Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in David says the funniest things.'s LiveJournal:

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Monday, July 13th, 2009
11:05 am	The cad of the year show [2] Readers with a long memory might recall my thrilling adventures at the Chap Olympiad last year. Obviously, as I'd declared myself the winner of the Scoundrels Challenge last year I had to attend this year as I had a title to defend and so on Saturday I dressed myself up to the nines and headed off. For those of you who don't know what the Chap Olympics is, The Chap is a periodical whose editorial stance is "What would an eccentric English Gent make of the modern world?", and their Olympiad is an annual event devoted to dressing well, drinking, and taking part in exciting sporting events like the Moustache tug-of-war and the Martini Relay. I think, over the course of the day, I learned three important lessons. 1) If you want to get photographed by tourists in London, all you have to do is dress smartly, pop a hat on at a rakish angle, and hold a singsong around the Play me I'm yours piano in Soho Square. 2) If you are dressed up, London beggars simply won't believe you when you when you say that you have no cash at all - even if this is entirely true - and become abusive as a result. 3) If I enter the Scoundrels Challenge next year, I'm wearing a gumshield. I made my way to Bedford Square gardens with robinbloke as my valet, Langridge. This proved to be an exceptionally successful move, as I didn't have to carry my own bags, hold my umbrella or queue for food or drinks all day. As a quality of life enhancer, I heartily recommend engaging a man to do all that sort of thing. Valets - everyone should have one. Anyway, arriving at the gardens we discovered that taking your own booze onto the site was prohibited (They had a drinks stand in the gardens) and they were searching bags on the way in; however, I must have an honest face as they didn't check mine and so I ambled in with a few bottles of decent plonk and a hipflask, which helped the afternoon swim by in a most agreeable fashion with delightful company. I'd arrived fashionably late, which meant that most of the events were already fully subscribed (which I thought a little bit off, as many of the people taking part in the events were the organisers themselves. Poor show all round), but I registered as a competitor and hoped for the best. Alas, I missed out on the Hop, Skip and G&T and the Plate of cucumber sandwiches discus but, reasoning that I wasn't there to play fair, I elbowed my way to the front of the queue for the three legged trouser limbo. This event involved two people wearing an oversized pair of three-legged trousers between them and walking a short course before limbo-ing under a pole. Naturally, I couldn't allow Langridge to share a pair of trousers with me and so I popped them on and he carried his half. I ambled the length of the course, saluting gents with my brolly and tipping my hat to the ladies, and when we got to the limbo pole Langridge kindly raised it to a height sufficient for me to continue unimpeded. Unfortunately, this, for reasons which escaped me, was not sufficient for me to win the event. I consider myself cheated. And so the highlight of the afternoon drew near. The Scoundrels Challenge. One of the toughest sporting events known to man, the Scoundrels Challenge was entered as a display sport in the 1996 Altlanta Olympics but was withdrawn after seventeen deaths in the first round. The event involves walking up to a lady and acting in as caddish a manner possible until driven away by a ringing slap. The winner is the man with the reddest cheek but the wryest smile. I've spent pretty much my entire life in training for this event. Langridge and I took to the course. "I say, Langridge", I said, indicating a nearby beauty. "Acquire me this lady, would you, there's a good fellow." Langridge made an enquiry as to the lady's hourly rates. "More than you could afford!" She replied. "Don't be so sure", I replied with an encouraging leer. "I have three, perhaps as many as four shillings in my wallet?" The lady gave an outraged squawk and then...well, if I'm being honest I'm not entirely sure what happened next. Whatever it was, though, it left a ringing in my ears and a taste of blood in my mouth. As colonel_maxim observed more then fifteen minutes later, "Good heavens; you can still see the marks her fingers left in your neck". Needless to say, I sacked Langridge on the spot. So it was that I retired hurt from the event. It's difficult - nay, impossible - to maintain a wry smile whilst attempting to straighten your nose, and so I couldn't complete the competition. So I lost my title - but, seeing as I only got it by cheating and villainy in the first place, I really can't complain too much. Anyway, plenty more pictures from the event can be found here. (27 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, July 10th, 2009
10:45 am	Chap Olympiad I'll be going to the Chap Olympiad tomorrow and I know a bunch of you lot are too. I'm thinking of heading to Soho Square at about 12 for a crack at the piano there before heading off to Bedford Sq gardens. Anyone interested? (4 Comments |Comment on this)
9:29 am	From Russia With Lovers Starring James Bond, 007 (Inspired by This story) [The scene: M, head of MI6, is sitting at her desk. A buzzer goes]. M: Yes? Moneypenny (through intercom): Bond is here to see you, ma’am. M: Send him in. [Enter James Bond, smelling faintly of alcohol] Bond: You wanted to see me, M? M: Sit down. This is serious. Bond (sitting): Serious? M: Yes. The Russians have caught you out in a sting operation. They’ve released film of you in an Ekaterinburg brothel, cavorting with a pair of prostitutes. Bond: I can explain, you see… M: I don’t want to hear it. You’ve brought both the traditions and good name of this agency into disrepute. It’s just not good enough. Bond: I’m sorry ma’am. M: Only two Prostitutes? I would have expected at least half a dozen! Even French secret agents can handle two girls at once! What do we give you an expense account for? Bond: Well, I’d just had a big night on the Vespers with Felix Leiter and – M: Don’t use your drinking as an excuse. Bond: No, the Vesper sisters, Mary and Janet. Did I mention that they’re gymnasts? M: Did you film it? Bond: No. M: Then that’s no use to us. It’s no good, Bond. For the sake of our reputation, I’m pulling you out of the field. Bond: What am I being transferred to? M: Royal security detail. Bond: Then my duties will include… M: You know your duty, Bond. JAMES BOND WILL RETURN IN: ON HER MAJESTY’S PERSONAL SERVICES. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, July 9th, 2009
9:49 am	I wish to register a complaint. When I buy things, I tend to expect a certain standard of customer service. Obviously I'm not fool enough to think that the person selling me things actually likes me, but I hope for them to at least pretend to value my custom and opinions for as long as it takes for the transaction to be completed. On the other side of this is that when things go wrong I get to write stroppy complaint letters, which is always fun. I recently attempted to buy some stuff from the online store of the Republic chain, which proved to be a serious error. When complaining I've often found that it pays off to take your compaint as far up the management structure as possible, so I got my hands on the email address of Tim Whitworth, their chief executive, and sent him this. A little over two weeks ago, I made a purchase from your website. For your records your UPI number was XXX XXXXXXXX and your Senders Reference was XXXXXX. On the 26th of June I got a 'we called, you were out' card through my letterbox from your contracted delivery company Home Delivery Network. I enclose a scan of this document so you can see what I've had to work with. Most of the card is completely unintelligible as I don't read Serbo-Croat, but someone suggested that the word after 'we left your package in a safe place' is 'Behind'. That's all we can work out. I live in a top-floor flat. The only way to leave anything 'behind' my flat is to throw it out of a window, so it can't possibly mean that. But behind what? Or who? Or where? After searches 'behind' (behind the bins, behind the door, behind the tree over the road, behind the cat) proved fruitless I rang Home Delivery Network on June the 29th to ask about my package and was told that, in fact, they still had it and would be happy to deliver it to me on Wednesday the 1st of July. As it hadn't turned up on Friday the 3rd of July I rang again and was told that someone who could help with my problem would call me back. I spent the weekend of the 4th and 5th untroubled by anything like a call back and so rang Home Delivery Network again on Monday the 6th, when I was told that someone who could help with my problem would call back. On Tuesday the 7th, I rang again and was told - you guessed it! - that someone who could help with my problem would call me back. You won't be surprised to learn that nobody did, and so I rang again yesterday - Wednesday the 8th - and was promised (scouts honour, hand on heart) that someone who could help with the problem would call me back "Within half an hour". After a further 24 hours of silence I've given up on Home Delivery Network and I'm writing to you direct. I'd rather not be doing so and I'm fairly confident that it's not what you wanted when you got out of bed this morning either. I have a contract with you, Mr Whitworth, to deliver me a new pair of trousers. I would still rather like them. Unfortunately your delivery subcontractors have no messed me around half-a-dozen times and they're doing my opinion of your customer service no favours. My normally patient and sunny disposition is wearing thin. I'd be grateful if you could have a word with them and get my purchase to me as soon as possible. Failing that a refund would be an acceptable alternative, but I'd rather get the stuff I actually bought from you. I look forward to hearing from you, if only because I haven't heard from anyone else. Yours, etc. (33 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, July 7th, 2009
10:59 am	Flippy, the second homes kangaroo Scene: The Royal Australian flying accounts and oversight service, Dingo Ridge, Queensland. Bruce, a tanned surfer accountant, is speaking into the radio. Bruce:'Strewth! That's a fair Dinkum problem you've got there! I'll get right on it! Enter Sheila, a pretty blonde accountant, and her faithful pal - Flippy, the Second Homes Kangaroo. Sheila: What's the problem, Bruce? Bruce: I've got former Environment Minster Elliot Morley on the blower. He's claimed £16,000 in mortgage interest payments on his home in his Scunthorpe constituency even though the mortgage had ended 18 months before. Although records show his mortgage had been repaid by March 2006, Mr Morley continued to be reimbursed for £800 a month in 2006-7. Mr Morley had been renting out his London flat to another Labour MP, Ian Cawsey who nominated it as his second home and claimed back the £1,000 a month rent he paid to Mr Morley Flippy, the second homes kangaroo: Tk tk tk tk tk. Sheila: What's that, Flippy? He can redesignate the home as his primary residence with only 24 hours of notice, thereby not being liable? That's a corker of an an idea! Flippy, the second homes kangaroo: Tk tk tk tk tk. Bruce: And he can claim the cost of an accountant to expenses, despite that being illegal for any ordinary member of the public? Sheila: Hooray for Flippy! He's saved an MP from having to pay the same taxes as an ordinary member of the public! Flippy, the second homes kangaroo: Tk tk tk tk tk. All: Ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, Flippy! You're so funny! Titles. (8 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, July 6th, 2009
9:37 am	[Politics (yes, again)] The rise of extremism. I've recently been reading Stuart Sutherland's excellent book Irrationality. I'd recommend it. It's a look at how our assumptions and prejudices are usually pretty much wrong and if you want to acheive good decision making it's always a good idea to look at statistical analyses rather than relying solely upon your own brain. One section of it which really caught my eye was on elections, voting behaviour and decision making. You see, I'd always rather blithely assumed, in a smug educated middle-class sort of way, that when it came to things like understanding issues and being informed about the policies of political parties and their effects upon life the best people at that would be people like you and me, dear readers. i.e smug educated middle-class folks. In that it turned out I was dead wrong. I spend a lot of time reading about and investigating politics and I'd always assumed that others did something pretty similar, but it appears not. Instead, as a general rule, during elections the people who are best informed as to the policies of political parties and the effects they will have are the people at the bottom of the heap; the poorest. I was surprised but when when you stop and think about it that makes sense, as even marginal differences in social and economic policy will have the greatest relative effects upon their lives and so it is in their interest to be up to speed on what those policies actually are. People are acting in their own self-interest, really. I got me to thinking about this in the light of the recent results in the European elections and the shock many people felt about the election of a few BNP members. Looking at the results it seemed pretty clear that the Conservatives lost a lot of their traditional voters to the UKIP, and Labour lost theirs to the BNP; if you're unconvinced, take a look at the historic election returns in the wards where the BNP made gains and tell me which parties lost out to them. You can do that here and here. I've seen some people in the media and on LJ suggest that it's teh ev1l Toriezz voting with the nasty racists, but the evidence shows that where the BNP was elected Labour lost seats whilst the Conservatives and LibDems maintained their share of the electorate in those wards, by and large. A glance at the YouGov poll taken in concordance with the European elections offers some key insights as to who backed them, and why. Nationally, professional workers outnumber manual by 20 per cent to 18 per cent. Among BNP voters the proportion is 11 per cent professional to 36 per cent manual workers. 61 per cent of BNP voters are male. A third read the Sun or Daily Star, compared with just a fifth of the country at large, and only 6 per cent read the upmarket Guardian, Times, Telegraph etc. The average BNP voter’s wage is below the national average. They are, essentially, what once formed the backbone of traditional Labour support. It's very easy to demonise views and belief systems with which one does not agree, and it's also very easy for lazy thinkers to accuse any attempt to understand those views as being in some way condoning them; look at the time Cherie Blair said she understood why the Palestinians were detonating themselves. She didn't say she condoned or agreed, just expressed understanding, but this was still seized upon and she was forced to make a ritual political apology. However, if we are to stop people acting in a way we find abhorrent or unacceptable, it is important to understand why they're doing it in the first place. As Sun Tzu observed in the Art of War almost two and a half thousand years ago, Know your enemy, know yourself, and you shall not be defeated in a thousand battles. As such, I decided to look into why people felt that the BNP were a sufficiently attractive prospect to start electing them. What I found was interesting. The fast reaction of many to the prospect of people voting BNP is that this was done out of stupidity or ignorance, but if Sutherland (above) is correct, then this simply cannot be the case. If the poorest are the best informed on issues, and they're the ones voting BNP (i.e. the Labour party's core vote deserting them), then they must be doing so for reasons which seem to them to be both rational and most importantly in their own interest. I had no idea what those reasons are, so plainly there was something going on here that I wasn't aware of. The primary claim of the BNP is, simply, that 'They're coming over here and taking all our jobs". It's the age-old cry of the knee-jerk reactionary - all we need is for them to add "And women" and it'll be like an episode of Love thy neighbour. This has always struck me as suspect; at the height of the boom back in 2005, Gordon Brown claimed that an additional 2.2 million jobs had been created in the British economy. Even assuming a certain amount of political hyperbole here, anything like that number of created jobs would have had a remarkable effect upon the unemployment figures, and so my next step was to check that out. The Department of Work & Pensions (DWP) keeps figures of people classed as 'out of work and claiming benefits'. That is, the total number of unemployed and not just the ones claiming the dole or whatever it's called this week. Ever since the convenient political charade of shoving the long-term unemployed onto the incapacity benefit register was started in the late 1980's, this total figure has been the one to watch and investigating that led me to this remarkable chart: In spite of all the 'new jobs' having been created in the last decade, unemployment in the UK has remained steady. In fact, at no point in the last decade has the number of people out of work and claiming benefits dropped below five million. This took me aback. We've just lived through the greatest economic boom in recorded human history, but in spite of that and all the untold billions spent, sure start places, initiatives, targets and training schemes, UK unemployment hasn't budged.* Instead, it appears that a migrant workforce has taken up the slack. Now, speaking personally, I'm a big fan of open borders and people being able to move where the work is. If intelligent, educated and diligent Poles with big knockers** (for example) want to move here to work then I'm all for it. This is not the whole picture either; the image of the unemployed as being either incapable of working or workshy is also simply not true. Of the 5.3 million unemplyed and claiming benefits, the best part of half are classed as lacking but wanting paid employment'; however, it seems they simply being outcompeted by the migratory workforce. It's here that the BNP have found their niche; despite having invested billions in public services in the same way that I invested four pints up against the garden wall on my way home from the pub the other night, Labour has comprehensively failed their core supporters - indeed, the very people whom the Labour party were created to represent - the working class. Instead, not only there are just as many people on benefits as there were over a decade ago, but many of those genuinely want to work but simply cannot compete in the job markets. More astonishingly, since the 2005 election the incomes of the poorest 10% of the population have actually fallen in real terms. If you combine these factors, the rise of the BNP becomes understandable; a disenfranchised sector of the population who as a whole actually got poorer during the greatest period of economic expansion we have ever known, and who want to work but find themselves out-competed and out-performed by migratory workers makes for a potent brew of disaffection. I remember railing back in 2005 about the declared public sector liabilities of £38bn; Of course, this was back in the good old days when thirty eight billion quid was a lot of money - since then those liabilities have gone over £720bn and are still growing. This £720bn doesn't take into account unfunded public-sector pension liabilites and PFI commitments*** so you have to admit that Labour's record has been less than stellar; the last time we were this much in debt we at least had punching Hitler squarely on the nose to show for it, but despite that they've not reduced total unemployment by more than can be accounted for by statistical variation and instead made those self same people actually worse off. So much for the 'third way'. I know there are a number of Labour fans out there on my f-list, so there you are. I've solved your problem for you. The reason the BNP are making gains over you is because you've so alienated and disenfranchised your core electorate over the last ten years that they see voting for the Nazis as preferable. You've shown them what jobs are, but made sure they won't get one and made them poorer instead. If you plan on making a stand at any elections any time soon, you might care to do something about it. Gosh, that was all very serious, wasn't it? I'll tell some jokes tomorrow, promise. The voices in my head told me some pretty funny ones over the weekend. *Moreover, thesee figures are over a year old. Since they were compiled, unemployment has risen by somewhere in the region of a million, and if projections are anything to go by the total number of 'unemployed and claiming benefits' will top 7 million people by the end of next year. **Shout out to ditzy_pole here. *** If those showed up on the figures they'd read £2,000,000,000,000, so it's understandable that ol' prudence brown is keeping schtum. (101 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, July 2nd, 2009
1:48 pm	A small step Unfortunately I'm not in London this weekend, but if I were I'd be going to see Buzz Aldrin, who is speaking at the South Bank Centre on Saturday night. I suspect some of my more scientifically minded readers out there may well be interested in this. In other news, it was delightful to read my joke post of yesterday repeated on the letters page of the Metro newspaper this morning. It made a very pleasant change from hearing it on Radio Four. (13 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, July 1st, 2009
10:05 am	Health warnings. I got an email from the Department of Health this morning, warning me not to eat canned pork products due to the risk of swine flu transmission. I deleted it. It was obviously spam. (17 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, June 30th, 2009
9:55 am	Your hair was long when we first met. Back when I was a student a girlfriend introduced me to the music of Tori Amos. Given that she was quirky and intelligent and I'm quite susceptible to that sort of thing I became a fan; her music was good, often funny, and she sang about Neil Gaiman's Sandman, which is quite important when you're 19 and like comics. As time went by Tori slipped from "quirkily interesting" to "worryingly crackers" and her output declined in quality leaving a gap in the market for a girl-on-a-piano singer/songwriter, so it's quite handy that Regina Spektor happened along when she did. If you don't know Regina, she sings Tori-esque songs in a Bjorkish voice and ticks all the boxes for a certain type of fan; little and pretty with a cracked, meaningful voice performing songs which seem lighthearted at first glance but which have an underlying dark heart. I went to a concert of hers in Hyde Park last night. For me, it was a bit of a departure; normally when I go to concerts I have tinnittus for a few days after and come out covered in bruises and maybe with a cracked rib or two - and that's just the baroque adagio evenings at St-Martins-in-the-fields. When I go and see Rammstein things can get get really rough. Certainly I don't think I'm a typical Regina Spektor fan; the crowd seemed largely comprised of both skinny metrosexuals with open-neck shirts and manbags, and the sort of girl who looks like she owns more than one cat. It was really rather good; her performance is recording-crisp and closing your eyes you could easily believe that you've just put a CD on rather than gone to stand in a marquee to listen. It was interesting just how much she seems to inspire obsession in her fans; I've been to concerts with twice as many people there where the crowd made less noise, and there were a lot - more than I've seen at any other concert, I'd say - of couples canoodling during the romantic numbers. Overall, it was a really nice evening out in the park; sunny and warm with booze and a highly-talented entertainer at the top of her game. So what did you do last night? (24 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, June 26th, 2009
10:55 am	Test your might In other news, if anyone fancies a laugh at my expense Ninja Master is running a Kung Fu demonstration at the Armed Forces Fun Day in Battersea Park tomorrow afternoon and he's shanghai'ed me into helping out. If my video games are any guide, this will feature me having my head punched clean off my shoulders whilst a disembodied voice shouts Finish Him!. (9 Comments |Comment on this)
9:42 am	Radio Times More highlights of this weekend's TV from the BBC. Friday, 10pm (FILM): The Bourne Incompetence Starring Matt Damon. A top-secret government assassination programme is exposed when a senior civil servant leaves all the paperwork about it on the train. Saturday, 5pm: The Littlest SuBo The itinerant Britains got Talent star travels from town to town, befriending disabled children, solving crimes, and reuniting estranged familes by singing at them until they agree to love each other if she goes away. Saturday, 9pm (FILM): One Trillion Years BC The director of Independence Day and Godzilla presents the story of a plucky primal atom who must leave the safety of nul-space and seek his destiny. Big-budget special effects blockbuster with a truly explosive ending. Features an 'astonishingly lifelike' performance by Hayden Christensen as an utterly blank void. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Thursday, June 25th, 2009
10:13 am	"Do you like that song, Jeeves? It's all the rage at the Drones at the moment". As I was wandering through central London the other day, I was surprised to hear the merry tinkling of music from the next street. This isn't normally something out of the ordinary; London is usually crammed with buskers of highly variable abilities, but they usually play something easily portable like a violin, guitar or saxophone. However, this was plainly someone playing the piano - and playing it well, to boot - so being curious I went and investigated. Wandering round and taking a look I saw, plonked in the middle of the pavement, a brightly painted piano with a cheerful-looking man sat at it playing a jaunty honky-tonk tune. As he played, he smiled brightly at the passers-by and they in their turn smiled back. It was completely charming; just the sort of thing you want to see in the city, and so very unlike the grim-faced insularity which people usually show in these parts. It took me a moment or two to work out what was going on, and then I remembered: the Mayors office has recently bought thirty pianos, given them a quick once-over with a tuning fork and a paintbrush, and released them into the wild on the streets of London so that anyone can stop, sit down, and give the world a bit of a jingle. It's called Street Pianos, predictably enough. For the reasons outlined above, I think it's an ace idea. If there's one thing I like it's a bit of random cheer, and scientific literature is simply crammed with studies demonstrating how music soothes the fevered brow, calms the savage beast and generally makes the world seem a jollier place to all concerned so I'm all for the London Pianos scheme. As I stood and watched, an idea came to me and, like most of my ideas, it's brilliant. In a few weeks time the Chap Olympics rolls round again and I really have to go as I have a title to defend. however, it struck me that on the 11th of July London will be full of people rigged out in their finest and I know a number of people in my social circle will probably be amongst them. So I propose; how about a fully costumed-up descent upon one of the London Pianos on the day of the Olympiad, possibly on the way there? We could have a singsong and a kneesup and generally make the world a better place through the medium of looking damn fine and singing a sprightly number before going on to the park for G&T and cucumber sandwiches. Anyone interested? It really doesn't matter if you can sing - I can't, I just do it anyway. I was thinking it would be something like this: (24 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, June 23rd, 2009
9:49 am	Rejoice! It is my sister's birthday. All shall make merry, on pain of death. As she reads these pages, everyone sing along! Poll #1419862 Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All For: View Answers She's a jolly good fellow 22 (100.0%) Poll #1419863 Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All For: View Answers She's a jolly good fellow 22 (100.0%) Poll #1419864 Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All For: View Answers She's a jolly good fel-low 22 (100.0%) Poll #1419865 Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All And so say: View Answers All of us 22 (100.0%) Poll #1419866 Three cheers! Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All Hip hip! View Answers Hurrah! 26 (96.3%) Hurrah! 23 (85.2%) Hurrah! 25 (92.6%) (9 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, June 19th, 2009
9:15 am	[Politics]"Not for the true-born Englishman the bony, angular knee of the so-called intellectual" I was having a conversation about politics the other day. You might have noticed that I do this quite a lot, largely because it's a safe outlet for frustrations which otherwise might manifest themselves in the acquisition of a rifle and a clock tower. As political chats seem to do quite a lot at the moment, this one came back to the BNP. Mainly because they're a bunch of fat oafs and are an easy target. I'm not one for indulging in the rabid hatred that some direct towards the BNP myself; I'm always leery of people who hate anything with a passion, as I feel that implies they see something of themselves in the thing they are rejecting - in the same way that the most rabid homophobes tend to be closeted homosexuals themselves. I'd rather see the BNP given an open, free speaking forum as public debate - and loud, loud laughter - are the most effective weapons against the small minded. Anyway, on with the point of this post. "Bloody right-wingers", complained my pal. "Right wing? The BNP?" I said. "Where did you get that from?" "Well, they are, aren't they?" Now, as I'm quite a fan of political debate and the like I've actually read the BNP manifesto - I find it's easier to argue with people when I understand their position - and I have to say that I found saying the BNP were right wing confusing, to say the least. "Hang on", I said. "I've read the BNP's manifesto, and they're in favour of high taxes on the rich, protectionism, workers co-operatives, a large state, regulation, unionisation and nationalising major industries, utilities and, wierdly, the RNLI. None of those thngs strike me as very...right wing?" "Ah", was the reply. "It's their immigration policy which makes them right wing." "Ooooh-kay", I said, taking this in. "So they're right wing. How about me, then? I'm in favour of low taxes, privatisation, deregulation, a small state, free enterprise, free trade and it's essential adjunct of open borders. Does that make me left wing?" "No. You're right wing." "Okay, I'm lost. On the one hand regulation, nationalisation, high taxes, protectionism and immigration controls make them right wing, but on the other hand deregulation, free enterprise, low taxes, free trade and open borders make me...right wing. You'll understand my confusion." "I don't want to have this conversation any more." I have to say this was a disappointing end to things, as I ended up none the wiser on how two people who hold mutually contradictory political opinions could be described as the same thing. I went off and checked the normally impartial Political compass which, as I suspected, described the BNP as authoritarian lefties (the position of the LibDems as semi-anarchists would also explain why I find myself increasingly considering them as an option): But anyway; given that the evidence would certainly suggest that the BNP are to the left of Michael Foot, why do people insist on describing them as right wing? And what do you think? Poll #1417983 Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All The BNP are: View Answers Left Wing 8 (25.0%) Right Wing 5 (15.6%) Too politically incoherent to be able to tell 18 (56.2%) Comprised largely of fat, shaven-headed oafs 20 (62.5%) An irrelevance 7 (21.9%) Led by a fine example of the Aryan Superman - Heil Griffin! 1 (3.1%) Other (Comments) 5 (15.6%) (93 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, June 18th, 2009
9:19 am	Dietary Errors. I was on the train last night. It's something I try to avoid because it's usually a pretty miserable experience, but sometimes I can't avoid it and, as usual, the train I was on was badly delayed due to 'unforseen circumstances'. I hadn't bothered eating anything before I set off as I had hoped to make good time and as I sat there twiddling my thumbs I got slowly hungrier and hungrier until I could stand it no more and headed for the buffet car where I found that everyone else had the same idea before me and it was almost stripped bare. The only thing of any substance left was a solitary Ginsters Sausage Roll. I've heard bad things about them before and I was duly leery of buying it; any meat & pasty based product with a best-before date more than a year in the future is one to be avoided on general principles, I find. I looked at it. It looked at me (less absurd than it sounds, as I'm sure it had more eyeball than actual pork in it). Go on, said my tummy. Feed me! How bad can it be, really?. Beneath the grinding ache of hunger, I cracked, bought it, and consumed it. I can't say that I ate the damn thing, as 'eat' implies there's some degree of nutrition or pleasure involved, and believe you me, there was none. Under normal circumstances I rather like pork. Take a prime pig, lightly kill it, and serve it up in slices or huge lumps slathered in crackling and I'm your man. But this...this vile turd-in-a-bun was undoubtedly the single most unpleasant thing I can remember devouring in my entire life. It had as much in common with a dead pig as I do. In fact, given the photograph of me asleep with my top off which I know is out there somewhere, I think I've more in common with a dead pig than the supposedly 'pork' sausage. Jesus. I can still taste it now, and I shudder to do so. Something I've found when I eat crap food with a lot of fats and short-chain sugars and not much else in it is that I start to feel awful very quickly. I get a fuzzy, sore head, like the early symptoms of a cold. I sometimes wonder if that's how the McDonalds-dining population feel all the time; a bit tired and irritable and finding it hard to think - it would certain explain a lot if so. It was like Ginsters were deliberately adding insuilt to injury; not only had they foisted upon me one of the least edible foodstuffs I've ever encountered, they then made me feel utterly rotten for about twelve hours afterwards. It was an utterly foul, rank, disgusting, repugnant slice of misery which someone with more humour than honesty had described as 'tasty' on the wrapper. Presumably there are people out there who have eaten and will eat more than one of these things in their life - if there weren't Ginsters would quickly go out of business - and it does make me realise that there's a whole other world out there with which I normally try not to engage. A world in which people see mechanically extruded brown paste as meat. A world in which some people read the words 'tasty treat' and actually believe it. Well, they're welcome it it. Ugh. I can still taste it in the thick layer of grease adhering to the back of my throat. Never again. Never, ever, again. (21 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, June 17th, 2009
9:55 am	Radio Times Highlights of this weekend's TV from the BBC. Saturday, 7pm: Moby Dickson of Dock Green Villagers in the sleepy hamlet of Dock Green are astonished to discover their new village bobby is a 50-foot sperm whale. Meanwhile, PC Morris investigates the disappearence of 742 metric tonnes of krill from the fishmonger, and gossips are wondering who is the mysterious one-legged, scarred stranger with a harpoon staying at the Kings Head? (Last in series). Saturday, 10pm: Tokyo Schoolgirl Ninja vs Vampire Assassin in the land of ice! Part of the BBC's Manga season. Adorable, klutzy Sayuki is an ordinary schoolgirl until the day she meets Prince Nigel and learns she is a magical chosen one who must save the world from the evil Lord Gogomori. If you're a lonely teenager or a hugely overweight man for whom clean underwear is an optional extra when watching TV, you'll love Tokyo Schoolgirl Ninja vs Vampire Assassin in the land of ice! Sunday, 10pm: Wogan's Run When the BBC decide Terry Wogan is too old to present the Eurovision Song Contest, Sandman Graham Norton is sent to kill him. Contains scenes of explicit violence. (11 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, June 15th, 2009
10:54 am	"Name the most important musical genre of the twentieth century? And don't say Heavy Metal." "Uh...Heavy Metal." When I was at school, I was faced with a dilemma. Should I apply my undoubted talents, work hard, study studiously and cram my brain with knowledge - and in so doing later go on to a decent university where I would be academically challenged, grow as a person and get a first-rate education? Or should I skive at every opportunity, slack off and learn not a thing, and so end up studying a social science at a rubbish university whose academic credentials could be written on the back of a stamp? Well, no prizes for guessing which option I chose, but the good thing about studying a social science at a rubbish university was that I had five hours of lectures a week and was outnumbered by women on my course eleven to one, and so I spent three years of my life surrounded by women, doing next to no work and generally whooping it up in fine old style at somebody elses expense. If I'm being honest, when I die and go to heaven I'm rather hoping to find myself somewhere pretty similar. As a student I was an habitue of Manchester's finest establishments of rock entertainment; Jillys, The Banshee, The Ritz, The Phoenix, The Salisbury and the rock night they briefly ran at the student union on Saturday nights, and an unintended consequence of this struck me the other night - given that I would go out and rock two or three nights a week, and I only had five hours of lectures in the same period it is not only probable, it's almost certain that whilst I was at university I spent more time playing air guitar than I did actually being educated. Anyway, I was round at robinbloke's pad on Friday evening playing Guitar Hero for the first time. Naturally, given all my air guitar expereience I expected to be pretty good at it, but in fact I turned out to be completely hopeless. Utterly useless and an absolute liability on cooperative mode. It was a sobering realisation that all that time playing air guitar at university turns out to have been completely wasted. Who knew? (17 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, June 12th, 2009
10:18 am	Flawless Victory Or, more likely, fatality. Mine. On May 30 1833, in a particularly brutal fight for the English heavyweight boxing championship which lasted more than 3 hours, James Burke defeated Simon Byrne, the Irish champion. Burke knocked Byrne unconscious in the 99th round and Byrne died three days later. I was vaguely reminded of this rather miserable story last night, as kickboxing Ninja Master outlined his latest hair-brained wheeze for charity. Ninja master is a very fit chap. I suppose he has to be, really, as it's his job, and some might call him sadistic as his main hobby seems to be bellowing I like to watch you suffer in my ear whilst I try not to cry. Anyway, last night he came out with a an idea for charity: namely sponsored boxing. Boxing for one hundred rounds. One. Hundred. Rounds. Each three minutes, with a one minute rest between each one. That's about six and a half hours, of which I would five hours panting, whimpering and getting punched in the head. I can certainly see why he thinks that some people would pay good money for that to happen. The thing is, I don't think I'm physically capable of doing this. In fact, I know I'm not. I am absolutely 100% confident when I say that there's no way on God's Dear Green Wweet Earth that I could do this. Maybe I could do 20 rounds. Possibly even 30 or 40 if I were fighting someone a lot smaller than me who had asthma, or maybe polio. But 100? No. Not. A. Hope. Even so, part of me thinks...why not? But what do you lot think? Poll #1414730 Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All Should I take part? View Answers No, it's a bloody stupid idea. 10 (38.5%) No! You'll be humiliated or die of a heart attack. Oh, hang on. Yes. Yes, you should. 9 (34.6%) Of course you should. Don't be such a wuss. 7 (26.9%) (21 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, June 8th, 2009
10:44 am	Izzy wizzy, let's get busy. After my post last week asking for suggestions for interesting things to do over the weekend I received a slew of fascinating invitations. After thinking about it and deciding that I really rather fancied a day in the country somewhere rural, I took rssefuirosu’s suggestion and headed to the Green Tara Pagan and New-Age festival down in Devon. “But David!”, I hear you cry. “Why would you go to a pagan gathering? You’re the least New-Agey person I’ve ever met in my life. Why, the words ‘Gaia’ and ‘Moon Goddess’ bring you out in a rash, and I hear you once killed a man simply because he owned a huge floppy jester’s hat and a digeridoo.” Well, I reply. Those things may be true, but I’m never adverse to going off and having a bit of an adventure – doing something different to the norm – and, hey! It might even be fun. And so it was that I found myself at midnight on Saturday night, standing next a bonfire beneath the full moon with a group of witches, wondering precisely what I was doing there and who I thought I was kidding. After doing some research into how to behave at Pagan gatherings, I arrived at the festival mid-afternoon on Saturday after enduring over four hours on public transport to get there. As I strolled across the field to the event, I happened across an animated conversation as to what the correct collective noun for witches was. Happy to help, I chipped in. “A burning”, I said, thereby committing my first faux pas of the weekend. It turned out I’d arrived just in time to see the Geshe Lama Ahbay Rinpoche– a genuine Tibetan Lama, the 4th incarnation thereof, especially flown in for the occasion – performing a ritual blessing ceremony and, as this isn’t the sort of thing you see every day unless you live in Tibet, I sat down to watch. It was a long ceremony, and some people might have called it dull but I was immediately entranced. In a windy and muddy field in the middle of nowhere (as I had no real idea where I was) I was watching part of a tradition stretching back thousands of years. The Lama chanted, threw rice about and spent a heck of a lot of time just smiling and looking like he was having the best fun possible. I was deeply impressed. When you’re so at one with the universe that chanting in a muddy field in Dorset is the best fun possible it’s clear that you know something that everyone else is missing out on. The only fly in my ointment during this was the small crowd of hippy-types with expensive cameras buzzing around him filming and photographing every second of the ritual and I started to feel irritated by this; rather than treating this holy chap with any sort of respect they instead seemed to regard him as some sort of performance - doing a kind of clever trick, perhaps - for their entertainment. In reaction I put on my very best concentration face and watched with rapt attention, and occasionally grinned back at him whenever he gave me a smile. Eventually he finished his ritual and gave me a blessing (and a biscuit, which I was confused by because it was apparently both a biscuit and a representation of the entire cosmos – and besides which it was only a Rich Tea and I didn’t have anything to dunk it in). I was so won over by this that I decided to learn more about becoming enlightened and so wandered over to the Zen noticeboard only to find there was nothing on it. Thwarted, I turned my attention to other forms of relating to the unseen and got chatting to an attractive young couple who’d apparently been trying to cast some sort of spell, sitting cross legged on a table in the middle of the field facing straight into the strong wind that was whipping across the site. “You looked busy”, I said. “Yeah”, replied one of them. “We were casting a spell to get the wind down. It seems to have worked pretty well.” He looked around with an air of satisfaction and nodded as, behind him, a tent tore free from its moorings and went sailing over a nearby hedge. I spent the rest of the afternoon strolling about the place and making new acquaintances. As I was obviously the only non-occultist there, I kept my features arranged into an expression of polite interest and tried to project a demeanor of I’m friendly but utterly ignorant of everything you do. Please don’t make a doll of me and burn it..I even bought myself a bar of magic soap (“Made under the full moon”) reasoning that if that doesn’t help me then nothing will. The thing that I liked most was just how friendly the people I spoke to were. I got asked ‘which tradition’ I followed a lot, and after a certain amount of quick internal expectation-readjustment when I answered “Church of England”, everyone was very welcoming, if a little confused as to why exactly I was there. I received a certain amount of polite proselytising and was assured by various different people that their magic worked, even if everyone elses didn’t. Quite seriously, though, everyone I spoke to all weekend was entirely lovely. At about 6pm, the heavens opened and the rain came down. A lot of rain. Really, lots of it. I looked at the weather yesterday and found that Dorset received half its average June rainfall on Saturday night, and most of it landed on the field I was in. Was I downhearted? No! I had a bottle of Cragganmore to keep me warm and well-disposed to my fellow man. As the evening drew on I recall dancing enthusiastically to a band called the Dolmen, who were really good, fun foot-stomping musicians– rather like the Levellers would be if they stopped whining about politics and concentrated on making music for people to enjoy. I took part in a torchlit drumming procession in the howling, driving rain to a bonfire and watched a ceremony. And then, at about midnight, the rain stopped, the full moon popped out from behind its cloud and I stood and steamed by the flames to dry out. I’m pretty sure I spent the next few hours chatting to people, and I’m fairly confident I had some very enjoyable conversations, but I’d drunk two thirds of a bottle of scotch by that stage and so I can’t be certain. Checking my notebook the next morning, the only addition to it from that stage was a note reading Flying saucers & Global Warming – coincidence??? deeply underlined, so really your guess is a good as mine. I woke the next morning on the back seat of someone’s car. First I realised that my head hurt, and second I realized that the rest of me did too as the back seat of the car was significantly smaller than me and I was folded up quite small. Outside the sky was blue and the sun was bright, so I got out, found some water and then sunned myself for a few hours until the rest of the camp started stirring. As my back was feeling rather stiff after my car experience, I went off to find someone to work my back out. “Ah”, I said. “I wonder if you could sort me out a bit. I seem to have these two huge knots in…” “Your upper back.” He replied. I was nonplussed. “How can you tell? Do I have bad posture?” “No”, he replied. “I can see your soul.” Now, this isn’t an answer I really care to hear from someone sitting behind me with their hands around my neck, especially when I happen to know they also have a ritual dagger. I tried to make light of it. “I have a soul?” “Of course.” “Well, Satan got a bum deal from me there then, didn’t he? Ha ha!” This sally didn’t work, so I tried another tack. “So, what does my soul look like? Is it a brilliant orb of golden light, blazing forth it’s beneficence over all humanity?” “Um…no.” “Ok, is it a horrific monstrosity? Blackened and twisted by years of vile debauchery? Like Richard the Third without the laughs?” “No.” “Well, what does it look like then?” “Ordinary. Same as most everyone elses.” “You’re telling me that I have a soul just like an ordinary person?” “Yes.” “Hmph”, I said, petulantly. “I reckon you’re making it up.” That said, he did sort my back out good and proper. And that was about it, really. I had to go in order to struggle back to London despite the best attempts of the public transport authorities to stop me. I think I did pretty well – I didn’t get turned into a frog, I didn’t offend anyone by doing Satanic Goat-Dancing, and I kept a civil tongue in my head when talking to people carrying weapons. I do have to wonder, however, if the hour-long delay just outside Basingstoke was due to someone hexing my train. Let’s face it, it’d be a better excuse than the railways usually use for delays (26 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, June 5th, 2009
9:57 am	You see before you a door into the imagination. I've recently been re-reading the Thursday Next books by Jasper fforde. If you haven't read them, I recommend them because, despite being based on a very old literary conceit, they're actually great fun, funny and well-written. They're based on the old idea of a fictional character being able to enter the 'real' world or a real person entering a fictional one, rather like The Purple Rose of Cairo, Last Action Hero or The Neverending Story. In the first book, The Eyre Affair, a machine is invented which allows real people to enter worlds of fiction, resulting in varoius characters from Jane Eyre being murdered or kidnapped and held to ransom - as these events take place, the text of the book (and all copies of it) change for better or worse. So that gives me an idea. As it's Friday and so a slow work day, today's question is; which work of fiction would you choose to jump into if you had the chance, and how would your presence improve it? Here's a few of mine. Wuthering Heights "By Hells Teeth!", bellowed Heathcliffe. "If any man stood between me and my desires, I should tear out their heart and devour it before their eyes!" He seized up a chair in his fury and hurled it at the wall, denting the wainscotting. "I am the master of this house and all within it shall do my..." There was a knock at the door. With a diabolic oath and a twisted leer, Heathcliffe strode over and hurled it open to reveal David standing outside. "Damn your eyes, sir!" roared the master of the house. "What business have you upon my land? Speak quickly before it goes ill for you!" "Are you Heathcliffe?" was the only reply. "That I am, sir, whatever business it is of yours!" "Well cop for this, then", replied David, and kicked him firmly in the plums. Heathcliffe collapsed with a soft whimper. David looked at the recumbent literary fruitcake. "You had that coming", he commented. "I always reckoned you were all mouth and no trousers." Looking away, his eye happened upon Cathy, sitting silently on the seat by the windown. "Come on, Cathy", said David. "Let's take you out and show you a good time." He looked her up and down and took in her strict crinolines and corsetry. "But first", he added, opening his bag and taking out a pair of hotpants, "why don't you slip into something a little more comfortable?" Twilight. "Edward! Oh, my Edward!" My voice was cracked with worry as I ran through the glass-walled rooms of the Cullen's beautiful house. Within me, my heart beat faster at the sight of spatters of red on the cream-coloured furnishings. What could had happened. If some tragedy had befalled my beloved it would be as if all my being, my purpose had been stripped from me. I took the stairs three at a time, past the momentoes of eternity which the Cullens decorated their home. Each picture of Edward, each sign of him was a splinter of fear in my heart as I passed. I reached the top of the stairs, and turned to my love's room. It was in there he had sworn to protect me, no matter what. That he would always watch over me, care for me. Seated on his bed was an unknown man, bending over Edwards recumbent body. As I watched, the man raised a mallet and finished knocking home a sharpened wooden stake. He turned, and looked at me. "Lucky I got here when I did", he said. "Turns out this place was a nest of vampires. Still," he added, standing and brushing thick, gritty ash from his shirt. "I think I got them all. You should be safe, now." Safe? The word burned itself into my mind. Yes, I was safe. I felt myself falling utterly, irretrievably in love. 1984 It was a bright cold day in April, and the clock was striking thirteen. David looked irritably up from his newspaper and glared at it. "Bloody thing", he muttered. "I knew I should have kept the receipt." Your turn. (22 Comments |Comment on this)