, shouting for missing pets on Hampstead Heath, and a constant nagging fear that struggling to make it as an artist won’t pay the bills.
So, has anything changed? Not really, but it’s kind of a load off - all those bullshit ‘by the time I’m 30′ yardsticks can drift away as I relax into my life, achieving what I achieve as and when I achieve it - and I’m getting better and better at achieving all the time (i before e except after c?). It’s all good. I actually don’t know what the fuss is about.
Actual wedding
A little over a week ago, I got married… that’s pretty much what I’ve been doing during my blogular absence. Making that happen, then doing it, then recovering from all the making and doing - I’ve been having a really good time. And now I’m here, married, 30 years old, a proper, actual man, I admit that I really do feel different. And, without wanting to get too sentimental, my marriage to the coolest person I have ever met is far more of a milestone than any age-number could ever represent. Thirty schmirty, I’m a husband. I can not even hope to express in words how surreal (and awesome) that feels, and how surprised I am at how surreal it feels (the awesomeness, I expected). We still live in the same house, we still feed the same cat, we’re still share the same laughs, yet somehow something significant is changed. Maybe it’s the new toaster. Yesterday, I answered the phone to the man from the insurance company and when I heard myself saying ‘This is her husband, can I take a message?’, I nearly laughed out loud. I guess the best way to explain it is that the adventure I already knew I was on just hit the point of no return and I got butterflies.
Anyway… it’s now less than half an hour until I’m officially thirty, and I need to publish this before it becomes anachronistic. Thanks for reading and I promise that my next blog will be ridiculous and far less personal. Look forward to it.
This coming from a foolish twenty-something who already thinks he knows better…
Shit! I forgot to tick 'dress as a monster' off my list. Too late now.
Excuse me… have you got two minutes?
Standing on the corner by my local station, clutching a branded t-shirt and raincoat, I look sadly at my new ID badge. My laminated face pleads back at me, a forced grin betraying my discomfort through the murky pixels. They’ve spelt my name correctly and everything seems to be in order. Unless I can find another job in the next four minutes, this is me. Trained and equipped, I am a short tube ride away from being a charity mugger. I honestly could cry.
This could be me
A few weeks ago, my financial circumstances hit a rock. I needed something, anything, that I could sustain and count upon for regular income - even a crappy one - until the real jobs came up. With a number of applications pending for genuinely challenging and interesting jobs, I grabbed a local paper and circled everything else.
Frantically calling round, I spoke to a recruiter who booked me an interview for what she called ’street fundraising’ but what everyone else calls ‘annoying strangers’. I can’t explain why I find it so abhorrent but I do. Maybe I’m being unfair, but any time it’s been directed at me, I’ve never found it to be anything less than emotional blackmail.
But good jobs fell through and mediocre ones were postponed. With chugging lying at the bottom of the pit, I watched my safety nets disintegrate as I plummeted towards its dank security, swallowing my pride and landing in a training room populated primarily with university students - all charming and fascinating people with a variety of careers ahead of them, but painfully obvious I wasn’t part of the usual demographic. Still, I needed the work, so I took notes and nodded along to a tone of voice I had not received since I left school twelve years ago.
Seriously, any other job will do
And so, after a day and a half’s training, I find myself standing here, constructing a smile for my new team leader as she stands cheerfully beside me, keen to get her new recruits out onto the street. She sips tea from a paper cup and I can’t help but like her. She’s a positive person and I have no doubt that she believes in her work and does it well. It just hurts me to join her on this quest because it’s not me. I am already in the midst of several other quests and I have to bury my sadness and disappointment just to remain standing here. I feel like a bad person, but I’m really not up for this.
I prop up my regulation umbrella by the wall and check my phone again. Nothing. Earlier in the day, I had spoken to a former employer who had tentatively offered me a few weeks’ work. A potential lifeline but the manager is away tomorrow and if I can’t get hold of her before that cup of tea is finished, I’m out of here and doing this for the rest of the week - Old Street today, Brixton tomorrow, Wembley the following day, and on and on. I can’t bear it.
I sneak off and make a quick call, to the person I’d rather be working for. Her assistant picks up. I rattle off my situation quickly and ask him if I can start this week. I tell him I’ll walk away from this job right now if he can guarantee me a start this week. He says he’ll see what I can do. I hope he hurries.
I am actually jealous of her job
My fearless leader works on her tea, its dark horizon descending like the sands of time with each sip. The final gulp will have me on the southbound line, six stops from being the person on the street that you most want to avoid. Excuse me… have you got two minutes?
I go back over the day’s training in my mind. I’ve learned enough about my allotted charity to rattle off a loosely rehearsed spiel. I might need it. I imagine bumping into any one of a number of friends who work in that area, and ducking into an alleyway. Is it really that embarrassing to bolster a charity’s membership? Yes. Yes, it is.
And then a glimmer of hope as that familiar beep-beep vibrates in my pocket. A little bump of adrenalin. I hope it’s not my bank, or my phone company. I slide the phone out of my pocket, unlock it, hit ‘read’. Praise the fates, for I am rescued.
The next hour is a giddy blur in my memory. I explain to Chirpy McTea that I need to leave, thank her for her time, and wish the rest of the team all the best, before heading back to HQ to hand in my badge and brolly. One of the trainers makes a joke about me breaking the record for the shortest ever career with their agency. I know he’s exaggerating because one of the other recruits already left yesterday. I thank them all again and bounce home to my enormous personal to-do list, still uncertain, and yet so relieved. All I can think is “I don’t have to do it, I don’t have to do it, I don’t have to do it”.
This is what it looked like when I quit
Now that it’s no longer looming over me, I can look back at it with a different perspective. I’ve always avoided street fundraisers, convinced I’ll donate on my own terms, and not on theirs. That’s bollocks though. I’ve never made anything more than sporadic donations… and yet some of these charities rely on regular donors for 50% of their income and street fundraising is, after television advertising, the most effective form of gathering donations. ‘I can’t afford it’, and ‘I’ll do it online’ are the most popular excuses but please hold me to this: when I can afford it, I will do it online. I feel like I owe them.
OK, now you can cross the street. Thanks for your time.
The sun hates me because I’m special
I’m heading off to Latitude Festival tomorrow morning and I have a confession to make… I’ve been doing a rain dance. The casual observer may say it looks the same as regular walking but it’s a rain dance, and it’s working. I know, I know, it’s summer and you regular folk all love the sunshine, but these bursts of rain actually help me to survive. This bastard humidity needs to shape up and respond to gravity. None of this hail nonsense, just a smattering of cooling rain, please.
Rain's a-comin'.
It’s not that I don’t like the sun. In fact, I quite like it. It’s just that the sun and I have always had a bit of an awkward relationship, and I need to take a stand for once. For some people, when the sun comes it, it’s a great opportunity to cast aside all jackets, throw on a flip-flop or two and head to the nearest open space, where it becomes temporarily acceptable to drink alcohol in public before noon. Living a stone’s throw from London’s biggest park (though it’s actually easier just to carry the stone), I am no stranger to this and, since I’m heading off to a festival tomorrow, I’d better get bloody used to it.
Now, I like eating ice creams at picnics and winking at bees just as much as the next guy, so I don’t want my rain dance to come over as a protest against the sun. In fact, let’s get this out of the way - I am head-over-heels in love with it. I’m only lamenting, because I’m trapped in the clutches of an unrequited love affair, and it’s been going on for my whole life. The sun, for all its marvellous glory, fucking hates me.
The sun is a big yellow bully, hovering in the sky, just waiting to get its bastard hands on me. Sometimes it hides behind a cloud to shanghai me into a false sense of security, waiting until I’m out in the open, and then leaping out to point and laugh at my shoulders and neck and the backs of my knees (why always the backs of the knees?). Other people go out in the sunshine and get rewarded with beautiful bronzed skin and highlights. I get cooked alive. Left out in the sun for more than four minutes, my skin goes through these three distinct phases:
1. White
2. Red
3. Melanoma
Special
I was once told by a very bronzed and healthy-looking person that I have the rarest complexion type in the world. She described my skin as ‘creamy’ and ‘rosy’, like The Queen. That made me feel pretty special. I’m the rarest type of human in the world - a dying breed, like a panda or a manatee. Special!
For a while anyway, because the more I think about it, in evolutionary terms I mean, the less and less awesome it seems. My people are dying out. The human selection process has dumped us to the bottom of the pile, whittling us out so the rest of you don’t have to look at us any more - maybe it’s just because we never go outside. I think it’s very important that us creamy, rosy types (I’m looking at you, Queen-face) get out in the sun this summer and meet some bronzed beauties. We must do it for the sake of our people. Our people don’t like to go out in the sun, but we also don’t like to die out. Dying out is one of our least favourite things.
I’m going to get some tips this weekend. My girlfriend is one of those people who the sun adores. A few seconds in the sun and she becomes Spanish - which is totally unfair because she’s even more British than I am. I only need to mention the word ’sun’ in her presence, and she begins to darken. You can actually hear the melanin granules crackling and making their way boldly to the surface. She’s probably getting a tan from me writing this.
This weekend, we’ll have to go through our usual process of carefully selecting places to sit outside. Generally near a tree, so she can bask in the sun’s benevolent glory, while I sit in the dark shadow, re-applying factor 25 every eight minutes. I know I look ridiculous, but not as ridiculous as the time my cousin Keith convinced me to sit on a beach in Durban on a summer afternoon, rapidly turning into a baked ham.
Hot!
I spent the following day in agony, trying desperately not to touch anything with any part of my red body. I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced head-to-toe sunburn but it’s a lot like being ON FIRE WHILE FIFTY MEN SLAP YOU. And once the initial pain goes away, you’re left with the peeling skin. I peeled off entire A4 sheets from my belly - I felt like Robocop minus the robot parts. I also developed a series of jellyfish across my shins - eighteen years later, I have just learned that this was sun poisoning. At the time, I assumed it was an early symptom of death.
But we can’t hide away forever. Festivals, parks, and beaches await us and they’re not going away. We must learn our lessons and move on, for the sake of our people. Me, The Queen, that ginger bloke down the road… we’re worth fighting for! So let’s get our sun cream on, whip out the broad brimmed hats, and get out there. I’ll stop doing the rain dance for a few days, though it may already by too late for the weekend.
Go, and make friends with the sun. You may feel slightly nervous at first, but you’ll get used to it. Just keep the hat firmly on the head and the suncream firmly everywhere on your body, including your eyeballs. It’s safer that way. God save the Queen.
How to become Batman from blogging alone
Most successful bloggers have one thing in common - they’ve all published lists of how to become a successful blogger. I didn’t get through reading many of them because they were pretty long but I figure if I follow suit and publish my own list, I’ll soon be just as successful as them, if not more so. And you, by reading them, can be too.
It could be you
Now, most blogs only tell you how to make some extra money from blogging and they suggest a slow and methodical approach. Me, I’m impatient and kind of struck for cash, so I’m going to go straight for the jugular and publish the definitive list of instant success for blogs. Follow my tips and, not only will you become a millionaire within just a few days, you will become a crime fighting millionaire. Yes, you too can be Batman, and all you have to do is blog. Here’s how…
1. Write goodly. No one likes bad writing, so write as goodly as you can all the time, using actual words and grammatical illusions.
2. Quit your job. Do this straight away. Don’t even waste time calling your boss, just resolve right now to stop going in. Your boss will get the message eventually and, when your co-workers find out you are Batman, they will forgive you.
3. Blog constantly. Thanks to technological advances like laptops and Sony Walkmans, you can write blogs literally anywhere so there’s no excuse for taking a break. Whether you’re wandering around the supermarket, at the gym taking a shower, or in bed trying to get to sleep, you should be writing. Right now I’m in a meeting with my personal finance adviser. She’s asking me some really confusing questions and I’m doing my best to phase her out so I can carry on giving you sound advice on blogging.
4. Be rude. Nobody likes competition, so try to put anyone down who might get in your way. I don’t mean a lethal injection, I just mean a cutting remark or two. You don’t get to be the best unless you can prove that everyone else is at least slightly inferior.
This is the gum you need
5. Chew gum. Chewing gum will make you look wicked cool and people will want to know more about what makes you tick. Some gum now comes in a plastic packet and costs three times as much as regular gum. This will make you appear three times as cool as regular gum chewers so it’s an easy decision.
6. Make lists. Lists of things give the impression that you are an authority on that particular subject. Future blogs of mine will contain lists of: dinosaurs; ice cream flavours; irregular polygons; Quantum Leap episodes; and and the best lists of all time. Lists of 5 or 10 things are good, but proper lists have 31 items, one of which should be self-referential.
7. Use swearwords. Swearwords make you look grown up and tough, especially the really good ones. You know the ones - get using them.
8. Charge people to read your blog. If it costs money, it must have value - the more you charge, the more people are likely to want to read what you’ve written. Even if they can’t afford it, you’ll feel good knowing that at least they want to.
9. Express controversial opinions. Don’t just write about what you believe in - try to be deliberately obtuse and really get your readers’ backs up.
10. Copy people. If you want to be genuinely creative, find some other genuinely creative people, then do the exact same things that they do.
11. Expect instant results. The more impatient you are, the more likely you are to push your luck.
12. Write about what you think people want to hear. Claim to have expert knowledge in current affairs, even if you don’t know what you are talking about. If you’ve seen something in the news, just write about it. Nobody’s going to disagree with a gum-chewing Batman who swears.
Dramatic pictures are even more effective
13. Use pictures. Doesn’t matter what the pictures are of, just post pictures. I used one of a rhino to talk about swine flu and you all loved it.
14. Make shit up. If you can’t think of anything real to blog about, just make something up. By the time anyone realises you are lying, they will have already read your blog and paid for the privilege. This is what’s known in retail as ‘upselling’.
15. Talk down to your readers. You might think your internet readers are intelligent but they’re not. Think of them as extras in a movie about you and treat them with casual contempt.
16. Eat junk food. You’re successful now, so you can eat whatever you like without worrying about the consequences.
17. Publish the first thing you think of. You’ll be tempted to go back and edit your work but just publish the first draft and move on. If you’re as good as you think you are, you’ll have got it right the first time.
Try telling this guy he's wrong
18. Get a tattoo. If you’re not tough enough to have a tattoo, why should I care about your opinions?
19. Generalise. Try not to be too specific when talking about certain things.
20. Email everyone all the time. Most people like to get emails. Email your entire address book several times a day to remind them about your blog. Use a series of different email addresses to confuse them.
21. Keep going on and off the boil. Interesting and well crafted blogs are all well and good, but the occasional bad one will keep your readers on their toes.
22. Don’t explain everything.
He's probably waiting for your call
23. Try to get Charlie Brooker’s attention. Register on Twitter and put ‘@charltonbrooker’ into all your updates. He won’t be annoyed, he’ll love your ingenuity and he’ll probably get you a column in a national newspaper.
24. Be more intimidating. By making the competition feel uncomfortable, you will be in a stronger position to corner the market. If you can get yourself a guest slot on someone else’s blog, use it as an opportunity to bring them down from within.
25. Write long paragraphs. The bigger the block of text is on the screen, the more people will be convinced that there’s something interesting buried in there. People say ‘less is more’ but that’s stupid because less isn’t more. If anything, it’s slightly less.
26. Be serious. If your readers wanted to laugh, they’d watch sitcoms.
27. Get rid of your ‘About Me’ section. Nobody cares about the real you.
28. Dismiss your readers. You could even write a rambling post, picking apart specific aspects of someone who you know reads your blog, mentioning them by name.
29. Use jargon. Litter your posts with technical words and made up phrases to convince your readers that they are looking at something important.
The best things come to those who wait for someone else to bring them the best things
30. Wait. You shouldn’t have to try any harder than you already are to get attention for your blog. Most success stories involve lazy, talented people being recognised by enthusiastic hacks in search of a protege. This could be you.
31. Finally - compose a list of how to be a better blogger. None of the above will mean a thing until you’ve done this last step. Success is measured by the number of secrets you’re willing to share concerning the story of your success.
I hope this has helped and I expect to see an increase in the number of Bat-signals in the night sky over the next few weeks. I look forward to reading all your lists and do please get in touch with me if you want to write a guest blog here at Blog Tired.
Until the next time, take care, and please pass this list on to anyone who may enjoy it. You could also click the ‘Digg’ button below if you’re into that sort of thing, or join our Facebook group by logging on and searching for ‘Blog Tired’.
Average is an illusion - an open letter to advertisers
If writing about music is like dancing about architecture, then writing about adverts must be like dancing about bingo. It seems fitting then that the first advert under my trembling spotlight should be the chilling story of Foxy, a dog-headed chimera in a revealing suit, who does exactly that.
Do not approach this abomination
Foxy Bingo
I’m talking, of course, of the TV spot for online bingo peddlers ‘Foxy Bingo’. The story is this - a giant disco ball crash lands on earth, causing a crowd of enthusiastic, lonely women to run into the forest with their torches to investigate. They gather to witness the ball opening in a flash of blinding light whereupon they put on the sunglasses that they all remembered to bring to the woods in the middle of the night.
As the hatch opens, a lone figure is silhouetted against the magic light that spills from the guts of this discothechnologically advanced craft, and down the stairs walks the scariest motherfucker to walk the earth since Freddy Krueger. Seriously, anyone who is comfortable meeting this thing in the woods at night should be monitored online by the actual police - even before he starts disco dancing.
Disco, as everyone knows, went out of fashion in 1981 and then again in 2002. It’s had enough chances and is, particularly if you have the head of a wild carnivore, no way to sell a product. By the time these women of the night join in with Foxy’s mating ritual, I’m left feeling disjointed, afraid and slightly sad, willing to do almost anything to dissociate myself from this product. Then again, I’m clearly not the target market, so let’s move on to two of Britain’s biggest supermarkets.
Marks and Sainsbury’s
I’m going to examine these two adverts at once because there’s an interesting crossover here. I have learned in recent weeks that both Marks & Spencer and Sainsbury’s are celebrating birthdays this year. Presumably they celebrate birthdays every year but 2009 is a special year because they are 125 and 140 years old respectively. Neither of these figures strike me as a genuinely noteworthy landmark but it does seem reason enough to crack open a bottle of budget and, in the case of the former, invite Twiggy over to guzzle it down on camera while listing her favourite supermarket’s achievements over the decades. Sainsbury’s does the same but, instead of a retired model, they’ve used a variety of old fonts.
Twiggy
Both supermarkets attempt to impress us with all the revolutionary work they’ve effected over the years. Between them they claim to have secured women’s suffrage, defeated Hitler, and stopped global warming (not to mention changing the lives of ‘us ordinary Brits’ forever).
The only claim that both supermarkets make is that of inventing the avocado pear. I don’t know why the introduction of a green, slimy vegetable is worthy of a mention when they’ve done so much positive work for humankind but they both bring it up so I guess it must be significant. They should really talk to each other next time they have a birthday and organise some sort of joint party.
Vodafone
I’m going to branch into radio here because I’m in charge and I’ll abide by whatever rules I decide to make up on the spot. Vodafone have recently instated the slogan ‘If I ruled the world…’ as a way of trying to make us believe that all we really want from the world is the chance to make longer phone calls. I will now quote the radio ad as best I can from memory:
“If I ruled the world, I’d just randomly call my friend Jen all the time and we’d just sit there randomly talking about nothing and then we’d randomly just realise that we were randomly watching TV and not saying anything. Because me and my mate Jen, are always doing stuff like that? We’re totally random”.
Hello, can I speak to Jen please?
If that was a campaign speech for global power, you’ve just lost my vote. Fuck Zimbabwe, fuck Iran - as long as you and Jen have got enough talk time, nobody else matters, do they? If you do want to spend your time generating random conversation in front of Wife Swap, perhaps a job with less responsibility would be the way to go.
Or, if you really are keen on a career in ruling, maybe the world is just too big a place to start. Get some experience ruling a small country first or, better yet, a village hall. Start small is all I’m saying. Rule a fan club or a kitchen for a while before you think about global domination. You really don’t need to take the reins of universal infrastructure just to conduct another directionless conversation with Jen. You are actally free to call her right now and you’ll have more time to relax into the call knowing that Ban Ki-moon isn’t trying to get through on the other line. Leave the world alone. Let someone with some ambition take over.
Muller Rice
If it’s not clear by now, I’m not keen on normal people. Normal people are stupid and pointless and they buy whatever the TV tells them to. In fact, normal people - in the sense that a lot of advertisers think of them - don’t really exist. Normal people in adverts are so spectacularly normal that their normalness exceeds the speed of interest and begins to suck all light and matter into the dead centre of all cultural spectra, forming a singularity in space time; a black hole from which no individuality can escape or thus be detected. These types of normal people are morbidly fascinating.
Are you average enough?
Some time in the last few years, advertisers discovered the scientific formula to determine what ‘normal’ is, presumably by adding everyone’s characteritics together and then dividing that by the population of the world to come up with a bland charicature of what they assume you do when you’re sitting at home during an ad break. Subsequently, the public are faced with snippets of conversations between couples like these two representatives of numbing familiarity, trying to boil their relationship down to which of them is the bigger fan of Muller Rice. It’s a boring conversation designed to look like one that you might recognise from your home life, but it’s so far from real that it’s ridiculous.
Do they remind you of yourself or of any human beings you know? I doubt it, and if they do, I’m truly sorry.
Let’s not forget that Muller Rice is also responsible for taking a rousing protest song (Nina Simone’s ‘I Got Life’) and re-writing it as an ode to cherries and biscuits. Please be warned that clicking on that link will hurt. A lot.
Where this and similar adverts have fallen off the reality wagon is the complete failure to acknowledge that nobody is normal and very few people actually want to be. Don’t we all want to feel special? Each of us exists permanently at the centre of our own little universe, and it’s ok to acknowledge that. We’re allowed to want to be important and amazing. When Muller Rice people say ‘we’re just like you’, and then play scripted at-home banter, my response can only be ‘no, you’re not’. Who wants to rush out and buy something that makes them blend into the background? I know I don’t.
It's ok to be special
I’m starting to like Foxy more and more. At least he’s unusual and comes from outer space. Joining in his celebration now seems a lot more fun than sitting on the sofa debating yoghurt. And maybe it’s ok to boast about avocados. Supermarkets are just big shops after all, so why not celebrate the source of guacamole? It’s better than talking to Jen all night anyway.
Oh dear, I’ve confused myself again. I’ve built a Mobius strip and I can’t find my way off it. My cynicism for over-enthusiasm has been washed away by the infiltration of standardisation and disinterest. I take it back, Foxy. And you too, Twiggy. Rock on, both of you.
I suppose that my final message to advertisers is this: we, the people, are not normal or average. Average is an illusion created by the blurring of extremes. People are wonderful, varied, and endlessly fascinating creatures capable of instigating positive change on a massive scale. Yes, there are more important things in this world than telephones and yoghurt but, if your job is to sell those things, try appealing to our sense of wonder, not our fear of change. Change is good and standing out from the crowd is important.
To illustrate this point (and to end on a high), I offer you all a chance to take four minutes out of your busy schedules and enjoy Nina Simone as she sells nothing but freedom. Ladies, gentlemen and dog-faced aliens… please welcome the High Priestess of Soul:
Beware of the panther
I’m going to tell you a holiday story today because I’m applying for two jobs and I want to escape from them both - in order to apply for them, I need to be respectively ‘a pragmatic and proactive professional’ and ‘a subservient clown’. That’s not the exact wording but still, you get the idea. Trying to accentuate these conflicting aspects of my character simultaneously has left me adrift from my true identity, lonely and lost in a sea of deflated egos. I don’t know who I am or what I’m supposed to be doing about it. To sum up, I’m Batman.
Now, with that out of the way, I present you with a tale of intrepidation from a holiday I took to Northern France a couple of years ago, in which my bravery leaves me behind at the first sign of what might turn out to be danger. Ladies and gentlemen, here follows Le Moulin:
Le moulin
“Moulin”, I say, pointing at a signpost that would take us even further from the beaten track, “That means ‘mill’”. I’m keen to check it out, if only to keep using the word ‘moulin’ and show that I know what it means in some kind of context.
We stop the car and go back. If it’s signposted, it must be worth a look, and it probably leads to the building we can see from the road with the waterwheel. Mills have waterwheels, I’m sure, and there’s no reason moulins should be any different just because they’re French. Besides, it’s raining, and I only packed one pair of shoes for this trip so I’m certainly not walking down.
As we veer off towards what I’m now referring to as ‘the moulin’ (because ‘le moulin’ would feel somewhat pretentious), I immediately want to get out of the car and run back up the hill to a safe place where the road is at a less-than-45-degree angle. We pass through a narrow gate that says “ATTENTION: BESTIAUX”. Now, I know from GCSE French that ‘attention’ means ‘caution’ and I figure ‘bestiaux’ can surely only mean ‘beasts’… wild, hungry beasts. Perhaps my French isn’t as good as I thought.
ATTENTION: BESTIAUX
The road is barely wide enough for the wheelspan of the car - in fact, ‘road’ is too generous a word. This is a more like a downwards-pointing zig zag, carved into a steep, wet, grassy bank. But for the traction of these rented tires, we would be tumbling down to the river right now. The first bend is 180 degrees hard right with no margin for error and the alternative to a well executed maneouvre is gravity, followed by drowning. This is the point of no return. We are going to le moulin, whether we like it or not.
As the car crawls along the pathway, I see no sign of the promised BESTIAUX. Picturing a pack of hungry panthers lurking silently in the trees, I double check that the windows are wound up and try my best not to exhale. The friendliest animal I can think of that warrants the label of ‘beast’ is a goat but, by this stage, the only goats I’m capable of imagining are the kind that walk on their hind hooves and carry tridents.
We make the second turn, a hard left that reveals the end of this tiny tarmac trail. There is nothing here resembling the impressive building I’d seen from above earlier on. In fact, we are on the wrong side of the river. There is just a closed gate into what can only be described as someone’s house.
It is still raining.
The only spaces to turn around in are the driveway of the house itself - which doesn’t look big enough, even if I did have enough French to ask someone to open the gate - and the river bank. I’m not asking at the house. I’ll gladly bet that someone that chooses to live in the entrance to a bottomless pit, with a panther, does not wish to be disturbed by a trespassing foreigner with muddy shoes.
In my head, I mentally draft a letter to the car hire company in which I explain to them in broken French why we had to abandon the car at the bottom of a valley. However, we bravely opt to make the 7-point manoeuvre across the long wet grass of the river bank. I get out and test it with my foot to make sure it is solid before we commit to driving on it. I note that there is wild mint growing on the verge and also try to remember what you’re supposed to do when trapped underwater in a sinking car. Do you open the windows or close the windows? To what extent are you supposed to panic?
With a bit of a struggle, we make it out. The journey uphill is far less alarming than the journey downhill, though a cursory glance in the rear view mirror reminds me how close we are to death’s icy grasp and I remind myself to keep looking up.
Upon reaching the surface, I resolve never to visit any place signposted as a ‘moulin’ again. I can’t help but feel like I shouldn’t have suggested it in the first place. Still, I don’t care. We’re alive and that’s the most important thing.
Epilogue: The waterwheel turned out to belong to a disused iron forge which we later found on the opposite bank of the river, via an ingenious stone structure called a bridge. Totally worth the effort. Bravo, French tourism. Bravo.
Since posting this story, I have also learned that we saw donkeys on the way down. My fear of drowning was enough to block this image from my mind completely. Is there a more ridiculous and less evil creature than a donkey? Not that I can think of. Retrospectively, I’m actually relieved.
Sick days for the unemployed
Snot is disgusting. Most of the time I forgive it because it does a good job of keeping dust and bacteria on the outside. It sits there quietly defending my respiratory system like a bouncer roughing up potential troublemakers before turning them away from the exclusive Club Paradiso that is my lungs.
It seems today, however, that my nasal HR department has oversubscribed, presumably anticipating some kind of seasonal influx of subversive elements, such that the doorway is now hideously overcrowded with unnecessary security staff, jostling for position at the forefront of my nostrils. In short, I’ve got a bloody cold - and it’s not just any cold. It’s the worst cold anyone’s ever had ever.
Swine flu
As I approach my 30’s (in much the same way that a freight train would approach a small allotment), it seems as though having a cold is a lot more work than it used to be. I’m exhausted. Getting out of bed is a struggle and the effort is rewarded only with further struggles. By the time I’ve made it to the kitchen, I’ve barely enough strength left to make chicken soup and complain about how scratchy the tissues are. Colds used to be more fulfilling.
The primary benefit of the common cold is, of course, the sick day. A whole glorious day spent lolling about on a sofa, staring at endless hours of daytime TV, freed from the constraints of the working day, devoting every moment to ‘getting better’. In other words, doing bugger all, and not feeling guilty about it.. In order to alleviate this guilt, you first have to make a standard gravelly-voiced phone call to the boss in the morning suggesting that although you’re not really on top form, you might feel all right to come in today as you’ve got a lot to be getting on with but that you don’t want to pass your germs on to anyone else (a-cough-a-cough), excuse you, and then crossing your fingers until you are told in no uncertain terms that you absolutely must stay at home and get your rest.
Congratulations - you have just been given a day to use and abuse as your very own. This gift should be recieved graciously with the vaguest hint of regret to prove that you actually did want to come in and do your regular job because you’re a real go-getter; not a lazy, TV-watching, sneezing twat.
Now, as it stands, I don’t have a regular job. I’ve not had one in quite a while, so I don’t get to do any of the above. Instead I’m trapped in my house, just like I am most days, surrounded by things I should be doing. Job applications to complete, bits of writing to finish, tracks to record, coursework to submit… and I can’t ignore any of it. I have to spend my sick days trying to rest in the same place where I do my work.
I want all of you employed people to imagine that right now. Go on - picture yourself wrapped in a duvet, sneezing, coughing and yawning, as your colleagues go about their business around you, ignoring your phone calls and emails because as far as they’re concerned, you don’t exist. Awful, isn’t it? And you can’t go home because you live here.
I wonder who's still in Neighbours
Well, that’s where I am… except the colleagues are all in my head so they know my every thought as well my every inaction. If my mind even drifts towards considering checking to see what’s going on in Neighbours (or, heaven forbid, Doctors), my inner drill sergeant wakes up and administers an embarrassing dressing down in front of my other inner selves, rendering me entirely unable to do anything at all.
So I’m trapped here, writhing around in mild discomfort, too tired to do anything useful, and too neurotic to do anything enjoyable. I’m stuck with a sinking sensation that there’s something tremendously important I’m failing to do because there’s nobody around to admonish me for not doing it. T minus 4 hours until I can have another Lemsip.
By the time you are reading this, I’m sure I’ll be feeling much better (unless it’s swine flu, in which case wish me luck). Right now though, I must get back to whatever it is I wasn’t doing. Rest? Hmmm…
