Mousemats, Traffic and Politics

While in work today I noticed the shiny new mousemats that the centre have forked out for. Their shinyness is worth commenting upon, for they are noticably shiny. However, each individual computer in the cybercafe is attached to an LED mouse, so having a mousemat, especially one that is shiny and dimpled, makes using the computer harder. These are the petty niggles which rule my days.


I also discovered writ large upon the back of the mousemats that they are 'indestructible under normal use'. That is a quality I really look for in my mousemats. Indestructibility. This mousemat is surely the Superman of the mousemat race.


There is a stretch of road between my house and work, which is handy otherwise I would live in my workplace. HAHAHAHAHA.


There is a stretch of road between my house and work which is being given a new layer of cement or whatever it is the government have to feed the road to sate the fury of the road. It resents being driven on.


This re-tarmacking is a nuisance as it causes a huge traffic jam due to the inevitable bottle-necking. I appreciate that this is unavoidable and that the cement people (people who cement, not people made out of cement) are doing us proud and keeping us safe by spreading more molten rock on the road, but I was slightly put out by it so I feel I have the right to lash out mindlessly on the internet. And I do.


In the traffic jam I nobly allowed a gargantuan cement truck to merge from a junction and go in front of me in the queue which was snailing its way forward. This was fine, I didn't feel threatened or encroached upon by the colossal truck, the tailgate of which was, at some points, almost hovering over my head. This all changed, however, when an ambulance and a police car tried to force their way through the gridlocked throng.


Again, I appreciate that the amblumance people (purposeful mispelling) and the po-po were on their way to assist in an important matter, such as to apprehend a thief who had stolen a vulnerable person's heartbeat and to re-instate said heartbeat into the vulnerable person. I momentarily forgot what the other emergency service was. Fire engines.


So I was slightly intimidated and befuddled by being jammed behind a cement truck with an angry looking amblumance man glowering at me. I would like to say to that amblumance worker; "I am not Inspector Gadget. My car cannot perform physics-defying transformations. Suck it".


It is good to see that the country is still basically functioning even though all the leaders have taken time off to go and win a popularity contest.


I am particularly galled by the Conservative 'policy' which will run a project called 'School Stars' which is essentially X-Factor in schools. I would stick my neck out and say this is a bad idea. We already have X-Factor, it is called X-Factor and it is on the television and it is cackworthy shite. Surely running that sort of project can't be a political policy? That's not going to solve anything.


How do we solve the problems? GARY BARLOW WITH KIDS!! Excuse me? GARY BARLOW WITH TEH KIDDEZ!!


It's an odd one though, I don't oppose the putting of kids on stage in a competitive form. I have fond (if occasionally bitter) memories of the various Eisteddfodau that I partook of as a child. But I think the main difference between these and 'School Stars' (apart from the obvious cynical political manipulation that is inherent in it) is that the Eisteddfod's scope is huge, with events including oration, singing, musical recital, dancing, with the main focus being on writing. I think the focus on writing is an admirable thing, I feel that writing is implicitly more creative than singing. But I suppose I would say that, I love writing. In fact, I am writing right now. While I acknowledge that singing well is a talent and not an easy thing, I feel the individuality and creativity needed for things such as writing, composing etc makes efforts in those fields more valuable, and I feel it is something of a pity that singers can make a fortune simply rehashing other people's creations. MAKE SOMETHING NEW.


The consensus seems to be that Nick Clegg won the recent debate, which of course means that he did. I don't know who I'll vote for at this point as I haven't yet taken the time to research any party's manifesto, but I feel that if the Lib Dem's can build on this burst of popularity that would be a positive thing. From an incredibly selfish point of view I would welcome them coming to power if they stay true to their pledge of scrapping tuition fees. I think if that happened I'd go back to University. Which is reason for everyone to vote Lib Dem.


These are the policies they should be leading with! Nick Clegg says he'll put Gilder back in Uni!


I suppose what we'll find out in the next couple of weeks is whether voters would prefer to see kiddies played off against each other a la X-Factor, or if they'd rather see them in University.


I'd usually be pessimistic about it, but we must bear in mind that we did get Rage Against the Machine to number one.


As a short P.S. The sight of George Osborne still makes me retch. That is all.

My Life in Car Journeys (Little Ones)

I got in my car, pulled out of my parking spot and I was instantly stuck behind a sheep.

Now, I am a firm believer that the road is not a suitable location for a sheep, I would argue that the mountain or, ideally, a field would be a nonpareil setting for them. But contrary to popular belief, they won't listen. Sheep are the go-to animal when attempting to characterise someone as a mindless follower through the specific use of animal comparison. This sheep was indeed an idiot, and was very slow in yielding right of way to me, daredevilishly slow when considering I had the whirring engine of my fierce Fiesta to assert my dominance with.

I think we should fit cars in rural areas with huge chomping maws with which to butcher wandering animals. I feel this will eventually breed a mistrust of cars in the beasts, and they'll stay out of my way. It would be useful to create a device which can convert lamb into power, as this will offer yet another cheaper and greener alternative to traditional fossil fuel.

More flashing light antics on the way home again, this time a police car had pulled over a large white transit van. This had helpfully played out in a stretch of road where two lanes merge into one, causing confusion and brouhaha. As I drove past my head was filled with the voices of The Trap, cacophonously shrieking "fooching ewwh, ichs thuh fooching filfth!" in grotesquely over-egged Liverpudlian accents. And I was amused.

I also came level with a learner driver at a roundabout, he/she was going straight on, whilst I was turning right. It was a short lived romance however, as I pulled assuredly and safely onto the roundabout, and he/she floundered nervously at the junction. I swelled with a bloated sense of my own road competence, but I have since come to rue the loss of a romance that could have been.

I also saw girls (ACTUAL ONES!) in long socks and short skirts on my drive home, and that really hammered home quiet how much of a lecherous oik I am/can be. I then came home and had a jam sandwich. Mmmm. On both counts.

*****

P.S. TextEdit repeatedly replaced 'oik' with 'irk', which is ironic as I was indeed irked by the end of it, and I feel that automatic correction is an oik, and incredibly detrimental to creative writing. Such as the bit where I phonetically attempted 'Fucking hell, it's the fucking filth!'.

Creative, odd and/or archaic language is hugely important to me. The ladies love archaic language as well. At least those were the particulars bequothed unto mineself.

Ambulation

More tales from the dashboard today. Once again, this comes from driving home from work.

It seems the most excitement, or at least out of the ordinary activity, in my day stems from unusual nighttime behaviour from the drivers of Wales.

There lies an 40 em pee aitch zone just out of the gates from whither I work, this is a different zone from the last entry, just so people don't think I am obsessed with zones where the speed limit is 40 miles an hour. This isn't the case. Anyone spreading such untruth about me is fabricating it and furthermore, is clearly a buffoon.

Temporary traffic lights had been set up in this zone, as They are tearing up one lane of the road for their nefarious ends, They know who They are. I'm talking to you, Local Council. I assume that's who is in charge of repairing the roads. I could be wildly naive in my understanding of road-repairing. In fact, I most certainly am wildly naive in my understanding of Government at every level. I watch The Thick of It for the dynamic camerawork.

Back to the traffic lights; temporary.

I drove towards them in my car, and they were on green, so I deduced, thanks to my knowledge and experience of UK driving rules, that it was okay for me go straight through. Moreover, it would not only be 'OK', but any other action apart from driving through would provoke aggravation from other road-users. I was most definitely in the right, is my point.

A rather sharp turn follows the traffic lights; temporary, and I crested the corner gracefully, with a steady hand, and true steering. Imagine the vibrant disquiet that took hold of me as my eyes were filled with a vision of a wayward ambulance, converging upon my bonnet like a meteor towards a Victorian gentlewoman. So reckless was the decision of the ambulanceteers to plough down a one lane road against a red light, I would describe their motion with the verb; 'to careen'. Ambulances shouldn't careen. If they were, they would be called Careenbulances. You're right, they wouldn't. Careenmobile?

So how did I avert catastrophe and make base safely enough in condition to write this missive to the world.

Well, some would say that I was driving sensibly enough that I was able to reverse at a brisk yet safe and steady pace and avoid the mass of the rampaging ambulance. Rampagebulance.

However, here is the truth of the matter.

I reacted instantly to the dreadful vision, activating the Incorporeal Mode on my Boeing SevenFordFiesta, rendering my vehicle, and myself, ethereal, passing through the charging health-unit without suffering any physical contact. As the cockpits of our two vehicles came level, I dislodged myself from the intangibility process, and once again became Incarnate. I used the momentum I had built up, and sailed just over the driver's head, performing a nimble and concise flip as I did so, allowing me to grab hold of the driver's ears and send him in a gargantuan piledriver down the length of the ambulance.

The driver landed sickeningly in a heap at the far end of the vehicle, limbs splintering out from her torso like a deformed pine cone.

Ironically she had landed on one of the medical pallets set up in the back, although the irony was lost on all as the now-driverless ambulance sped over the lip of a sheer drop, sending the helpless crew into a fatal nosedive.

I once again became impalpable, rising gently through the roof and hovering calmly in the still evening air, high above the vehicular pogrom below, which was quickly setting the surrounding greenery into a vivid blazing torment.

Women drivers, eh?

Hazardous

On the way home from work today in my car I was much perturbed by an happenstance which took place before me.

There was a car in front of me, and another in front of that, but the crux of this tale focuses not on these, but on the vehicle just in front of them.

I could not see the colour nor the variety of this car, as it was dark already by this point, nor am I able to discern the details merely from its shape, as cars really are not my area of expertise nor interest.

The car in question was driving in an aggravating manner, and the specific area of driving in which it was aggravating was in the area of its speed. It was going at the wrong speed. We (the drivers and the cars) were in a zone which had been decreed by the government as a 40 miles per hour zone. This means that you are able to drive at that agreed speed in this area, and no higher. Of course, it is completely legally acceptable to drive at a slower pace, although it is generally frowned upon by red-blooded drivers. And also horned upon.

The car in question was driving at around 10 miles per hour lower than the highest point of allowed speed, clocking in at around 30 miles per hour. I felt that this was slightly too fast to be genuinely annoying, and yet not fast enough for me to feel the benefit of the 40 zone, which I was using in order to minimise the time it would take me to get home.

It was too fast to briskly and comfortably overtake the car, especially with the bulk of traffic coming the other way, it would have been too dangerous a manoeuvre to attempt, especially bearing in mind that my car is not the Batmobile, nor the car used by Inspector Gadget. The Gadgetmobile?

More distressing than this, however, was the insistence of the car to drive with its hazard lights flashing. This confused me, as the car was still moving steadily, and yet it was proudly broadcasting the fact that it was a hazard. I wondered whether the car was towing the one behind it, and indicating this with its hazards. No, it was not. It was merely, in a subtle, undetectable way, being hazardous. We approached a junction, and I turned off the road and went over a bridge (always lovely) rather than trailing behind the hazardous car on the new road. This detour surely added precious seconds to my journey, and unquestionably resulted in the death of at least two seals. Which I now must wipe off my bumper.

The feeling I experienced in reaction to this hazard-car was not annoyance, or anger. It was far from road rage. It was more an illogical, deeply rooted unease, a feeling that something is intrinsically but indefinably wrong, such as when the volume on my radio is on an odd number rather than an even number.

This was mean't to be an examination of how little events can affect you in strange ways, but nothing of note happened on the alternative route home. Perhaps if I'd followed the car with its hazards on, or the Duke of Hazards which I am not calling it, I would have been killed in a huge towering blaze started when their hazard lights got really hot and did an explosion, transforming the reasonably paced car into a coasting fireball.

Probably all that would have happened is I would have gotten home and written a slightly different blog.

Sometimes, a butterfly in flaps its wings on the other side of the world, and all that happens is it gets caught in a butterfly hunter's net. That's right, hunter.

Although sometimes a butterfly flaps its wings on the other side of the world and is struck by a nuclear blast, and we all know what happens in that instance.

Routines Don't Have to Be Routine

Since getting into a regular routine myself, I have begun to notice that other people go about their business with quite strict routines also. This is never more evident than on my leaving my place of work, where my routine of: iPod, engine, leave, is always followed by being stuck at the very first traffic lights. It is during this wait, where I am stuck cursing the colourful trinity, that I begin to wonder whether the black lady will be waiting by the side of the bus-stop. After driving the same route home every day, I have begun to notice landmarks, and I didn’t consciously notice the black lady until one day she was not there. I panicked.

I began to wonder who had removed the black lady from her side-of-the-bus-stop vigil, this slouchy dignitary who stands on no plinth. Then I realised that she is an actual person and not just a marker to let me know how far along my route I am, which led me to question my mental process. Instead of going on much of a journey of self-analysis, I decided to compose a song I now sing whenever there is a significant lack of black lady by the bus stop. It goes: “O-o-o-h black lady by the bus stop / where are you today? / Have they taken you away?” but then I am past the bus stop and I lose interest.

If you are wondering, when she is there as usual, I do not have a song to greet her, that would be weird. Instead I just shuffle past nervously, bowing my head, which is a difficult and dangerous thing to do in a car.

Here is another thing I observed whilst driving home. It was already dark by this time, and I was just nearing my old University, when I noticed too men standing awkwardly close to each other and jittering around aggressively. I realised that one of the men had his arms around the other, and looked to be shaking him quite violently. The man who was being held by the other was seemingly of Asian descent, it is impossible to be more specific from the brief glance I had from my side window as my pimped-out Aston Martin ZX Spectrum whooshed past sexily doing one like off Tokyo drift. The reality of the situation then sunk in as I came level to them. What I had originally believed to be a highly localised example of a racial riot was actually one guy helping his friend stay upright as he struggled to 1) stand up and 2) not fall into the road, as he tried to rollerblade. I was momentarily heartened by this, thinking that this is surely the world that Martin John Lennon King had surely dreamt about and/or been able to imagine. Turns out it is easy if we try. I soon got over this rather quickly though, as I decided to be indignant that people were attempting to learn to rollerblade in the dark on the edge of a main road. Bloody immigrants, coming over here, rollerblading on our pavements, right next to a busy road! Direct them to a skate park, that’s what I say.

The new routine I am cultivating involves a midday viewing of the channel NHK World. NHK is a Japanese television channel, where NHK World broadcasts in English and has shows about various aspects of Japanese culture. My sister and I began watching the channel in the summer, when we were much enamoured of the show Nihongo Quick Lesson, an endearingly cheesy show teaching basic Japanese phrases. We decided to put this show on series link using our futuristic Sky Plus technology, but then decided against this as it inundated our planner with infinite repeats since the show is played so many times a day. I randomly went back to the channel a few weeks ago, as there was nothing of any merit on any other channel, so I thought I’d give it another opportunity. And NHK World delivered, though it may not be for the reasons they would have wanted. The channel is run on the same sort of format as community radio, where the news comes in every hour, although on NHK World it lasts for an entire half hour, as though it doesn’t have enough shows to fill anywhere near enough time. And it doesn’t, which is half the reason it is utterly magnificent, where shows that under-run mean that a few minutes have to be filled with footage of squirrels with a lovely piano composition over the top, and also that shows that don’t have enough material have to seek things that have nothing to do with the title of the segment. For example, a show entitled Chinese Noodle Odyssey, which is something I would consider going on, begins by telling you about noodles in China (tick), but then discusses bean paste pancakes (at least it’s still food), then going off completely and showing some traditional Chinese shadow puppets. There was also a wonderful scene where the host ate some Chinese flat bread and basically said “Eugh, that’s gross!” which is the sort of honesty that is utterly missing from Western food programs.

By far the best part of NHK World is the weather, where a woman who, when standing in profile, has the shape of the letter S talks through some weather that you ignore, and then for 5 minutes the screen is full of a list of 5 international locations with their temperature and weather, with calming nothing synth whispering over the top of it. I have decided that this is the most tasteful 5 minutes of footage that will ever be broadcast in any given hour. Anyone who doesn’t want to know the temperature of Los Angeles, London, Tokyo and Kuala Lumpur in the same segment, simply doesn’t deserve a television. It feels like what I imagine television would have been like in the oldie olden days, before everything had to be loud, short and viciously screamed out of the screen into your tearful soul. It is television that can be as comfortable as radio, where even the strange mix of stilted Japanese-English and the nose-wrinkling cheese of American-English accents and dialects can meld together and be enjoyable. One segment had a Japanese-speaking Italian musical-director travelling around introducing ancient Japanese scroll-art. What beautiful individual decided that was a segment that needed to be made? Whoever they are, I love them.

So, about the footage of the squirrels. There was one squirrel which stood still and looked as though it had a marvellous punk Mohican running the length of its body, leading me to exclaim that the Japanese were bound to imagine Pokemon if there are creatures like that inhabiting their forests. The squirrel then moved and it was merely a trick made by holding its tail to its back, which disappointed me deeply but perhaps gives an insight into the creation process of some pokemon. I would like to think that someone who was tricked into believing that a squirrel could have a Mohican would then decide to fill the gap with animation once it turns out to be untrue.

In animal news that is closer to home, I think I witnessed the puppy discovering rain this afternoon. We are attempting to get him to realise that the correct location for bowel evacuation is out the back (of the house and also of his body), and it began to rain when he was out there. The sight of a small dog attacking the sky and almost doing a back-flip will certainly be my favourite image of the day.

But only because there is no such thing as a Mohiquirrel.

P.S. I just helped extricate a bottle of Ribena from a glitchy vending machine for a small child, this is not in my job description and makes me a hero.

What am I Driving At?

I am spending a lot of time driving at the moment; driving to work, driving to the radio and driving a golf ball straight onto the green. Hilarious joke I think you will agree. Incidentally, I have absolutely no interest in golf.

I amuse myself with a friend on the trips to and from the radio, and with podcasts on the way to work, but I find myself bored on the way home. “Well Gilder, simply put another podcast on your iPod!” I hear you bellow. I would, of course, do this if it did not mean I would likely be out of new podcasts by midweek. So instead I make time for a little bit of silence, for thinking about silly ideas and for hate.

One of the ideas I enjoyed toying with was of mounting a wide-angle lens camera (either still or video) onto the bumper of the car that could record the journey, where the happenings around the car can be kept seen in a far more expansive scope than can be seen from behind the windscreen. My reasons for wanting to do this are far from artistic, having their roots in petty pedantry and the constant quest for what is correct. Like a scientist, except interested exclusively with the occasions where I feel I have been wronged, or individuals have acted in a particularly foolish way.

I have chronicled before my experiences with Captain Poon and his hilarious rugby jersey, but road-based idiocy isn’t usually as amusing. I am repeatedly exasperated by jaywalkers who insist on timing their reckless road-crossing to ensure they pass as close as is humanly possible to the back of my car without actually having their foot chewed up by my tyre. In this bracket also reside the people who feel it is necessary to stand on the absolute edge of the pavement as a zebra crossing, as though they have so little time to spare that they are willing to risk having their wrists broken by a passing wing-mirror.

Of course it isn’t just pedestrians that annoy me, it seems as though this week the road-faring characters have been well and truly out in style and no mistake sonny Jim! People are bombing into/out of junctions, failing to indicate at roundabouts and, my very favouritest thing of all, manically swinging an all-in-one-go U-turn in the middle of the road. I’m half expecting to see a Dukes of Hazzard style jump interrupt my commute, sending a car barrel-rolling over my bonnet, playing out the horn-blast just as the windscreens come parallel and a toothless, silver-haired geezer flashes me a thumbs up and a cheeky grin. Before landing the vehicle on its roof where it bursts into flame, the trickle of fire slowly winding itself to the petrol tank as the driver struggles furiously to escape from the seatbelt that is holding him upside down in what has become a motorized oven, and before he has time to utter an antiquated expletive the flame reaches the petrol tank sending the car into a molten inferno which I see slowly shrinking in my rear-view mirror and scream to myself “That’ll serve you, you COCK~!”

As I’m sure you will have gathered by now, I have borne witness to some damn stupid feats of driving. I attempt to only get angry in retrospect, as I feel exploding behind the wheel is likely to cause a troublesome occasion. What I certainly never do is stare directly into the rear-view mirror of the car in front, gesticulating wildly and screaming muffled obscenities. The reason behind this is that, should something go awry on the road, what I want is for everything to be in order again as fast as is humanly possible, and I don’t feel that antagonising the driver in front will achieve this aim. I have to turn right on a four-way intersection in order to make my way into work every day. The traffic is passing both ways parallel to each other, and so it is only possible for me to turn right once the traffic passing in the opposite direction has cleared, but the vast quantity of furious tools that don’t understand why I don’t simply drive headlong into oncoming traffic so as to be less of a bother to them is truly astounding. I am 100% sure, however, they are incredibly busy and on their way to do something of incredible value. Such as taking their seatbelt off and driving as fast as possible into a wall.

So I have become worried about some of the things I write here, and how they would be taken in a new context, such as if I was involved in a road accident. What impact would this blog have? It is mostly intended to be frivolous, and even this somewhat more exasperated piece is really meant to be amusing, though I’m not really certain I am achieving that at this point. This query originally occurred to me as I was driving through a 40 zone that is a notoriously dangerous strip where several people have been run over and killed. This time of year it is dark by the time I pass through this stretch on the way home, so I always pay particular attention going through there, though having never seen people walking, the main impetus for vigilance is idiotic over-takers. There is a gag about over-takers soon seeing undertakers there, but I’ll be huffed if I am going to wrestle that one out properly now.

On the side of this particular bit of road, there is a wooden fence lining the road, and standing flush to the fence are steel girders. In order to explain the slightness of gap between the fence and the girders I would say that if you tried really hard, you could fit a single emaciated idiot in there, multiple if they stood side by side. So there were between 3 and 5 emaciated idiots jammed betwixt fence and girder, and I worried as I went past that they would slide something under the car, such as a rock, a Police-style stinger strip or the sliding trapper from Ghostbusters. Thankfully they did no such thing, but I was left wondering what sort of trouble I would get into if one of them foolishly darted out into the road and I ran him/her over, whether it wouldn’t be seen as accidental because I’d written a flippant blog about running someone over. Similarly should any sort of RTA occur to me, would this blog be dug out as some sort of character evidence, even if it is 2030 and I am in my forties and I look back on the person who I was when I wrote this blog and think I/he am/is an idiot? Would I be condemned because of my feeble attempts at comedy?

I later realised it definitely wouldn’t. After all, we will all have hovercars by 2030 and so there are no tyres there for people to get chewed up by. Although they might get mutated by the radioactive waves upon which my Ford Glider zips over their heads. Although hopefully I will, by then, be the President of a huge global umbrella company named Gilder Inc. and so I will be able to manufacture my own hovercars and so I could be driving the Gilder Glider. Or I could be a super-villain and be called the Giddler.

I have to drive into Cardiff tomorrow; I am going to the Chapter Arts Centre in order to attend a comedy open spot. It will be my first time in an actual comedy bill, as all my other live forays have been in competitions or fully open mic nights, so it will be interesting to see whether my stuff is able to stand alongside the material of professional comedians in any way, or whether I truly am a self-impressed pretender. The reality is likely somewhere in the middle, but true populist drama needs the extremes, so for the sake of goading a reaction out of readers I am either a genius or utterly shit.

I am not looking forward to driving in, as I have never driven directly there before, having been a passenger and led astray by the sat-nav last time, and then trekking quite a way to reach the actual building. Hopefully it will all go well, and I will be spared death, both in reality and in metaphority.

I think when somebody dies they go to a wonderous place, and that place is called Metaphority.

That is quite enough rubbish for one day, have a nice *insert appropriate time of day here*.

Pedestal to the Metal

Administrative bumph often means that genuine change takes a huge length of time to occur, and so a genuine overhaul is interesting news. One such overhaul occurred recently in Samoa, where they decided to change which side of the road they drive on. This has resulted in significant hilarity because some buses are no longer allowed to run because their doors are now on the wrong side of the bus, meaning that potential passengers would have to walk out into the middle of the road in order to board a bus. I say hilarity.

According the BBC article I’ve got this story from, the reason for this change was to enable Samoans to import cheaper automobiles from anywhere but America, because the left-hand drives they were having to buy beforehand were too expensive. Overlooking the poor arrangement of the previous sentence, I would like to express my interest that the change was made for business reasons. I think I should come clean and admit that I did believe I could make some humorous comment about this story, and have been proven wrong, rather than edit this piece out, however, I think it should be left in, as I am all for honesty and transparency in my blogging endeavour.

Another breaking story today, which I actually have something interesting to say about, was an article about the Beatles, who are a brand new band you probably haven’t heard of. The main thrust of the piece was that, in light of their entire back-catalogue being re-released in glorious mono, the journalist Stephen Robb asks why you aren’t allowed to dislike the Beatles.

“The Beatles seem to occupy a uniquely unassailable position in popular culture - everybody loves them. Don't they?” he asks.

He then discovers that there are indeed some people who hate the Beatles, or at the very least think they are overrated, which is of course such an easy thing to think due to them being so very highly rated. I was not alive when the Beatles ruled the world, nor did I listen to them seriously until fairly recently, and so I am of the opinion that they are ok. There are some songs I do not rate at all, but mostly they are enjoyable.

My interesting (we’ll see) point about the Beatles revolves around the first stand-up set I began performing with my friend (co-hopeful-comedian?) back around February, where a line about Pink not being the ‘rockstar’ she claims she is leads us to question what John Lennon would have made of Pink. Connoisseurs of the double act format will be aware that an extreme contrast between the two parties usually exists, and our act is no exception. Therefore the inquiry about John Lennon leads to my colleague brazenly declaring “John Lennon was an idiot”. Before we embarked on our comedy-attempts we thought there might be controversial lines in our sets, but to this day the only line that has been greeted with a sharp intake of breath and an “ooooh” has been the material on John Lennon. Bearing in mind this is roughly 30 years after he was killed, and the insult was merely “he’s an idiot” (followed by the declaration that “He thought he was a walrus”) is perhaps testimony to the pedestal he is held upon. Whether this is justified, which is the query of the original article, is of no interest to me, as long as I am able to enjoy Norwegian Wood (or not) at my own discretion. The Haruki Murakami novel which takes its name from that song, was the catalyst that made me investigate the Beatles seriously. If you are dying for some Norwegian Wood, I would suggest the novel before the song, unless you are strapped for time. My double act partner has a genuine dislike of the Beatles, the song ‘Octopus’ Garden’ especially, so if Stephen Robb is strapped for Beatles haters to interview, send him my way and I will patch him through.

Rather than disliking the metaphorical John Lennon Hero-Worship Plinth which hangs in the stratosphere in particular, I have a general dislike for putting anyone on a pedestal. When people are elevated to such a position where criticism of them is no longer tolerated, that is where ignorance begins.

I was recently watching clips of Robin Ince on YouTube, where I stumbled upon the commentary from a Ricky Gervais DVD (‘Politics’ I think) that had been uploaded. In the clips, Ricky chats with Robin, in what is either an amazingly fastidious act or evidence of the stunted mental growth somewhere within Ricky Gervais. It is the comment section which interested me most, as with most YouTube videos, as regardless of how good the content of the clip is, it is unavoidable that in the comment section, vacuous idiocy prevails.

I was surprised, then, to discover that actual thought was taking place in the comments below. One poster expressed that Ricky’s constant belittling of Robin was ridiculous, as Robin is a far better comedian. Further posts decried a number of comedians ‘better’ than Ricky Gervais, with particular focus on Stewart Lee. The problem with these arguments is that there are no clearly defined grounds of what a ‘comedian’ is and does, therefore arguing that one comedian is ‘better’ than another is always going to be a completely subjective process, which is why its important to explain what criteria you are judging them on. Of course a YouTube comment section possibly isn’t the place for that, whereas of course, I would argue a blog is (lucky you). An interesting poster simply inquired: “Stewart Lee better than Ricky Gervais, which planet are you on?”

I was intrigued that a comment on the famous video site would take the form of a riddle, thinking that slightly more information would have been welcome before it was necessary for me to answer accurately. With the small amount of knowledge available to me I tentatively answered: Earth.

I received Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle through the post today, which perhaps suggests that my opinion is going to be skewed, though I also own the stand-up DVDs of Ricky Gervais, meaning that I could make an informed decision, should I choose to do so. In terms of my personal preference, I believe that Stewart Lee and Robin Ince are better comedians that Ricky Gervais, regardless of how successful they are in purely monetary terms. I think the works of Stewart Lee and Robin Ince are more crafted and thoughtful than Gervais’, who often has dalliances with ‘dodgy’ topics, the actual aims of which I am uncertain of. When it comes to subjects which are likely to cause offence or leave people feeling awkward, it is important to understand the reason why the jokes are being made, the actual target of the jokes, and the message, and I sometimes feel that Gervais’ point is uncertain. This is of course my own personal reading of them, from one viewing, so it is completely possible that there is a justifiable point to the jokes.

The tone of the commenter, however, suggested that the quality of anything touched by Gervais was not to be questioned, purely on the quality of what has gone before. Which is, of course, rubbish. Each new offering has to be viewed on its own merits, and a mediocre, or rubbish, offering should not receive acclaim because The Office is good. When The Office first came out, I was slightly boggled by it, but I was likely too young to fully understand it, and so I am not really in any position to offer a credible view of it.

While I prefer a vast amount of comedians to Ricky Gervais, I am in no way saying he isn’t funny, and I do enjoy his work. I haven’t seen Extras, or any of the films he has worked on, nor have I heard the podcasts which has him crowned King of Podcasts, and to understand the phenomenon of his being held in such huge esteem, I would have to undertake a comprehensive study of its causes.

I Hate Hiatus

I have been shanghaied into a routine that sees me outside and active, which means that my agreed upon schedule for blogging has been vaporised. Any move away from the plan in terms of writing, in my case, means nothing gets done. Hence I am late in breaking out a September blog.

I have decided to stop criticising the top ten every Sunday, as this allows me to not listen to music I know I won’t enjoy. There is also enough bile on the internet without me needlessly, and feebly, adding to it for no reason. Should an appropriately evil song appear, I will mercilessly spear it.

My unplanned hiatus from blogging occurred because I have been busy starting a new job. Despite having been offered the job in the spring, administrative bumph has ensured that it is only now I can begin, to be fair I am just glad to be starting. Most everyone there seems glad to have my post filled, as various people had to multitask and take on the responsibilities of my job on top of their own. I am glad to be of use, and needless to say, but I will regardless: the money is also welcome.

My role is, largely, to make sure children playing on computers behave themselves. For the most part this is an easy enough task, though I was forced to be stern/firm with a group of potential miscreants who were attempting to act out a moribund “Outside, then” scenario, with another young sir who clearly wasn’t interested. Children should just grow up.

It is odd how little changes from generation to generation, the same kids wanting to fight, the same other kids getting dragged into it. Cyclical, repetitive and pointless, though sometimes amusing. However, I mostly find the behaviour of the children distracting and abrasive. I’m sure you are thinking that it was necessary to apply a significant amount of tongue-biting in the interview for this job, there wasn't I promise, I’m not actually as distant and disjointed as this blog perhaps suggests.

What is particularly weird about this job is that I get to see the sort of activities the computer-friendly youth of today partake in. The biggest surprise for me whilst observing was that very little has changed since I was their age (roughly 10 years ago). The appearance of YouTube is the only huge change, allowing cackling kiddos to huddle together suspiciously to electronically watch people falling over ad infinitum. Aside from that, it is flash and browser-based games that still rule the internet-use sweepstakes when it comes to children. The only major changes in those fields are graphics and connection speed.

Direction-button games involving BMX tricks and just rag-dolling a hapless, faceless blob around the screen abound, as well as an extremely basic and ugly first person shooter involving what looks like Lego men that have been pimped with steroids and a neon trim. Amazingly, though, Runescape is still being played. It has undergone huge graphical changes since I used to play it, but it is very much the same grind-happy rubbish MMORPG. I am mostly annoyed that most of the kids have characters of a higher level than any of mine ever achieved, though that only proves they are dorks. Take that lame-Os! Shaaaa~

Since I now have to travel to daily, I am driving again. I am very glad to be back behind the wheel of a car, I feel like Hercules at the end of Hercules (the Disney one, yeah) where he has got his immortality and power all back up on it. Podcasts are best enjoyed behind the wheel of a car leisurely doing 30, with the easy banter summoning Jon Richardson into the passenger seat, and Tim Key and Fordey in the back. This doesn’t mean that I am not paying attention to the road though, so calm down, anyway you are not my mother, unless of course you are.

I have a meeting for a community radio station tomorrow, as do you Dafydd, which I am looking forward to as I am itching to receive training and get some radio done. It’s an early one though, which will make the driving experience unpredictable, I am a much bigger fan of late night driving, when the roads are empty and dark. Tranquillity is hard to achieve when other human beings are out and about. Similarly, my job would be so much easier were there less humans to bother about. Human beings are so inconsiderate.

I have been broadening my musical horizons this weekend, with a foray into jazz (Duke Ellington) and ambient indie (The Mercury Program) resulting in enjoyment. I have also taken a stroll down movie soundtrack avenue, listening to the works of Ryuichi Sakamoto and also of Joe Hisaishi. Hisaishi’s live orchestra concert showcasing his Ghibli tracks is breathtaking, I’ll probably be partaking of more orchestral scores in the near future. The Cribs new album is out, I believe as of today, and I have been enjoying that, though their track referencing ‘Hari Kari’ annoys me, partly because I’m not sure the mistake is purposeful (it should be hara-kiri). The opening track ‘We Were Aborted’ is a particular personal highlight.

I will bring this entry to an abrupt end, as I must away to enjoy Andrew Collins and Robin Ince on the iPlayer, eat and following these two activities I will bathe and read more of ‘Kafka by the Shore’. I can only undertake activities in twos. Whilst writing this I have been listening to the music described above. Who says its only women that can multitask? Eh? Whoever they are, find them and tell them to stop lazily conforming to stereotypical trains of thought.